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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.”

*

Yawn Longfang
Harlok Longfang

Yawn sat at the back table of the tavern. Drinking his drink, smoking his pipe. The mead was flowing just fine that night. The younglings had been given leave to take the name they choose, and more importantly, Yawn was now free of the good awful long named imposed on him as a protection to confuse and confound those thing that creep int he night and happily drag off the young. Yawnrick Eix Nifflem Longfang… Where did his mother even find that many letters to string together. The bar was full of younglings like Yawn. All eager to start the trails. But unlike yawn most all of them had the eyes or had the fangs come in. Yawn had neither as of yet.
A trio at the bar start in on it. Drunk… Very very drunk the three of them. One start in “Hey why do you think Yawnricks not come into the eyes or even the fangs yet?” The second ” Poor luck.” The third “or poor blood in his father line perhaps she didn’t choose so well. YAWN what you do you think.”
“I think I will say when I finish my pipe an my mead.” Yawn manged flatly with only a tinge of irritation. “hmph the way he smokes we’d be waiting all night.” Thing went on that way, the trio gossiping loudly, forgetting about Yawn entirely. Then the one in the middle piped up once more. “Do you think mayhap it isn’t to do with Yawn at all, maybe it to do with who or what his mother choose, maybe she laid with a human or a syndar” The taunt went on but Yawn had stop listening right then. Yawns father had bested four warriors hand to hand to convince his mother he was worthy of being chosen. Four warriors of her choosing. Victories that has not come easily. Kragen and Harlok two among the four, both had broken ribs, Kragen had disjointed his shoulder, and he’d chipped a fang in one the bought, and could not speak as Harlok broke his jaw in the last bought. His father manged it in one night and It took three months to recover from the bought all told. Three months. Yawn was Longfang through and through.
Yawn quietly emptied and filled his pipes bowel. Downed his mug of mead, and very quietly strode over to the trio, tapping the center youth on the shoulder. And as he turned Yawn loosed a sucker punch so vicious it drew blood and cracked the center youths fang. His friend to the left raised his heavy tankard to bring it down across Yawns head, but he was seated, he could not move as fast. Yawn saw the arm and what it held, he slid his arm up the seated youths shoulder and cupped his hand at the back of his neck trapping arm, and with all his weight brought head down against the bar in a savage arch. Yawn brought his head down another two times, with less force but the first seemed to of had the desired effect of putting the second out of the fight. Though that was when things stopped going so well for Yawn. There was a crash and his vision swam , some had struck him int he back hard. Very hard. Yawn spun a bit more slowly, but the strike had only served to fuel Yawns anger. The third being bright, or perhaps just having much more time to react then his friends had shattered a stool over Yawns back. Yawn leapt at him and the fight went to the ground, the third beat at yawn with the former stool leg. In the end, yawn slipped to his back and levered the club against his foes neck choking him senseless.
His eyes still blurry, he checked that he hadn’t over held the choke… It took three minutes time he’d been told all his life but Gaia help him if he’d killed another youngling. No kill breathing just fine. Good.
Yawn stumbled back to his table, filled his pipe, lit it from the tables candle and drew deeply. He scooped up his mug and limped to the bar. “He going to live?” the keep asked. “They’ll remember tonight but all be fine in a few days. Well swore but fine. Make it a full mug, the priestess will not be best pleased with my defense of my mothers good name… like to be my last for some time…” Yawn sighed, drew on his pipe, and waited for the guards that would by now be a very short time from he tavern door… He’d accept he punishment. Whatever it was, this had been wrong. If he’d of called for a duel they may of cowered and backed down, and that would be the end of it, or beaten one senseless and be done with it. Now he’d beaten all three senseless, and was none the better for it. “This is going to be a long week..” Yawn muttered at the guards crossed the threshold and he downed his mead. Of course right then Yawn couldn’t know how right he would be.

——————————————

Two of the Onsallas village guards walked into the tavern connected to the longhouse. They had heard the commotion and stepped inside to see what was going on. They surveyed the scene and instantly knew that words and then fists were exchanged. Yawn was quietly drinking his mead, and it was obvious what had happened.

The guards moved towards Yawn deliberately but not threateningly, knowing he would comply and serve his punishment.

“Alright Yawn, I know Stanrick can get into some trouble, but this is new…” said the Longfang guard as he grabbed Yawn’s arm and slowly began to pull him away from the bar.

The guards hadn’t noticed a figure had walked up behind the two of them until an armor clad gauntlet reached out and grasped the shoulder of one the guards. The act was instantly regarded as hostile, as interfering with the village guards is a serious offense.

“Don’t interfere with our duties! You want to join him in the stocka….” said the guard whose voice was quickly cut short. He had turned as he spoke, until he locked gaze with Harlok Longfang, the Ulven who had interrupted them. Harlok’s piercing lupine eyes summed up the guard and his quiet and stone still pose had been enough to silence the guard. The younger guard was confused and not sure what to do next.

Harlok’s gaze then went to the three bloodied whelps on the floor, then up to Yawn, who sat quietly and bloodied a bit himself. It was obvious that Yawn had defeated the three younglings and then waited for his punishment.

Harlok walked over close to Yawn and grabbed his wrist, raising it up and pointing towards his bicep. Yawn looked confused, until Harlok then pointed at the three younglings on the tavern floor. Yawn nodded… and Harlok grinned. With a bit of surprise, Harlok reached out and clasped Yawn’s forearm in a sign of respect and nodded in approval.

Harlok then turned and locked eyes with the two guards, who still stood their confused. Harlok pointed at the two guards, then to the three younglings, and then motion outside. He punctuated this fact with a deep growl and a bearing of fangs.

The guards complied and scooped up the worst of the the younglings and dragged them outside. Harlok then strode out of the bar and left Yawn there in silence.

Ryla Larksfield

The morning sun played across the sea. From her seat next to the window, Ryla stared uneasily at the view she’d watched thousands of times before. The Winter Apple was very nearly deserted, and it was no surprise. Many had fled Dellastern already, hoping to escape the undead scourge that now threatened it’s gates. The docks were very near chaos, by tonight they’d devolve into all out warfare as those still in the city sought escape. The Temple Rose waited, guards wary and impatient. Still, she knew it would not leave until she was aboard. Her gaze returned to the horizon. Before the sun set again she would be sailing past that horizon. She’d never been farther away from this cesspit she called home. What would life be like as a refugee in a new, alien continent. It was a blessing that she’d spent her life hiding the terror she felt, or she’d have shaken the ale right out of her glass.

Heavy boots trod in and up to her table, she recognized his gait before she saw him. He downed half of his mug of beer before he acknowledged her. Had it been anyone else, Ryla would have found the gesture insulting. It was hard to feel offended, though, when a person drags himself from the front lines of a bloody battle to meet you for drinks. He looked like he’d aged a decade, his normally impeccable calm shattered. He was dirty and unkempt, but it was the slump of his shoulders, a vaguely haunted look to him that made Ryla shift uncomfortably in her seat. When he finally did speak, his voice still held the authoritative grumble she had always found comforting, but there was an icy edge to it. She reminded herself that he was her friend, she had nothing to fear from him—no matter how many men he’d killed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “And you should be fleeing the city with me. But it appears we’re both too stubborn for our own good.
“Sure, sure. What’s with the muscle?”
She shrugged, dismissing the thugs behind her without a glance. “Dangerous times. A girl can’t be too careful. I believe it was your turn.”
He laughed. “One of these days you’re going to have to outgrow these games,” but he turned his attention to the chess board she’d set between them. He moved his rook quickly, then leaned back tiredly and examined his opponent. “Martin’s dead.”
Ryla started. “I thought he’d outlive us all. I’m sorry.”
“No one lives forever. He saved my life, the big idiot.” Then he added with an uncharacteristically roguish grin, “I suspect I’ll be seeing him soon enough.”
“You’re an idiot too.” She dropped her gaze, pretending to be examining her predicament on the board. “Is there anything I can do? Anyone I can find?”
He shook his head. “I told you last time, there isn’t anyone. All my friends are out there dying right along with me.” He didn’t seem bothered by the thought. “Or leaving.”While she was ignoring that, he took another long drink and pulled at his leather armor like it was too tight. He lived in armor and she’d never once seen him look uncomfortable. “Is it bizarrely hot in here, or is it just me?”
She smiled sweetly. “It is a bit.” She picked up his king and turned it slowly in her hand. “You really think dying out there is going to make a damn bit of difference?”
“My men . . . “ he began, his throat had become scratchy, his voice hoarse.
“ . . . Aren’t out there because of you. They have their own reasons, or they wouldn’t stay. The undead and the penitent are going to roll through this city like a storm, sweeping away any poor fool in their way.”
Speeches made him suspicious, but he was beyond the point where he’d be able to do anything about it and Ryla knew it. Perhaps she’d hoped to explain herself, but he simply stared daggers at her. People had stared daggers at her before, but there was something coldly murderous in his manner that made her stop philosophizing.
She smiled again, but it was tight and self conscious. She placed his piece back on the board. “Checkmate.”
His face twisted in anger and understanding as her eyes flicked to his glass. Then, they rolled up and he slumped onto the table, then fell to the floor. She knelt next to him, making sure he was breathing evenly. Then picked up his king again and pocketed it before motioning for the two goons to lift him.

Duncan became slowly aware that the floor was moving. Alone, the sensation would have been odd. With the demonic gala rolling around in his stomach it was a new level of torment. Half awake, he rolled over and was sick. “Flea-bitten Hells!” A young woman exclaimed.
Opening his eyes, he saw Ryla, just out of range of the mess. She looked at him and grinned despite his sickness. She offered him a mug of something brackish that also smelled like vomit. When he turned his nose up at she admonished him with a bizarrely maternal look. “It’ll help you feel human again.”
He propped himself up and drank it as quickly as he could. “It isn’t working.”
She handed him a water skin to wash it down. “You have to give it a minute.”
She went about cleaning the floor next to him while his mind caught up to his body. It was slow going, but eventually he did start to feel less terrible. He grabbed her arm, realization finally dawning on him. “We’re on a ship.”
“Uh-huh.”
His grip tighten as he followed the line of logic. “You drugged me. . .”
“Guilty.”
“ . . . and kidnapped me.”
“Well, strong men have been kidnapping young women for centuries. A little turn about is fair play.”
When he failed to let go of her am she pried his hand off one finger at a time and sat down next to him, trying to look innocent. “I’m fairly sure I was saving your life.”
“Yes, and how exactly did you go about that?”
She shrugged. “I had my cohorts carry you to the ship. I told the captain you were my father. That you were in your cups again.”
“Why?” he growled.
“I need you.”
“What?”
“Just a wealth of conversation aren’t we?” When he responded with a glare she continued. “The new world’s dangerous. I need someone with martial skills to make sure I stay in one piece.”
“So, you just plucked on off the street.” His voice pitched oddly. She’d heard him angry, but there was a note of disbelief that was new.
“Again—’saved one’s life’ would be more accurate.” He didn’t wait for her explanation, he’d already stood up and began pacing.
“Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t just haul a man off to a different continent and expect him to be your faithful servant.”
“Who said anything about a servant? I just said I needed help.”
“And that’s what it’s all about isn’t it: what you need.”
Ryla’s jaw clenched, when she spoke it was icey. “Exactly. I guess you’ve finally figured me out.”
He grabbed her bag and tossed it to her. “Go. I never want to see you again.”
“That’s going to be a bit difficult.” She sidled past him, calmer than she felt. “We’re on a ship. Idiot.”

There was a soft glow on the horizon, or maybe he was just imagining it. The ship had a subdued happiness to it. It was the quiet celebration of survivors who had a very long way yet to go. But Duncan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the glow. He couldn’t make himself stop seeing the dead, walking or otherwise. In his mind he walked Dellastern’s streets, played witness to the blood and the carnage that must have been happening that very second. Silently killing and rekilling all of the poor souls he’d left behind. Even he admitted it to himself it was a bit morbid, but after a lifetime as a mercenary his imagination had plenty to work with.
Then there was a man standing next to him, handing him a drink, which he begrudgingly accepted. “You must be Ryla’s dad,” said the newcomer.
Duncan snorted in disgust. “Must I?”
The stranger had the nerve to laugh. “Nah, I know she’s an orphan. Hell, everybody who knows her knows she’s an orphan. Not shy that one.”
“Apparently the captain didn’t know.”
“Or he didn’t care. She has a way of ingratiating herself, after all.”
Duncan growled deep in his throat, but the other man didn’t seem to find his bad temper intimidating. In fact, he seemed to find it rather amusing. “She’s got rotten luck though. . .Saving the only man in Aldoria who apparently hates her for it.”
The two stood in silence for several moments. Duncan stood stock still in anger, the other man proving to be surprising patient for a nuisance. Finally, Duncan caved. “I don’t hate her because she saved my life. I just . . .” The glow was still there, the only funeral pyre for an entire city. “Thousands of innocent women and children are dying, have died, and she manages to drag one stupid old man out of it. And not because I’m her friend, because I can be of use to her.”
“Did she say that?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. She said she needed someone to help her in Mardrun.”
The sailor shook his head like there was a particularly funny joke in that. “Well, pride makes us all do stupid things sometimes. I guess I can see your point. All her hard won connections and she rescues one person. And she chooses you. Then has the nerve to ask you for help. I’d be pissed too.”
Duncan downed the rest of his drink, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “You’re right. People do what they have to do to survive. Far be it for me to expect anything more from her.”
He went to leave, but the sailor grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him round to face the ship. He pointed to a family huddled round their dinner. “He’s a butcher. Months ago his son got sick, took all the money they had to treat him. They had nothing when they received word that the undead were headed for the city.” He pointed to another woman, very obviously pregnant, being sick over the side. “She’s a whore. Or was. She’s got a few gold in her pocket, a place on this ship, a home and job all lined up in the new world. A new life for her and her child, assuming it makes the crossing.
“There’s a young man downstairs who escaped a rather unpleasant life under the thumb of a particularly pernicious crime lord by boarding this ship. And a few dozen more stories just like that.”
“Great. There is good in the world. Hurray.” Duncan countered wearily.
The sailor rolled his eyes and leaned on the rail casually. “Why’s she only got one bag?”
“What?”
“Why’s Ryla only got one bag with her? Light as air, so you know it isn’t stuffed with gold. She wasn’t poor, made a pretty good living for herself back in the city. She knew she was leaving. She even had time to plan your kidnapping and crossing. You’ve no doubt noticed she brought things aboard for you. So, where’s her wealth? Figured the undead could use it more, I suppose?”
Duncan took a moment. He looked, for the first time, at the faces of the people on the ship. Before him lay a vessel full of living, breathing people who had escaped Aldoria. “I don’t suppose you let these people cross out of the goodness of your heart, did you?”
The Captain grinned back. “Me? Gods no, I’m a businessman.”

Ryla’d been making the rounds, seeing to old friends and making new ones. No one had disturbed her bag. Duncan wondered if it was because they respected it’s owner, or because everyone knew there was nothing of value to take. He’d been expecting her to look a bit happier when she saw him, but her frown turned bitter.
“Where’d you get that?” She motioned to the chess board he’d set up on the floor. He picked up one of the pieces that had fallen over, chessboards and ships apparently didn’t mix. He gave her his best impression of a sheepish smile. “The captain lent it to me. Nice guy.”
She eyed him in obvious distrust, but took a seat across the board from him on the floor. “Yes, indeed. And disturbingly prone to sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Thinks he’s clever.”
“Says a benefactor filled his ship nearly to bursting with downtrodden unfortunates heading to Mardrun. That she went broke doing it, but that she saved all of their lives.” When Ryla remained still and silent, he continued. “He says she has nothing. That she won’t last the winter without help.”
Looking bored, Ryla asked, “So?”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me act like such an ass?”
“One, I don’t have the time or energy to control your ass-headed tendencies. Two, and more importantly, I don’t have to justify myself to you.”
“But you could have mentioned it.”
“Yes, I could have. Then what? You’d forgive me and spend the rest of your life lauding my goodness? I got that money from a decade of being a selfish little monster, I still am, and I always will be. If that’s going to be a problem for you, then we should go our separate ways.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll never think well of you again.”
She sighed in frustration. “Think well of me, think ill of me, fine. I’ve probably earned both. But I thought we were friends, and not just when it suited you.”
“Thank the gods I never had a daughter. Do women ever just accept an apology?” She arched an eyebrow, unable to keep from smiling.
“Oh. Damnation . . . I’m sorry.”
“Apology accept. Also, checkmate. And I mean the game, this time.”

Our most powerful Cleric had been killed; so many warriors wounded beyond our remaining clerics ability to help. We can’t hold out for too much longer. It had been 90 days since the first attack, then 16 since the second, and the third had yet to happen, we were still waiting; tensely. Rebuilding, repairing; we had started to relax, with hope that no more attacks would come. Our main focus was on home, to prepare for the coming winter. I had been running back and forth from the Blacksmith who was making nails, to those who were doing repairs as fast as they could. Any able bodies were helping; we all had to pitch in. Once we were done and finished with our chores, the children knew we could play games with the rest of our day. Today we planned to play a game of tag; we hadn’t played it since the last attack.

“Echo, Senal needs nails,” as Lilia, the healer’s daughter passed me up. I nodded and ran to the West side of the village. Senal was known as our village Seer; he had been accurate with everything so far, which was frightening at times. He had recently predicted a move of some kind, but this was our home; and nobody would accept that we were going to move. We fight for our home, we protect it, all Ulven knew that. Wandering over to the skeleton of Senals home, I raised a small fist full of nails. “Thank you child,” with a pat on the head and a few brisk words, we parted ways. I ran to find Tiresia, my mother, at the healing house. When I pushed past the makeshift fur walls, I slipped past Anani, and Alali, the last two Clerics of our village. I found them to look tired and worn. This was probably their third time meditating this morning, they were drained, but we all had to do what we must to keep our people healing and fighting. “Make sure not to bug them little Echo,” looking at mother I nodded, she put a finger to my lips before motioning her to come close. “Senal says rain soon and a runner arrived with a hawk- They told Senal that help would be scarce, for there was also a large attack of Mordok up North and the warriors were sent that way first.” Beaming to myself I felt proud, I liked delivering messages and learning about what was going on in our lands. It made what was happening at home seem tiny. “Go out and tell everyone Senal said rain, I’ll finish up patching some of the wounds and come out to help with the roofs. If Senal is right, with he usually is then they’ll be needed most tonight.” She kept so composed, though I knew she was worried. I guess it had always been that way. As the Leader of our village in Nightriver, she had to make sure everything was going smoothly for everyone. These past months, with all the attacks and deaths, it had left her so tired. I ran along, passing on the message of rain. I made the last of my deliveries with the now empty nail bucket swinging at my side, letting out a resounding thump. I had to stop and hold the bucket aloft, stopping the thumping on my side to recognize the sound of a horn: two short blasts. The others around me let out a holler of joy. Laughter spread slowly, putting down their tools. Helping friends down from beams, we all made our way to the Central area of the village. The Hunting party had returned.

As I jumped, getting a little taller each time to see what was going on; strong hands wrapped around under my arms and lifted me atop lean shoulders. Calliope, the best archer of our village beamed up at me and walked to the center to rejoin her hunt-mates. “We got a lot this time, two elk, a boar, we even found a lot of healing regents; so our healer should be well supplied again.” As I listened to her I looked around, everyone did seem excited, almost relaxed. The cooking fire was slowly being kindled into life; the midday meal would soon be on its way. “How long are you staying this time?” messing with her hair. I’ve became oblivious to what was lurking outside the village as the small festivities started in celebration for the good fortune of our hunters. We relaxed further. “I’m not sure, but I plan to stay long enough to rebuild my hut. I miss having a small space of my own plus; the ground is getting a little too cold now.” Lifting me from her shoulders, she pulled me over to the carcass of the bigger Elk. “There,” pointing at the puncture wound of an arrow, I knew instantly what she wanted me to say. “You got into the windpipe, a quicker death… but kinda painful too,” I frowned, a little sad for the poor creature I patted its soft nose, “Rest well friend.” I turned away as the gutting and skinning commenced. We headed for the fire, the fall chill had slowly started setting in with the sun beginning its descent. The cold seemed to seep into your bones.

It seemed our whole village was now in the center. Looking at some of the buildings I could see a few of the people still helping on the roofs, it was peaceful. Sitting by the fireside as the meat and stew started cooking, the people around me were made merry as things had started looking up. I even saw some of the injured warriors clapping their hands as others danced in groups, spinning and laughing.

Everyone instantly froze as we heard the blast of a horn, long and loud bellowed over the area. The fighters jumped up and began racing to pull their weapons from their sheaths to defend the town from the coming threat. Calliope raced away from me, her bow drawn up instantly as she nocked an arrow. A scream let out from the eastern side of the village and smoke slowly began to rise from the edges of town. People started running, abandoning what they had been doing not only seconds ago to grab what they could for fighting. The other children had started running. I got swept away in it as we ran for cover, seeking it in the piles of fire wood. Slipping into the gaps between the piles. Outside of our cover it seemed a war was being waged, as our tiny hands grasped onto each other for security and comfort. A warrior fell in front of us with an axe in his torso. We held hands over our mouths to stop from screaming. Above the now deceased warrior, the black face of a Mordok stared at us. A growling sneer spreading over its face as it bellowed a cry of victory. It charged, the children tried climbing up and over the piles of tumbling fire wood, trying to scurrying away. I couldn’t move. The axe came down fast; It hardly missed me as I jerked farther back into the pile. I hit the back of the pile, there was no more room to push back into. His axe raised again, his muscles tensed as he started to swing forward and an arrow whizzed by. A gurgle escaped its mouth, as it dropped his weapon, clattering down at my feet. The arrow stuck out from its neck, bleeding red over its body. Hands wrapped around my arm, tugging hard. I screeched, long and loud against the sounds of clashing metal and grinding of footsteps on dirt. “Hush Echo, it’s only me,” as I buried my face into Calliopes shoulder I started to cry. I wept in terror, I wept for those around us and the fate of our village. Everyone around us was fighting, bruised and wounded but still surging forward for our home, our only hope. But we knew it would hopeless, with so many injured. We had let ourselves relax and for that were caught so off guard. We didn’t have the strength to push back anymore.
Sword in hand, my mother approached us; her face splattered with blood and the bottom of her pants was torn to the knee. She turned to a warrior who was running by and stopped him. “How many are there?”
“I’m not sure; they swarmed in too large of a group.”
“Do we have the strength to fight them?” as her arms came up in a defensive position she watched all around us, worry flashed openly over her face.
“No Ma’am, too many are wounded from the last attack, and we don’t have the advantage. They attacked us completely off guard. The entire east side of the village is in flame and the main hall has been toppled and overrun. We won’t be able to hold for much longer.” With a fist over his heart and a short nod, the warrior turned to help his brethren in the battle. A silence fell as he left, Tiresia contemplated; this would be the largest decision of our village.

“NOOO!!” the word and all its anguish cut through the silence. Turning, I watched Anani cradling her sister; a mirror image of herself. A rage seemed to fill her as her arms shook around Alali. She screamed again and stood. Looking serene now, she focused on drawing on her powers she primed 2 spells for instant death, and calmly walked into the ensuing battle. Nobody stopped her. Peaceful, calm, dainty Anani, walked right to her death. The battle consumed her, we saw the blast of the magic she had with her and we could see her no more.

“Give me that conch,” ripping the horn from the hand of a nearby fighter she brought it to her lips, Long, Short, Long. People started backing away form the fight, towards us… we were fleeing. Those who still had the strength, protected our backs as we retreated. I was thrust upon my mothers back as she ran. Helping to pull any who had slowed; telling them to speed up. Looking back, I saw Anani once again, lying by her sister’s side as her chest was seeped with red. The east side was covered in smoke, the columns rising high into the sky. I was sure the Watch Wolves in the north could see. We ran away, as fast as we could. Our fellow Ulven around us surging through the woods on trails we knew well. This was our home and the land had been our friend. Behind us, I heard the guttural cry of victory. The Mordok knew they had won and that our village would be no more. It crossed my mind that Senal had been right. Maybe if we had listened, and been willing to change; this might not have happened to us. A droplet fell onto my cheek; with small grimy hands I wiped it away, to find that it was covered all over in red.

~Two Days Later~

“We simply need shelter, temporary of course. I can explain further about the movements of the Mordok once my people are safe.” My mother walked away with the leader of this village. I clung in earnest to the children around me. We were drained, exhausted of all strength. We had been walking for two days and one full night. Half of our people were nodding off where they stood- others were too paranoid to sleep, thinking only of the danger and horror if they did. In front of us Calliope stood, with two other women. They stood like stone, guarding us from the possible danger of the world. To my left, Senal was being tended to, the gash down his arm was angry and red. He spoke to some of the local villagers who had come with questions, telling them what had happened. It seemed though from their reactions, that none of them had heard of the attack on our village in the two days it had taken us to arrive here. Children peeked out from behind elders, staring at us with large eyes. I could not blame them, we must have been a sight; bloodstained, bruised, some with open wounds still needed tending to.

With slow determined steps, Tiresia returned; a small smile over her face. The leader of the Village stood by her side, an arm around her shoulder comforting. “We have been granted stay, for as long as we need to heal and pick up our feet. They have put aside the smaller tavern for us and some of the homes of the people around here have been opened for us as well. Rest easy my friends, for when we can, we are moving towards the center of Nightriver territory and then we will rebuild our village.” Drifting out of this world, I fell asleep curled with the other children nodding off one by one. We did not need to worry longer, as our new found shelter will now keep us all safe.

Bloody Anne Cash

---

“Commander, vessel off the starboard bow! She looks like the Maiden!”
For weeks, Commander Ridgebon, of the I.A.S. Interceptor, had been hunting the Maiden of the Sea, a pirate ship infamous for its ruthlessness in dealing with any and all it encountered. Lieutenant Anne Cash had been straining her eyes on the horizon for days, praying that she was not simply imagining the ship in the distance. Extending her spyglass, she was greeted by the sight of the grisly masthead on the distant vessel: A young woman, nude from the waist up; her face twisted in pain; a sword held in her hand, its blade extending into her abdomen. This was the Maiden of the Sea, to be sure.

“You heard her, boys! Sails to full! Bring us in close! She’s not getting away from me this time!” Commander Ridgebon stared intently towards the horizon, focusing on his quarry. Four times had the Interceptor come up on the Maiden, and each time did the pirate vessel manage to escape. Wanted for raiding dozens of merchant vessels, and not known for leaving survivors, Captain Anthony Newall was a clever foe, and knew when to run. This time, though, there would be no escape. The Interceptor was fast enough and close enough that the Maiden would not have time to flee.

“Get ready to board, boys! Anne! When she’s in range, light up some arrows and aim for her sails!” The Commander was fueled by his fury at being bested time and time again by a mere pirate. His crew would not be outdone this time.

As the Interceptor drew near to her target, the crew noticed something was amiss. There was no movement on deck, no flags of surrender flew. A single young woman stood, bound to the main mast, her hands pinned to her sides and a rag in her mouth keeping her muffled cries quiet. Something was off, but sailors are often quick to leap to the rescue of a fair young lady. Before any of the officers could shout a warning, five men were setting the gangplanks to board the sitting vessel, racing across to be the woman’s savior.

Anne’s bow, her oldest possession, slid into her hand, an arrow quickly finding its rest on the string. Her eyes scanned the ship, looking for any movement which could mean trouble. As the sailors reached the deck of the Maiden, a sudden shout sounded from the hull. Four men emerged from trapdoors in the deck brandishing swords, another two wielded bows. Lieutenant Cash drew and fired, her arrow biting deep into the chest of one of the archers, dropping him instantly. The second archer, however, had time to ensure his arrow also struck true, protruding from the neck of one of the sailors. More sailors boarded, and more pirates emerged from their hiding place, quickly turning the battle bloody.

Amidst the combat, one of the sailors, guarded by his allies, drew his knife and began sawing at the bonds imprisoning the young woman on the mast. As her arms fell free, a sinister smile drew her lips upwards, almost laughing as her hands began to move in a strange manner, conjuring the latent energy around her. Before he had time to react, the sailor who had freed the woman was hurtling through the air, clear over the guardrails and into the waiting ocean. Soon enough, another sailor was flung into the rear mast in a similar fashion, knocking him out cold. Unaccustomed to battling against forces they could not see, the sailors did their best to avoid this new threat, giving the mage a wide berth and favoring combat against the steel swords of the pirates, instead.
Commander Ridgebon had been surveying the melee from the deck of the Interceptor, waiting for his chance to strike, shouting orders to his troops. Captain Newall was still nowhere to be seen, though, so the Commander stayed his hand.

Anne was not so patient. With two arrows left, she drew and fired at the mage. If her allies would not engage her, then Anne would have to do it herself; as they say, never send a man to do a woman’s job. As the arrow screamed towards it’s target, eager to pierce a limb, it collided with the thin air around the mage with a faint wave of blue energy and fell to the ground, wasted.
Not used to fighting against magic, Anne stood in shock for a moment before nocking another arrow and releasing it as the mage began channeling another spell. As she muttered the final incantation, the arrow struck her leg, lodging itself deep in the mage’s thigh just a moment before another warding spell was completed. The annoyance on the mage’s face was matched only by the pain in her eyes, clearly a stranger to injury.

---

The sailors, despite their training, were hard-pressed to hold their position on the ship. They had rallied since the ambush and had maneuvered into a defensive formation to shield those wounded in the original attack. They were outnumbered, and many were distracted by the mage, fearful of being thrown overboard or worse.
During the chaos, a figure had emerged from the hull of the ship, a wiry man with a sharpened black hook where his right hand should have been and a grand red coat, one ill-suited to a life at sea. “Come on, ye salty dogs! I’ll not have me ship fall to a bunch of do-gooders!” Captain Newall shouted over his crew.

---

With no more arrows, Anne slid down the rigging to the deck of the Interceptor, drew her sword, and ran across the gangplank to confront the mage. Two orbs of deep blue energy appeared in the mages hands, which flew at the lieutenant. Dropping to her knees, the first bolt flew past Anne’s ear, although the second struck her leg as she went to stand again, knocking her leg out from under her, tearing a small hole in her armored skirt.
Unfazed, Anne found her footing again and charged the mage, once again being met by the strange shield. Her second strike was more successful, however, sinking itself into the mage’s left arm. Before her third blow could connect, Anne was flung through the air, landing gracelessly on her back, once again surprised by the power within this young girl. Soon enough, Anne was back on her feet and approaching the mage once more, preparing herself for another blast.

---

Seeing his foe on deck, Commander Ridgebon drew his sword and issued a challenge. “Captain Anthony Newall!” He shouted, his booming voice clearly audible even over the battle raging in front of him. “I, Commander Jackston Ridgebon, on behalf of the King and People of Aldoria, order you and your crew to stand down. Surrender, and justice will be brought upon you as dictated by Aldorian law. Resist, and the fury of the I.A.S. Interceptor will rain down until you beg for death! What say you?”
“I think we’ll take our chances!” Retorted Captain Newall. “We’re at an impasse, but my men are patient! We’ve got two men for each of yours. It’s only a matter of time!”
“Then let’s settle this the old way, Captain: a duel to the death. Captain to Commander. No tricks, no interference. Or have you been spending too much time with the fairies to remember what honor is?”
“If any of ye lay a finger on him before I’m through, you’ll suffer a fate worse than death! Commander, I accept! Now, draw!”

---

Focusing the arcane power within her, the mage produced a scintillating ball of energy and hurled it at the lieutenant, striking her in the stomach. Anne fell to her knees, feeling as though someone had punched the air out of her lungs. She stood to attack the mage again, but found herself blinded. Stumbling around, struggling to gain her bearings, Anne knew she was at the mercy of the mage. She heard the shuffling of feet approaching her head on, the dragging of the leg she had shot. It was no use, Anne’s mind was alert, but her body was sluggish at best. She tried to brace herself for what was to come, only to have the sense knocked back into her as she once again was sent flying, this time both backwards and upwards, carried aloft on a wave of concussive force. The lieutenant crashed into the deck, her sword torn from her hand as she began her flight, her pauldron knocked askew by the impact. The mage, giving the same sinister grin she flashed at the first sailor she sent reeling, kicked Anne’s sword through a grate, into the hull. Out of reach, out of the fight.

---

The two men circled each other, each taking minor swipes at the other. The attacks were meant to test the opponent, not to inflict any damage. For what seemed like an hour, the duel progressed, neither side making any effort to strike. With a quick lunge, Captain Newall ended the game, aiming straight for the Commander’s heart. Far too experienced to be taken by surprise, the Commander raised his blade, deflecting the Captain’s cutlass harmlessly to the left. A number of cuts and thrusts followed from the Commander, each expertly blocked by his opponent. Back and forth they went, nothing more than a few minor scrapes on each.
“I grow bored with this game.” Captain Newall declared. “Hansel! Fransel! Now!”
At his command, two hulking brutes stepped out of the crowd, grabbing Commander Ridgebon by the arms and hoisting him from the ground.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Jackston. Expecting a pirate to fight fair? I’m disappointed in you,” Newall scolded, pacing back and forth between his captive. The Commander made no effort to respond. Even his face remained stoic, almost amused. “Well, we might as well end this!” Captain Newall drew his arm back to strike deep into Commander Ridgebon’s heart. In a flash, the Commander’s foot shot up, connecting with the Captain’s groin, sending him reeling on the floor, his sword clattering to the deck. Several sailors descended upon the men holding their Commander, quickly dispatching them and forming a barrier around the two officers.
“To the death, Newall.” Commander Ridgebon slowly walked up to the Captain, who was just starting to regain his footing, his fist clenched. A man of many tricks, however, Captain Newall quickly drew a dagger from his boot and lunged at the Commander, taking him by surprise, leaving the knife lodged in the Commander’s hip before falling to his knees. The Commander, born and raised a sailor, had grown accustomed to such pain, however: with a small groan, he drew the dagger from his own flesh, driving it down into his opponent’s back. “Now,” Ridgebon announced, addressing the pirate crew, “Get the hell off my ship.”

---

Anne and the mage paid no mind to the fight between the officers. They were both more worried with staying alive. As Anne recovered from the previous blast, she reached for her father’s dagger, always in her belt. Once again she charged the mage, who was visibly exhausted, physically and mentally, by this fight. Once again, two glowing blue orbs appeared in the mage’s hands, prepared to throw at her target. The first bolt struck the lieutenant’s right shoulder, sending her stumbling to the ground and knocking the dagger from her grip. With too much momentum to turn and grab the weapon, Anne resumed her charge, tackling the mage to the ground. Raining down blows with her leather-bound fist, Anne saw the mage’s hand, still holding the second orb, just as it was about to strike her. Not sure what to expect, the lieutenant grabbed the mage’s wrist with both hands, forcing her body weight down upon her young foe, inching the magical orb closer and closer to the mage’s chest.
In a final, desperate gambit, the mage forced the bolt from her hand, striking Anne just below her ribs. Without her armor to absorb the blow, Anne was taken aback by the force with which she was hit. She felt a rib crack, and fell to the ground, laying beside her magical opponent, who was unnaturally still. Her face bloody and swollen, the mage had summoned every last ounce of strength left in her body to throw her final spell, praying for a miracle. None came for her that day.
The day had been won. Captain Newall was dead, the Maiden of the Sea was in Aldorian custody, and losses were minimized on both sides. After getting patched up with the ship’s surgeon, Anne returned to her normal perch in the crow’s nest. She did not keep watch this night. She was too concerned with her fight against the mage, and how unprepared she was for such power. Silently, Anne prayed. She prayed for the souls of her crew mates who had been lost during the fight. She prayed for the pain in her ribs to stop. Mostly, though, she prayed to never have to fight another mage like that again.

Stanrick Longfang

“I see my brothers and I standing in a clearing. There are rocks piled on the ground, the sun is setting and even Mordok stay away from the clearing, the trees around are dead and dying. And I feel darkness all around me. It feels as if in this small patch of land Gaia has left behind and never wishes to return.”

Stanrick was kneeling in the small smoke filled room; across from him Soulvieg sat mixing a potion.

“Your dreams show a disgraced land.” She said not even looking at Stanrick.

“Sometimes, when an Ulven who lost their path that Gaia puts before them, and can not find their way before they pass they are not burned. They are put in the ground. Some believe that Gaia then cleans the spirit and then the spirit can go on its journey to meet the Great Wolf. Others believe that it is a way to punish the fallen spirit by keeping them from their journey. Such things are not up to us to decide. ”

“You mean like the graves where criminals are buried? I was told to never step foot on that land. I am surprised that so few know of this practice. ” Stanrick looked up at Soulvieg as she handed him the potion.

“It is that way for a reason. The High Priestesses of past generations had their reasons. One day you may have to set foot on the discarded lands. The one in your dream may be older than any we know of and you may need to go there for reasons I can not see yet. The runes speak riddles when consulted. Now drink that. It will clear your mind and help you sleep.” She got up as Stanrick turned his nose to the green liquid before he drank the potion. He coughed and grimaced at the taste.

“The place you saw may have been deep in the swamp. The runes tell me of something beyond our reach. The Daughters have divined it as well. Until the time comes when you need to know about it, you will not remember it… just like the rest.” Stanrick looked up, puzzled.

“The rest? What… what were we talking about?” he rubbed his head a little then got up.

“Stanrick, I asked you to come in here so we could talk about your plan to set up supply caches on the hunting trails. I think it’s a great idea.” He picked up his helmet off the ground.

“Oh… right, I forgot for some reason.” he said as she blinked and shook his head.

“I see you haven’t had any dreams lately, if you have any feel free to speak with me about it. Dreams can tell us a lot about our lives and the runes are sometimes tied to them.” Soulvieg smiled.

Stanrick nodded then he let him self out of the room. Rill was hidden in the corner but Soulvieg knew she was there.

“You can come out now, my child.” Rill came out from behind the curtains.

“Why do you make Stanrick forget his dreams?” she asked. “His dreams may or may not have truth he is not ready to handle. He has seen every one of his siblings fall. He has seen mates die. He saw the outsiders arrive when we thought we were the only ones in this world. Gaia has put much in his path and his dreams are a map that could guide him.

“I only make him forget them until he needs to know what he has seen… until we all know what he has seen.” replied the Runeseer with a grave tone.

Stanrick had a killer headache. He picked up a bottle of mead from the porch of the great hall and took a swig as he started for the gate.

“Stanrick!” he knew his mothers voice from anywhere and turned to look at her. “You need to take the young ones with you; Siren just let the chickens lose in the bunk house. And I’m not even going to say what Yawn did.” Youreden pulled Yawn by his ear out of the bunkhouse then went back in to grab Siren. “So you get them out of here and take them with you to the outpost, maybe you can find something for them to do.”

Stanrick finished the mead bottle then grabbed Yawn by the collar of his tunic and let Siren climb up on his back.

“Yeah I will figure out something for them to do.” he grumbled as he started to walk out of the village. Yawn flailed his arms madly and yelled at the top of his lungs. “Let me down! You gonna meet da great woof! I’ll bet you!!!” Siren was just glad to be with her dad.

“We’re going to the outpost! Out to the out post we go!” she sang as she played with Stanrick’s helmet. He scanned the pines looking for pineed sap as he went. “Ok you two lets play a game. Who can get me the most sap?” Siren jumped down and took off in to the trees. Yawn pumped his feet and Stanrick looked at him in amusement as he let him down and the two ran tree to tree picking up sap. “Remember how I taught you to pick it! Its no good if you damage it!” he yelled with a smile as he pulled out his pipe and lit it taking a drag before he started to take the walk to the out post. He passed two warriors heading back to the village and they nodded to Stanrick. Normally, he would not let his younger siblings run loose in the Pineed forest near the Village but this time of the year the harvest was in full swing. The entire woods was filled with hunters and warriors and they would be safe.

After Stanrick had returned from fighting humans, he was appointed as the quartermaster of the Outpost. He still thought he was a little young for the posting but he knew better then to question his great aunt. If she picked him then she had a reason, but he was starting to wonder if something was going on. This was the third time this month he had talked to Soulvieg but he did not ever recall walking in to her great hall. Every time she asked about dreams but he could not recall any. The thought was gone as he walked into the outpost and he climbed up the ladder and joined his younger brother Ranmir and looked out at the swamp.

Ranmir was just about a year younger then Stanrick. The two brothers watched the kids playing in the field with the wooden swords. Hunters walked back from the trails as other warriors began their patrols. “Stanrick, do you ever wonder if the Mordok believe in Gaia and the Great Wolf like we do? I mean, if we travel to the heart of the swamp, do you think they burn their dead and sing their praises?” Stanrick look at his brother and tried to see where this came from. “What? You’re kidding right?”

Ranmir headed for the ladder and started down. “No brother I mean it, the world as we have been raised to see it has changed. As children, we never knew of a world past the endless sea, yet humans and syndar have come to our lands telling stories of the dead walking. No Ulven has gone on the Long walk and returned. Maybe they had fallen or maybe they found a place to live in peace. We will never know unless we look.” He went down the ladder and went to grab his bag by the fire.

“Daddy, Daddy!” yelled Siren from outside the wall. Stanrick turned to look at his little girl. “Yes?” he asked her. She looked up and stuck out her tongue and made a strange sound “Bulipliplip” he smiled down at her and stuck out his tongue in return. “Bulipliplip”

In the corner of his eye he saw Ranmir walking out the outpost heading North. “So you’re going then? Did you tell mother?” Ranmir stopped and turned to look up at Stanrick.

“She knows as does Soulvieg, I have to do this Stanrick, this is the path Gaia has put to my feet. I don’t know what I will find but I know we will meet again.” With that Ranmir continued to walk as the moon rose in the east and soon the sight of him was lost in the trees.

Siren and Yawn climbed up to the look out and joined Stanrick. She pulled on Stanrick’s tunic. “Daddy where is uncle Ranmir going?” He looked at the tree line.

“I don’t know, but I believe we will see him again.”

Pack Goldmane

Aesaleif Goldmane toyed idly with a bit of partially carved wood. She was supposed to be on watch, but with all the ulven activity in the area recently, there had been no mordok to be seen for miles around. Her own pack had been marching up and down their territory for months, skirmishing with the incomers, though they hadn’t had word from them since news of the treaty had come a few days past. She couldn’t wait for them to settle with the incomers, so she could get her turn to look at them. She had heard that some of them had pointed ears, like the mordok, and wore strange clothing. Her mate, Valgeir, had promised to bring her back some trinkets, if he could.

A party of Graytide had come through a day or two before. She didn’t know most of them, except for Khulgar. He had taken Valdís as his mate, and had come looking for her, and their lively little daughter. Valdis had been visiting home when news of the treaty came through, and she just had to go with the pack to see the incomers in person.

Movement in the tree line alerted her, and she drew herself up, ready to sound the alarm in an instant. But the figures coming slowly out of the shadows were familiar, the Graytide party. She looked eagerly for her mate, or any of her pack, but was disappointed.
Still all talking with the incomers, no doubt.She thought to herself. The others and her would be glad for news though, she thought as she shouted a hearty greeting. She leapt down from her post, calling to the others that remained there, and they soon had gathered by the gates, eager to speak with the dour Graytide warriors.

But the Graytide had not met them at the gate. They waited at some distance away, Lycon conferring with Khulgar. Everyone around the gate fell quiet, and the eldest among them stepped forward, and greeted the Graytides again, this time far more somberly. Lycon did not return the greeting, but Khulgar walked towards them. Why Khulgar, instead of Lycon?
Because he took a Goldmane as a mate…her mind fretted, and fear blossomed inside her. As he drew closer, they could all see something in his red eyes. He halted before them, and the pack was as silent as death.
“Do you bring news of our warriors?” The eldest asked, in a trembling voice.
“Yes.” said Khulgar, hollowly. “They are dead. All of them.”

The Graytide escorted them to the bodies of their pack, laid out carefully in the snow. She found her father and her mate, her tear blurred eyes barely able to take in their wounds. The sounds of her packmates keening filled her ears, and her world became only grief, sorrow, wails, and blood on the snow.
The Graytide offered to help them build the funeral pyres, but they shrugged them off, allowing only Khulgar to carry wood for their dead. Everyone, though, honored them, and the trees resounded with their howls of grief, and the tales of their loved ones.
Before she gave him to the fires, she carefully removed a necklace from her mate’s torn throat. She had made it for him, to mark their first year together. His blood stained the sunburst she had carved painstakingly into the stone, and the image of him laid out in the snow burned itself into her heart. She wept then. She wept as she never had before, and, she vowed, as she never would again.

They greeted the dawn wearily and painfully, discovering that sometime in the night, the Graytide had left them. Some of the survivors guessed at their purpose, and grimly nodded satisfaction. They left to go back home, one last time, spreading the ashes of their mates, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters as they went.

It was three days later when the Graytide party returned, some of them now sporting new trophies from their sword belts. By that time, most of the remaining Goldmane had left, going to what kin they had left to them. Aesaleif, Otama, and another male were the only adults left, and Khulgar’s little girl. They gave over the little girl to her father, her confused wails painting the theme of the past few broken days.
“It was an ambush.” stated on of the warriors, emotionless. “The outsiders did not know of the treaty yet. When your pack went to greet them, they slaughtered them all.”
“Did you pay them back?” hissed the male Goldmane. “Did you kill them?”
“We made them pay, but it was not enough.” seethed Lycon, hissing in pain and anger as one of the warriors treated his sluggishly bleeding stump. His tunic was stained with blood, and all could see how much the loss of his arm pained him. They had no Daughter among them to heal it. “The Longfang interfered. They chose to uphold the treaty, and protected the outsiders.”
The Goldmane nodded. It was more revenge than they could have mustered alone. It would have to do for now.

The packs stared at each other for long moment, each unsure what was to be done now. The Goldmane were broken, beyond repair. They had no where to go.
“Come with us.” said Lycon, grimly. “There is nothing for you here, now. Our home is yours, and perhaps we may take revenge together, for those lost to us.”
The remaining Goldmane shared only a brief look among them, before taking the proffered arm, and the promise of vengeance.