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“Ambassador, how long are we going to travel with this lot of…” Stanrick said, ending his sentence with a grimace and a disgusted wave of his hand as he looked out at the motley merchant baggage train and its mercenary bodyguards.

“Stanrick,” said Raskolf, “there is safety in numbers, although I understand your concern. They are noisy enough to attract every bandit for three leagues, but I consider it good fortune that our paths have crossed. I know some of these Adventurers personally. I have fought alongside the men of Crow’s Landing in the past. They may look a bit rough around the edges, but they are honorable warriors.”

“I’m just concerned about your safety, Ambassador, as well as that of your daughter.” replied Stanrick.

“I appreciate that, friend. The Sun Horse is soon descending to the Western horizon, however, and I wouldn’t mind having the protection of this outpost that they seek, rather than making camp in strange territory.”

“With all due respect, Ambassador, I’m not sure I like the idea of being locked inside a fortress with this mercenary rabble and that fat, greedy merchant.”

“Your concerns are noted.”

Before long, the slow, noisy baggage train crested a hill, and the tower of the main keep could be seen in the distance. The fortress was overgrown and neglected. According to the merchant, it had been regularly garrisoned until recently, yet it appeared that the forest itself was trying to swallow it up. The walls were covered in vines, snaking tree branches, tippmann moss, and marbilizer fungus. It looked older than it was. The baggage train came to a halt as two of the Longfang scouts emerged from the woods off the trail.
“Mordok.” Reported Dria, “Azra and I counted nine Mordok on the ground inside the keep, and four on the West ramparts to the North of the main entrance. The doors seem to be missing from the front gate. We could see clearly to the courtyard inside.

“The ones on the ground were worshipping a strange idol until they heard the baggage train coming.” Added Azra, “They have surely seen us by now.”

“Orders, sir?” asked Stanrick, motioning for Harlock and the rest of the security detail to move up to the front of the formation.

“We strike now, quickly, before the defenders have time to organize.” Shouted Raskolf. “Every warrior with a shield form up on the left and interlock! They may have archers on the wall to the North of the gate. Longfangs, adventurers, move out!”

Raskolf trudged down the dirt road toward the yawning front gate of the fortress, less than a stones throw behind the clattering charge of mercenaries and Longfang warriors. As he sized up the situation, he took a moment to glance over his shoulder and ensure that the baggage train was protected. Rhodi was un-wrapping his maul and directing a security formation around the merchant’s cart.

“Thanks, brother.” He muttered.

Raskolf drew his pitted, weathered blade, and strode through the open gate into the back of the formation. The warriors were squaring off against a dozen or so Mordok. One Mordok already lay dying in the courtyard, pierced by arrows.

“Stay in formation!” Shouted Stanrick, “Don’t let them draw you out!”

As the arrows of Magrat Farwalker and the hooded mercenary named Duncan found their marks in yet another Mordok, the other creatures panicked and closed with the formation. Steel rang out against bone, bronze, and wood as the primitive and scavenged weapons of the Mordok traded blows with the formation.

“Hold the line!” shouted Raskolf, as two of his bodyguards broke ranks to follow a Mordok.
The two warriors fell back just in time. They were almost flanked and cut off, but made it safely back into formation.
More and more Mordok fell, until there were only a handful of them left and they clustered together in a desperate last stand to defend a small, ugly idol, topped with a skull.

“Now! Shouted Aradael, the Captain from Crow’s landing, “Surround them!”

As the formation broke ranks to form a ring, one of the Mordok suddenly dropped his weapons and made a dash for the center of the keep. Raskolf intercepted the creature, and felt his blade bite deeply into its flesh, but the monster kept going, even as its own momentum disemboweled it and nearly twisted the blade from Raskolf’s hand. With its dying effort, the creature leapt for a rope and clung to it with a death grip, swinging wildly back and forth for a few seconds before crumpling and rolling to a stop, stone dead. The bells of the keep rang out loudly. They could surely be heard for many a mile.
Raskolf turned to see that the last of the Mordok had gone down. It was quiet for a moment, save the resonance of the bells and the heavy breathing of the victors.

“Aradael,” said Raskolf, “Take your men and secure the front gate. Stanrick, Harlock, take the rest of the Longfangs and guard the back gate. Archers, take the walls. Everyone else, go fetch the baggage train before Mordok reinforcements arrive.”

Elise had been told to stay with Drifa, her Uncle Rhodi’s apprentice, while camp was being set up in the courtyard, but what self respecting seven year old could sit by and let these fascinating ruins go unexplored? Drawing her short sword and clinging to her little basket of bandages, she waited until no one was looking, and climbed the stairs to the second floor of the main keep.

“Curious,” thought Duncan as he scouted the ruins, “all the doors are missing up here too; nothing but empty doorways everywhere. This place must have been looted already.”

The veteran scout caught movement out of the corner of his eye and spun to face it. It was the Ulven Ambassador’s little girl. Duncan smiled as the tiny armored figure trampled noisily into an open bedroom, sword in hand. Slinging his bow, he placed a hand on the hilt of his sword and followed her in.
The room was dusty, and littered with papers. Torn parchment fluttered in the wind as he entered the room. The little girl was crouched down beside an overturned bed, examining a small figurine. There was a set of clothes on the floor, filled with ash. The outline of the ash was the shape of a person, but there were no scorch marks on the floor, and the clothes were not burnt. Suddenly, the little Ulven girl jumped to her feet and scurried back out onto the ramparts. Duncan knelt down and began gathering up the papers.
Raskolf was in the courtyard, examining the strange idol that the Mordok had tried to defend. It was a small wicker pillar, topped with a crudely carved skull. There really didn’t seem to be anything remarkable about it. The craftsmanship was poor and it didn’t look very old at all. He conferred with some of the others about it, and learned that the Mordok in this area had a tendency to decorate things with skulls. On the one hand, this trinket looked harmless enough, but then again, with all the problems that the statue Boomhowler’s sons had found had caused, Raskolf was uneasy around these things.

“Father! Father!” said Elise, tugging at his cloak. “I found something upstairs!”

“What should we do with this thing?” someone asked, as Raskolf turned his back on the strange idol.

“Burn it.” He barked over his shoulder.

Duncan was disappointed with the documents he’d found. They didn’t seem to be anything more than supply manifests, receipts, and some boring personal correspondence. As he was just about to drop them, his eyes drifted up and spotted the locked chest against the South wall of the room.

“Maybe this place wasn’t looted after all.” He thought.

Duncan smiled and took a few steps toward the chest, but was interrupted by the arrival of the Ambassador and his daughter. The blacksmith’s apprentice and a human dressed in a black hooded cloak accompanied them.
The Ambassador paid no mind to Duncan, and instead crouched down to examine the burnt body.

“Look, Father.” said the little girl, “It’s a little wooden animal.”

“I think that is a lion.” said the man in black. “It is a creature from Faedrun. It is also the sign of The Order.”

“Right.” said Duncan, “Well, your little girl found these papers so I guess that they are hers. So are those trinkets by the bed.”

Elise smiled and shrugged, picking up the little animal figurines and placing them in her basket.

“No, Elise.” said Raskolf. “We do not take things from the dead. Those clothes on the floor used to belong to a body. See the ashes.”

Oblivious to the fact that she had discovered a dead person, Elise was simply disappointed that her father was not letting her keep any of the little treasures she had found.

“I don’t like this place. Something bad happened here. Magic was involved.” Raskolf muttered, standing up and searching the room with his eyes.

“Yes, well, maybe you can get to the bottom of this.” Duncan laughed, thrusting the papers in the direction of the Ambassador, then grinning sheepishly and retracting them before Raskolf could take them. “Oops, I mean, here you go, sir.” He said, handing them instead, to the man in black.

“I can read.” growled Raskolf.

“Oh?” said Duncan. “It has been my experience that very few of your people can.”

“It has been my experience,” snapped Raskolf, “that very few of your people have any manners.”

“Right then!” laughed Duncan, “Well, I’ll be taking my share and moving on then!”

“You shouldn’t take anything that belongs to the dead.” grumbled Raskolf, but Duncan was already stepping through the empty doorway with the locked chest in his arms.

“We need a Priestess.” said Raskolf to Drifa. “This is a bad place.”

Down in the courtyard, people were still investigating the idol.

“Burn it.” said Raskolf.

“Simpleton!” bellowed the fat merchant, “Need I remind you all that this is my expedition, and as the sole investor that artifact is my personal property.”

“Burn it.” repeated Raskolf.

“We must do no such thing!” exclaimed a Syndar Priest, crouched near the idol. He had gold colored skin and was armored in black and shining silver. “This could be an artifact of great and dangerous power. Destroying it could release that power.”

Raskolf stopped in his tracks.

“Fine. Then don’t burn it. Tie it into a sack with some rocks and sink it into the swamp.”

“You must not touch it!” exclaimed the Syndar Priest.

“Why not?” asked Raskolf.

“Clearly, sir, you have no idea what this is, do you? Are you frightened of it?”

“No and yes. Can you tell me anything about it?”

“No. But I am going to attempt to commune with it through Solar. If it is an undead idol, or one of a death god, I may be able to speak with it.”

“Is that wise?” asked Drifa, “What if you are successful? You may awaken something.”

“I fail to see how this is safer than…” started Drifa, but the Syndar had taken a seat on the earth, eye level with the idol, and begun to chant.

The Priest made some strange gestures and then clapped his hands together in front of his face. His eyes were closed. Raskolf stepped back and told Drifa and Elise to go over by Rhodi and help him set up his camp.

“What’s he doing?” asked Yawn, one of the Longfang bodyguards.

“He’s conducting some kind of blasphemous ritual to try to talk to this thing. He said something about death gods.”

“That sounds dangerous. Should we stop him, Ambassador?”

“Just leave him be. It isn’t going to work, anyway. His gods probably don’t have any power here. Besides, I’m convinced this thing is just some Mordok icon. Send a patrol to reconnoiter the area before we settle down for the night.”

“Are we staying, sir?”

“I’m thinking we will. When that Mordok rang the bell, he summoned all of his tribe, I am sure. As much as I don’t like this place, I’d rather meet them here, in a fortress, than out on the open road. A group this large would be easy for them to track.”

“That reminds me, Ambassador, a scouting party found one of the doors to the front gate. They are trying to figure out how to hang it.”

“I’ll get Rhodi on it.” said Raskolf, walking away from the meditative Syndar and the ugly little idol. “Tell the others to keep looking for the other door.”

*
Elise was combing the area immediately surrounding the outpost, looking for yellow flowers. The healer lady who talked funny had sent her on this errand. Elise had almost filled her basket with every yellow flower she could find, but every time she and Drifa returned to the healer, the woman told her that she had picked the wrong flowers, and sent her back out. Elise was starting to get frustrated. She gathered medicinal herbs and flowers for her mother all the time back home, and never had this problem. This healer lady’s funny accent made her difficult to understand, and the lady didn’t seem to be all that great at describing what she was looking for, anyway. Elise may have only been seven years old, but she was fairly certain that she had brought samples of every yellow flower with healing properties that grew in the region. Two of the types of flowers she had collected were commonly used in the treatment of infections, but the healer lady didn’t want them. Elise was beginning to suspect that this healer didn’t know much about what grew in the region. Maybe the yellow flowers she was looking for were something that only grew on the lady’s side of the ocean?
Eventually, Elise gave up and headed back to the fortress with Drifa.
On the way back in, the pair passed Aradael and the other troops from Crow’s Landing. They were heading out to find the other door to the front gate. Rhodi had managed to hang the first one already.
Raskolf had just finished doing a perimeter check. He had placed archers on the walls, troops at each gate, and collaborated with Aradael and Fortinbras to see about finding the other front door and securing rocks for the ramparts, in the event that the fortress were attacked. Raskolf sat down to take a break, and fetch his pipe from his backpack. The Syndar were still investigating the idol.

“Well,” he thought to himself, “at least they aren’t letting anyone touch it. I guess that is sort of like guarding it.”

As Raskolf dug through his backpack, he noticed the skulking, misshapen form of the fat merchant’s deformed retainer. The man was scrawny, hunchbacked, and seemed to have a perpetually scrunched up face, twisted in such a manner as to appear as though he had stuffed slices of wild rhubarb and green onions into his cheeks while he was sniffing the backside of a skunk. He leaned heavily on a gnarled staff as he scuttled along.

“Excuse me, sir.” said Raskolf, “Are you from this area? I have some questions about the Mordok in this region.”

The hunchback looked frightened. He cautiously approached, craning his long skinny neck around to do the closest thing he could to looking over his shoulder, given his limitations. Less than a stone’s throw away, the merchant was trying to close a deal with Rhodi, over the sale of some alcohol.

“Raskolf Vakr,” said Raskolf, extending his forearm in greeting.

Raskolf was about to continue formally by introducing himself by clan, camp, pack, and title, but he stopped himself when he saw the apprehension in the hunchback’s eye. It was quiet for a moment. The merchant’s retainer made no effort to clasp forearms, nor did he respond verbally.

“This is the part where you introduce yourself, sir.” said Raskolf.

“Nobody talks to us,” whimpered the hunchback, “except the master, and only when he needs someone to yell at.”

“That’s not right.” said Raskolf. “Why do you tolerate such an injustice.”

“We should not be talking to you.” rasped the retainer, looking to see if the merchant had noticed.

“Why not? Are you a man, or simply a piece of property?”

“Master owns us.”

“How dreadful.” said Raskolf, “And here I thought maybe you could help me.”

“No. No, we cannot help you. We cannot. Please leave us before we get in trouble with Master.”

“How disgusting that any man should live in such fear and hopelessness as to where he cannot even help himself, let alone another who has shown him courtesy and compassion.”

“It is not so bad.” said the hunchback.

“What of personal honor, sir?” said Raskolf,

“He pays us fairly, just to stand next to him so he looks taller and more handsome, because we are so wretched. Sometimes he hurts us, but it is a living.”

“No man should have to suffer such cruelties.”

“It is a living. What else can we do, when we are so hideous?”

“I don’t imagine we will ever find out, unless you find the courage to discover that for yourself. I’m a soldier at heart, man. While I may have empathized with your misfortune, I have no pity for cowards. You whine as though you are a prisoner, but I see neither chains nor shackles upon you. Good day.”

As Raskolf left the hunchback to his misery, there was a sudden commotion at the rear gate. An old man was being helped into the keep by two of the Longfangs. He looked exhausted.

“Caravan!” he panted, “Caravan under attack by bandits!”

Raskolf called his personal detachment of Longfang and Watchwolf bodyguards to arms and sprinted down the trail towards the main road.
As they neared the road, the Ulven fanned out into a silent skirmish formation and slowed down. The bandits could be heard through the trees, carousing and tearing into the spoils of their catch on the road. The Ulven approached the edge of the woods like a pack of wolves instinctively creating an ambush, with the more lightly armored Watchwolves moving further to the North, in order to cut off escape on the road, and the more heavily armored Longfangs advancing from the West, to hit the careless brigands in the flank. Without any signal, the Ulven launched their attack. The panicked bandits tried to flee towards the swamp to the North, leaving a trail of abandoned chests, crates, and sacks of loot in their wake, but found themselves cut off where the road narrowed. As the two forces squared off, Raskolf shouted out to the thieves to identify themselves, but was answered only with an arrow that Harlock non-chalantly intercepted with his shield. Harlock roared in defiance and bared his fangs. The other Ulven followed suit, and a few of the bandits began to shiver with fear.
The bandits, though lightly armed, were dressed in uniform tabards. The tabards were green, and bore a dagger device. Raskolf did not recognize the heraldry. They were certainly not Vandregonian, and neither did they appear to be Aldorian, though the green was similar.

“I am Raskolf Vakr,” he shouted, “Ulven Ambassador, the Voice of the Watchwolves, and the Warder of the High Priestess Anjan Ravensmark, and I speak with the authority of the Clan. The eyes and the ears of the Watchwolves are upon you, and you will be judged. Now tell me! Whose colors do you bear and who do you represent?”

The bandits didn’t answer. Instead they drew steel and formed up back to back. It was a military formation. Clearly, these were trained men; militia perhaps. But who did they work for?

“Dria, Azra!” shouted Raskolf to the two Longfang scouts, “Sweep the woods and make sure there aren’t any more of them hiding out there. Ylsa, look for survivors from the caravan.”

Raskolf stared into the frightened eyes of the bandit leader.

“If you will not identify yourselves, then I will assume that you are bandits and thieves.”

The men still refused to answer.
Steel rang out against steel as the Longfangs and Watchwolves of Raskolf’s security detachment clashed with the bandits. The bandits did not last long. They tried to interlock into a shield wall, but lacked the long weapons necessary to make such a formation effective, and were quickly ground into the earth by the fury of the Ulven charge.
The formation rapidly disintegrated, and several smaller skirmishes broke out as the men tried to flee the Ulven warriors. As the Ulven consolidated their victory, the sharp eyes of the scouts made out the form of a man trying to escape through the swamp. Without hesitation, Raskolf ordered three of his Longfang bodyguards to follow him, and he ran off in pursuit of the escaping bandit. For a moment, Raskolf’s body protested the sudden burst of speed, and his breath came in ragged gasps, but then he got his rhythm and felt as though born anew. Indeed, he could run all day. He could run all night. He would never tire, for he was Ulven, and to be Ulven was to be half wolf.
Raskolf could smell the panic in the air, of his quarry, as it panted and cried, casting away bits of armor and dropping its weapons in an effort to lighten itself. In doing so, it had thrown away any chance of fighting. It was no longer an adversary. It was no longer a person. It was prey. Something primal flickered in the base of Raskolf’s brain. It was the part of him that was wolf. Raskolf had to chase it. He couldn’t resist. There was no longer any reasoning. There was no longer any risk assessment. There was only the chase. Nothing else mattered. Not the fact that he was running blindly into unexplored territory, nor the fact that he had outpaced his bodyguards. No, none of that mattered. Raskolf licked his fangs. He could smell the salt in the air, as his prey perspired, and tears ran down its desperate, panting, crying face. Raskolf, though more heavily encumbered than his prey, was tireless as he paced and harried it through swamp, and through forest, doubling back towards the main road to the abandoned mine, delighting and reveling in the squeals of anguish every time his prey looked back over his shoulder and met his gaze. Raskolf had no idea where the rest of his pack was, and he didn’t care. He wouldn’t lose this prey. He’d take it down himself if he had to. Raskolf stayed just far enough back to make his prey think that it might have a chance, if only it could maintain the interval, but of course such hope is folly when chased by wolves. Suddenly, just as spontaneously as it began, the chase was over. The prey stumbled and fell, wheezing and panting, and clutching at its chest. Raskolf bared his fangs and was about to leap onto it, when the man’s eyes met his own, and suddenly Raskolf realized what had happened, and froze. For a moment, the two men stared at each other, and Raskolf saw his own snarling face reflected in the watery eyes of the old man he’d chased like an animal. The man’s face was ashen and sweaty, and his lips were blue. All color drained from his features. The man began coughing violently and then shuddered as all muscle tone left his face and he slumped to the ground in an unnatural position, his eyes staring blankly through Raskolf’s own. The elderly man’s chest made one final wheezy rattle as the breath left his lungs for the last time.
As Raskolf stared into the blank, unblinking eyes of the corpse, he found himself suddenly embarrassed by his bloodlust. He quickly regained his senses, and the fatigue of his frenzy hit him suddenly, causing him to fall to one knee. The only other time that this had ever happened to him was when the Tundra Wolves were destroyed.
Was this his legacy? Was this his glory? Running off because he had to chase something that ran? Surely that wasn’t his aspect of the Wolf. Running into an obvious trap and getting his friends killed? Frightening an old man to death? When the wolf took control of others they achieved legendary feats of heroism to be forever remembered in song. But not Raskolf. He just chased things. That wasn’t even a wolf aspect. It was that of a common dog. A hound. As he sat and caught his breath, Raskolf realized that he was being watched.
The hunchback cowered behind a fallen log like frightened rabbit, afraid to move lest it trigger a chase like the one that had just transpired. The hunchback carried with him a pay-chest and his traveling bundles. For a moment they stared at each other. The hunchback cowered at the sight of Raskolf’s panting, foaming visage, and was unable to meet the Ulven’s blazing eyes with his own.

“You better get out of here.” said Raskolf, struggling to make words from the growls, barks, and snarls boiling in the back of his throat, “The rest of my pack is right behind me. Don’t ever look back. Don’t ever look back on any of this.”

The hunchback stared at him, wild eyed, and jaw agape.

“Thank you, and thank you, again.” he muttered as he scrambled over the fallen logs and headed deeper into the forest. Raskolf averted his eyes lest he lose himself again and give chase simply because the hunchback was moving. Raskolf wiped the foam from his lips and concentrated on regaining his composure. He was glad Elise hadn’t seen that. The Eyes and Ears, however, surely had. He may have outrun his guards, but there was no way that he could have possibly outrun actual wolves.

A few minutes later, Raskolf’s bodyguards finally caught up to him. Some were limping from the run over such harsh terrain. They were all exhausted and panting, but they found Raskolf standing tall over the body of his quarry.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves.” he growled, “Some of you are half my age, and lightly armored to boot.”

“Did you get anything out of him before you killed him?” asked Ylsa.

“I didn’t kill him. He dropped dead from exhaustion. Let’s head back to the Keep.”

“Should we take a break, first?” panted one of the Longfangs.

“No need.” said Raskolf, “I already took one while I was waiting for you soft little pups to catch up. Let’s go.”
*

Stanrick, Yawn, and some of the others had returned to the keep with crates and baggage from the caravan. The scouts hadn’t found any survivors besides the old man who had run to the keep to alert them of the attack. There were tracks leading off into the swamp, though, so it was possible that there were others out there somewhere. Upon his arrival, Drifa had tended to the old man until his pulse slowed to a normal pace, he caught his breath, and his withered hands ceased to tremble. The human had thanked Drifa for helping to calm his poor old heart, and for sitting with him until he felt better. It had almost been a legitimate compliment, until he called her a “noble savage” and made a seemingly absent-minded remark that perhaps Ulven weren’t all blood-thirsty animals after all. Drifa rolled her eyes and attributed it to dementia. The old man now sipped hot tea and conversed with the fat merchant about the old country. He kept on introducing himself to the same people over and over again. His name was Jack.
The sun was starting to get low in the sky. Her work done, Drifa took her leave of the old man and settled by the fire. It wasn’t late in the season yet, but it was looking to be a cold, damp evening, and her bones ached equal parts from the weather, the walking, and her work repairing weapons and armor with the portable smithy.
It had been a hard journey from New Aldoria, but she had survived, as had the others. It had been a close thing, though. Uncomfortably close.
Drifa pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders as she stared into the fire. She was tired of travelling, day in, day out. For someone who’d never ventured far from her home territory, the last several months had been a shock. She’d never imagined Mardrun was this big, leagues and leagues with no end, all the time watching and waiting for the ambush from Mordok or bandits or, even worse, their supposed allies.
Allies. She snorted, shaking her head. More like headaches. The longer Drifa spent around humans the less she understood them. Always rushing about and panicking, half-hysterical most of the time. So dramatic. How could Raskolf stand dealing with them so much? They never listened, bickering and squabbling with each other like spoiled cubs fighting over the choicest teat.
And arrogant? She’d never been so angry as at the first outpost they’d stopped at, when they’d looked down their noses at her, their upper lips curled as if smelling something foul. Her efforts in the smithy had been redoubled that night, and her arms and back had paid the price for it the next day.
Rage wasn’t as useful a tool as folks made it out to be. There was always a price, and sometimes the price was awfully heavy.
Some of the humans were pleasant enough, true. But others were just abrasive, and rude. Honor did not seem to be a commonly-held concept among humans, and dealings with them always seemed barbed, like the worm in a ripe apple. Drifa glanced over at the old man she’d helped. She was glad that she didn’t have Raskolf’s job. She wasn’t nearly as good at dealing with humans as he was.
She sighed and tucked her skirt around her feet, settling herself more comfortably against the chill. Perhaps she was just being paranoid. There were good and bad apples the world over, and one shouldn’t cut down an apple tree over a handful of rotten fruit. She picked up a stick and stirred the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. No, one shouldn’t judge an entire group by the failings of a few.
Drifa had been on the receiving end of that kind of judgment for a long time, until she’d finally found a clan that would take her in. The sense of pride she’d felt when she’d been accepted by the Watchwolves washed over her again. No other clan had opened their home to her, no other clan had welcomed her and healed her hurts and made her one of them. Her, Drifa Blackfrost, the last member of a dead clan, a clan the Ulven believed had been cursed by Gaia for their blasphemy.
She never knew what rite their Clan priestess had performed, and had never felt brave enough to ask the High Priestess Ravensmark. But on the fateful night that old Utta Brightmoon, the Clan Winterclaw Priestess, had performed her strange ritual, the Mordok had come boiling out of the forest like hornets, slaughtering her people in numbers she’d never believed possible.
She could still hear the old woman’s voice, cracked and papery, lifting Gaea’s protection and blessings from her clan, calling down Gaea’s vengeance upon them, tears streaming openly down her wrinkled face until a Mordok spear buried itself in her throat. She could still hear the shrieks of the children, the fierce, gruff battle-cries of the warriors, the clash of steel and the dull, sickening thud of the club that dashed her father’s brains across the snow.
She remembered blood. Blood on the snow, and the discordant, ululating screams of the Unclean Ones. That sound woke her from sleep more often than she cared to admit, and it frightened her to the core of her being. She would do anything to avoid hearing it again, anything, but yet here she was, traipsing through the whole of Mardun with people who fought Mordok, and dead things that didn’t stay dead but walked, and dead mages who didn’t stay dead but cast spells, and other such horrors.
Drifa didn’t fight Mordok. Drifa didn’t fight anything. There was a reason that Drifa Blackfrost was the only surviving member of her Clan.
Drifa Blackfrost was alive because she ran.
The thought shamed her, but she didn’t regret it. Running was the only way she could have survived.
She could remember her father and her mate and their pack, loping back into their village with the heads of the Unclean Ones mounted on their spears and victory painted on their faces. They’d raided a Mordok nest and looted it, taken trophies from the dead and goods in retribution for raids on their own camps. She could remember the angry words of Priestess Brightmoon, her eyes flashing and her gnarled hands clasping her staff in rage as she berated Drifa’s chieftain father for his Pack’s heresy.
Her father’s laughter, and gruff dismissal of her words. The pack began raiding in earnest, ranging wider and wider with their war parties, and always the trophies, always the proof of their conquests, heads and ears and claws and trinkets, crude idols and tools. Soon the whole clan was participating in Helmingur Blackfrost’s depredations, despite the warnings of their Priestess. It was a foggy new moon night Utta Brightmoon performed her dark ritual and the death of Clan Winterclaw came to pass.
She’d never figured out how the Mordok had missed her, as wild as her flight through the misty forest had been. She’d run until she’d dropped from exhaustion. The next morning dawned pale and wan, the sun obscured by rank smoke. Fearful, Drifa had retraced her steps, crept carefully back to the ruins of her Clan’s village. Nothing but atrocities greeted her. There were no other survivors that she could find.
A long period followed of aimless wandering, being driven away by other clans frightened of suffering the same fate as the Winterclaws, before falling into the warm, welcoming, open arms of the Watchwolves, who’d given her a home and a purpose.
Drifa was thankful for a purpose. She’d never had one before and the novelty pleased her. Images of a frustrating youth, a youth spent trying to be something she could never be. Her swordsmanship was poor, her shield work worse. She’d never gotten the hang of weaving or sewing, and a meal prepared by her less-than-able hands would cause even the most ravenous to declare a fast. She’d managed to become moderately competent in treating injuries, but she’d never truly mastered the art, and the complexities of herb lore baffled her.
In short, she’d never really been very good at anything. However, she’d learned that avoiding uncomfortable situations was preferential to bearing the shame of mediocrity, so avoidance became almost second nature to her. Drifa became talented at deferring, at drifting, like the drifting snow she was named for, falling into the path of least resistance.
Now she had found something she was a little bit good at. Smithing was fun, and useful. She could only do simple repairs now, but had hopes of becoming if not good, at least competent. Rhodi Vakr, the Clan’s Master Smith, seemed to think there was hope for her. And she could truly contribute to her pack and clan, for the first time. It was a wonderful feeling.
She yawned, baring fangs that gleamed wetly in the firelight. Maybe that feeling was worth braving armies of Mordok, rude Humans, strange Syndar and sore feet and tired muscles.
Maybe.
*
Raskolf and Duncan stood together, staring at the ugly idol. The Syndar priest had finally abandoned his efforts to talk to it or whatever he was doing. Raskolf chewed the end of his pipe.

“Why were you so eager to get rid of this thing?” asked Duncan.

“My people do not take things from the dead. This idol belongs to the Mordok. Nothing but misfortune will come from our taking it, and the evil spirits of those we have slain will hound us relentlessly so long as we possess it.”

Duncan raised an eyebrow.

“It is especially taboo,” said Raskolf, “because it is a religious icon. That makes it even worse.”

Duncan thought about it for a moment.

“You know what?” He said, “I don’t pretend to understand your religion, Ambassador, but I think that you bring up an excellent point. As long as we have this thing, the Mordok are going to be after it, and I don’t see how keeping it will do us any good. As far as the argument that it shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands, well, who’s to say who that is? It is a piece of wicker and clay. It doesn’t seem to be either magic or valuable, so I don’t see that it does any of us any good. Tell you what, Raskolf. I am going to do you a favor. Look over there.”

Raskolf hesitated a moment, then looked away. When he looked back, the idol was gone and Duncan was walking away.

“Where are you going, Duncan?” asked Raskolf.

“I’m going out on patrol with the Crow’s guard.” he said.

*
It had been over an hour. Aradael, Fortinbras, and other militia from Crow’s landing were still searching for the other door to the keep, or even a suitable substitute. Their archers had been left to stand watch upon the walls, back at the keep. The heavy platemail and chain of the fighters echoed in the stillness as they tramped along the dirt road to the old mine. The woods were quiet. Far too quiet, in fact. Duncan had tagged along with the party. At first he had simply been enjoying the company of fellow adventurers, but the farther the group got from the keep, the more uncomfortable he became. There was something wrong in this forest. Duncan was, by trade, a scout and explorer. He had a knack for telling when something was wrong. Duncan began moving silently. He slowly fell to the rear of the formation, and then disappeared into the landscape. His compatriots never noticed that he was gone, nor did they realize that they were being stalked.
One of the harsh realities of the infantry Soldier is that no matter how well trained or disciplined a unit is, their chance of surviving a well organized ambush is almost zero. From green volunteers and conscript troops, to elite phalanxes of heavy footmen, being on the receiving end of a proper ambush is near certain death, especially if the attacker knows how to use the terrain to their advantage.
The majority of the Crow’s Landing militia were stuck full of arrows before they even realized the situation they were in. Aradael hadn’t done anything wrong, either. Infantry commanders are taught to take the low ground when maneuvering troops, so as not to create silhouettes on the high ground. It makes you harder to find. Sadly, though, in the event that you are found, traveling the low ground makes a unit susceptible to attacks from the high ground. There’s a reason they call foot Soldiers “the poor bloody infantry”.
Duncan saw what was unfolding before it actually happened. There was no time to waste. He had already started running back to the keep for help before the first arrow was loosed, but the screams and shouts of combat caught up with him as he ran.
*
Raskolf and his bodyguards returned to the keep to find the front doors hung and secured.

“Good job, brother.” he said, admiring Rhodi’s craftsmanship in repairing the destroyed hinges and brackets of the first door, “Who found the other one?”

“A couple of the mercenary types said they got it from an old woman who lives west of here. She was using it for a table or something.”

“Mercenaries. Great. I suppose they expect someone to pay them for dragging it back. I was hoping that Aradael and Fortinbras would have found it. Where are they?”

“They haven’t come back yet. Probably still out looking for the door.” Chuckled Rhodi.

“Hope they come back soon. It will be getting dark.”

Raskolf checked with the Longfangs and the remaining troops from Crow’s Landing, who were pretty much all archers. He sent the Longfangs out on a short patrol of the immediate area and ordered them to be back before sunset. Guard rotations had been set up for the walls and the gates. Some of the adventurers had even collected a large cache of field stones, and stacked them on the ramparts of the gatehouse, in case the keep were besieged by Mordok after the sun went down. Raskolf, Rhodi, Drifa, and Elise found some spots in the walls which were of questionable integrity, and reinforced them with improvised timber shoring. The architecture of this keep was different than the walled villages and stockades that Raskolf was used to defending from Mordok, but he was confident that they could work with it. The only thing that concerned him was the size of the fort. It was too big. There was too much wall, too many towers, and too many doors for the number of troops on hand. It would be impossible to properly watch everything at once.

*
Not far away, Horus Von Horst examined the ruins of the abandoned mine. The timber was still in excellent condition. The mine had to be less than ten years old, assuming it was built by colonists. It didn’t go very far down at all. His companion and guide, Rory Sturm, examined the wall of dirt with a lit torch.

“It wasn’t a cave in.” he said, picking at the dirt with his fingers, “It was never mined any further than here. They built an entrance corridor, but never actually started digging down.”

“Look.” said Horus, pointing to a small mud-clay figurine sitting on an unused beam partially buried by erosion.

“Natives?” he asked.

Rory Sturm, adventurer and explorer knelt down and examined the crude humanoid lump of brown clay.

“Yes.” he hissed through clenched teeth, “Mordok, to be precise.”

As the two men turned to leave, the torchlight danced across the entry arch, illuminating pictograms and runes that had remained hidden when they entered from that direction.
The two stared in wide eyed silence for a moment.

“Rory,” said Horus, “what can you tell me about the Mordok in this area?”

“They like to decorate things with a skull motiff. These pictograms here are suspected to be representative of death, or a death god, and are typically found with offerings or sacrifices of small creatures. This round little one is anyone’s guess, but based on my personal travels and from what I’ve seen of other cultures, it is likely a fertility character of some sort. The big circle looks something like a round pregnant belly, and the other circles are probably breasts.”

“Death and rebirth.” muttered Horus, rummaging through his bag for his notebook.

“These runes, however,” he said, “are certainly not Mordok, nor are they Ulven. They are necromantic.”

“There is a lich here, then.” said Rory, “On Mardrun. You were right.”

Horus Von Horst examined the runes and compared them to the notes in his book.

“Not just any lich.” he muttered, “It’s him.”

“Do you think he has already started raising an army?” asked Rory, “From the Mordok, I mean?”

“Based on these paintings, I fear as much. Look at these. They represent the alignment of the stars. My old foe is performing a ritual here. Tonight is the last night. Where is the nearest human settlement from here? We need to raise an army, and we have only hours to do it!”

“There is a small frontier outpost not far from here, Horus. We can reach it well before dark if we hurry. It is garrisoned by militia from the Order of Arnath.”

“Even better! Fighting the undead is their specialty! How fortuitous!”

*

Rhodi had just sat down with Drifa to finally begin repairing armor damaged earlier in the day. He had several orders to fill, and had to get them done before nightfall. He needed all the hands he could get, so he even put Ylsa to work. Dria Northwind, one of the only Longfangs who had stayed back due to it being her guard shift, took a few components back with her and started making simple repairs from her guard post. Rhodi had been working hard all day, and his back was killing him. He was beginning to grow a little annoyed with his brother. Raskolf, it seemed, had spent most of the day running about like a headless chicken, trying to manage everything and pretend that he was in control. At the same time, however, he also seemed to be way too nice to actually get anything done. Raskolf knew that the little totem statue they’d found should be destroyed, but he’d let those idiots from the colonies talk him out of it. If only Anjan were here. That would get Raskolf’s head out of his arse.
Rhodi winced in pain, tried to pop his own spine, and settled for cracking his neck. It wasn’t just the work and the travel. His spine always acted up during any time of the year that was a season. Rhodi had suffered a horrific spinal injury back in his days as a warrior. It happened in the same battle that cost Anjan her sight. They were, all three of them, Rhodi, Raskolf, and Anjan, members of the Tundra Wolves back then. It was an elite war pack, independent of any clan, and made up from only the fiercest warriors of the Ulven nation. They specialized in fighting the Mordok, and traveled all of Mardrun to wherever they were needed. The Tundra Wolves were a special pack, comprised of the greatest of Ulven heroes, and the sons and daughters of the most prominent leaders in the nation. To serve in that pack was the greatest honor anyone of the warrior caste could ever hope to achieve. Raskolf and Rhodi had trained hard to get in when the opportunity arose, which was infrequent as the pack rarely recruited. The two boys had even traveled to Longfang territory to seek out the tutelage of the great Ulven hero Hanseth Longfang. There, they studied day and night with the Longfangs, a pack which prided itself as producing the strongest warriors on all of Mardrun, and who often provided professional Soldiers and bodyguards for the most important and highest ranking leaders and priestesses in the Ulven nation. The Longfangs, as a matter of fact, were so strict with their warriors, that any children who they deemed weak or sickly were sent to live with other packs. Many of the Tundra Wolves were born and raised in the Longfang pack.
As far as Tundra Wolf selection went, just being accepted past the initial trials by combat and the earliest phases of candidacy could earn a warrior renown, even if they didn’t make the cut. Raskolf and Rhodi had made it.
To be honest, though, Rhodi had always felt a little out of place in that warpack. There was always just the slightest sliver of doubt as to whether he actually belonged there. He remembered the day that he and Raskolf made the cut. There were some who said that the two had only been accepted because they were twins. Ulven women almost never give birth to twins. It happens so infrequently that it is considered a powerful portent indeed, should it happen, and the children are believed to live a blessed existence, and to be destined for greatness.

“Right.” thought Rhodi, gritting his teeth against blood blisters as he used his bare fingers to close a tear in a piece of chainmail, “Charmed existence all right.”

Others, still, had said that the brothers only made it in because their mother was such a high-ranking warrior in the Lunar camp.
Of course, if getting through candidacy had been hell, then that didn’t leave much room for metaphors to describe what being the new guys in that sort of a pack was like. Anjan was the meanest, having been the newbie herself until the boys showed up. If the boys didn’t feel that they’d earned their place by going through selection, they sure felt like it after a few months on the road with those savages. The Tundra Wolves were big damn heroes, and they knew it. Wherever they went, people took care of them. They could roll into any village on Mardrun, drink all the mead, trash the tavern, eat whatever they wanted, sleep with whoever they wanted, and never have to worry about the bill.
In return, they fought with a ferocity and savagery that even the Mordok found barbaric. They traveled fast, and light. The Tundra Wolves lived off of the land and the generosity of the clans and packs they came across. In time, Raskolf and Rhodi found their places within the warpack. Rhodi specialized in heavy weapons, like Anjan. Raskolf learned tactics and strategy, and gradually was given more and more responsibility as a leader. Within a few years, he was one of the packleaders.
That was all history, now. It was a different time, and though the land was the same, it felt like a different world, now, with strange new people. Rhodi didn’t live in the past. He couldn’t stand people who did. He had no time for crusty, out of shape men and women who’d reached their prime years ago, been in one battle, or won one contest, and just stopped there; Sad old characters who told the same story over and over in the tavern every night, wondering why the heck they were still alive, and if the Great Wolf would remember them when they died facedown in a puddle twenty years after the last thing they ever did. No. Rhodi couldn’t stand people like that. Rhodi lived every day to its fullest. Rhodi worked hard, played harder, and drank hardest. Rhodi didn’t drink to forget anything, though. Nor did he drink to remember, either, which is almost always counter-productive anyway. Rhodi drank to celebrate life. If the Great Wolf somehow didn’t know Rhodi’s name, it would only be because it was too loud to hear anything at Rhodi’s parties. Just to be on the safe side, Rhodi made sure that any woman he bedded screamed his name loud enough for the Great Wolf to hear.

Rhodi grinned to himself as he worked. As much as his body protested, there was something about being on the road again that felt good, especially now that he wasn’t a Soldier anymore.

Raskolf cursed to himself as he worked. Hang this “Ambassador” garbage! Life was so much easier when he was a Soldier.

Raskolf was running back and forth between the front gate and the fat merchant. Rhodi wasn’t sure if Raskolf was storming or scurrying. It was a rather unnatural combination of the two. Rhodi squinted in the evening light. He was pretty sure he could see his brother’s hair getting grayer with every step.
Rhodi decided to take a break from his work and investigate. A drinking break. Rhodi pulled a cork and sauntered over to the front gate. He was caught a bit off guard by what he saw. It was a hostage situation.
Aradael and his men were arrayed in a line, on their knees, with their hands bound behind them and blades at their throats. The men were battered and bloody. Some of them had arrows sticking out of them. Their captors wore green tabards with daggers for heraldry. Rhodi glanced over his shoulder at Raskolf. His brother was having a heated argument with the fat merchant over a small bag of silver coins.

“What’s going on?” Rhodi asked one of the archers.

“The Ulven Ambassador is trying to negotiate their ransom. With that Ulven pack out on patrol, we don’t have enough manpower to make a move without them killing the hostages first. I don’t think the fat merchant wants to pay it. He thinks one of the adventurers stole his pay-chest.”

“Oh?” said Rhodi, “Is that all? I’ve got this.”

Rhodi sauntered up to the front gate with bottle in hand.

“Gentlemen!” he yelled, “You have the tired and hungry look of traveled Soldiers. I know that feeling. My name is Rhodi, Master Brewer and Winemaker of my Clan, but I used to carry a shield in my younger days. Who is your Captain?”

The men in green looked around among each other for a moment. There were a few whispers and nods of agreement before one of them stepped forward. He was tall, lanky, and had a red beard.

“You must be Captain, then, good sir?”

“Yeah.” said the man, “Sure.”

“Well, sir, I need to be frank with you. I’m afraid that we cannot pay your ransom. These men, you see, are hired security. They were paid in advance, so any money you got off of their persons was what they were worth to us, and really all we had.”

“That other guy said he was some sort of diplomat or noble or something. He must have money.”

“Raskolf? No. He has a rather over-inflated self image. He’s here to help set up a trading post. That’s all. Trust me. I’ve known him his whole life. He was probably trying to scare you with all this talk about the eyes and the ears of the Clan being on you and stuff, wasn’t he?”

The man with the red beard shifted his weight and looked kind of disappointed.

“Look, Captain.” said Rhodi, “Let me level with you. We don’t have the money for the ransom, but there are Mordok in the area and we’d really like these mercenaries back especially with the sun going down. I’m sure you want to get your men safely back to your camp too, for the same reason. How about a trade? You guys look thirsty and hungry, and we are in the middle of nowhere. How about I send you home with a party in a crate. Hmmm? Here, taste this.”

Rhodi took a swallow from his bottle and handed it to the man. The man hesitated for a second, sniffed the bottle, and then took a swig. The corners of his mouth turned up as he lowered the bottle, and his eyes sparkled. Rhodi knew he’d won.

“I’m the Master Brewer and Wine-maker for my Clan,” Rhodi beamed, “I have more where that came from, as well as some cheese and sausage. Do we have ourselves a deal?”

By the time Raskolf convinced the fat merchant to pay up and had run back to the front gate, the bandits were already leaving. The gate guards were helping the wounded militia men of Crow’s Landing by performing first aid. Raskolf stared for a moment as the healer lady rushed past him, followed by Elise and Drifa carrying baskets of bandages.

“What just happened?” asked Raskolf.

“Your brother just saved everyone with a crate of wine, some sausage, and a cheese wheel.” grunted Aradael as Drifa tended to his wounds.

Raskolf stared at the small coin pouch he held in his hand. He scratched his head.

“Brother,” laughed Rhodi, slapping him on the shoulder from behind, “You’ve been an officer too long.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve forgotten how to talk to Soldiers. You’ve forgotten what it is to be a Soldier.”

Raskolf narrowed his eyes and cocked his head as Aradael limped past, leaning on one of his men.

“All that fancy talk, Raskolf, with the titles and everything. You can’t do that and expect them to respect you. You sound like a bloody officer, or maybe one of those damned nobles you spent all that time with in New Hope. Soldiers hate those people. Talking like that instantly makes them hate you and think you are an idiot.”

“I certainly feel like an idiot.” he grumbled, “And I probably look like one, now.”

“Raskolf,” said Rhodi, “I’m a blacksmith, but I remember what it was like to be a Soldier. You do too. Tell me, what does every Soldier everywhere in every army want all the time?”
Raskolf sighed.

“To go home, Rhodi. They all want to go home.”

“That’s right. Soldiers want to go home, they are always hungry, and they love to drink. I appealed to that. You have to look at things from the perspective of who you are talking to.”

“Right.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“Well,” said Rhodi, “I have to get back to work. The Sun Horse is almost descended.”

Rhodi turned. He started walking back towards his temporary workshop.

“Rhodi.” said Raskolf.

Rhodi stopped, but did not turn to face his brother.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you, brother.” said Raskolf, “Thank you. I know that travel is hard on your back, but I think it goes without saying just how much I need you.”

“Someone has to keep you grounded lest your head swell anymore than it already has.” laughed Rhodi as he crunched down the gravel path, “Who better to anchor you than a blacksmith and his anvil?”

*
As the bandits returned to their camp, the man with the red beard was quite proud of himself. The provisions they acquired from that Ulven brewer at the old keep were badly needed. He only hoped that his little brother’s raiding party would soon return from their hit on that caravan to the East with even more food. It would be getting dark before long, and there were Mordok about.
The man with the red beard took a swig from the bottle as the rag-tag encampment came into view. The area was becoming too dangerous and too traveled. Soon, the bandits would have to move, whether Mr. Black liked it or not.
Mr. Black was not popular among the men he employed. Even the hearts of sell-swords and ne’er do wells are not so hardened as to be unaffected by the trauma of killing travelers on the road for no reason, and then being forced to bury them in a secret graveyard. By letting those men live today the bandits had risked angering their mysterious employer, but hunger, desperation, and weariness were taking their toll on the bandits.

“Tonight,” thought the man with the red beard, “we feast. Tomorrow, we move on, and leave these dark deeds behind us.”

*

Bite patrolled the ramparts. Her diminutive stature made it a harder task for her than for her peers. The archer wasn’t even sure exactly what would happen if she had to shoot down from her position up on the wall. She could barely see over the ramparts, and it made it difficult for her to aim. Her field of fire was seriously restricted, and she wouldn’t really be able to shoot down at anyone who got too close to the wall. She started organizing the rocks that the troops had hauled up on the walls into neat stacks and piles. When no one was looking, she tested their stability by climbing up onto them. That was better. Now she had a much improved field of fire.
Bite’s small size made her the brunt of many jokes. She was, quite possibly, the littlest Ulven on Mardrun. All the joking aside, though, she loved the people of Crow’s Landing. They were her family. Ten years ago, Bite had been found by the Crow’s Guard as an orphaned child of perhaps five years She was alone in the wilderness, bloodied and silent, the apparent survivor of a Mordok attack. They took her in and the community raised her as their own. She didn’t talk for a long time, and looking back, she really couldn’t remember much of anything of her life before her adoption. From the beginning, her heritage was questionable, but despite the strained relations with the Ulven back in the earliest days of the colonies, the people of Crow’s Landing had been nothing but merciful and kind to her. They hadn’t been one-hundred percent sure that she was Ulven until her fangs came in during puberty, but it had always been suspected. By that point in time, relations between Crow’s Landing and the closest Ulven, Clan Nightriver, were improving. Bite was given the choice to live with her people if she so wished. She had decided that the ones who raised her were her people, and had joined the Crow’s Guard as a scout.
From atop her rock pile, Bite spied movement on the trail. Their garb was too practical for them to be Syndar, but not practical enough to be Ulven. Humans. One of them looked old. Perhaps they were pilgrims. Bite called down to the guards at the gate, but there was no answer. She realized that other archers on the wall were pointing at her little rock pile and laughing, now that she had drawn attention to herself. She hopped down and snarled in their general direction.

*

“Who is at the back door?” shouted Raskolf, “I put people at the back door! Where are they? Have these Humans no discipline? That’s the second time that door has been left unattended.”

The top of Bite’s head appeared on the inside wall of the rampart.

“I’m watching it from up here, Ambassador.” she said, “I don’t know where the men you put on the door went, though. I think that is them over there in the courtyard.”

A quick glance showed Raskolf that the mercenaries he’d put on the door were loitering near his brother and drinking. He thought about going over there, but remembered what Rhodi had said about people not respecting him if he tried to hard to push his authority on them. They weren’t his troops and he wasn’t the one who paid them. Why should they listen to him, anyway?

“No discipline.” muttered Raskolf, “Very well, Bite. You watch that door from up on the wall. I know you at least have a good enough span of attention to stay put until relieved.”

“Yes, sir!” she said, “I won’t move from this spot, no matter what!”

“Good work.”

Raskolf looked around. Most of the troops from Crow’s landing were attending to the wounded, or wounded themselves. He was about to pull some of Sir William’s men off the front gate, but realized that they were the ones keeping the mercenaries under supervision, and he’d probably never get those Soldiers of fortune to stay put again if he moved their babysitters. On the other side of the wall, he heard an owl hoot, despite the fact that the sun horse had yet to cross the West horizon.

“Never mind.” He thought to himself before returning the bird call, “In that case, I’ll just get it.”

*

“I don’t know.” said Rory, “There is no banner of the Lion Rampant on the keep. No banner at all, actually. Last time I was here I was challenged by guards before I made it this-”

“Halt! Who goes there?” shouted a little voice.

A small face appeared between the ramparts.

“That’s no Lion.” grumbled Rory, “Not even an Eagle, likely.”

“Greetings!” shouted Horus, “I am Horus Von Horst, but my best friends call me Boomhowler. This is my friend Rory Sturm, the famous explorer and cartographer.”

“She looks like she is about fifteen.” grumbled Rory, squinting against the low lying sun over the wall.

The door opened, and a lone Ulven warrior dressed in leather armor stepped out.

“My name is Raskolf Vakr,” he said, “Ambassador of the Silverhowl pack, and Voice of the Watchwolves.”

“We need to see the garrison commander from the Order of Arnath.” said Horus, “It’s important.”

Raskolf laughed and stepped away from the doorway.

“That’s rather bold of him. He doesn’t even know us.” whispered Rory.

“Not really.” said Raskolf, “My Longfangs are back.”

Several figures rose silently from the foliage off to the sides of the trail.

“I don’t know anything about the Order of Arnath,” he continued, “but there is a fat merchant inside who thinks that he owns the place, and probably feels the same way about the people.”

Raskolf approached the two men and clasped their forearms as he welcomed them inside.

“Your reputation precedes you, Horus Von Horst. I have met your sons.”

“Don’t let that ruin his reputation for you.” grumbled Rory.

“Don’t mind Rory.” said Horus, “He is a navigator and explorer himself, and he considers my sons to be competition.”

The two travelers were escorted inside by Raskolf and the Longfangs. Raskolf sent the Longfangs about to perform security tasks without so much as a break to get water or change their socks.

“So,” said Horus, looking around at the overgrown and neglected keep, “we were looking for a garrison of Soldiers of the Order of Arnath’s Fist, but we found you here instead. If this isn’t an Order outpost, what is it?”

“That fat merchant can tell you better than I.” said Raskolf, “I am just passing through. We linked up with this merchant and his baggage train along the way, and decided to travel together for the sake of numbers and safety. I believe that his intent was to re-establish this fort as a trading post between the colonies. The merchant and his hired security intend to stay here, but my people will be moving on in the morning.”

“How many of there are you?”

“That’s a rather suspicious question.” growled Raskolf.

“I ask because I need your help. You have the honor of my name. You said that you know my sons?”

“I have met your Bastards.”

“Which ones?” muttered Rory.

“If you must know, I have met the crazy one, the angry one, the slow one, and the one with the hat.”

“There is little time, and the task is dangerous.” started Horus, “Wait. Was Aedan the angry one or the slow one?”

“I said angry to differentiate him from the other slow one.”

“Right.”

Horus Von Horst paused and thought for a moment.

“Just out of curiosity, are you on good terms with my sons?”

“I fought along side them, and they were generous and hospitable towards me and my daughter.”

“Not too hospitable towards your daughter, I hope?” Horus cringed.

“No. She is a child of only seven summers.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” he said.

Rory rolled his eyes and squinted at the setting sun.

“Boomhowler?” said a scratchy voice, “Boomhowler! Is that really you?”

The men turned to see who addressed them and found themselves face to face with the old man that Drifa had helped earlier.

“Jack!” excalimed Horus, “Jack, my old friend! How are you?”

“Oh, Boomhowler!” said the old man, “What a sight for weary eyes! What brings you here? Who is your friend?”

The joviality drained from Horus’s face.

“Jack, my old friend.” said Horus, “This is Rory Sturm, the famous explorer. You know him very well. We have all adventured together.”

The sad vacancy of the elderly briefly sparkled in the old man’s eyes. He said nothing to Rory, but smiled nervously. Horus grabbed Jack by the shoulders so they were face to face.

“I need to know something, Jack. Do you remember your Arcane talents on this day?”

“What?” laughed Jack, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, Jack.” sighed Boomhowler, “Even on one of your bad days you remember me, and yet you cannot remember all of yourself. I couldn’t ask for a more loyal friend, but I really wish you remembered your magic today. I need you.”

“Magic?” muttered Jack.

“Yes, old friend.” said Horus, “You are a wizard. You are a great and powerful wizard, in fact, but sometimes you have trouble remembering things. I need your help today.”

“Do you need a guide?” asked Jack, “I charge a very fair daily rate.”

“No, Jack.” said Horus, “I need my old friend. Listen carefully, and think hard. Our ancient foe is here. I have hunted it and tracked it from across the ocean. We have to face it tonight, and the sun is almost down.”

Jack tilted his head and thought very hard.

“The Lich!” he suddenly exclaimed, “The Lich!”

“Yes! Yes!” shouted Horus, slapping Jack on the shoulder, “Wonderful! This is wonderful!”

“How terrible!” moaned Jack, “How terrible! How could such a fate befall such a fair land? Have not our people endured enough?”

“Excellent!” said Horus, “You remember.”

“How horrible!” lamented the poor senile old wizard.

The strange outbursts had attracted a lot of attention at this point, and the men were beginning to draw a crowd.

“Here, Jack.” said Boomhowler, thrusting his notebook into the wizard’s hands, “Take a look at my notes.”

As the sun set over the main gate, Boomhowler stepped upon a crate and addressed the assembled adventurers, mercenaries, guards, and Ulven warriors.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Syndar of all castes, and Children of the Wolves, my name is Horus Von Horst. Some call me Boomhowler. I am here tonight because I have made a terrible discovery. For a lifetime, I hunted and pursued my most hated and ancient foe all across Faedrun. Today, here, on this the new world, your land of Mardrun, I believe that I have finally caught up with that ancient evil. The Lich is here. The Undead walk on Mardrun.”

The crowd burst into a flurry of commotion.

“Tonight,” he continued, hefting his crossbow, “I intend to destroy the Lich once and for all, but I cannot do it alone. We have reason to believe that the Lich is working with the Mordok in this region, to conduct a ritual in the abandoned mine to the Northeast. This may be our only chance to destroy the beast before it becomes too powerful!”

People began shouting over each other and asking a million questions at once. Calm in the flurry of panic and madness around them, Aradael turned to Fortinbras. The two exchanged knowing looks.

“The Lich will not gain a foothold. Not here. Not again.” shouted Aradael over the noise of the crowd, “The Crow’s Guard will fight at your side, Von Horst. What do you need us to do?”
“The men of Vandregon stand with you, as well!” said Sir William.

“There will be an idol.” said Jack, looking down into Horus’s notebook, “The idol will be part of the Lich’s ritual. It acts as storage vessel for dark energies. In the Old World, these idols were charged by the worship and sacrifices of the Penitent so that necromancers could build up and discharge greater amounts of black mana than their bodies could otherwise channel without disintegrating or exploding. The Lich cannot complete this ritual tonight without such an idol. According to your sketches of the progression, Boomhowler, the cosmic alignment will occur at midnight. If the Lich misses that window of opportunity, then he will lose all the energy that he has put into the idol.”

“So all we need to do,” said the human rogue in the black cloak, “is keep the Lich from getting the idol.”

“Well, the Lich probably already has it.” said Rory.

“No, he doesn’t!” said the Syndar priest with the golden skin, “We have it right…”

The Syndar priest cut off mid sentence as he gestured across the courtyard to the now empty pedestal near the firepit. There was a sudden uproar of panic and activity as the inhabitants of the keep began making accusations of thievery and pointing fingers at each other. Duncan and Raskolf exchanged nervous expressions at each other and moved to the side of the angry mob.

“I don’t suppose you still have it, do you?” whispered Raskolf.

“Nope.” rasped Duncan through clenched teeth.

“Nuts.”

Raskolf was about to suggest that Duncan take the Longfangs and try to retrieve it before the sun horse descended, and Duncan was thinking the same thing, except that his version of the plan involved blaming it on the hunchback. Both of their thoughts were interrupted by the booming voice of a young human dressed in blue and black.

“Horus Von Horst,” he said, “is this the idol of which you and your companions speak?”

The man, an adventurer named Thanatos, carefully unwrapped a bundle of rags and held the ugly little wicker and clay idol aloft.

“It is!”

“I didn’t think it wise to leave it out in the open,” he said, gazing coldly in the direction of Raskolf and Duncan, “so I secured it.”

Duncan managed a sheepish grin back at Thanatos, but all Raskolf could do was bare his fangs and try not to burst an aneurysm.

The sun was all but gone, now, and the inhabitants of the keep were barricading the doors in preparation for the long night ahead.
As the sun descended, the defenders of the keep prepared themselves for whatever the night may bring, be it Mordok, the Undead, or both. As Soldiers, mercenaries, and adventurers manned the walls, the healers set up aid stations in the courtyard. The provisioners cooked great pots of stew, and began running hot bowls to the troops on the ramparts. Once the dinner had been served, the pots were cleaned, and water boiled for the healers. Dishes could wait.
The idol had been secured in a heavy duty trunk belonging to the fat merchant, and guards assigned to protect it with their lives.
It was very shortly after darkness had enveloped the world that the first of the Mordok scouts were spotted by the archers on the walls. Their numbers were impossible to guess. Their filthy leathers and furs gave them the perfect camouflage.

“Save your arrows!” shouted Sir William to the archers on the walls, “Do not shoot at shadows in the dark. They are hoping to make you waste your shots.”

The Mordok seemed to melt back into the shadows, after taunting the defenders for about fifteen minutes. All was quiet. The silence was nerve wracking. Not even a night bird or a cricket chirped. The defenders looked to one another, and then squinted once more in the darkness. The wind picked up. Stanrick sniffed the air.

“I can smell them out there.” he said to Yawn.

The silence continued for a few long minutes, or perhaps an hour. The world seemed colder.
Suddenly, from the blackness, came the slithering form of a great serpent upon the road. No! It was no serpent, but a many legged creature, like a centipede the length of fifteen horses! It charged madly down the road, and straight towards the front gate. Archers began releasing arrows into it, though no order had been given, and great rocks were hefted up onto the crenelations of the battlements. As the form crashed into the front gate, the defenders recognized it for what it truly was.

“Battering ram!” shouted Aradael, “They’ve got a battering ram!”

“Release the rocks!” yelled Fortinbras to the defenders on the gatehouse.

Rocks and Arrows found their marks, and the Mordok shrieked and screamed as they were pierced and crushed by the deadly rain. For every Mordok that fell, though, another ran up to take its place. The ram found its mark against the gate, and the barred doors flexed inwards before bouncing back. It was holding for now, but it wouldn’t last forever.

“I’ve never known Mordok to use even the most rudimentary of siege weapons!” exclaimed Sir William, “We need to reinforce those doors! Find something to shore them up and brace them with!”

As the men of Vandregon scrambled to find additional timber, there came the sounds of screaming and clashing steel upon the ramparts.

“Mordok on the wall!” shouted a voice, “Mordok on the AHHRRRGH!”

The foot Soldiers and adventurers in the courtyard immediately rushed to man the walls. Just as they joined combat on the walls, however, the bar on the front gate gave a loud crack, and began to bulge.

“Brace it! Brace the gate!” shouted Aradael.

The Longfangs guarding the chest with the totem inside looked to Raskolf.

“Hold the gate! Go!” He said.

The Longfangs piled themselves against the gate, the every impact of the ram shaking their bones and rattling their brains as if a tree had fallen on them.

“Grappling Hooks!” came a shout from the walls, “They have grappling hooks! Cut the lines, cut the lines!”

Raskolf looked around him and took the situation in. He knew this place was too big to defend with this number of warriors! The scenario was getting worse and worse. Suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he looked toward the back gate. In the chaos and confusion, the defenders appeared to have all abandoned it to fight on the front wall, even Bite! He’d made her promise not to abandon her post no matter what, though, which meant…

“Bite!” he called, drawing his sword and running towards the back gate, “Bite!”

As he entered the flickering torchlight of the inner rear gate he saw her shield lying on the ground below the wall.

“Bite!” he called again.

A faint whimper was his only answer.

“Aradael!” he cried, “Bite is hurt!”

The two warriors, ran up the rampart and around the corner. The young Ulven girl lay motionless on the rampart in a pool of blood. Raskolf cursed to himself. He would never forgive himself if he’d gotten her killed. As the two warriors ran to help her, an armored Mordok suddenly jumped down from a tower ladder-well, placing himself between the warriors and the casualty, and injuring Raskolf with a sweep of his axe that carried with it all the force of his fall. Raskolf stumbled with the blow, but Aradael never lost his momentum. Though he wasn’t able to bring his weapon to bear in time, the big, heavily armored human Captain of Crow’s Landing charged his full body weight into the Mordok before it had regained its balance on the rampart, knocking it clear over the ledge where it landed with a thud and a sickening snap. Raskolf regained his footing and scooped up the unconscious little Ulven. More Mordok came thundering down the rampart and Aradael was forced to make a fighting retreat back along the narrow wall as Raskolf carried the casualty on his back.

“This all seems rather familiar!” said Aradael, clashing steel against Mordok iron, “Fighting a retreat from the Mordok with a casualty in tow! All we need is for William to join us!”
“Yes,” said Raskolf, “Except that you easily weigh more than twice this little pup.”

Aradael roared in laughter, and bellowed down to his men in the courtyard to take to the wall and help clear it. As they reached the bottom of the ramp, a healer was already running up to take Bite from them. As soon as she was out of their hands, Raskolf and Aradael charged back up the ramp and into the fray.
Unseen to everyone else on the walls, a human in black was silently making his rounds of the ramparts and cutting the ropes to the grappling hooks.
Down on the ground beneath the front gatehouse, the doors suddenly disintegrated in a flurry of splinters and wood shards, sending the Longfangs tumbling across the ground. As Mordok began spilling in, the last of the guards on the chest ran forward to hold the line at the front gateway. The battle raged as Mordok after Mordok forced themselves into the choke point and tried to press the defenders back. Harlok raged and threw himself into the breach as though he were trying to plug a bursting dam, but he was suddenly catapulted off his feet and sent rolling backwards by a bolt of dark energy. There was an enemy spell caster out there. Magrat knocked an arrow and tried to spot it through the press of bodies. All she could see was a tenebrous wisp moving in the darkness, nearly invisible. She loosed an arrow at it, but her shot was intercepted by the body of a Mordok as it clambered through the breach and into her line of sight. She didn’t have time for another shot. The Mordok were pushing the defenders back and she was forced to drop her bow to protect herself.
Harlok lie motionless on the ground for a moment with a smoldering hole in the shoulder of his armor. Coming to his senses, he suddenly sat up. He could not feel his left arm, and was forced to drop his shield. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand and then rejoined the fray.

Elise watched from the shadows. Her father had told her to stay put when she tried to join the Longfangs holding the front doors, and said that he didn’t want her getting trampled. Her eyes were upon the chest. There was no one guarding it anymore. Suddenly, Elise felt very dizzy. She knew the feeling well. It happened to people if they were too close to her mother when really powerful magic was wrought. Elise steadied herself and focused. There was something moving in the darkness. No. It was the darkness. It was the darkness that moved. A figure arose from that darkness. Elise had never before seen a god of death before, but she was sure that she just had.

She wanted to draw her sword. She wanted to scream for help. She could not. She couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t even stop looking at it. Darkness boiled all about the creature, and strange things peered out from the puddle of shadow, as if monsters of the underworld were peeking up over the crust of the earth. The Lich’s touch caused the padlock to crumble and rust before her very eyes, and then, suddenly, they were gone.

Elise snapped out of her stupor almost instantly, and looked frantically about for an adult. The only one she could find who wasn’t fighting was the fat merchant, who was cowering beneath his wagon, with his backside sticking out. Elise couldn’t find Drifa anywhere, or her Father, either, so she ran to Uncle Rhodi and the Longfangs and joined them in their melee at the gate. Minutes later, a strange sounding horn echoed in the night.

Just as quickly as it had begun, the fight was over. The Mordok disappeared into the darkness of the woods.
William, Aradael, and Raskolf immediately began consolidating their forces and taking accountability, while the healers began triaging the wounded.
As soon as it was discovered that the idol had been taken, the various defenders of the keep immediately began pointing fingers at each other and bickering about who’s fault it was. Before things got too out of hand, though, Horus Von Horst stepped up onto the merchant’s cart and got everyones attention.

“There is no time to fight amongst ourselves now. It is nearing midnight. If we are to disrupt the ritual, we must go now. Rory and I can lead the way to the old mine.”

“We need men who are not wounded.” said Rory, “Speed is our greatest advantage over the undead, and we cannot wait up for stragglers.”

“Raskolf,” said Sir William, “You stay here and help re-organize the defense of this keep in case the Mordok return. The men of Vandregon and of Crow’s Landing have experience fighting the undead. It is our expertise, just as fighting the Mordok is yours.”

“Grab lanterns and torches.” said Aradael, “Let’s move!”

Elise grabbed a lantern and hurried to join the war party.

“Oh no, you don’t!” shouted Raskolf, “You aren’t going anywhere. It’s too dangerous.”

Elise folded her arms and pouted. As soon as Raskolf was busy organizing the removal of bodies and the barricading of the empty gateway, she ran off into the night, hot on the heels of the adventurers.

“Sorry, father.” she said to herself, “But it is personal, now.”

She had just caught up with the Lich hunters when Raskolf came running up behind her.
He was about to give her a good scolding when the party passed back the hand signal to be quiet.

“We’re here.” whispered Boomhowler.

Ahead on the trail, the intrepid adventurers could see the mouth of the mine. An eerie purple glow was emanating from within. Von Horst, Rory, and Jack huddled together to come up with a plan of attack, and sent a whisper down the line for William and Aradael to join them. As Aradael crept up to the front of the line, he accidently kicked a person lying prone on the side of the trail.

“Sorry about that.” he whispered, reaching into the darkness to pat them on the shoulder, “Are you ok?”

He got no answer, and opened the shutter on his lantern just a little, to check. It was a corpse in a green tabard. Rolling it over, he recognized it to be the very bandit that had held a knife to his throat earlier that day. The red-bearded bandit’s face was frozen and contorted in horror and agony. Dropping the body back into place, he ran up to the front of the line.

“We’ve got problems, Von Horst!” he hissed.

“What kind of problems?”

Sudden rustling sounds, wheezes, and moans broke the silent darkness as if in answer.

“We’re staging in the middle of an ambush, and we are already surrounded by corpses.”

All around the formation, and even within it, the silent dead were awakening and slowly stumbling to get to their feet.

“On your feet, men!” shouted Sir William, “The undead are upon us! Steel yourselves, and get back to back with your comrades!”

“No!” yelled Raskolf, “We are in the middle of an ambush. It’s a trap. Just charge the mine! Get clear of the killing field!”

“Raskolf? What are you doing here?”

“Just go!”

Cold things clutched at the adventurers through the darkness, grabbing at ankles and stumbling after them, but the lich hunters managed to fight their way towards the mine and away from the road. They had moved just in time, too, for magical energies flashed in the night, bombarding the place where they had been staging just seconds before. Stiffly moving Mordok, no longer living, stumped out of the yawning purple mouth of the mine and met with the steel of the brave adventurers.

“Okay, Sir William.” said Raskolf, as he lunged to grab Elise and keep her close, “Now would be the time to do that defensive thing that you were talking about.”

“Right!” he grunted, cleaving a Mordok zombie in half with his greatsword, “Men! Formation! White Shield, execute!”

Raskolf watched as the men of Vandregon and Crow’s Landing formed up into a last stand sort of formation that would have been suicide against anyone but the slowly moving undead. The few Longfangs that had come along found places within the gaps. At the head of the formation, brave adventurers had accompanied Rory, Jack, and Von Horst into the mine entrance. Their fight wasn’t going well. Rory had been dragged down by undead, and pulled out of reach of his comrades, his screams adding to the chaos of the Lich’s arcane chanting and the moans of the lesser undead. Jack was furiously hurling bolts of energy at the zombies that were trying to flank them, while at the same time, trying to throw some relief in Rory’s direction. As the other adventurers tried to fight a path to the Lich, the beast recognized the danger of another spellcaster in its midst, and stopped its incantation. Turning its attention to Jack, the Lich drew dark and purple mana from the totem, and began shaping a deathbolt. Horus Von Horst saw it even as it was happening and drew his crossbow. It was loaded with a blessed crossbow bolt, made from the silver of a melted holy symbol. Despite the chaos around him, he took careful aim, and released the arrow at just the right time to interrupt the spell. To his horror, the missile clattered harmlessly off of an invisible barrier around the Lich, and the spellcaster’s amplified deathbolt spell impacted poor old Jack with such force that it blew him clear out of the mine and into the waiting horde of zombies fighting the Soldiers outside.

“Amateur mistake!” Von Horst cursed himself, “Back when I was on my game, I never would have wasted my only holy crossbow bolt on the first shot unless I was sure that the enemy didn’t have a shield spell activated!”

Outside, the warriors found themselves nearly blinded by purple lightning as a body was violently hurled from the mouth of the mine. The sudden flash of arcane light revealed just how bad their situation was. They weren’t just surrounded, there were more and more zombies filtering in out of the woods and from the swamp.

“They aren’t drawing off to fight us!” shouted Sir William, “They are trying to get into the mine. Move toward the entrance! Raskolf, Stanrick, Harlok! See if you can get in there and help Von Horst!”

Horus Von Horst loaded another, but non-magical, crossbow bolt.

“Very well.” He said, taking aim, “I may not be able to destroy you this night, but I can disrupt your ritual!”

Squeezing the trigger of his crossbow, he sent a bolt flying right past the Lich’s head. At first glance, it would appear that he had missed, but he had not. His aim was true, and the arrow shattered one of the three arcane mirrors that was channeling the dark mana into the runic receptors.
The Lich shrieked in rage, and sent Von Horst flying backwards into another adventurer with a push spell. The two of them tumbled to the ground, where they immediately found themselves grappling for their lives against undead Mordok. The receptors had almost absorbed enough mana. Even with only two mirrors, the ritual could still be completed, but the Lich didn’t dare draw any more mana from the idol now!
Raskolf, Harlok, Stanrick, and Elise fought their way into the room just in time to see the Lich throw Von Horst into another adventurer. While Raskolf and Stanrick tried to pull the zombies off of the two lich hunters, Harlok tried his best to protect their backs and keep the undead creatures at bay with his spear. He was fast discovering, however, that such tactics did nothing to discourage the hungry ghosts, who, unlike Mordok, feel no pain, and therefore do not fear the bite of a blade. The creatures were simply relentless in their press to close with the defenders. He could not match skill with them, for they had no skill, themselves. He couldn’t intimidate them, either, for they knew no fear. Their horrendous appetites, and un-natural resilience to physical violence reminded Harlok of something out of his nightmares. He stabbed them over and over, and bashed them with his shield, but all it did was slow them down. No matter what he did, they simply shrugged it off and kept on coming after him. He couldn’t kill them.

“The mirrors!” grunted Von Horst, “Destroy the mirrors!”

Stanrick didn’t have to hear it twice. His javelin hurtled through the air and destroyed the second mirror. The Lich shrieked and commanded more zombies to attack. What it didn’t count on, though, was the seven year old girl with a personal vendetta against it. Elise nimbly dodged out of her father’s grasp, and that of the clutching hordes of zombies. Using her speed and her small size, she easily evaded the clumsy enemies. Raising the last of the mirrors above her head, she flashed a smug smile at the Lich. In a final act of desperation, the beast darkened the room with tenebrous arcane power, and tried to en-trance the girl with fear as it had before. Elise was scared, and the mirror felt as though it would freeze her hands to ice, but in her chest burned the heart of a wolf, and as the cold shadows clutched at her, they were rebounded by the blessings placed upon her by her mother before she left home. The Lich knew that it had been defeated, and in desperation grabbed the idol and disappeared with a bang and a flash of light. The idol fell to the ground, and the remaining zombies collapsed, motionless.

Elise stood there, as though frozen, her hair smoldering and standing on end, as the purple glow of the mirror faded to darkness. Raskolf ran to her and hugged her close.

“What happened?” asked Stanrick.

“The Lich abandoned its ritual.” said Von Horst, “but before it did, it purged all the mana from the idol and from these undead, and channeled it to perform a long distance recall spell. It could be anywhere on Mardrun now. We stopped it, but we didn’t destroy it.”

Pulling on a leather glove, Von Horst took the mirror from Elise.

“You should never handle dark mana with your bare hands, child. You are lucky to be alive.”

Elise’s eyes were huge. She blinked a few times and then sneezed purple smoke.

“Let us burn these bodies as quickly as possible.” said William, “Send runners to fetch as much lamp oil as possible from that fat merchant.”

The gold skinned Syndar Priest tended to Elise.

“This one should recover quickly.” he said gesturing to Elise, “The fact that such arcane energy shorted into her might be indicative of a dormant talent for handling mana.”
“What do you mean?” asked Raskolf.

“When the Lich recalled all the mana, some of it was attracted to your daughter instead of the Lich. Arcane energy can be something like lightning at times. The fact that some energy flowed into her without harming her could mean that she has an aptitude for one of the types of magic.”

“We will cross that bridge when we get there. In the meantime, I want her to undergo a rite of purification from an Ulven Priestess. Thank you for your help.”

“This one was happy to help. Siala kay nu.”

“Sialikaynu to you, too.” said Raskolf, “It was an honor to fight by your side.”

Harlok Longfang slumped to the ground and stared blankly at the wall. He had never fought anything like that before. He never wanted to again.

*
Back at the keep, Horus Von Horst sat down. He had never felt this old before. Though the night had been considered a victory, he knew the end was not even close. Jack, his oldest companion, was dead. Rory Sturm, the explorer who had the best idea where to find the artifact, was also dead. It had been a horrible day for Horus. It could easily have been just as horrible for the entire continent if not for the unhesitating assistance of the brave group at the fort.
The more he thought about it, the more he came to realize that so little was known about the the Lich and the dangers faced. He knew he had not destroyed the idol. It was more likely that the Lich and his army had left the area and whatever link was shared with the idol was severed. He thought it would hearten the adventures if they thought it was destroyed. Some of the Ulven had wanted to pitch it into the swamp. There was a time when Horus had once thought this way too, but much to his dismay he knew that what is once lost can be found again.
Horus and his allies had spent years chasing this monster with little success. Each encounter had left him with fewer friends. It seemed as if mere men could not resist this threat, but Horus had endured and survived. He wondered why he himself was not dead yet. By all rights he should have died on Faedrun.
But there was no time for this kind of thinking. He would mourn the dead later. There was too much at stake. The undead could not be allowed to take root on Mardrun. Perhaps out of this new group of adventurers there would be more willing to join the fight. On top of that he now had an idea, provided by Rory’s map, of where the artifact was. An expedition must be mounted into the Outlands. Finding the “May’Kar Soul Blade” would let him end the Lich for good, and perhaps help to wash some of the blood off of his hands.
Before any of this could happen he had to pay a visit to his old friend Karl and leave the idol in good hands.
Knocking the dust off his boots he stood up. There was much to do. He could grieve as he worked.

*

Aeden Haleth VonHorst

Hello friends, I wish I was writing you under better circumstances but I do not have much time to write this, so I’ll be brief.

Members of pack Greytide have attacked a village near Starkhaven and slaughtered most of its people. Survivors’ reports are confused but apparently the Greytide ordered the farmers to leave the open and unclaimed lands they had settled and were refused. Greytide then proceeded to kill all they could catch and any that fought for their homes. Women and children were included in the slaughtered. Greytide took trophies from the dead, including the face of a young girls mother while the child watched.

The Masters of my Order have charged me with seeking out the leader of Greytides masters, Clan Grimward, to find answers and decided whether we will march. I don’t need to tell you that if war breaks out it will spread.

We, and I, need your help to stop this before it starts. I ask you, if able, to meet me near the Grimward border in the Ulven free-town of Paviken in two weeks time, between the 7th and 14th of Eostur-monath.

I would not ask this of you unless the need was great. I need the voices of Ulven I trust at my side, I doubt Grimward will heed the word of a lone Human. I will be staying at the Hanged Mordok Inn as long as I am able. I hope to see you all soon.

Sincerely, Aedan Haleth Von Horst

*

Raskolf Vakr, my name is Aedan Von Horst, member of the Bastards, we met briefly at the Wayward in this past winter. I wish we had been able to help more in the final confrontation with the Mordok there but we needed to stop the other group of the beasts before they escaped. I was glad to see that you not only slew the beasts but didn’t lose a single member of your group.

The other letter in this message case was sent out around five hours ago to Freya Rev Anda, Kargen Bloodmoon and Harlok Longfang, all Ulven friends of mine and now you.

I understand that there is a vast difference between us, the ultimatum you sent to New Hope a few months ago aggravated an already tense balance between our peoples. However, I believe that sending it at all shows that you want peace between Ulven and Colonist.

I send these two letters to try and reach that goal. If an accord cannot be reached with the Grimward and Greytide then we will continue to fortify our supply lines and help the local Ulven clans we have allied with fortify their towns for now, but we will prepare for war. If Greytide and/or Grimward launch an unprovoked attack our people or allies again we will respond in kind.

We don’t want this. If nothing else we have a common foe in the Mordok, but after having spent most of the last year traveling with your people I have come to greatly respect many of them. Our races have far more that draws us together then not.

I’m sure you have been told of our behavior Khulgar Graytide, the messenger that came to the summit in New Hope. Many of us treated him the way we did because we know him from an incident at the Longfangs Onsallas Outpost this past fall. He came in spewing insults at any and all present, Ulven and colonist alike. Especially an Ulven named Freya Rev Anda.

After a heated argument between the two that included history that I do not remember well as I was being treated by the healer at the time, an honor duel was called between him and Freya Rev Anda. For many of us at the summit, and all the Bastards, Freya has been a friend for a long time, one of the first Ulven we came in contact with in our travels as a group. The rules of the duel: no weapons, no death unless accident and the duel continues to one admits defeat. When if became clear that Freya was winning the fight he pulled a dagger. Freya not only refused aid, but she still defeated the cur. He then ran off with his toadies, continuing to spew insults. As I mentioned I did not hear the history between them, but I found it telling that not one Ulven that wasn’t Greytide in the outpost supported him at any time.

When Khulgar Graytide showed himself at the summit he gave no inclination that he was there in any official capacity, stating he was there “to observe us”. If it had been known he was there officially, I believe his reception would have been icy, but respectful of his position.

The Greytide have shown, in every encounter I have had with them, a deceitful nature and a deep-seated hatred for Mankind and the Syndar. Even when trying to help the Longfangs of Onsallas they hounded us at every step, not quite attacking us but making our tasks far harder then they needed to be. They also never raised a hand to help the Longfangs themselves, at least while I was present.

I do not expect you to trust a letter, but if you are able to meet me in Paviken or the Clan Grimward capitol to talk of these matters I would be grateful. If you do choose to come I will be alone in a town or city of your people.

I believe we both want the peace our peoples forged in blood to stand. We need to try and solve this situation before it escalates. Whether I see you soon or not, thank you for your time.

Aedan Haleth Von Horst

Pack Graytide

“Father!” said the small golden haired Ulven girl as she ran and clutched the pant leg of an Ulven standing near the door to one of the pack’s long houses. She was just about to turn 10 years old… old enough to understand he was leaving, but not old enough to understand why.

“Yes, child?” said the girl’s father patiently as she clung to him for dear life.
“I don’t want you to go! You can’t leave again. You always leave. I won’t let you.” the girl pleaded as tears welled up in her eyes and a sob began to build in her tiny little voice.

“I am sorry, child, you know I have a duty to my pack and my clan. I have to go, because our clan and our people are in danger. I need you to be strong for me. I need you to be the brave little warrior I know you can be. “ said the father as he tried to control his own emotions. It was always so hard leaving her. Every time he left, it killed him inside. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t have a mother now. It wasn’t her fault that he had to ask his packmates to raise his child because he couldn’t be around. And now it will be even worse.

“But I am scared, father. I am scared they will take you too like they did mother. That you won’t come back.” pleaded the child.

“Listen, there is nothing I want more than to stay here with you. But you know that I can’t. I will be back as soon as I can, I promise. The village will be safe, keep to your studies and listen to the lore speaker. That would make me happy, knowing you are learning and playing and safe here in the village” said the father as he firmly but gently pried his daughter’s death grip off of his leg. He then kneeled down to her level and met her golden eyed and tear filled gaze.

“Promise you will bring me back a present?” said the girl in a pouty voice and furled brow. She had admitted defeat that she could not make him stay but was determined to make the best of it.

“Of course, I will bring you back something special.” Laughed the father as he leaned in and hugged his daughter, his only child, and he allowed himself to take in this moment and he closed his eyes and smiled. This is what he was fighting for. This is what mattered to him. They are a danger to her future, to her life, and he would do anything to protect her.

“Chieftain…” said a gruff voice from the doorway, hesitant to interrupt.
The father’s smile immediately faded and his eyes snapped open. He was still not used to the sound of his new title.

“Run along now, child. It is time to leave.” said Khulgar Graytide as he rose to his full height, the emotion and caring gone from his blood red eyes.

Chieftain Khulgar Graytide walked with a purpose through the thick doors of the clan’s great hall. The massive long house was home to Clan Grimward, one of the largest Ulven clans in Mardrun. Only Clan Nightriver rivaled them in size. He passed by guards, warriors, and Daughter’s of Gaia from several different packs that had been summoned. It was an important meeting and the packs needed to be there. He had to steel himself for what was to come.

Flanking him on either side were two large and armored Ulven guards from Pack Graytide. One was Lycon Graytide, his tunic rolled up and pinned in the location where one of his arms should have been. Even with only one arm, Lycon was a fierce warrior. Gruesome trophies of fingers, hair, ears, and teeth adorned their sword belts, reminders of past battles and victories.

Khulgar walked directly to the center of the great hall and stopped in front of a massive man. Taller and broader than any other Ulven in the room and adorned with braided silver hair, glistening mail, plates of leather, and a giant wolf pelt across his shoulders stood Haygreth Grimward, Clanleader of Clan Grimward. The audience that was assembled quieted down as the final guest, Chieftan Khulgar Graytide, had arrived. Khulgar was chosen to be the representative of Clan Grimward at a recent gathering in the outsider’s colony, a political dinner, and everyone was eager to hear what he had to say.

“I see Pack Graytide is in good hands, Chieftain” said Haygreth in a booming voice as they clasped forearms in greeting.

“And I see the Clan is stronger than ever.” Replied Khulgar.

“You honor your brother, Vahdnar, and your father. Now tell us, Khulgar, of this little meeting with the outsiders.” Said Haygreth somberly, wanting to cut to the chase.

“It was pathetic. The outsiders waste their time on fancy drinks and lavish garments when they should be worrying about the safety and future of their people. Their settlement is large, much larger than most of ours, but they are fractured from within. It is obvious their leaders have greedy agendas and do not trust one another. They have no strong leadership and they are weak. Even the other “guests” to this meeting were merely refugees from their previous homeland.” Said Khulgar as he half addressed his clan leader and half the audience gathered in the room.

“Numerous times did these “guests” mock me, threaten me, and even confront me physically. Disrespectful actions that would have led to blood had the time and place been different. I grew tired and weary of the ridiculous nature of the meeting as it dragged on and on and demanded everyone present listen. I delivered the Watchwolf Resolution, signed by the hand of Raskolf himself, and backed by numerous packs inside the Watchwolves and amongst other clans. The Watchwolves push for control of the outsiders and their disrespectful ways, and the outsiders disregarded the spoken words of the resolution. They were told what they must do and by the terms they must live by. They would not listen. They did not care. The Watchwolves made it very clear that they were to live by our rules and do things our way, if they are to live with us in our homeland. It was made clear to them what they must do or the Watchwolves would take action against them. And I made it clear that Pack Graytide would support them.”

“What of Branthur Nightriver? Was he not present at this meeting? Surely he would not stand for such disrespect to our people…” said Haygreth, carefully listening and taking in everything Khulgar had to say.

“Yes, he was present, but he is not the Branthur we all knew. I am convinced they have deceived or tricked Branthur, because he backed the outsiders instead of us, his brethren. That or he has become much softer than we remember. I called his Ulven honor into question, to rouse him out of whatever stupor he was under, to make him see the error of his ways and that the Ulven, the children of Gaia and of the Great Wolf, are the rulers of our homelands and that these outsiders are a threat. He too would not listen. He blew me off and simply told me that the outsiders were allowed to do as they please on Clan Nightriver lands. I could not believe such madness… do we allow the Mordok to live in our neighbor’s lands? It was at this time that I could no longer stomach the place and went to leave, but not before some outsiders confronted me yet again, a tall one even laying hands on me in a threatening manner. I reminded them of their place and that they were on Ulven lands and should take more heed in what we have to say before they wear out their welcome. Then I left.” Said Khulgar as he paced around the front of the meeting, placing careful thought into his words as he spoke.

“Maybe Branthur is right, maybe we should leave the colonists alone?” said a smaller voice from the back of the room.

“The outsiders are vermin! They should be put back on their boats and sent back to where they came from” said another voice.

“But some of the colonists have traded with us, or even helped us with some trades and supplies?” said yet another voice.

“They are a threat to our people! We should kill them all and Nightriver too if they defend them!” barked a large and grizzled veteran of yet another pack. At that moment the entire great hall descended into a cacophony of voices filled with concern and opinion.

“SILENCE!” boomed Haygreth loud enough to completely quiet the entire room. No one dared speak again and anger the mountain of a man. Many have learned it best to listen when Haygreth speaks.

“I am Clan Leader and I will make the decision of what to do next. This is a grave situation for our people and we cannot go into this blind. Khulgar, is there anything else?” said Haygreth as he settled back down after demanding the respect he deserved.

“Yes. As I left the colony, the outsiders at the gate were talking about a message… that apparently a boat had arrived from their homeland. If boats are arriving again, it means that more outsiders are heading toward Mardrun… more outsiders are coming here, to our homeland.” Stated Khulgar very carefully, allowing the words to sink in.

“We also received a message from Pack Fieldcrow. They are not of our clan and they are isolated deep in Ulven territory and away from the outsiders… but they have reported to our Clan hunters recently that another outsider settlement is being built near territory, right now as we speak. By their own eyes, we have proof that the outsiders are pushing deeper into Ulven lands… our lands… away from the borders given to them. They disrespect us. They disrespect our land. They disrespect Gaia and the Great Wolf…” ended Khulgar as his final statement did its job and sent worried glances darting between those assembled.

“This is troubling news, Chieftain Khulgar Graytide. Things are changing and Clan Grimward may be the only ones with the stomach to do what needs to be done. But it is a burden we are willing to bear to help our people. I will need to consult with the chieftains, the high priestess and my warleader… only then will I make the decision for the entire Clan. Tell me, Khulgar, what do think we should do?” asked Haygreth very carefully as his mind considered numerous things.

Khulgar took a deep breath and scanned the room. Everyone there was looking to him, looking to the Graytides, for their experience in dealing with the outsiders. So much was riding on this moment. Did he really know what to do? But as his mind burned at the memory of his mate laying dead and bloodied in the snow at their hands, her beautiful golden hair framing her dead face, and of what future his precious little girl would grow up in. He could not force the hand of Haygreth, he knew, but he also knew that the Clanleader would consider his words.

“War. I think we should go to war.”

——————–

“Over here, now! Run!” yelled one of the men through the screams and the chaos. People were fighting, and running, and dying.

Courlina ran as fast as she could. It all happened so fast. They came out of the woods so quickly, the men barely had enough time to take up arms. Courlina was still young, she only just became an adult but she knew how bad the situation was. She knew what was happening. She knew how many of them would die. She knew what these monsters were capable of.

And then she saw him. Her father.

Courlina ran to him. She ran as fast as she could. For some reason she thought that if she reached him, if she got to him, that everything would be alright. Her father was struggling with one of the attackers, clad in ragged furs and hides. He gained the upper hand and stabbed the tip of his sword into his opponent’s chest. The struggle began to wane as the attacker’s wound proved too much; her father was winning.

Suddenly, a glistening metal spear burst out of her father’s chest, clean and smooth and glistening with fresh blood. Another attacker had run their wicked spear through his back and out through his chest.

“No!” screamed Courlina as she stumbled and fell to the ground. She knew there was nothing she could do now. She wanted to give up. To just lay down and accept her fate. It was now that she noticed another body near the scattered rubble of a hay cart near her father and the attackers. It was of her mother. An axe had been buried deep into her gut, but she still clutched the sword she had picked up to defend herself with. She had died a warrior’s death. Moments later, her father’s bloodied corpse collapsed down next to his slain wife.

Her family came out here to start a new life. To get away from the colony and the others, to start again. And now she was an orphan. She could not find the will to live, to fight, or to run, so she just accepted she was moments away from death.

She glanced over through tear soaked eyes and saw one of the monsters reach down and grab her mother by the neck. A knife darted out and sawed through her soft flesh, cutting clean her ear. In a gory display of victory, the attacker clad in blood soaked mail and leathers took his gruesome trophy. Witnessing her mother’s corpse mutilated in such a way was too much for Courlina and she blacked out.

Captain Wulden’s men were en route to the new Order fortress with supplies in tow when they saw the smoke, miles out to the west. They had heard that a number of families were going to settle in the area. The smoke could have been anything… but the Captain had a bad feeling about it. He trusted his instincts and sent a handful of men, including himself, to investigate.

They had arrived as fast as they could, but they were far too late.

“Sir, this one is still alive” said one of his men as he knelt down to roll over the body of a young girl. She jolted awake with a startled cry and flailed about, knocking the man over. She thrashed wildly, crying out mumbled words including “father” and “mother” and “all dead”.

The Captain reached down and gently took the sides of her face with his leather gauntleted fists. He steadied her body and kept her from thrashing and forced her to look him straight in the eye.

“You are safe, child. My name is Captain Daniel Wulden, Eagle Officer of the Order and my men and I will protect you. We have gathered some of your people and we will return you to them. They are on the outskirts of this clearing, child… they are alive. You are not alone anymore.” He said calmly and smoothly, his voice easing her of her terror. She stopped protesting and merely sobbed, instead clutching to him for comfort.

The Captain looked out across what used to be the village. All the buildings were burned shells and a number of bodies lay on the ground… the result of a brief and bloody battle. They tried to defend themselves, to fight back, and they were slaughtered for it. The attackers spared the women and children, even some of the men that did not take up arms. This was not the work of Mordok… those monsters would have slaughtered and eaten everyone.

“Corporal, get me a messenger hawk. Send word to Aedan, in Newhope. Tell him what has happened here.”

Raskolf Vakr
Ylsa Stormherald

Dearest Raskolf,
What in the name of Gaia’s saggy tits did you DO at that political dinner? Keep in mind that your brother and I live in a HUT in the middle of gods-forsaken NOWHERE, yet even here we have heard rumors of a civil war? Caused by some sort of resolution that YOU, apparently, delivered? And what happened to that idol? Did you gain any more information about it?

I tire of this voluntary exile and the ignorance it brings. I had only just begun to learn the ways of this area when we settled in for winter, and it appears momentous events have occurred in the past months that I have little to no knowledge of. Spring is here – we are coming out of hiding, Rhodi’s back be damned.

Give Elise a scratch behind the ears for me, and give my regards to Anjan.

May the Great Wolf hunt with you,
Ylsa

P.S. Rhodi says hi, and that if you suggest eating the rabbits he will turn your bones into a fine set of hilts

——————————————

Dear Ylsa,

I have not been able to secure the idol, but the portents have indicated that it is an unholy item and not some mere magical trinket. According to my research, and after consulting with a human sage, we have reason to believe that it is directly connected to an evil power from the old world. Our Priestesses believe that the idol, should it fall into the wrong hands, could release a plague of hungry ghosts upon Mardrun, the same as which destroyed the homelands of the colonists. We have sent messengers to warn the people who hold the idol, a group of humans called Boomhowler’s Bastards, but none of the runners returned. Reports from the Eyes and Ears of our allies within Clan Grimward confirmed our suspicions that the Bastards had killed our messengers. The Graytides have encouraged us to join their cause, but for now we have attempted to take a more diplomatic route, and instead drafted a security resolution. I can only hope that by going public we will force the Bastards to surrender the idol. The resolution outlines actions which must be taken in order to avoid what we believe could be the outbreak of an apocalyptic plague. It also makes public the hostile actions which New Aldoria has taken against the Watchwolves. I was unable to deliver the resolution myself, as I was on a diplomatic mission in New Aldoria at the time it was to be read, but the Graytides of Clan Grimward graciously delivered it for me. Apparently, our resolution was not well received by the humans. I am traveling to the Reach, now, in search of the Bastards and the idol. Unlike humans, the children of the Great Black Wolf do not run away from our problems. We run towards them. I have, in my company, warriors of the noblest Longfang Pack, as well as representatives from the Sjóúlfur and other local families, but I request the presence of you and Rhodi as well. Your expertise in legends and lore may prove helpful on this quest, and we may need Rhodi to help us train an army if things fall apart.

Sincerely,
Raskolf Vakr
The Voice of the Watchwolves

———————————–

Dear Raskolf,

The hostility of New Aldoria is worth some alarm to say the least, and the treachery of Boomhowler’s Bastards is truly saddening, but it is wise that the Watchwolves are seeking a diplomatic solution. If the idol can truly bring the same undead that massacred Faedrun, then we MUST maintain peaceful relations with the colonists, both Syndar and Human. Do not forget that they fought against this enemy for fifty years before they fled their homeland. If or when it is released here, we will need that experience on our side. If we do not, then we may as well blindfold ourselves before going into battle.

Your request was barely necessary. Preparations must be made, but Rhodi and I shall soon depart for the Reach. We expect to arrive when the moon next begins to wane.

Safe travels and clear skies,
Ylsa Stormherald

—————————————–

Dear Ylsa,

Good news! I was contacted today by a runner from our friends, the Longfangs. The Idol is safely in the hands of Clan Nightriver! Boomhowler’s Bastards actually agreed with our resolution and have not only complied, but wish to aid us in policing the burial practices of their fellows. Reports to the contrary were false, and I was elated to hear so. After some careful thought, however, this same news also concerns me. Either our intelligence ring has failed us, or we have been deliberately misled. Sadly, I am inclined to believe the latter rather than the former. I fear there is treachery afoot, and therefore, the matter still requires further investigation. Obviously, there is also the matter of our missing messengers to look into. The last ones to report seeing them were the garrison of a Graytide outpost where they spent a night. That seems like a good place to start our investigation.

Sincerely,
Raskolf Vakr
The Voice of the Watchwolves

Magrat Farwalker

Harlok, Rill, and Magrat walked the steep path through the Pineed Trees. Magrat was anxious. She had walked this road numerous times before, but it was always while exploring, helping on patrol, or going to a secluded spot to watch the village life from a distance. Now, her purpose was different. Magrat had made efforts to be a welcome guest by doing chores, patching up scuffs and scrapes with her healing skills, going on patrols and even training and hunting. The Longfangs had treated her well with the few vocal exceptions seeming to have been silenced quickly as it became obvious that veteran warriors and Daughters of Gaia tolerated her presence.

Magrat missed the mountains of Faedrun. This was probably the closest she had felt to “home” since she left, but it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t ever sure she could feel truly at home, but for now this was the best she could hope for. Though the Longfangs had been kind to her, and shared much of their culture with her, there were times when she felt like a stray dog that had been taken in out of pity. The Syndar are a proud and long-lived people, and though she would never be so rude as to show any resentment on the outside, accepting charity wasn’t exactly in her blood. Perhaps that was why she worked so hard to contribute to the pack. There was no going back. Her home was gone. Her people were almost certainly gone. All she could do was burn the dead and march forward, just like the Ulven. She laughed to herself when she realized that she had begun thinking like one.

The frenzy of activity after the human’s dinner had everyone on edge. There was little open talk of war, but it was obvious that the Longfangs were preparing for dark times. Magrat found it a bit odd that no outsiders were allowed inside the village, yet the warriors included her in training and close group discussions around the campfires at night. Magrat almost let herself feel welcome.

Harlok, Rill, and Magrat arrived at the entrance to the village. The front gate was flanked by two heavily muscled warriors, armored in a similar fashion to Harlock. Magrat and her escorts waited patiently outside the gate as an older woman approached, her confident stride and bearing marking her as one of the older Daughters of Gaia, most likely one of the Pack Longfang witches.

“We have not had an outsider step through these gates in many years” said Rill, “The importance of this invitation should not be taken lightly. The Priestess has requested to speak with you directly. She will be surrounded by her Daughters, including me, but I will only be allowed to watch and listen. If you threaten her or she finds you a threat to us, you will be killed. No matter what she asks you, do not lie. She will know.” said Rill as the witch finally reached them.

“The Priestess is ready.” said the witch

Harlok clasped Magrat’s forearm in a sign of respect and nodded to her before turning on his heel and heading towards the tavern. His gesture was probably meant to put Magrat at ease, but it made her nervous instead. It was almost as if he had just said goodbye to her.

Magrat followed Rill and the witch trough the village center. Even though it was later in the day and the light was fleeting, the townsfolk and even children were still out. All eyes were upon Magrat.

The three women approached a large building, which was guarded by two fearsome , scar covered veterans. The thickly muscled guards pulled open the massive wooden doors of the building as if they weighed nothing at all. Magrat tried not to look at the intimidating warriors, and instead keep focused on what lie ahead, but the intensity of their gazes chilled her to the bone.

Magrat followed Rill and the witch briskly through a corridor, leaving tapestries fluttering in their wake, until they came to a large room. The room was big enough for a respectable number of people to sit and have council. It smelled strongly of incense. Several Daughters of Gaia were seated in the chamber. As they entered the room, Magrat recognized Azra Steelfang among the daughters, clad in fur and armor. As the three women entered, the room became silent, and the Daughters rose to their feet. As Magrat continued into the center of the room, she could feel their eyes upon her. Rill motioned for Magrat to be seated upon the floor. Magrat took her seat. Behind her, Stanrick and Yawn entered the back of the room, having just been retrieved from the tavern by Harlok.

Magrat bowed her head respectfully. Before her was a built up area, one that was more practical than lavish. It was not a throne, chair, or a couch, but more of a lounge with stacked pillows and small tables adorned with all sorts of totems, items, and herbs. The linen canopy above it gave the impression that it was to provide some measure of privay, yet also remain open so that all nearby can see and hear what is said when appropriate. Standing at either side of the canopy are two more guards just as fierce and as grizzled as the two guarding the doors.

At the center of the canopy sat a woman, cross legged, and adorned with fabrics both elegant and earthly. The woman was very old, yet far from frail in appearance. She had vigilant eyebrows, a strong jaw line, and long waves of gray hair that flowed down from beneath a head dress of leather, bone, and metal. Like two small glowing moons with black centers, her eyes shone with a spiritual light that cut through the dimness, much the same as a predator’s eyes might glow when on the hunt. Magrat found herself entranced by that gaze as wisps of incense smoke circled the pair. Ulven are known for sizing up others with intense gazes, but Magrat had never experienced anything like this before. It felt as though there was not a single secret in her world that this woman could not know just by looking into her with those intense, unblinking eyes.

“I am Priestess Soulveig Longfang,” said the woman, “Runeseer of Pack Longfang. These are troubling times and the runes speak of many changes to come. Throughout my people’s history the Longfangs have been the wardens of such change. The runes call to me, they show me things that are to be and what could be. The future is uncertain, and the outsiders have done much damage to the land of Gaia and have threatened our ways. Clan Grimward, heralded by those of Pack Graytide, push for action that could soak the land in both Ulven and outsider blood. Clan Nightriver stoically defends the outsiders and pushes for tolerance even as tensions rise. And the Watchwolves Clan have called out for action and speak for those that follow them. Soon, the other Clans and Packs of the Ulven will be swayed in one direction or another. And in the middle of this we have you… outsiders from a far away land, with customs and religions different than ours, with tales of monsters and of dead that walk. The Great Wolf listens to the deeds of the Ulven, yet his ears do not ring with your names; the names of the outsiders. The deeds in time are read through the runes, yet my runes on you are cryptic. This is perplexing, so I demand council of you and those like you. My warriors tell me that you respect us and have earned your keep here at the outpost. My warriors tell me that you watch our customs yet have them of your own. My warriors have told me that you can be trusted. I demand proof…” says the priestess as she holds out a hand filled with small bone chips and shards, carved with runes that seem to resonate with some sort of spiritual energy.

“Magrat Farwalker, Fishbone tongue shaman and chosen of the Ram, hunter from the land of Faedrun and the Celestial Mountains, lorespeaker of the Lost…” said the priestess as she cast the rune bones onto an ornate leather mat in front of her, “Tell me. Why are you here?”

Magrat drew in a hissing breath. The last time she had been addressed by her full title was similar to this. She had stood before her people’s assembled elders and shamans, and they had told her to go, go south. Learn. See. Hear. Listen. All the answers she had carefully prepared, the thought out responses to imagined questions, fled her mind, caught in the gaze of the Priestess. Hundreds of reasons flit through her mind. Her people had sent her away. She moved to find new information. To see new places. To learn of the world as very few of her people had seen it. She fled the onslaught of the Undead, and moved with the men of Vandregon. She was put on a ship when she was sick and could hardly remember where she was, and found herself trapped in an alien land, surrounded by men and Syndar she did not know, and by this race that seemed to come straight out of her people’s legends and myths.

“Almost seventy years ago,” she said, “my people sent me away. The Dead walked our lands, and our enemies lands. Our Histories spoke of past times such as these, but none carried the secret to defeating it. I was to find out what was happening to the rest of the world. I was to find how to stop the Dead. Much… much of my time away from home, among the men and Syndar of the south, of Faedrun… is hazy. My memories are broken and spotted. I do not know what happened. I was found, ill and delirious. They sent me to Mardrun, when the evacuation wasn’t an emergency, not yet. But by the time I had recovered, no one was returning. I was trapped in an alien land. I followed the course of the world then. Going where it seemed I should go. Doing what needed to be done. I am here.”

Magrat hesitated. Words did not seem to be able to contain all of everything that had happened; the fall of her entire world. She breathed deeply. She called on her totem, and his presence settled around her, and she asked for help to speak the emotions and thoughts in her heart. With his guidance, she said the only thing she knew to say.

“I have no where else to go.”

Priestess Soulveig listened to every word spoken by Magrat. Never once did her gaze waiver, or glance at anyone else in the room.

For the first time, the priestess looked down at the runic bones before her. To the untrained eye, it simply looked like they had been scattered on the floor. But the priestess saw more. She read them, she understood them, and she felt the signs and portents of what they represented. She brought a hand up to hover over the bones. Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then one of the bones suddenly jumped and flipped to the other side. The priestess considered this change and then brought her hand back.

“For 10 years your people and the humans have lived alongside my people. You are strangers to us, your ways are different to us, and your motives and ambitions are different than ours. There are those among you that wish to start again in our lands and there are those among you that will do nothing short of starting a war for personal gains. My warriors say that you have become known to us. We know that there are outsiders who will, if left unchecked, bring ruin to our lands and our people. My warriors say that you are not among them. You have showed them who you are. At least you have shown them what you want them to see. But I know you, Magrat Farwalker. I know you as if you know yourself. I know of your bonds, your blood, and your secrets. You, lorespeaker of the Lost, you traveled to find a path for your people but in doing so, you yourself became lost. You have made a great journey, one that could have taken you anywhere and yet here you are. ”

As she gathered the runes, her other hand moved to a small table that contained a number of trinkets. At this distance, Magrat couldn’t make out what all the items were except for the one that the Priestess picked up with her fingers. It was a canine, bleached white and large. It did not look like an animal or Mordok tooth. The Priestess placed this canine into her hand with the rest of the runic carved bone chips. She hovered her closed fist over the leather mat and stared intently at her closed hand with her shining unblinking eyes. Then with a quick flick of the wrist, she opened her hand and cast the runes onto the mat once again. They seemed to naturally tumble into place, but this time Magrat noticed that one of the runes had come to rest on part of the large canine, propped up oddly by the tooth.

“In a river, water flows gently in a single direction.” said the Priestess, “It rolls and flows evenly, gently rising when the sky brings rain or falling when the summer draughts set in. But the water always keeps flowing, always in the same direction. If you know the river, the land, if you look where others cannot readily see, then the direction the river is flowing is known to you. You can see it, know it, and read it, but no matter what you do, you cannot stop the water. Now perhaps a bridge was built in this river. By its original design and place, it should fulfill its purpose and the flow of water should gently move around it. But what if the water moved around the bridge awkwardly, causing swirls of currents and shifting of dirt and sand downstream? It could choke the fish and kill the wildlife. Now imagine that a large rock was placed into the river. It could be placed close to the bridge, diverting the water around it properly so that it continues to flow smoothly downstream, correcting the path of the water and making the bridge and the river coexist in harmony, or it could be placed out from the bridge, diverting the water directly into it and chipping away at its rock. Eventually, the bridge would crumble as the diverted water eroded it at its base, the water removing the bridge and bringing the river back into harmony.”

The Priestess paused and gathered up a single chip of bone.

“We,” she continued, “Pack Longfang, are like that rock.”

The Priestess nodded to the older witch that had guided Magrat into the chamber. The woman rose, walked up to the Priestess, and took the bone chip from her hand. She turned, walked directly towards Magrat, and came to a stop just a couple of feet away. With her free hand, the Witch reached down to a sheath at her belt and drew a dagger. Even though Magrat’s instincts screamed that she must focus on this immediate threat, she remembered Rill’s words that she would be killed if the priestess considered her a threat. Magrat looked deep inside herself to find the strength to focus on the shining, predatory eyes of the Priestess.

“Tell me, Magrat Farwalker, would you kill those of us gathered in this room if it meant that you could both return to and save the future of your people?”

Magrat considered the scenario laid before her: The lives of every female, male, and child, her family and friends, her blood and kin, for the lives of these relative strangers who, for the most part, barely tolerated her presence, and treated her with indifference. There were only a few she might dare call friend, but she had no doubts as to where their true loyalties lay.

Home.

The word rang bittersweet through her heart, and for a moment, anything seemed worth the price, to be home again, to never be alone again. But she knew it could not be like that. Though they were not overly kind, the Longfangs had taken her in. It would make her an Oathbreaker, of the worst kind. She had to be honest with her self. It had been seventy years since she had last seen her people. Who knew how the war had changed them, and how it had changed her?

”Besides,” an irevverant but practical part of her mind reasoned, “there is no way I could take the guards, let alone the entire room.”

She quickly squashed the inner voice, and gathered her wits.

“I would kill anything and anyone I could that threatened the lives of my kin.” She flicked a glance at the witch. “And mine.” She added mildly. “But I see no thing here that could be a threat to them, except my own actions.”

It has been seventy years. If my people have survived this long, the deaths of Ulven in their name could only shame us. If they have not survived, my presence will not change anything,
and your deaths would solve nothing. It would be a hollow victory anyway, and one that, by the laws of my people, I could not share in.”

The priestess smiled at these words, the first time she had made any hint of emotion at all.

“Honest answer, Magrat Farwalker. The truth of your words and the conviction of your reasoning behind them is genuine. Know that I would do the same, kill anyone, to protect my pack and my people. Sometimes the Longfangs are sent to do hard things, but it is necessary for our people. Sometimes the runes tell me of grave things; things that must be dealt with for others to survive. These hard choices are what make us strong. We are the wardens of change. To hesitate in our duties could bring doom to our people.”

The priestess nodded to the witch in front of Magrat. The Witch suddenly grasped her wrist and held her palm up. When she brought the dagger towards Magrat’s hand, her instincts told her to snatch her hand away, but the deliberate motion of the Witch froze her in place. The tip of the dagger bit into Magrat’s green flesh, deep enough to be very painful and draw blood, but not deep enough to damage anything permanently. Blood boiled up from the wound and pooled in her palm, and the witch carefully took the blank bone rune and placed it into the blood. She spoke a quick prayer of magic and then removed the bone from your palm and walked back over to the Priestess.

“My warriors have brought to me dire news pertaining a pack that we have history with. They tell me that relations with Pack Graytide have not gone well; that they push for violence. They tell me that their leader threatened others and could not be reasoned with. But there is more to this than what is seen. Others do not wish to see the truth and therefore justify what they want. Tell me, Magrat Farwalker,” said the priestess, “what do you believe of Pack Graytide and their intentions? Their views? Their actions?”

Magrat watched calmly as the blood welled up from the wound in her hand. It was not the first time she had been bled ritually, and it would certainly not be the last. She licked the wound clean, and quickly bandaged it, watching the Priestess closely. Yes, it was not the first time her blood had been used in a ritual, but it was the first she had ever seen Ulven practicing blood magic. This was new to her.

“I have only briefly met a few of the Graytide, their new cheiftan, Khulgar, being one of them.” said Magrat, “Khulgar does not seem pleasant, but I can’t really blame him. My own people have had to deal with unwelcome guests on our lands. The humans treated him with much disrespect, and antagonized him. They almost refused to listen to him when he delivered the missive from the Watchwolves. I admit to not being impressed by how he has comported himself so far, and in my mind, it reflects ill on those he commands. I do not think the Graytide are wrong, but I don’t know if what they are doing is right, either. I have seen war. I have seen slaughter. Some of the memories I have left to me, I do not want. I know what an entire village dead looks like. What it smells like.”

Magrat paused and clenched her injured hand until blood dribbled onto the floor.

“I do not wish to see it again.” she said, bitterly.

The priestess considered these words and smiled. As before, she consulted the runes, casting them, and then holding her hand out over them. The priestess started to withdraw her hand, stopped as if she had reconsidered something, and put her hand out over the runes again. This time, nothing shifted or moved. The runes were still. The priestess returned her hand to the side of her crossed legs.

“You think and comprehend more than most of the other outsiders. You are wise, Magrat Farwalker, and you are correct. Most had not noticed Khulgar Graytide’s new rank amongst Pack Graytide. He is now Chieftan, a sudden shift in power that not even I had seen. Khulgar is hotheaded, as many of my people are, but the real threat is that he has a voice and there are those among my people that are beginning to listen. If enough listen, there will be blood. The runes hint of a time where Ulven will take the life of Ulven. It is obvious you have seen enough slaughter in your time, Magrat Farwalker. I see it in you. It is so strong, so clear. You are among the outsiders who bring wild tales of things my people do not understand; things that by our ways cannot be, but you do not need to tell me what you have been through for me to know it is true. That, I can see in your soul very clearly.”

With gentle patience and grace, the Priestess arose from her cross legged position. She stepped forward and down the steps of her canopy sitting area, her eyes locked with Magrat’s; their breathtaking silver shining brightly in the dimmed light.

“The situation in our land is grave. There are things changing daily, things that the runes cannot tell me. Pack Longfang mobilizes for war in hopes to stop it. The Watchwolf Clan declared dangerous words but they were words that needed to be spoken. Negotiations between my people and the outsiders must continue. Pack Longfang will deploy to areas of Mardrun and protect emissaries and diplomats. You have ways that are different than ours, but the runes tell me of a great darkness in the future; one that cannot be stopped by us alone, especially if my people are at war. I would ask that you help us, Magrat Farwalker. Help my warriors understand what it is we may face in the future. Help us prepare. My Pack prides itself on being the strongest Ulven warrior clan of our people, yet we are ill prepared for this kind of fight. You bring with you knowledge, both of a new enemy and of a new land. In exchange, you can find a place among us.”

The priestess never moved or changed her expression, but her tone changed ominously as she spoke.

“But know this, Magrat Farwalker. We of Pack Longfang do not tolerate weakness. You will train with the warriors, you will earn your keep, and you will serve with us if you are to be with us. I will not allow my warriors to put such faith and trust in an outsider who has not earned it. If you prove yourself to us, we will help you in return. You are not the only Lost to have walked the lands of Mardrun, Magrat Farwalker, and we can help you find out more. Perhaps one day, you will walk the lands of Faedrun with Longfang warriors at your side, but only if you so choose this path. What is your answer?”

Magrat’s train of thought shuddered to a complete and abrupt halt. Her pride in being asked to help the Longfang was swallowed by the shock of the Priestess’s offer.

A place among the Longfang? She could hardly dare believe that it meant what she thought it could, but what about her tribe? To join the Longfang, would that not mean abandoning her own people, the Lost? She struggled with the thought. She had not seen her home in seventy years and it pained her greatly. Her people were not meant to be alone, but what was this? She was not the only Lost on Mardrun? Someone was alive! Her heart sang with the words, even as the bewildering thought of Ulven walking her homelands sank in. Her mind reeled from all of these revelations, and slowly, deep within her, hope began to grow.

She could find a place, here and now, and not need to abandon her people. In fact, they would go with her, back home. A feral grin flashed across Magrat’s face. She stood, drawing her ritual knife, and brought it to bear on her other, uncut hand. She took a moment to enjoy it. It had been far, far too long since she had spoken the Hunter’s Oath.

“I swear, over my blood, by my Ancestors and the spirits who watch, that you shall never need watch your back, because I will be there. That you never need ask for help, because I will give it.”

Emotion boiled within her, as she made a fist, and tasted the drop of blood that flowed from it. Normally, hunters exchanged blood, but she thought the spirits could make an exception this time, for the Ulven.

“And should you fall, I will carry you home myself.”

“Your words are profound and genuine. I know the significance of what you have spoken even if those around you do not. This surprises even me. You are either very trusting, very clever, or one of us is a terrible fool. Only time will truly tell.” said the priestess as she turned and walked back to her canopy. She carefully picked up her runes and cast them again on the leather mat, taking a moment to read them. This time, they did not jump or move once they were cast.

“Magrat Farwalker, shaman, hunter, and lorespeaker of the Lost. From this point forward you will be granted access to the Pack Longfang village. You will continue earning your place here amongst my people. You will train and grow stronger, especially in the ways of the warrior. You will teach us so that we may learn, both of your homeland and of the unknown enemy. You will help us break barriers to other outsiders who could become allies to Pack Longfang. You will prove to us that you are strong or you will be cast out. The following members of my Pack, Harlok, Azra, Stanrick, Yawn, and Rill will watch over you. Prove yourself to them unanimously and you will become one of us, the first outsider to be truly a full member of Pack Longfang. Know that this honor should not be taken lightly. Some warriors may not accept you right away. Prove yourself.”

There was a quiet murmuring in the assembly.

“You are all dismissed,” said the Priestess, “save for my Daughters.”

At this, the rest of the Ulven gathered in the chamber began to file out except for the witches, daughters, and two mute guards near the Priestess. The Witch who drew blood on Magrat grabbed a towel and waited near the priestess. After everyone had left the large chamber, the large doors were closed, and the room was quiet, the priestess finally closed her eyes and blinked. When she opened them again, the shining light in her eyes was gone and replaced with a dull grayness. She coughed a splatter of blood. She reached up with one hand and caught the blood and cupped her mouth while her other shaking hand reached out and grabbed the towel from the witch. She began bleeding from her nose. The priestess hunched over suddenly, as if her venerable age had finally caught up to her, and started cleaning up the blood on her face. The Pack Longfang Daughters stood there silently.

“Rill, inform the rest of the Pack of my decision in this matter.” said the Priestess, her voice losing much of her stoic resolve it had just a moment before.

“But Priestess, the Syndar is an outsi…” started the Witch standing next to the Priestess.

“Do not make the mistake of questioning my authority or you will outlive your usefulness here.” snapped the Priestess.

She let the words sink in for a few moments until she knew that the Witch would not object further. Then, the priestess looked down at the runes that she had just cast a few moments earlier.

“Rill is now in charge of Magrat’s training and her status among us. If she proves to be a threat, kill her. The runes speak of a conflict in her that does not alarm me at the moment even if I cannot yet discern it. We, the Wardens of Change, warriors of the children of Gaia and the Great Wolf, stand upon the brink of a dark time. Blood will be spilt in the coming days and we must do what we can to stop it. Allies will turn on each other and new enemies will go unchecked unless we bear a terrible burden for our people. If we don’t, the darkness will consume us all. The Mordok are no longer our only threat to the survival of our people. Now, make preparations and gather warriors. I want escorts dispatched to protect the Watchwolf emissaries. The colony must be contacted for allies. Prepare warriors to meet adventurers for an upcoming journey… and bring me tea… and put extra sap in it this time.” coughed the Priestess into her blood soaked rag as she settled into her padded canopy.

Stanrick Longfang
Yawn Longfang
Magrat Farwalker

Stanrick Looked out at the line of watchtowers as the moon hung high in the cloudless sky. Although the night was still young the snow made the world as bright as day there was little to no movement in the night and the sound of a lone ocarina played filling the night. Smoke hung low from his pipe and no soul moved outside the out post. It had been mouths since the humans had left for some other adventure and deep inside he wished that he could go with them and see the world that they spoke of. He pulled the cloke in tight and took a long draw of his pipe.

“Any thing out there?” Stanrick turn to greet Yawn as he came up the watchtower.
“No, not even the wind.” He passed his pipe to Yawn and went back to the view.
“I found two more from the village dead in the pines today… fell through the ice and froze to death.” Stanrick just nodded. “Haven’t seen you in the tavern in town lately. Don’t tell me you have been here the whole time.” Yawn passed the pipe back and Stanrick took a draw. “Rill didn’t tell me to leave.” The words were low like the smoke coming out of his mouth. “Still you at least come down to eat don’t you?” Stanrick shook his head no. “don’t even leave when someone else is on watch but most like the company with things as quiet as the have been.”

The two watch out across the snow covered field and the ocarina song was all they heard.
It was this way for quite some time till Yawn spoke up again. “Why?” But Stanrick just looked out as the trees. “I mean why don’t you go to town?” Stanrick passed the pipe. “3 months… 3 months and not a single Mordok attack. Have you seen any signs on your patrols?” Yawn looked out dumbfounded. It had been 3 mouths since the shaman had attacked with an army of Mordok and now he had not drawn blood. And for some reason the only one that knew was Stanrick who the village thought went nuts after the events that had happened. After all it was winter the attacks did slow up every year at this time, and mostly every one else was worried about food. But to not see the obvious was strange. “What if I get down and they come back?” Stanrick smiled his teeth glistened in the moonlight. The two laughed at the thought that if it was as simple as keeping one ulven in one place and the village never need fear again.

“So that’s not why you’re up here… why then?” Stanrick took the pipe back and he took another long draw. “I have been thinking we owe the Graytide a little pay back for what happened. The village needs food. And if you head that way there is a Graytide camp 3 days away.” He had been thinking about this along time. “Your Crazy! We would freeze or starve! And if not there must be 30 or more of them and Gia knows I would go just to see you rip them a new one but that would start a war! And no one else would go with you! What would Rill do if she heard you were thinking about this?” Stanrick went to the ladder. “Lets find out.”

——-

Stanrick had jumped down the later landing on the frozen ground with a thud nearly scaring Magrat to death. The green Syndar had took up residents in side the walls of the out post and did more then her fair share of work with out her tracking abilities it would be safe to say that many more would have starved. She dropped the bowl of soup she had been bringing up to Stanrick. At the sight of his eyes in the moonlight. The ground was harder then he recalled but his legs worked fine. He made his way to the fire to warm his hands. Rill was not inside the walls but he expected her soon for she had went to the back of the out post to get more wood. The Ocarina had stopped and the young ulven got to his feet. Stanrick had a reputation as a lone wolf before he took Yawn under his wing. “Your down from there?” Stanrick glared at the stupid question. “And seeing its your turn at guard duty you better get up there, AND NO SLEEPING!” the young one ran up the ladder and took up his post. Stanrick warmed his body and watched the flames dance. His mind had been troubled for dreams of walking dead that Magrat had told stories of. For a syndar He liked her, and even tolerated her as he kept watch at night. But the dreams bothered him. Magrat walked over to the fire. “I thought you were never coming down what is on your mind?” she handed him a drinking horn with mead. He took a gulp and wiped his mouth “Graytides. For too long they have been causing problems. I think its time to remind them that you can’t hurt some one under our protection. So I plan to go to the nearest camp and remind of their place.” She had spent quite some time talking to the Grumpy Ulven and felt she knew a little about him so this did take her by surprise. “Are you sure that Really what you want to do?” Some how she felt she could talk him down from this bull headed plan.

But he was not going to back down from this his mind was made up after the Mordok attacked in mass and the other events of that day Stanrick had been Shoved from his post and the anger was more then he cared to put up with he garbed a number of weapons and took off down the trail with Yawn on his trail the 2 ran half a day before they found a gray tide from the hunting party who was giving aid to the Syndar that had shoved him to the ground this could have been the end of it and the 2 would have went home but the hunting party had been more then the 3 that had came to the outpost for the next 4 days the 2 long fangs chased Graytieds back to there camp. The 2 never talked about what happened out in the forest but when they returned Stanrick had a helmet he didn’t leave with.

“Want to come with? I’m sure your skills would be put to use.” The fact that an ulven who for the most part won’t trust other Ulven let alone Humans or Syndar would even suggest this brought a strange pride to Magrat, “No… I can’t I don’t want to start a war.”
Stanrick shrugged “oh it’s going on right now I just plan to strike them before they attack us in the spring. With or with out Rill’s permission” the fire danced in his green eyes.
“Oh Really?”

——-

“No, you WONT!” Stanrick bowed his head and grumbled. Somehow the scolding had taken the fire out of his words. And now he felt like a pup, he knew this wouldn’t fly it was not the Ulven way. “You will not drop to their level! If they want to turn back on honor then the great wolf will deal with them. We are all children of Gaia and that includes the graytide.” He glanced at the watchtower and wished he had stayed put. “I know that we a warriors and that I have to send many to fight and die, but is your life worth so little that you would risk it for a cause that the great wolf would not hear your name?!?” somehow Yawn and Magrat had slinked away from the fire and took the pipes with them. “And what of Yawn? You know he would just fallow you not concerned of what happens he is still young and you should be showing him the path not teaching him bad habits!” this went on for quite some time and would have continued if it wasn’t for the fire going low, and Rill remembering what she was doing before she put Stanrick in his pace. This gave him the chance to slink away knowing full well that if he went now that he may lose his pack and family to pride. He went out the gate and plopped down in the snow. Much had happened and yet he was not part of it. He longed to fight along side with Harlok and Kargon. He stared at the moon as it started to set to the East the sky stated to burn red as the sun would soon rise. He needed sleep and so he did… his eyes closed and he drifted off to a land of dream as he lay in the snow.

It was dark and the grass was covered with dried blood Stanrick looked out over the valley of fallen humans, syndar, and ulvens, he turned to look behind him. A large tent with the flap open had a table with a map. A man in gold armor had been keeping council with others. Some faces he knew others he didn’t, there were banners flapping in the wind.
One man walked out he had heavy plate armor with a blue handprint. “Thank you for keeping your end of the deal now if you excuse me I have some bees to attend to.” The man smiled and walked off. Stanrick turn to the valley of death. The bodies stated to move coming his way he drew his sword, and joined in a charge but all around was death soon he was standing on top of a pile of bodies but more kept coming he started to be over run. “Be not afraid for I know your name.”

He woke in a cold sweet. But not in the snow he was by the fire it was dark again.
“Please Stanrick think before you act I lost too many to the cold.” Rill had covered him in a blanket. Her and Magrat were sitting by the fire. Rill needed to give stanrick a propose in all the year she knew him he had been loyal and she feared that his acting up may have been her fault, if he was acting up would others? “We need supplies I want you and Yawn to see if you can hunt up food. There is a village about 2 days away normally they send food but as of late they have not. See if they can spare anything.” Stanrick sat up this would most likely a better use of his time then what he wanted to do. Without Mordok attacks and the Graytide in winter camp he was just eating food that was not there and this would most likely get his mind off revenge.

“Yes, my lady it would be an honor.” He still felt shame for the foolish acts of the last day. “Then Gaia watch you.” This put her worries to rest if he had been truly ready to disobey he would have strait out said that no honor was in this task. But his head was back on strait and he knew that food was needed if the outpost would make it the rest of the winter.

——-

It only took about 15 minutes to walk up the road to the village that over looked the outpost. And even though 3 ulven had just walked down the road just hours before. The snow had blown over their tracks. Stanrick was nervous this was the first time he had returned to the village since the incident. After running in to the Garytieds 3 months ago the 2 Ulven had spent 4 days nearly bathing in the blood of what ever got in their way. They stunk of death and their tunics stained dark red. The village was in shock when Stanrick brought a sack full of Mordok heads.

Yawn had got off with just a week staying at the outpost. Stanrick spent that week in the stocks the others in the village started rumors that Rill had favored him for one reason or an other. After she let him out he went to the outpost and only left to run the watch line every other day. Once the snow fell he went up on the platform and stayed till 2 days ago. On that platform he ate he slept and was the only place he talked to anyone. But now he was stepping foot in to the village the moment of nervousness was gone.

2 children were grappling in the village green. But once they looked up they stopped and ran off in to a near house and hide. Clearly some one was using him as a “what not to do” To the children of the village. Yawn Pointed to the mead hall. “Lets get a pint before we go on our trip.” Stanrick looked at the Mead hall. “Yeah we can do that.” The 2 walked into the mead hall only a few Ulven were inside before the incident Stanrick was held in high regard but now he lost honor with members of the pack namely the 3 sitting at the back Table.

“So if it ain’t the Syndar lover, make any green half breeds as of late?” this was the first time that Norgoth had enough mead in him to say anything. “No.” Stanrick Sat down at the bar and began to drink his mead. “Stanson did you think you could just walk in here? I’m running village patrol and you can just run to Rill to save you.” And with that the pint of mead was gone. “Have a nice day Norgoth I have real thing to do then fight a self proclaimed village parole.” Stanrick went out the door and out to the village green. “You think you are so important but your not! Your nothing!”

By now the whole village was out side seeing what the commotion was about. “DUEL ME!” Stanrick stopped in his tracks. “Your drunk that would have no honor.” Norgoth smashed his mug on the ground. “You have no honor mix breeder! Fight me!!!” one of the elders walked up to Stanrick ready to over see the fight. “No” Norgoth Jump at Stanrick knife drawn but was tacked by 2 warriors and grappled to the ground.

“ENOUGH!” shouted the elder. “Take Norgoth to the stocks and let him sit till he burns off the rage from all that mead.” The elder walked back to Stanrick “ Son most others would have snapped after claims like you put up with. That shows that you have much restraint. True warriors only fight when they need too not because they want to. I know were you are going and why, no others offered to do what you 2 are going to do the Great Wolf will know your deeds. Gaia be with you.”
With elders blessing and a belling from the village Stanrick and Yawn went off to the village of spruce grove.

—–

The two had been on the road for hours traveling into the night and now the sun had come back around. They had been making good time and had already passed the half waypoint. This was as good of a place as any to rest. It was a high point on the road and over looked the surrounding area. Yawn opened his bag and pulled out a sack of tobacco. “Only two pounds each? That won’t last 3 days!” Stanrick looked over the horizon before lighting up his own pipe. “You smoke to much.” He laughed at the thought the two had been know to fight while smoking away at their pipes a skill that not many could handle. “So before we left the elder said something to you… what was it?” Stanrick turned to face the young Ulven. “While we are out to find out what happened to our supplies we also are to keep an eye out for the bastards they have an idol that in the wrong hands may or may not be dangerous…” he knew it was but didn’t want to get yawn concerned. His younger companion had grown rather fond of ‘the tall red Gollum’ and if he knew that he might have to fight the bastards then who knows what he would do. “What if they don’t want us to have it?” Stanrick took a draw on the pipe. “We take it by force. If we even see them.” Yawn nodded a little. “Well that would be a shame. I don’t hate them. After all they did clean out a good chunk of swamp.” Stanrick nodded “lets get going I want to put another 3 hours behind us before we rest.” The two picked up there bags and went off twoards spruce grove.

Another hour had passed and Stanrick thought about everything the elder had told him. He didn’t tell every thing to yawn. He left out the fact that the Priestess was planning to invite Magrat in to the village to hold council. She would be the first non-ulven to set foot in the village. Some of the ulven there had only heard about humans and syndar. This was a great honor, one that he felt she deserved. The elder asked if Stanrick trusted any other humans or syndar. The bastards had come to mind but unless they willingly handed over the idol with out any force needed he could not vouch for them. Humans bothered him greatly after all a number of them had tried to over take the outpost and had been almost wiped off gaia’s green earth if not for some saving grace that they crawled out of the outpost and regrouped. He had seen humans do foolish thing run into the pines at night with out a plan bring children out into the wilds. Yes it was hard to trust any of them and even after all the bastards had done the fact that they turn and ran from their homes. Why should they stand and fight for his.

As he was thinking about this he smelt it… broken Iron an odd smell that with out fire meant one thing to Stanrick. Blood. It was coming from down the road. The two sprinted around the bend in the road. And there was the source the snow was stained with blood and a number of bodies mostly Ulven lay in the snow a few humans had been with them and what ever they had was taken. “So I believe this is why we have not received any supplies.” Stanrick sniffed the air. “One is alive.” He went over to a man who lay face down in the snow. He had a number of arrows in his back. The two helped him sit up.
“What happened human?” Stanrick asked. The man looked around. “I thought I was going to die here… we were taking supplies to the Onsallas outpost… we thought that the outpost had been getting shipments but the last group that went had one survived who made it back to the village. The Bandits use a trail that takes 2 hours off the journey to the village they must have a camp on the trail I believe they must have at lest 20 of them hiding out that way…” he stated to cough up blood. “Your longfangs right? I heard about you…. I was hoping to see the outpost I hear stories of your pack and wanted to help out the pack that keeps back the Mordok….” Yawn looked at the prints in the snow leading off down a rough trail. Stanrick pulled out a small vial. “Here take this and make peace with your gods, this will ease your passing.”

It had taken some time to get the bodies together and prepare them for the funeral rights but to leave the bodies would be insulting to their names. One of the humans had a book with him he told the story of what lead to this blood bath how one man had ran away from the fight a week before. Some of the bodies where the ones from that party. The book had names even deeds listed. “You understand all them markings?” asked Yawn.
“Enough to know he was studying our ways. I think he wrote all of this in hopes of finding the lost Ulven and send them on to the Great Wolf….” He was a bout to light the pier when he heard the footsteps of someone coming from the direction of the out post. “Someone is coming.”

———

Stanrick was taking painstakingly care to prepare the bodies ever wound was rapped and every arrow removed in tacked so as not to leave the heads in the bodies. The bodies where then wrapped the best he could with the rags that had been left behind. He took a number of small stones and said a blessing over them, then placed them on the harts on heads of the dead. “What’s that for again?” asked the green syndar. Magrat had been fallowing the two since they left the village with out Stanrick and yawn around she didn’t feel right. And although she had seen a few ulven funerals this was the most she had seen in one place. 8 ulven and 3 humans 3 of the ulven were from the first group judging from the rot. “This will mark the heart and mind, when we burn the bodies part of the sprit will stay with Gaia. So it will become the rocks and ash. The rest goes on to the great wolf.” He placed the rock and Yawn helped him put the bodies on the pile of wood the two had gathered. “Will it burn hot enough? That wood looks still green.” Yawn laughed a little. “Clearly you forget, Stanrick made this…. It will burn.” The last body was in place and Stanrick pulled out a flint from his pouch and struck it the flame took and soon the whole pier was a blasé.
They tended the fire and Stanrick took tales from the book that he had found so the great wolf would know the deeds that the warrior had done. Magrat had pulled out her hookah and the 3 of them smoked and sang songs till the sun set. Then Stanrick went to the pile of arrows 73 of them that he had removed and split them between him self his brother and the Syndar. “Now we will return them to they who theas belong.” The fire was high now and the smoke would be seen miles around Stanrick hope this would cover them as they went down the side trail to the bandits camp. Hopefully they would think it was a wild fire and be concerned of their camp not. Not an attack.

The 3 moved swiftly in the night and the smoke covered the moon. Torch light cold bee seen in the distance and yelling could be heard. 3 men ran past them.
“Hurry we will need to see how far the fire is from camp!” said one of the men as they ran past paying no heed to the 3 in the woods. “How could this start? Mordok?” they continued on their way.
The camp was small, only a dozen men. Far less then Stanrick expected, and only a few keeping watch. This raid would be quick. Stanrick knocked his Bow and took aim.
FWAP! His arrow hit true. FWAP! FWAP! And the watchmen fell Yawn drew his Mace and Stanrick his Sword. The two went in to the camp and began to cut down the men that had been talking by the camp fire not a scream escaped their mouths arrows flew from magrats bow Striking down the guards on the other side of the camp. Then almost as soon as it started it was over. “Get supplies we camp here tonight. Yawn you have first watch the others will be back soon.”

Magrat was glad to see Stanrick in a better mood then what she had been use to. At the out post it took some time for him to open up. Now he treated her like she was one of them she sat by the fire listening to his story. “Wait… You Fought Yawns father when he was courting his mother? He never told me that.” Stanrick smiled “Why should he? We share the same mother. He is her last pup; all but I have gone to meet the great wolf. I was the oldest, but mother grows old I can not let her youngest pass till he gets his fangs.” He checked the fish that was frying in the fire the bandits had food, weapons furs wine and mead. All taken from the supplies that were meant for the longfangs. Tonight they would eat well and rest before moving on to Spruce Grove.

Yawn made a hoot telling Stanrick that the others were returning. “Its us Mekihal the fire was just the ulven burning the dead, get every one ready we might get them on the other side! All was left was ash get the boss!” Stanrick put up his hood as did Magrat and they turned so the fire was to their back. “Did you hear me? Lets go! Wait where is every one?”
Stanrick pulled his sword. “Dead and soon you will join them.

——–

The three took turns keeping watch through the night and when the morning came they took all they could and burned the camp. Spruce Grove was only a few hours away and they reached the village around 2. After talking to a number of people Stanrick Figured out that the bastards had been this way with Kragon they gave him the idol and went off their own way. This was a good sign and he would be glad to report once he got back home. They spent little time in spruce grove just enough to tell the elders that the road was clear again then started Back to Onsallas outpost. Stanrick didn’t talk much heading back, and they only stopped to put a marker where they had held the funeral. The snow was melting and soon the road opened to show the outpost in the valley below. “Come, they will be waiting for you.” Stanrick said to Magrat as they walk down the winding trail.

Elise Vakr-Ravensmark
Raskolf Vakr
Ylsa Stormherald
Rhodi Vakr

“I am grateful that you were able to receive our party, your highness.” said Raskolf, “On behalf of the Watchwolf Clan and all the independent packs represented by our resolution committee, I wish to extend my gratitude to you for hosting this summit. Your hospitality warms my heart, and I am ashamed that I misjudged your people based on a single unfortunate experience.”

Raskolf and the Prince crunched down the gravel paths of the Royal gardens at New Aldoria. Rhodi trailed a few steps behind, savoring a sweet yellow apple which was not native to Mardrun.

“Not at all, Raskolf.” said the Prince, “I admire what you said earlier, about the Ulven running towards their problems, and never away from them. As a leader, I have never been one to sweep my problems under a rug. I must admit, that I too, have suffered from certain prejudices against the unknown. I am ashamed to admit that I was surprised when your party showed up on my doorstep with security resolutions and treaties in hand. Forgive me for my frankness, but truth be told, I wasn’t even sure that your people had mastered the written word. As far as first impressions go, I must say that this visit has given me new hope. I am elated that my kingdom and your clan were able to resolve this diplomatically. You must understand that just as you had misconceptions about my people, I had no shortage of misconceptions about your own. I had, for example, heard rumors of a fierce, matriarchal, warrior-dominated heathen confederacy of short-tempered beast-people who strike first and ask questions later. Quite ridiculous!”

Raskolf’s thoughts drifted to Priestess Ravensmark’s initial reaction to his report of the Aldorian incident at the Wayward Inn. He cleared his throat and flashed a nervous grin in the direction of the Prince.

“Yes, your highness. Ridiculous.”

“Indeed, you certainly ran at this problem head on, but thankfully for all of us it was with pen and paper in hand, rather than with swords.”

“Yes, your highness.” said Raskolf.

“Say there, Ambassador,” said the Prince, “I do believe it is time for a smoke. Would you and your brother care to join me in my Library shortly? I will supply the tobacco this time. Shall we say three-quarters past the hour? That should be sufficient time for you to change into your smoking clothes.”

“Of course, your highness.” replied Raskolf.

“Splendid.” said the Prince, “I should like to hear more of those fanciful tales of yours!”

“That’s our religion.” Muttered Raskolf, as the Prince sauntered casually away from them down the path.

“Watch this, brother.” said Rhodi, “If I throw this apple core over my shoulder, someone will run out and pick it up.”

“They wear special clothes for smoking?” Raskolf grumbled.

“Lookit!” giggled Rhodi, “Here he comes! He’s going to use a handkerchief to pick it up too!”

“The Prince has already seen me in both of my shirts. What now?”

“They even pick up after the animals.” said Rhodi.

“Maybe if I turn the feasting shirt inside out?” mumbled Raskolf.

“That’s a stupid idea, Raskolf.”

“Oh, so you really were listening to me.”

—

Just outside of the keep, Elise was perched upon a fence with the youngest Aldorian Prince. She was wearing her favorite dress. It was the fancy one that Freya had given her at Davon’s Reach; The one that she wasn’t supposed to get dirty. Elise and the little Prince had been playing all morning. Unlike their parents, the children were spared of any paranoid misconceptions and, in fact, neither of them was familiar with the word “racism”, let alone the concept. They had been getting along splendidly since they met. While their folks had been bowing and scraping and pretending not to be afraid of each other, the kids had simply introduced themselves by first name. It only took about two seconds for them to decide that they were friends and run off holding hands.

Now, Elise was marveling at the little Prince’s horse. She had never seen anything like it. Horses were exceptionally rare in Mardrun, and the tiny, brown, scruffy, short-legged wild horses that she had seen in her homeland looked nothing like this animal. The Prince’s horse was twice as tall, in the eyes of a child, at least. It had a sleek, muscular coat of short black fur that shone like obsidian in the sun. Its mane was neatly braided, and its tail immaculately brushed. The horse had huge hooves, with feathery black fetlocks. He moved like a god. Elise was in love.

“What’s his name?” she stammered, convinced that this little boy had captured the Moon-horse himself, like the Watchwolf Hero Agnon had done in the sagas.

“Midnight.” replied the little Prince.

“Midnight.” Whispered Elise. “I think Midnight… I think Midnight might be the legendary Moon-horse of Luna.”

“That’s stupid. He’s just a black horse.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s true! There is a magic horse that makes the moon rise every night.”

“That’s stupid. He’s just a horse, Elise. Horses aren’t magic.”

“He is not just a horse! He is a god!”

“He isn’t so great. I can’t even ride him cause he’s too crazy.”

“Maybe you aren’t important enough.” muttered Elise.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” she sighed, “Nevermind.”

Well, now we’ve seen him. You want to play hide and seek again, Elise?”

“No.” she said, staring into the animals eyes.

“What? Oh, come on. Let’s go. I let you see the horse.” whined the little Prince.

“No, thank you.” whispered Elise.

“Awww, come on!” He pouted.

“Okfineyouhide.” She replied too quickly for proper punctuation.

“Great!” shouted the little Prince as he ran off.

Elise didn’t try to find him. For the next couple of hours, he was quite proud of himself, thinking that he had won.

—

Raskolf and Rhodi exchanged clothing with a couple of Longfang warriors, who had attended as part of the security detail. They weren’t fancy, but at least they were different clothes, and clean. The two brothers were surprised to find that by smoking clothes, the Prince had apparently meant pajamas. They met him in the Library at the prescribed time and found him in his robe and slippers.

“Tell me, Ambassador,” said the Prince, “What is the meaning of your title?”

“I am the Voice of the Watchwolves. I speak for the Clan, under the authority of the High Priestesses of both Luna and Sol. Wherever I go, I am accompanied by the Eyes and the Ears.”

“So you are more than an emissary. You actually speak with the authority of your Clan.” said the Prince. “You are no mere messenger. You are actually important.”

“It is my burden to bear.” replied Raskolf.

“Very interesting.” The Prince said, blowing out smoke rings that seemed to hang about his head for an unusually long time.

“And how did you come to acquire such a position?” he asked.

“I was assigned the title of the Voice of the Watchwolves by my High Priestess, Anjan Ravensmark, to whom I am warder and mate. I am her personal bodyguard. I follow her by day and sleep with her at night. She is mother to my daughter, Elise.”

“Ah, so you were selected by her. How did you win such an honor? Was it trial by combat? Did you have to perform quests and do valiant deeds in her name to win her favor? Please. Tell me of your errantries.”

Raskolf glanced at his brother. Rhodi patted him on the shoulder and poured him a drink.

“I was once the leader of an elite war pack called the Tundra Wolves.” Raskolf said, “Only the best warriors from all across the Ulven Nation were allowed membership. We belonged to no one pack or clan. We went where we were needed. Fighting the Mordok was our life.”

“I see, so you earned the favor of your Lady through military service. You are a war hero.” Said the Prince

“No.” replied Raskolf. “I was an incompetent leader and I got the Tundra Wolves wiped out. I entered into the service of Anjan Ravensmark because I ran out of money to pay my blood debts to the families of the Tundra Wolves. She picked me to be her Warder and gave me the responsibility of serving as her diplomat by personally representing her.”

The Prince choked on his pipe smoke and desperately gestured for Rhodi to pour him a drink.

“Yeah,” said Rhodi, as he filled the Prince’s goblet, “Anjan hasn’t been the same since her head injury. My brother left that part out.”

“My good man!” coughed the Prince, “That is not something I would share so openly with people you are supposed to impress. You are representing your Clan. You said so yourself. Perhaps I gave you too much credit as a politician and a diplomat!”

“With all due respect, your highness, I disagree. My people are all about honor. I’ve just proven to you my sincerity and trustworthiness. I keep no secrets. A man without secrets is a man who cannot be blackmailed. I said it before, your highness. The Ulven do not run from their problems, we run towards them. Sometimes, even wise men have to learn things the hard way. I like to believe that my Priestess recognizes that.”

“Fascinating! I do believe that I am beginning to understand how you people think.”

“Good, but personally I find myself mystified by humanity, so I cannot say the same.”

The wine began to flow. Soon, Rhodi and the Prince were engaged in a deeply philosophical conversation about the wisdom of making mistakes, or turning mistakes into wisdom, or something like that. Raskolf wasn’t really listening, let alone participating. He was somewhere else entirely, reliving his regrets. It is said that the Ulven burn their dead and never look back. The ghosts of their past are not spoken to, nor are they looked for. This is mainly a religious taboo, but it extends metaphorically into the way that they live their lives. They run. They run ahead, and never look back. Raskolf knew better, but he couldn’t help himself.

“In a way,” he thought, “running forward is kind of like running away from your past.”

“Well, brother,” said Rhodi, “You won’t put much distance between you if you carry it on your shoulders like that.”

Raskolf gritted his teeth as he realized he’d said it aloud. He nodded and put down his drink. He must have had more than he realized if his tongue was that loose.

“Gentlemen,” slurred the Prince, “speaking of running after things, I would like to personally invite you to join me for a fox hunt tomorrow.”

Raskolf cringed.

—

Ylsa Stormherald had been sparring with one of the Longfangs when she’d noticed the little Prince leaving the clearing which held the Aldorian Keep. She was annoyed that she wasn’t allowed to smoke with the men-folk. She was pretty certain that there were all kinds of interesting stories being told by the fireside. Human society baffled her. Why was she denied entry into the Library simply because she had different plumbing than the guys? What the heck were they doing in there anyway that they didn’t allow females? It had to be something embarrassing. Maybe they were flapping their plumbing around. She’d heard that politicians did that when they got together. If that was the case, then she was actually pretty glad that she wasn’t a part of it. After a couple hours of sparring with the Longfangs, the Watchwolves, and some Aldorian Soldiers, she was starting to get bored, but then a swordsman in fancy fluffy clothes showed up. He was tall and lean, with long dark hair tied back in a practical, yet elegant fashion. The tall dark stranger had a meticulous goatee framing his charmingly lopsided grin.

“Young Lady,” he said, bowing and removing his hat, “you have set my poor heart all out of rhythm, for your grace is incomparable. Please, I beg thee, help me to get back into time by doing me the favor of this next dance.”

The newcomer threw off his cloak with a theatrical flourish. Ylsa was delighted to see that he, like her, was a practitioner of the two-blade style.

“Well, that was cheesy.” thought Ylsa, who found the gentleman’s posture to be something reminiscent of a skinny weasel holding leather punching needles. “Still, this may at least prove interesting.”

“Very well.” said she. “I’ll lead.”

—

“Your highness,” said Rhodi, mimicking his brother and slapping him on the back, “I am terribly sorry, but unfortunately, we must respectfully and politely decline your invitation. We seem to have neglected to bring any hunting clothes. Ha! That was slick brother. All this talk about honesty and you can’t bring yourself to just tell the Prince that neither of us knows how to ride a horse!”

“Well, it will be terribly obvious tomorrow now, won’t it?” said Raskolf, “I can’t believe he summoned his tailor to measure us on the spot. This is going to be embarrassing.”

“I can’t believe these lunatics take horses into the forest. That is like waving a steak in front of the Mordok. It’s a wonder they haven’t been attacked yet.

“Maybe I should have said that it was against our religion to hunt foxes.” Mumbled Raskolf.

“It’s just one fox.” said Rhodi.

“That hardly seems fair.”

“That wouldn’t have worked either.” Said Rhodi, “He’d just hunt something else instead, probably a boar.”

“I’d feel better about that. At least you can eat a boar. What in Gaia’s name do you do with a dead fox?”

—

The little Prince was feeling quite smug. He had gotten his leggings wet, but the bridge out by the creek was the perfect hiding place. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, or even how long Elise had counted for, but he was pretty sure that he had totally stumped her. He hadn’t seen or heard any sign of her. After a while though, he started to get bored. It was his turn. Maybe he should go find Elise so they could switch off and she could try hiding. He’d clearly won this round anyway, and it was starting to get dark. The sun hadn’t set, but the moon was visible. He was just about to climb out from under the bridge when he heard footsteps. The little Prince froze. It was Elise. The little Prince silently backed into the shadow of the foot-bridge.

“Where are you?” she whimpered.

Elise slid down the embankment of the creek. She was just a few feet from the little Prince, but couldn’t see him in the encroaching darkness.

“I can’t believe I lost him.” She sobbed to herself. “They’re gonna kill me.”

Elise kicked a pebble into the water under the bridge and cried.

“Elise,” said the little Prince, coming out of his hiding place, “It’s ok. I’m right here. I’m not lost.”

“Oh.” said Elise, “It’s you. Actually, you aren’t the one I was looking for.”

—

The light was failing, but students of the Aldorian duelist had lit a ring of torches so that all could witness the clinic he was teaching. Ylsa had the best seat in the house, so to speak. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t stop now. She was learning more from this sparring match than she had in months of study with her packmates. Things were happening too fast for Ylsa to really see a lot of what she was doing, but she could hear the fight quite well. Typically a swordfight with the Ulven sounded like the slow clanging of a smithy. This fight sounded more like the hectic scraping, chopping, and whisking of a busy kitchen.

“No!” the Duelist panted, “Not like that, you are over-reaching. Here, allow me to demonstrate what you just did. Did you see that? A simple feint and I could have thrown you completely off balance. Watch me make the same mistake and see if you can capitalize on it. Excellent! There you go! Brilliant. Now, we lock up! Ahah! Oh, but I am stronger than you. Remember what to do? Excellent! You learn quickly, but I can tell that you are getting tired. Ahah! And here we go on one, two, and three! Step! Dip! Parry!”

Ylsa was so out of breath that she couldn’t have asked him to stop even if she’d wanted to.

A sizeable crowd had gathered, but it was strangely quiet because everyone was straining to hear what the Duelist had to say. He wasn’t shouting. Even though he was panting, he was calmly talking to Ylsa as if the conversation was personal. He was quietly coaching her as they fought.

—

“What do you mean you weren’t looking for me?” shouted the little Prince. “I’ve been sitting in a puddle under a bridge all evening waiting for you!”

“Sorry.” said Elise, “I actually forgot all about you.”

“I heard you, though. You were talking to yourself. Don’t lie. You were too looking for me!”

“No, I wasn’t!” Elise shouted back, picking up a stick and waving it menacingly.

“Oh yeah, well then who were you looking for? Your stupid magical moon horse?” The little Prince shouted.

“GRAH!” shouted the painted face of the Mordok scout as it lunged down over the edge of the bridge and grabbed at the children.

“EEP!” screamed the little Prince.

“EEP!” screamed Elise.

“YIPE!” yelped the Mordok scout as Elise reflexively jammed the stick into its eye.

Before the little Prince could comprehend what had just happened, Elise was dragging him through the forest by the hand, and they were both running as fast as they could, with the Mordok scout pounding down the trail behind them. The Mordok was clad in primitive camouflage made from burlap scraps, and he wore a fox skin hat. He was armed with a spear and a crude bone-knife. He wasn’t armored.

“If only I had my sword,” thought Elise, “we might have a chance.”

Her father had taught her how to hamstring a Mordok. It wouldn’t kill the monster, but it would sure keep it from chasing them. As the children ran, the forest became darker and darker, until they couldn’t see where they were going. Elise and the little Prince ran straight off the edge of a ridge, and tumbled to the bottom in a tangle of arms and legs. Elise blacked out for a second, or at least she thought she did, but she wasn’t sure since it was so dark anyway. They were out in the open now, out of the trees. Suddenly, her eyes adjusted, and she saw the little Prince lying in a muddy grass-stained heap a few feet away. Elise didn’t look any better, and her good dress that Freya gave her was filthy. Elise didn’t have time to worry about that right now though. She crawled over to the little Prince and shook him awake. As the children were just coming to their senses, the Mordok scout slid down the embankment and raised his spear over his head. He came to a stop within arms reach of the stunned children, bellowed a fearsome war-cry, and prepared to strike. Elise and the little Prince screamed, but their voices were drowned out by the angry whinny of a huge black stallion that suddenly reared upon the plain, silhouetted by the moon.

The Mordok scout froze. Horse is the Mordok’s favorite meat. He looked to the horse. He looked back to the children. Then he looked to the horse. The handsomely muscled horse stamped the earth impatiently. The Mordok scout licked his chops and turned his back on the skinny little children, visions of barbeque dancing in his primitive mind. He drew back his spear and took aim at the delicious black horse. Just as his spear was at the point of release, he felt a sudden stabbing pain in his thigh as the children scrambled past him. He’d been stuck with his own skinning knife! The spear went wide of the horse. The scout stumbled and placed a clawed hand over the wound in his thigh. He regained his footing just in time to see the black horse lie down so that the children could climb upon its back. The Mordok scout howled in frustration and hobbled after his prey, his rage allowing him to push through the pain, and even break into a run.

“Cram!” shouted Elise, looking back over her shoulder, “That crummy knife didn’t cut deep enough!”

“Why is my horse running loose?” yelled the little Prince. “Elise?!”

Elise didn’t answer him, but she smiled sheepishly in the moonlight and swallowed hard. She knew she was in big trouble if they got out of this alive.

Elise and the little Prince held on for dear life, but the horse was very careful not to lose them. He knew where he was going. He broke into a gentle canter, and then slowed to a trot as he entered the firelight of the outer keep’s earthworks.

—

Ylsa and the Duelist were still locked in combat when the murmurs of confusion began rippling through their audience. The two of them allowed themselves to be distracted just long enough to see that the people were parting to let a black horse carrying two children trot regally through the circle as if he owned the place. The horse passed through and headed in the direction of the royal stables. The circle was suddenly silent. Not even a cricket chirp.

Ylsa was about to say something when the silence was suddenly broken.

“GRAH!” screamed the crazed Mordok scout, as he leapt down into the circle from the top of the earthworks.

He was covered in blood and mud, one of his eyes was swollen shut, and he had a nasty laceration on the back of his thigh. Within seconds, several fights had broken out between the duelist’s students, soldiers, and Ulven warriors as to who was to get to kill him. His last thoughts may have had something in common with those of a small mammal which has just been dropped alive into a nest of hungry eaglets.

—

“Elise!” said Raskolf, “What on earth happened to you? What have you done to your dress? Your Auntie Freya gave that to you!”

“Sorry, father.” whimpered Elise. “We were playing out in the forest and…”

“Wait, Elise. You left the keep? Where in Gaia’s name is Harlok? I told him to watch you today!”

“Um, he said he couldn’t.”

“He did?” said Raskolf.

“He said he couldn’t stay.” said Elise. “He and Magrat were just here to drop off that message from the Bastards, but they had to leave.”

“Wait.” Raskolf said, scratching his head, “Is that what he said?”

“Yes, father.”

“Oh. I thought he said… Well, never mind. So who’s been watching you kids today?”

“Midnight.”

“Who’s Midnight?” asked Raskolf.

“The Moon-horse of Luna.”

Raskolf raised an eyebrow.

“Go wash up, Elise. I think you are in trouble.”

Stepping out into the hall, Raskolf spied the little Prince’s nurse walking him down the hallway. The boy was covered in grass stains, mud, and blood. His dirty face was streaked from tears. When he saw Raskolf, he averted his eyes. The old nurse scowled as they passed in the hallway.

“Oh yeah.” muttered Raskolf, “Big trouble.”

Raskolf Vakr
Elise Vakr-Ravensmark

“Father?” said Elise, tugging at Raskolf’s cloak.

Raskolf set his pen into the inkwell and turned himself around on the bench to face her.

“What is it honey?”

“Can I sit with you? I’m cold.”

“Of course.”

Raskolf turned back to his work and Elise crawled up underneath his cloak and wiggled her way up onto the bench.

“Dear Priestess Ravensmark…” she read aloud, looking at her father’s letter.

“There are very few of us who can read and write.” Said Raskolf, “When I was your age I could do neither. I bet you will be even better than me someday, since you’re learning so young.”

The two sat in silence for a while, save the scribbling of Raskolf’s pen, and the occasional clink of the inkwell. Elise snuggled in closer, and wrapped herself tightly in his cloak.

“You know,” said Raskolf, “your little feet are like ice. If you would just wrap your feet, like I’ve told you a hundred times, you wouldn’t be as cold. I don’t know why you insist on running around barefoot.

“Mother says that she is closer to nature when she goes barefoot.”

“Your mother also curses my idiot ancestors as I dig thorns and slivers out of her feet with your Uncle Rhodi’s Smithy tools.” Mumbled Raskolf.

“Our ancestors weren’t idiots.” Giggled Elise.

“Maybe they were.” Said Raskolf, “Your mother knows them better than I do.”

Elise laughed and cuddled close to her father, sticking her cold little feet into the top of his boot and wrapping them around his ankle as he returned to his scribbling. She wiggled her head underneath his arm and stuck her face right in the way of his work, so she could read it. Raskolf sighed and put his pen into the inkwell.

“Father,” asked Elise, “why did you yell at Harlok when he was fighting that Mordok?”

“The Mordok was trying to leave, and Harlok wouldn’t let it. An Honor duel doesn’t have to be to the death. That Mordok was very strong, and was armed with a magic weapon. It knew that it had beaten Harlok. Harlok didn’t want to admit defeat, but the fight was over. His shield and his weapon were broken.”

“So the Mordok was going to let him go? That doesn’t make sense. Mordok don’t do that.”

“It was an insult, honey. That Mordok knocked Harlok down and then turned its back to walk away. It was like he was saying that Harlok gave him a good fight, but that he was done playing with him and was letting him go to fight again someday, when he is stronger and a more worthy opponent.”

Elise shivered.

“But the Mordok are monsters.” She whimpered, “They aren’t like us.”

“No honey, the Mordok aren’t like us, but they are smart. Many Ulven warriors have died because they took that for granted.” Raskolf sighed, “Or because someone else did.”

Raskolf shuddered, and clenched his teeth, pulling Elise closer, as his mind briefly flashed to a different time and place.

The room was silent for a few seconds, save the grinding of Raskolf’s teeth.

“Father,” said Elise, “You’re squashing my head, and my ear is wet.

“Sorry honey.” He whispered, running his hand through her hair and staring at something a thousand yards beyond the split log wall for a moment before releasing her.

The two relocated to a spot on the floor, to be closer to the fire, and Elise un-wrapped her father’s arm. He had popped two stitches. Elise unrolled her little healer’s bag and set to work by the firelight.

“So, Harlok was mad because he didn’t win that fight?” asked Elise.

“He felt that he was dishonored. He wasn’t though. The fact that he participated in an honor duel in the first place has earned him great honor. There is a difference, though, between honor and glory, even though he might not understand it yet. While his getting knocked on his ass and disarmed certainly was an inglorious thing to behold, he proved that he was willing to sacrifice himself to save the Daughter of Gaia and her packmates. A wise Warrior will recognize that, and so does the Great Black Wolf. Harlok Longfang is an honorable warrior, just like his father. He’s the kind of warrior you can trust with your life. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have someone like that in my pack than some hotheaded pup who assaults my ears with stories of all the duels he’s won and the youngsters he’s bullied, and thinks he has to yell all the time or the Great Wolf won’t hear him. Wolves have excellent hearing, by the way. Honor is infinitely more important than glory, though it may be less likely to get songs sung about you at feast time.”

“Is that why you never talk about when you were a Warleader?” asked Elise.

Raskolf didn’t answer.

“Father?” asked Elise.

“I’m going to tell you something now that you must promise to always remember. My mentor, Hanseth, told me this when I was young, but I didn’t listen. I learned the hard way instead, and I got a lot of other people killed.”

Raskolf put two of the fingers from his good arm under his daughter’s chin and lifted her head from her stitching so that they were eye to eye, their faces inches apart.

“A warrior does not love the flashing sword for its sharpness, nor the black-fletched arrow for its swiftness, nor the glory of combat. A true warrior does not love any of these things. A true warrior loves only the Ulven nation, the Clan, the Pack, the Family. The warrior loves these things and what they stand for. The Ulven people themselves are the only thing worth dying for.”

As he finished, Elise stared into his wet, gold-rimmed eyes, and realized that he was shaking. She had never seen her father like this, and it frightened her. Raskolf released her and she immediately went back to her stitching so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

“Aradael isn’t Ulven.” She said after a couple minutes of silence.

“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Raskolf.

“You went back for him. You almost died. For him. Daddy.”

Elise pulled the stitches tight, her tiny fingers the envy of the finest surgeon.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue for a child of seven winters.” Raskolf grumbled, “But you’re right. Maybe the times are changing.”

Later, as he finished drafting his letter to his wife, the Priestess, Raskolf thought about what he’d told his daughter. She was too young to have had that conversation, but then again, she’d mortally wounded an Aldorian Soldier in melee earlier that day. Overall though, she had a pretty short attention span, and he figured she’d probably forgotten everything he’d said before she even went to bed. He saw way too much of himself in her.

As the Voice of the Watchwolves scribbled away, his daughter tossed and turned in her bed, her dreams populated by cunning and intelligent adversaries much worse than the usual nightmare creatures.

From across the dreamscape, a Grey wolf watched her pup struggle against the Mordok. She did not intervene. Instead she lay down beneath a twisted, scary looking tree and picked at a thorn between the pads of her paw. It was in there pretty deep.

“There is too much of her father in her.” thought the wolf, “I’d best allow this nightmare to play out if she is ever to learn anything.”

“ I hope these two are worth the trouble” William thinks to himself walking down a lonely street in New Hope. It had taken three weeks to track down his grandfathers old army contacts and arrange this meeting. Its just after dusk and the last few rays of sun light are still peeking over the horizon. The street lanterns cast a dim glow barely lighting the path way. William had walked this and many of the other streets in New Hope many times in the last month trying to drum up support for the Vandergon army. He had gotten a few nobles to pledge financial support but had only managed to recruit less then a hand full of soldiers. His hopes were these two men could help him remedy that

“ Vincent and Stan “ William said out loud, the names were familiar to him. Vincent Monroe was a ranked officer in the Vandergon army back on Faedurn. He found his way to New Hope when he was given the duty of escorting a group of nobles and their families to the new colony. Vincent was a competent officer and well liked by his men, at least that’s what William’s grandfather had told him. Stanrick Varen had served with William’s grandfather in the war. He was a fearsome warrior and believed in the ideals that the colors of Vandergon stood for. Stan had arrived in New Hope on one of the last boats from Faedrun. He had seen the fall of the lines himself and barely survived. He now works as a weapon smith and has supplied many of the guards with arms.

William toke a moment to glance down the nearly deserted street. Only a few wanderers and passers by inhabit the street, but more importantly “ where are all the guards “ William thought to him self. William had noticed this problem all over New Hope. There where guards around the outskirts of the city and at the front gate but very few patrolling the streets. “That’s something I’ll defiantly have to fix”

William stops in front of a weathered wooden building, much like most of the buildings in New Hope. The Tilted Barrel, this was the place Vincent had said to meet. As William walked inside he scans over the crowd. The tavern wasn’t overly crowded and most of the people were too busy enjoying their drinks or engaged in their own conversations to even bother to notice him walk in, although being one of the only people in New Hope to wear the Vandergon colors does make one stand out a bit. There were a number of tables in the center and along the back wall of the tavern and the bar ran along the left side. A small band was playing an up beat melody on the stage to the right. “Ah, there’s the guards” William said to him self in disgust. Two guards men were sitting at the far end of the bar, mugs of ale in there hands. “William!” an older gentleman seating at a table towards the back wall motioned William over. As he approached the man William recognized him as Vincent. The two had met before when William had first started to rebuild the Vandergon army. Seated across from Vincent was a dark haired man drinking a mug of ale.

“William it’s good to see you” Vincent said in a joyful tone.
“Vincent, glad to see you well, thank you for meeting with me” William said as the two men welcomed each other with a hand shake.
“Stanrick, this is the fellow I’ve been telling you about” the dark haired man then stood. “Stanrick, good to meet you” William extended his hand along with the greeting.
The man simply said “Stan” in a gruff voice and grasped Williams hand firmly as if he was testing Williams strength.
“Sit, sit we have much to discuss, barmaid another round of ale” Vincent shouted across the tavern as he took a seat next to Stan and William sat a crossed from the two men.
“So, Vincent tells me you want to build yourself an army, huh” Stan asked in the same gruff tone. “Not exactly “ William explained “I want to rebuild the Vandergon army and it won’t be my army it will be the people’s army.”
“Why!” Stan asked rather abruptly almost cutting William off. “Because Vandergon used to mean something, back in Faedrun, the glory of Vandergon was well known and the people knew what Vandergon stood for.”
“The glory of Vandergon died in Feadrun along with its army” Stan said in an even gruffer tone. “No, your wrong” William protested “ I’ve seen it here, in the hearts of those that for no reason but to protect that with they hold dear, take up arms and stand firm in the face of the coming horde. The glory of Vandergon still lives, its just scattered, divided . It just needs someone to gather and strengthen it.
“What do you know of the glory of Vandergon!” Stan shouts across the table. “ I was there, kid, I was there when the lines began to break. I saw my friends slaughtered by the lines of the unyielding undead and have the memories and the scars to remember it by. What have you done to make you think you’re worthy to wear those colors?” William locked sight with Stan, fire glowing behind his eyes. Never before has someone questioned him. Never before has William had to defend his deeds. But now without breaking his gaze with Stan, William defends himself.

“What have I done? I’ve been out there defending these lands from those that would destroy that which we’ve rebuilt. I’ve stood firm in the face of a Mordock horde over thirty strong. I’ve hunted a Mordock shaman to the very heart of the Dirg swamp. And I was in the battle when that same shaman and his army were defeated to save a Ulven village. I put my life on the line to save the families of Aldorin refuges from a rouge army threatening to make examples of them. I’ve fought along side Human, Ulven and Syndar alike and I have worn these colors proudly! I have memories and scars too Stanrick, and what of you? My grandfather told me stories of how great a warrior you used to be, and now you question my worthiness. I have fought to protect the values the Vandergon army was founded on. I have earned to wear these colors more then you will ever know and ten times over.”

An unnerving silence falls over the three men as William and Stan continued to stare each other down. Just then a young lady came over to the table with three mugs. After she had set them down and left Stan quietly grabbed his mug and toke a long drink. Vincent toke this chance to change the subject “William, it sounds like you have noble intentions, but how do you plan to make this happen?”
“Well I already have a couple of nobles that have pledged financial and political support to the cause but as far as recruiting solders go I’m having trouble coming up with the numbers needed.
“How many do you have?” Stan asked breaking his silence, his tone changed.
“Five with possibly one or two more good men and women, even recruited a few Ulven.”
“Ulven!? In the Vandergon army? Who would have thought.” Vincent said questionably.
“ Of course, remember this isn’t about building a human army. This is about building a front line between the people and the enemies out there. Look around gentlemen it’s a dangerous place out side the city, bandits and thieves plague the roads and the Mordock are a constant threat. If we are to survive and prosper then there must be some line of defense for the people of this land, all of the people”

As William explained this to Stan and Vincent he couldn’t help notice three men enter the tavern. He easily recognized their green and blue tabards, “Aldorians?!” William says out loud. The three men watched the Aldorians walked up to the bar and seemed to order some drinks. “They must be with a trade convoy, there’s been a lot of them heading in from Aldoria lately” Vincent answered the question William didn’t have time to ask. Stan then turned back and asked, “ So William I don’t suppose you have made any strong allies with these human, ulven and synder that you have fought along side have you?” his gruff tone now softened.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a group called The Bastards?”
“I have, they’re an adventuring group and traders.” Vincent answered. “They’re good people, a little strange, but good people”, William says with a grin. “I’ve fought along side them many times and I believe them to be honorable“
“But what if they were asked to fight, do you think they would join the cause?”, Vincent asks
William answers “There’s a gentleman in their group by the name of Aedan VonHorest he’s a member of a militant religious order known as Arnath’s fist.”
“Now them, I’ve heard of”, Stan says after another drink from his mug.
“A couple of months ago I had some men come through my shop, say they were from that order, They ordered some specialty weapons and some armor.”
“Aedan and I have pledged support to each others cause, and if push came to shove I believe I could count on him. The rest of The Bastards I’m not too sure of.” William added.
“What of the Ulvan, any allies among them?” Vincent asked
“I’ve fought along side many Ulvan and formed some strong ties with a few packs. Clan Nightriver has always been on the side of the colonist, and I have strong ties with pack Longfang.”

As William continued to talk with Stan and Vincent his gaze is continuly being drawn to the three Aldorians at the bar. There was something familiar about one of them, something recent. In a spark of memory it all comes back to him. His short black hair, his dark features and that crooked smile even in the heat of battle. He was one of the Aldorians William had fought against out side of the Wayward Inn. The man was talking with the young barmaid from before. Their conversation seem innocent enough from where William was sitting. Until the man tried to reach up and touch the girls hair. She quickly slapped his hand away and turned to leave. The man then grabbed her by the arm and wouldn’t let go.

“I’ll be right back.” William said to Stan and Vincent getting up from the table and stared walking toward the bar. “If no ones going to step in I will.”, William says to him self as he approaches the group. The barmaids back is to William while the man grabbing her arm was standing at the bar facing her. The two other Aldorians are sitting enjoying their drinks ignoring what is going on right beside them.
“Let the young lady go about her work” William says in a strong voice. “This doesn’t pertain to you stranger” the man says getting a good look at William.
“I don’t think you want to start a fight here Aldorian.” William says in a threatening voice. The man starts to speak then stops himself. “You!” William can see in the mans eyes that he’s been recognized.

“Let the girl go!” William says again and the two men stare each other down. Then with one quick movement the man throws the barmaid to the ground and with his left hand pulls a dagger from his belt. “Lets see what you’ve got Vandergon!” and with that lunges at William blade in hand. William side steps to his left dodging the thrust and grabs the mans arm with both hands. He then slams the arm into the bar disarming the man. The Aldorian takes a step back grabbing his arm in pain and uttering some curses under his breath. He then steps forward with fist up and attacks. William dodges the first swing and blocks a second but the man is too quick and catches William with a right hook to the ribs and a left jab to the face. William takes a step back shakes his head and advances with is own assault. The Aldorian is skilled and blocks William’s first right- left combo. The man tries a quick jab, but William quickly dodges and lands a solid punch to the gut. This stuns the Aldorian and William takes the advantage to connect with a solid right to the face followed by a strong left hook. The force of the blow is enough to spin the man who collapses on the bar.

“Had enough ?” William asks in a mocking tone. The Aldorian then quickly grabbed a near by bottle off the bar and swings it at Williams head. William raised his right arm to block the attack smashing the bottle on his armored forearm. He was lucky he had worn his bracers, but the spray from the liquid that was still in the bottle had blinded William, and the Aldorian toke full advantage of the distraction. William feels incredible pain in is stomach as the man lands his first blow. William can only watch as his opponent strikes with a left hook to his ribs followed by a right to the jaw. As William stubbles back a step his vision blurred, time seems to slow down. William sees the attack coming and tries to defend himself, but his body won’t respond. The Aldorian hits him in the jaw with a devastating left hook that sends William back another few steps. As William tries to recover, he can hear the Aldorian taunting him. “Is that all you’ve got Vandergon? I expected more.”

William’s vision slowly comes back to him and as he looks back at the man he feels his strength coming back to him. With his fist clenched he stands tall and motions the Aldorian over. “Come on I’m not done yet!” William says with determination in his voice.
As the two men stepped toward each other William was the first to attack with a quick right jab catching the Aldorian in the jaw. William followed with a left hook and another jab both were dodged. The Aldorian counter-attacked with a right hook then a left cross. William blocked the right but caught the left with his right arm. With this opening, William attacks with a series of body shots staggering the man. William then charges forward and with a strong upper cut strikes the men in the stomach. The Aldorian doubles over slightly at which point William grabs the man by the back of the neck and slams his head down on the bar. The Adorian slumps to the floor blood flowing from his nose and a nasty gash above his right eye. William then looks at the other two Aldorians still sitting at the bar. “I suggest you pick up your friend and leave”, William fully expects the men to charge him, but they just quietly pick up their other member and walk out of the bar. William then walks over to the barmaid still on the floor, she has a look of shock on her face. “Are you all right?” he asks holding out his hand. The young lady simply nods and takes his hand. As William helps her up she manages to say “thank you” through shaky lips. “Your welcome, miss” is all William says as he turns and walks back down the bar towards his table. As William passes by the two guards at the end of the bar he kicked one of their stools and says in a stern tone “Thanks for the help fellas”

—————–

“Well that was impressive” Vincent says as William makes it back to the table. He simply flashes a smile and takes his seat at the table. As the pain from the confrontation sets in, William holds his side. “That’s going to be sore tomorrow” he thinks to himself as he finishes the last of his ale with a few big gulps. As soon as he sets his empty mug down a new one is set before him. “This round is on me gentlemen.” says the young barmaid William just saved.
“That’s very kind of you miss” Vincent says handing a mug off to Stan and taking his own.
“It’s the least I can do” the barmaid say with a smile. She then turn towards William and asks “If its not too much trouble may I know the name of my rescuer”
“Only if I may know yours” William says with a grin.
“Isabel” the young barmaid says her chicks turning a slight shade of red.
“I am William”
“Thank you again William” Isabel says “and if there is anything else I can do for you gentlemen please let me know”
“Oh I believe we will” Vincent answered. The three men watched as Isabel walked away and could almost make out a slight spring in her step. Stan and Vincent turn to look at William who quietly takes a drink a small grin peeking from behind his mug.

“So William, you said before you were having trouble finding soldiers. Where do Vincent and I come in ?” Stan asks changing the subject. “You two have connections in this town, connections I don’t have. I’ve been out of New Hope for most of the winter and the time I am back is usually brief. In fact in just a few days I’ll be following a trade convoy north to help reestablish old trade routes. I don’t have the presence in this town that I need to get the word out.”
“So what do you need from us” Stan asks
“I need people I can trust, people like my self that want to see the Vandergon colors rise again. My grandfather once told me that if anyone could help him rebuild the glory of Vandergon it was you two.
Stan and Vincent glance toward each other with thoughtful faces. Stanrick, I’ve heard stories of you from my grandfather. You used to be a great Vandergon soldier, and believed in what the colors stood for. Vincent you have your finger on the pulse of this city. You know what gossip and rumors are true and what’s no more then stories.
“Your right kid I’ve seen the glory of Vandergon with my own eyes. Unfortunately, that glory died on the shores of Faedrun. When people arrived here they were broken and beaten with little possessions with them but hope for a new life. What they found was no less threatening then what they faced back on Mardrun. There is strength here that’s for sure, but it needs something to believe in, someone to stand behind.” Stain pauses for a second and looks deep into William’s eyes. “I look into your eyes and see the same fire and determination I once had. Thank you for proving an old soldier wrong. I’m sorry I doubted you William. Anything you need I’d be glad to help.” and with that Stan extended an arm. As William grasped Stain’s hand a new sense of worth washed over him his grandfather would be proud.
“Stanricks right, William, the people need something to believe in again. And I for one have been waiting for the day that the red and gray flies once more.” As William and Vincent shake hands to a new partnership Vincent adds “and anyone that can get Stanrick here to admit he’s wrong is OK in my book.”
“Very funny old man” Stan says in his gruff tone, and the three men enjoy a laugh.

“Well gentlemen, I must be off the hour is late and I have some loose ends to clear up before I head north” William says getting up from the table. “I should be back in New Hope in about a weeks time. I’ll be sure to look you fellas up then.”
“Be sure that you do, William, we have much to discuss.” Vincent adds.
“I maintain a home here in New Hope. I usually keep someone there in case any new recruits happen to trickle in. Just look for the Vandergon banners hard to miss.”
“Before you go I should tell you, a few days ago I had a man come in to my shop wearing the green and gray colors of the Vandergon Rangers.” Stan says catching Williams attention. “When I asked him about it he talked about getting the old unit running again. If I can track him down or run into him again I’ll be sure to send him your way.”
“I’d be very interested to meet with him. Thank you both for your time I look forward to working with you gentlemen.” William said in farewell.
“Take care out there kid” Stan shouts as the three men exchange good byes. As William passes the bar he flashes a wink and a smile at Isabel as he leaves the tavern. She simply smiles back and watches him leave.

Outside William walks the empty streets of New Hope as he returns home. He senses a change in the wind. “This is the beginning the seeds have been sown and Vandergon shall rise.” He thinks to himself. William stops and looks up at the nearly cloudless sky. The stars are shining brightly and the sliver of the moon seems to be smiling. “I hope you know you had a hand in this grandfather, your dream will come true as promised.”

As William continues on his way he is filled with a sense of hope for what tomorrow might bring. Things are starting to look up.

Unfortunately that feeling is not meant to last……….

Year 260: Solar camp, Watchwolf clan, on the Eastern shores of Mardrun

Raskolf pushed away from Anjan beneath the furs and blankets. She was burning up with a fever so hot that her flesh was uncomfortable to touch. Her fitful movements and whimperings meant that she was either having a bad dream or experiencing a vision. Raskolf wanted to hug her close, stroke her hair, and whisper in her ear to rescue her from her nightmare, but he restrained himself on the off chance that she was having a legitimate vision of the goddess, or being visited by spirits. Pulling her out of a vision would do more than simply anger her. It could result in a misinterpretation of spiritual advice, and lead to catastrophe. All he could do was wait. As her Warder, and even more so as her husband, he wanted to wake her, but instead he watched, and prepared to roll her over should she have a seizure when the vision ended.

Raskolf watched. It was his duty as well as his name, which, translated from Northwestern Ulven to the common trade language as “Wolf of Spirited Vigilance”.
Eventually, Anjan’s fit resolved itself, and she peacefully returned to deep slumber. Raskolf breathed a sigh of relief and pulled her close. She hadn’t awakened, so it was probably just a dream. Usually if she had a vision, she woke up screaming or babbling in tongues, or went into a trance and started writing things in the dirt or something. Once, she’d crawled around on all fours for twenty minutes and talked to the dog in what appeared to be its native language. For now, though, her fever had broken, and she was covered in sweat. Running her hair through his fingers, Raskolf kissed her neck and went back to sleep.

Raskolf awoke just before the Sun Horse ascended the horizon. He stepped out into the cold purple light and watched the Dawn Patrol undergoing their final inspection. Raskolf nursed the campfire back to life with the wood his daughter had gathered the previous day, and sat down with his pipe. As the fire was slowly revived, the pink and golden hues of the rising sun began to creep across the autumn landscape, warming the blue shadows of night. Raskolf rose to his feet to salute the Dawn Patrol as they passed. He remained standing after they were gone, squinting in the early light. It was nearing the anniversary of the battle that changed their lives.
Anjan Ravensmark used to like sunrises too.

They were both warriors, once upon a time. Raskolf remembered well the last sunrise that Anjan ever saw. It was bloody, and red. The Sun Horse ascended to clouds of yellow. Raskolf was the inspecting Packleader that day, and he had selected the route they were to take that morning. It was his fault that they were ambushed. He should have taken the patrol back to the village when the tracks were discovered, but he decided to do some further scouting first. Breka, Norri, and Hranbjorn were killed in the initial ambush. Grolf lost both his legs. Anjan received a severe head injury. The entire patrol would have been lost were it not for her. She fought like a rabid animal, striking so hard that she broke her weapon on an opponent. She killed six more with just the hilt and her fists. Anjan headbutted the Mordok Chieftain so hard that her helmet became embedded in his face and slipped off of her head. She suffered many wounds, but only went down after getting a mace buried in her skull. The patrol managed to fend off the attackers just long enough for the village to respond to their call for help.

Raskolf smoked his pipe and watched the last member of the patrol disappear into the trees. Raskolf didn’t lead patrols anymore. His job was to guard the Priestess. He followed her by day, and slept with her at night. She was the mother of his daughter. The job he had been given was the most honorable position a warrior could hope for, but it was also his penance. He loved her, but he couldn’t forgive himself for what had happened to her. It had been ten years. She permanently lost her sight when she took that mace to the head, and in the fevered nightmares of her recovery, the Goddess spoke to her. Anjan had become a Priestess, and Raskolf was her Warder.

*

Rhodi grinned to himself and pulled not only his blankets, but the young girl within them closer to himself. On the other side of the curtain, he could hear the toiling of his new apprentice, as she stoked the coals in the forge and muttered under her breath. Until recently, it would have been Rhodi up early to prepare the smithy. Taking in that refugee from Clan Winterclaw was one of the best ideas he’d ever had.

“Yep.” Rhodi sighed to himself, “Gaia rewards my generosity and compassion by letting me sleep in!”

Ylsa, the girl in his bed, rolled in her sleep so she was facing him, and draped her arm across his chest. Ylsa was from a clanless pack in the mountain range known as the “Wolf’s Hackles”. She’d originally just been passing through Watchwolf territory on a personal mission to collect and compile the saga and poetry of the different clans, but decided to stay a while after she met Rhodi.

“Gaia also rewards me for paying attention to all those stories and songs as a child.” he thought, grinning so hard his eyes squeezed shut.

On the other side of the curtain, Drifa’s aching shoulders and back crackled and popped in the cold morning air. Working the smithy was the hardest labor she had ever performed, but every time she was ready to quit and just walk away, Rhodi taught her something new, which made her want to stay and learn.
At first, he’d had her cutting peat moss from the bog, and digging fire pits. She’d almost had enough, but then as she tended a fire pit one day, burning a huge clump of earth from the bog and wondering what in Gaia’s name she was doing, Rhodi reached into the fire with a rod, and pulled out a big, glowing lump of molten iron. It was like sorcery. The mineral had separated from the vegetation in a fire so hot that it seemed to burn with unnatural color, and Drifa had played a part in that magic. Currently, she had made it as far as hammering the ball of raw iron flat, than melting it into a ball again, then hammering, then melting. The process had to be done sixty times with every piece. Rhodi didn’t let Drifa actually shape any tools or weapons yet, and to be honest she wouldn’t even know where to begin. He said that he was teaching her patience, and that patience took longer to learn than anything else. His constant quoting of poetry and song annoyed Drifa almost as much as the way that Ylsa actually took notes every time he regurgitated the words of Agnon, Hara, or Sig.

*

Raskolf had tobacco smoke for breakfast, and washed it down with hot cider. Being the warder of the clan high priestess not only kept him off of the military campaigns, but meant that the people provided for his family, so he didn’t even hunt anymore. He rarely practiced his melee skills either, unless he were training his daughter, Elise, the sword. Lately he hadn’t been doing much of that either, as his brother’s lover, Ylsa, had been spending time doing that. True, there was the occasional Mordok attack, but Raskolf and his ward were too important to be allowed anywhere near the front lines, so he didn’t ever really fight anymore. The sedentary lifestyle so uncharacteristic to an Ulven warrior was perhaps why Raskolf just rarely seemed to get hungry in the morning, and rarely ate anything until after midday.

Raskolf read a lot. This was also quite uncharacteristic of an Ulven warrior, most of whom could not even read or write so much as their own name. Raskolf, however, had learned to read and write upon assuming his duties as Anjan’s warder. Written language was a divine gift, given to the Ulven in ancient times. There were few books, however, and most folks didn’t find writing or reading to be terribly useful compared to drinking, hunting, and killing Mordok, the three main Ulven pastimes. Many Ulven communities only possessed one or two books, and typically the only people who ever read them were the priestesses and storytellers.

Raskolf Vakr had what was quite possibly the largest private collection of books in the entire Ulven nation. He had acquired almost all of them all at once on a trip to Newhope eight years ago.

Raskolf had been sent to learn about Humans and Syndar from the Nightriver Clan. It was one of his first missions as Anjan’s warder, back when she was just a novice Daughter of Gaia. Raskolf and the others had met with a few humans at a formal function in the New Colony, and briefly talked to them, but with all the posturing, acting, and silly formalities, he didn’t really feel that he’d learned anything about them, besides how they behaved when they were trying to impress. The Syndar didn’t even talk to him, and from their body language he could tell that they didn’t like the way he smelled. In all fairness, however, he thought they smelled like funeral incense, which kind of creeped him out.

At the conclusion of the dinner, the humans had a really boring dance with strange music. There were lots of snacks, though. The Syndar tried to teach a dance to the Ulven, but it was ridiculously over-complicated. About halfway through the instruction, Raskolf realized that the pointy-ears were just trying to make his people look stupid. He could see the laughter in their eyes, though their faces appeared stoic. Raskolf didn’t know if he could ever trust anyone who was that good at lying. He felt bad for his senior leaders, and was thankful that he was a simple bodyguard, and not a politician.

The expedition was supposed to make the Ulven feel more at ease around the colonists, and vice versa. In many ways it had the opposite effect. If Raskolf did learn anything on that trip, it was that Humans were dangerous. It wasn’t due to anything in particular that happened, but rather the way they behaved around Ulven. The problem with Humans was that they were cowards. The Humans were afraid of the Ulven. This fear seemed to inspire them to do stupid things, especially when they had numbers. A lone Human would defer to a lone Ulven, almost as a rule, and even try to avoid them. When they got into large groups, however, the Humans would start trying to show off to each other by subtle and not-so-subtle means. These could range anywhere from rude gestures or language to blatant insults directed at the Ulven. Raskolf didn’t like that. It made him nervous to see how two-faced these newcomers could be. They reminded him of wild dogs. They were afraid of wolves and pretended to respect them, but turned on them the instant they had numbers.

The Syndar on the other hand, were always rude. They had no such fears of the Ulven. The Syndar looked down on everyone as equals, which is to say that all people were created equally inferior. They weren’t afraid of not being the best. They simply knew that they were the superior race, and treated everyone accordingly. They were kind of like cats. They didn’t give a damn about the Ulven, but at the same time they were curious about them.

The trip would have been a complete waste of time to Raskolf, but for a pleasant accident at the dance. Raskolf found a coin purse upon the floor, picked it up, and found the owner’s monogram embroidered inside. He was surprised to recognize most of the runes, and even figured out who it belonged to. When he returned it to the Syndar lady with the silver skin, she made a rude comment.

“Oh.” she scrunched up her face, “This one thanks you.”

Raskolf bowed politely, as he had seen others do, and turned to walk away.

“That one must have identified my property by scent. What a noble hound.”

“Actually,” he said, turning back to face her, “I read it. It is a strange variation of our northern alphabet, and I don’t recognize all the letters, but it sounded out to something like your name, Ezra Beloved of the Platinum Moon, so I took a guess that it was yours.”

Raskolf showed his back to them and rejoined poor Anjan, who wasn’t handling the crowd and the noise very well.

Later that evening, as they were about to leave, Raskolf was approached by a plainly dressed, purple-haired Syndar in spectacles. The young lady introduced herself as One Clever Clover Leaf in the Field of Knowledge, but told Raskolf to call her either Clover, or CiCi. She was the scribe and attendant to Lady Ezra. Clover presented Raskolf with a book, open to a certain page, and asked him to read it for her. At first, Raskolf hesitated, but Anjan urged him to give it a try.

“Wake from him forever sleep,” Raskolf slowly read, “the frost element growl of retreat. Down fast, beating his wings in pain, the jealous master, his grey-brow’d warders, thunder warriors, strong veterans, among helmet and shields, and cariots, horses, ele-pants, flags, castles, slings and earth.”

“Very good!” exclaimed Clover, “That was pretty close. Are you sounding them out, purely from phonetics, or do you recognize some of the words?”

“A little of both, I think.” he started, confused not only by her enthusiasm, but also by the word ‘phonetic’. “Some of it is sounds from the runic alphabet, some are runes of whole words. A lot of it is spelled wrong, though, and the order of the words is different from how it would be spoken aloud, but I can put it together well enough to say it to you in common.”

“Let me read it to you, now.” said Clover.

“Waked from his eternal sleep, the hoary element roaring fled away:
Down rushed, beating his wings in vain, the jealous king; his grey brow’d
councillors, thunderous warriors, curl’d veterans, among helms, and shields,
and chariots, horses, elephants; banners, castles, slings and rocks.”

“Is a chariot something you drink out of?” asked Raskolf.

“I think so,” giggled Anjan, “but seriously, though. What does elephant mean?”

“This is fantastic!” cried Clover.

“Great. The noble savage can read.” muttered Raskolf to himself, “Let’s sell tickets.”

“Raskolf!” said Anjan.

“I really don’t understand why she is so excited that I can read a variation of my own language, translate it, and say it out loud in common.” grumbled Raskolf.

“ It’s not your language!” exclaimed Clover, “It’s the word of a human named Blake, and this book is written in Celestial Angirthan Runic! You are reading an antiquated language from way back before the unification! It isn’t a totally dead language, but it is uncommon to see it outside of University…”

“Universe City?” asked Anjan.

“I have no idea.” muttered Raskolf.

“Maybe that is where the Sun and the Moon are from.” said Anjan, “It would make sense, since they are the gods who gifted us with writing.”

Clover still hadn’t actually stopped talking, but the two Ulven were pretty sure that she had stopped talking to them and was just talking to herself now. She hadn’t heard a thing they had said. When she finally settled down, she gave Raskolf the book, which she called an Anthology, and asked to meet with him and her Lady, Ezra Platinum, at the library of New Hope before the Ulven delegation left the next day. Raskolf tried to politely refuse, since the delegation was to leave quite early, and he really wasn’t sure that satisfying curiosity was worth having to tolerate the snobbery of Lady Platinum. Anjan, however, insisted that Raskolf make the meeting, and stated quite firmly that she would delay the departure of the Watchwolves so he might attend.

*

Clover practically skipped through the halls. Never in her studies of language or magic had she been so excited as she was tonight. This was big. This could change everything. She couldn’t wait to tell her Lady.

“Where goes that one, so elated, and at such an hour?” said a voice.

“Oh!” exclaimed Clover, “Tenebrus has startled me! Please forgive this one’s loss of composure. This one has discovered something important and is excited to relay a message to her Lady Platinum!”

“Indeed.” said Tenebrus, melting forth from the shadow, preceded visually by the gleam of white teeth upon dark flesh, the color of stale blood.

“This one would be pleased to hear, that one might share in such elation.”

“This one really must report to her lady, first, but means no disrespect.”

Clover started to leave, but Tenebrus blocked her path.

“Clever Clover,” hissed Tenebrus, “such a clever, clever girl. This one asked politely. This one will not ask again.”

“Of course, elder Tenebrus.” stammered Clover, the tips of her ears drooping submissively, “This one was excited because she discovered that the written runes of the Ulven to the North are remarkably similar to Celestial Angirthan. They are so similar, in fact, that a member of the Ulven delegation was able to read from one of this one’s books. The one who read the book is from a tribe called the Watchwolves of Luna, and his mate was introduced as a priestess of the Watchwolves of Sol, inferring that they have some sort of cultural connection to the Moon and Sun, just like our people.”

Clover held her breath as she waited for a reaction from Tenebrus.

“This one is very interested.” said Tenebrus. “This one will accompany Clever Clover. Come along, child.”

“Tenebrus is hurting this one’s arm!” exclaimed Clover.

Tenebrus said nothing.

“This is not the way to Lady Platinum’s chamber!”

Tenebrus said nothing, and once the shadows engulfed the two Syndar, neither did Clover.

*

Raskolf arrived early at the library, and sat in uncomfortable silence until long after the Syndar girl was late. He waited and waited. She still didn’t show up. Raskolf eventually got bored and started looking through books. He couldn’t read any of them. They were in a different language. Finally, he approached the Librarian, who was an elderly human woman.

“I’m looking for books in Agathan.” he said.

The librarian smirked at him.

“You must mean Celestial Angirthan Runic.” she said.

“Yes.”

“That is a challenging and ancient language. It is typically only used in…”

“Yes, I know. Universe City.”

“Right.” said the Librarian, “But what I was trying to say is that it is not an easy language to learn. It is very complicated and has, in addition to a very long phonetic alphabet, an extensive and exhaustive set of word character runes.”

“What’s this all about, then?” a human scholar interrupted. “This gentle barbarian wants to learn to read?”

“Well, actually, I was…”

“Hey, cousin, come hither! This savage wants to read, and in Angirthan, no less!”

“Direct him to the children’s primers!” laughed another human.

“I’m not here to learn to read.” growled Raskolf. “I’m just looking for some books.”

“Probably a book on hygiene.” muttered the man’s cousin.

“Oh of course.” said the first scholar, “I’m sure that you read. In fact, let me guess, you are looking to translate and transcribe your own copies of our texts to enrich your primitive culture! What a noble venture.”

“I can read Agathan.” Raskolf said slowly.

“Oh, really?” said the scholar’s cousin, “Well, if you can, and I am certain you cannot, since you don’t even know how to pronounce the word Angirthan, then I will give you all the books of that language in my personal library, to keep forever and ever. In dog years.”

“And if I cannot?”

“Then you have to publicly denounce your silly barbarian gods and crawl out of New Hope on all fours, with a bone in your mouth, down the main street and out the main gate.”
Raskolf thought about it a moment. He grinned.

“Oh! Woe is me.” moaned Raskolf in an overly theatrical manner, “Thou hast taken advantage of a poor heathen; the weakness of his race! I cannot turn down a challenge! To do so would be to dishonor the ancestors of my clan! Very well, then, produce the book of which I cannot properly pronounce the name, and I will try to read it with my primitive brain.”

Raskolf gestured to his stomach as he said the last part, invoking laughter from even the old librarian.

A book was placed in front of him, and opened to a random page.

“Oh, please,” said Raskolf, looking towards the ceiling, “I implore and invoke you, my apparently inferior and numerous gods, to have mercy upon me and rescue me from dishonor!”
Raskolf studied the book for a while. He scratched his chin, scratched his head, and inhaled sharply a few times, as though he were about to start reading, but then said nothing.

“Right, then.” he said, “I read it. Please pay up.”

“Read it out loud, smart ass!” remarked the scholar.

“Very well.” Raskolf said, clearing his throat,

“The Knight’s bones are dust,
and his good sword rust:-
His soul is with the saints, I trust.”

“Say,” said Raskolf, “That isn’t Blake, is it?”

The others all stared in shock, their jaws open wide to match their eyes.

“No.” Replied the Librarian, “It’s Coleridge.”

“Ah, yes!” replied Raskolf, “Cold Bridge. Of course. From Universe City. I was reading some Blake last night. Now, about those books you owe me?”

The scholar’s cousin bared his teeth, and his eyebrow twitched as though he may have burst a major blood vessel deep within his brain, or perhaps his belly.

“Well, you know what they say:” said Raskolf, “The Fox condemns the trap, not himself.”

“Now that’s Blake!” said the librarian.

The Syndar girl never showed up, but Raskolf was rather pleased with himself for acquiring six new books in such a clever way. He figured that Clever Clover would agree. Too bad he never got to say goodbye to her before he left the city of New Hope. She was the first Syndar that he had found tolerable.

He had just finished recounting his tale of cunning to the rest of the delegation and the other troops, much to the delight of the travelers, when he noticed a rather uncomfortable look on Anjan’s face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, “Are you worried about Clover not showing up?”

“Huh? No. No, Raskolf. I wasn’t really paying attention. Sorry. I’m pregnant.”

*

But that was eight years ago. Anjan and Raskolf’s daughter, Elise, was seven years old now. Anjan was the Clan High Priestess for both the moon and the sun camps of the Watchwolves, a position also referred to as the “Heart of the Watchwolves”. As her warder, Raskolf was now the “Voice of the Watchwolves”, which basically meant that he was an ambassador. The position had been created especially with him and Anjan in mind. The problem with sending Anjan to political functions was simple. It wasn’t that she embarrassed the clan with her eccentricities, nor did it have anything to do with her handicap, at least, not directly. Ok, maybe a little. The real problem was that she had no tact. When Anjan spoke, it was always from her heart, and exactly anything and everything that was on her mind. She burned quite a few bridges simply by being too honest with important people, and occasionally by talking to spirits that no one else could see. There was no doubt that she was the chosen of Gaia, and her ability to channel mystical and spiritual energy was seemingly on par with the most legendary of Ulven heroines, but she simply couldn’t be left on her own in public. Anjan was very wise, but lacked social grace. Raskolf, being her mate for life in addition to being her warder, was entrusted by the clan with authority to speak on Anjan’s behalf regarding certain matters. He was also entrusted to help feed her, help her dress herself in matching clothes, scratch her left shoulder blade, and basically make sure she didn’t get lost. For that purpose, he had affixed jingly bells to her totemic staff. It made her easier to keep track of. He told people that they were spirit bells, if they asked. Though it was rare that the two of them should be anywhere near a combat, Raskolf also made sure that his Priestess was pointing in the right direction before she started calling down elemental lightning and divine fury upon the battlefield. They were a good team.
This morning, Raskolf finished his first mug of cider, and then prepared to wake Anjan and bring her breakfast. He’d already forgotten about her episode that night. Raskolf sat with Anjan and Elise while they ate breakfast. When Elise had finished, Anjan sent her to go and play with one of her friends.

“Raskolf,” she said, after Elise was gone, “We need to talk.”

Raskolf cringed at those words so universally feared by every married man alive.

“I had a vision.” she said, “And, yes, Love, I know it to be a vision, and not just a dream. I was told by the Great Black Wolf that when I awoke this day, I would be able to smell a strange scent upon the horizon. I do. I don’t know what it is, but I need to find out. It is important.”

“The Great Wolf? Usually Gaia speaks to you, not the Great Wolf.”

“It troubles me, Love.”

“What does it smell like?” asked Raskolf.

“Kind of like the changing leaves in autumn, but sadder, and without the hope of rebirth. It is almost as though the trees fear that though they die every year, this year will be a different death.”

“Bittersweet, but without the sweet.”

“Indeed, Love. Indeed.”

“Well, Anjan, what are we to do?”

“We are to travel West and South. Organize an expedition. We leave tomorrow. I have to find out where it is coming from.”

“Well now, Love,” started Raskolf, “don’t forget that tomorrow is…”

“This is more important. Go.”

“Well,” muttered Raskolf, “that escalated quickly.”

“I have expressed my will. Make it so.”

Raskolf kissed her, then, grumbling, left to do her bidding. As he walked down the path, villagers were already lining up to see his wife for healing and sage advice.

*

“Go along home,” said Anjan, “and tell your mother to keep that arm bound until Luna finishes her pass this cycle.”

The Priestess’s scarred and calloused hands did not slow as they stirred the contents of an clay pot hung over the fire, the steam rising from it heavy and acrid.

“Raskolf always worries around me around fire.” she said to the eyes and the ears.

Since her head injury, she didn’t seem to feel hot and cold very well, and frequently burned herself or started herself on fire as a result.

“He always tells me to watch out for this, or don’t touch that, or watch my hair around the torches. Trivial things! If he spent as much time worrying about doing what I said, as he does second-guessing me. When I tell him to go and do something now, what do I get? Attitude. That’s the problem with being married to your warder. If we weren’t married he’d listen better. I guarantee it. Once a man gets in your skirt, though, it’s as if…”

Anjan realized that she hadn’t heard the little girl leave yet.

“Are you still there?”

The little girl nodded in terror, a gesture missed completely by the blind woman.

“Don’t dawdle, tunglkalfur, or I’ll box your ears. You’ve work to do at home, I am certain.”

“but I…”

“You still have one arm, don’t you?” Anjan said, pointing a wooden spoon no where near the general direction of the little girl, “I don’t make excuses for my eyesight, do I?”

“Of course not, High Priestess Ravensmark.” The little girl squeaked, terrified to say anything more.

“Now send in the next person and you run home.”

The girl ran off, her bare feet pattering in the dust despite the cold of morning.

Anjan stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, occasionally pausing to taste the liquid within or add something from the array of clay bowls, pots and glass jars lining the shelves. Her Witches and Daughters of Gaia had tried to set up an organizational system for their blind Matriarch which involved placing different ingredients into specific slots and holes in a specially shaped tray, but Anjan wasn’t that organized. Ultimately, she just left bottles, jars, and pots wherever she left them, and used smell and taste to confirm the contents.

Anjan Ravensmark was a heavy-bodied woman, square of shoulder and broad of hip. A fierce warrior once, her sight had been lost after a near-fatal head wound, an injury that cost her not only her sight, but her place in an elite warpack known as the Tundra Wolves. However, with the loss of her physical sight came a new-found vision: the thoughts and wishes of the First Mother manifested in her waking dreams. Soon, a bemused Anjan had found herself entering the novitiate, taking her first faltering steps on the path to serving Gaia and guiding her children.

Ten years past that had been, and she had never regretted the loss of her sight beyond her first mourning. The Mother of All had blessed her with sight beyond the Veil and a devoted mate that guided her steps in the physical world so that she might walk with strong steps in the spiritual one. Once a hunter and warrior, well-blooded, now she tended the bodies and souls of the Silverhowl Pack with practicality and a dedication that neared fanaticism. Though she had risen to the position of Clan High Priestess, she never forgot her duties to her pack and her village.

Her attention right now was not on the concoction in her simmering pot, or on the girl running with awe-struck steps back to her waiting mother. Anjan’s cloth-wrapped gaze was fixed upon the clouded sky beyond the ceiling and walls of her dwelling.

Something was in the wind. Something wrong. Anjan’s upper lip curled back from her elongated canines, an involuntary reaction. Earlier, it had been a faint smell, and just a little sad. Now there was the bitterness of dried salt, sweat, or perhaps blood and iron. The sadness was giving way to fear. She could smell fear. She wrinkled her nose. The Ulven hate the smell of fear as much as the Mordock love the smell of horse meat.

Anjan sneezed. She would have to consult the bones that night, as Luna cast her silver light from high above the world. She would have to check the signs and portents.

A shiver ran up her spine as she stirred the pot, thinking. Perhaps it was time to call a rettir, a gathering of the Pack, once she had cast her augeries and gained what further knowledge the Great Wolf and the First Mother deemed fit to share with her.

*

Rhodi stretched beneath his covers, and cuddled closer to Ylsa. The sun was up, and the forge was up to temperature, but the warmer it got in his smithy, the more comfortable he became, until he had lost any motivation to leave the protection of his furs, nor the softness of his woman. He was, however, thirsty. His eyes protected from the light of morning by a knit cap pulled over his eyes, he groped blindly for a bottle. He could only use one arm because there was a girl sleeping on his other and he didn’t want to wake her. His hand closed around one that he recognized by shape to be ginger wine, but to his dismay it was empty. Further pawing, stretching and groping recovered two cider bottles, a beer bottle, and a wineskin, but all were empty. His blind, one armed search accidently emptied the contents of Ylsa’s satchel all over the floor.

“Brother!” called Raskolf from somewhere on the other side of the curtain, “Brother, where are you? I need to speak to you. It’s important.”

“Give me a moment. Give me a moment.” grunted Rhodi, unintentionally rolling his woman up in a bundle of furs and blankets as he pushed her out of the way to get up. Rhodi tried to take off his hat, but the light was too bright, and he stumbled blind and naked from his bedding, with an empty bottle in one hand. Ripping the curtain aside, he stood face to face with his brother, Raskolf.

“Rhodi, put on some pants next time.” said Raskolf.

“Why?” belched Rhodi, scratching his parts and grinning blindly beneath his hat.

“Because,” said Raskolf, “One: It is lunch time, and Two:” he added, ripping off Rhodi’s hat and throwing it into the wiggling pile of furs and blankets behind his brother, “We aren’t the only people in the shop right now.”

Rhodi cringed at the light and cursed his brother. As his vision returned, he noticed that there were two young ladies waiting patiently in the shop with leather armor to be mended. One of the girls was blushing like a ripe apple and trying to hide her face. The other one’s jaw was hanging open and she looked quite terrified.

“Well I wasn’t naked till you took off my hat!” Rhodi yelled after his brother.

“Just get dressed and come to the Longhouse, Rhodi.”

*