Book One: Into the Gloaming

Chapter One: Beyond the Pale

  The days are becoming longer and warmer as they traveled south, passing through the tribal lands.  Slíen was located in the heart of the territories of the Deerfolk Clan, which was dominated by forested mountains easing into woodland hills and valleys.  Most of the time on the road was under the cool shade of trees.  But as they passed into the lands of the Fox Clan, the trees thinned, and they found themselves traveling in boggy grasslands.  The sounds of hawks and woodpeckers were soon replaced by the drone of the cicada and the occasional croaking of frogs.

The range of vision in the Fox country was much reduced, for the terrain leveled out into flat plains, the grass and reeds growing thick and tall all around them.  Some patches of the road fell into disuse, and had become choked with vegetation.  But Pfren always seemed to know where to find the road markers, and would wave his staff over the invading grasses, causing them to instantly wither and recede, exposing the road underneath.

“Nifty trick, that.”  Mirzam says at one point.  “But, uh…I have a quicker way to get rid of these grasses.” A wicked gleam appears in the mage’s eyes as he lifts his fingers up, sparks forming into tiny flames that danced upon his fingertips.

“NO!” Pfren almost shouts.  “Are you mad, Mirzam?  Fire here would spread like..like…”

“Like fire.”  Finishes the monk.

“Yes, like fire.” Repeated the druid.  Mirzam shrugs.  “Just trying to be helpful.”  He says, with an impish grin.

Within a few days time the companions find themselves back under the canopy of trees, the dense forests heralding their entry into the Bear Clan territories that were the southernmost lands of the Blackmoors.  The road bends to the southwest, looping around the eastern terminus of the Sea of Fallen Stars.  The companions can hear the sounds of gulls and the distant crash of the tide upon the rocks.  At one point in the road, the right bank drops off down to the coasts, offering the travelers cooling breezes as they roll off the waters of the sea.

The road from Slíen to the Viskothic boarder never strayed far from the sea, but it was often obscured by hills and other features of the terrain.  The companions have been traveling at an easy pace for six days before they reached the southern stretches of the Bear Clan’s territory and were making ready the last camp they would enjoy within the safety of their own lands.

Tomorrow they would enter The Pale, the heavily guarded border-lands with Viskoth.  The southern terminus of the main coastal road had already been reached at a small village a few leagues back before they stopped for the night.  No other roads existed beyond that point.  From here on out until Viskoth, they were forced to travel through uncut wilderness.

Pfren had tried to keep his mind open for the unexpected.  This was new territory that he was exploring, both literally and in terms of experience.  But one thing had soon become evident that he never would have foreseen.  With the ranger always off on ‘point,’ as he called it, and the other two always locked in some philosophical argument or discussion, Pfren was beginning to feel a bit isolated socially, and incredibly bored.  Even when they made camp, the ranger kept his distance and the two ‘sages’ never strayed from the light of the fire, absorbed in their texts.

The novelty of going off on his first big quest was quickly wearing thin.  After his first few attempts at striking up conversations with either the monk or mage were politely rebuffed, the druid wanders off, hoping the ranger might be more interested in his presence.  He finds Aubrey sitting in the bole of a low tree just outside the ring of light created by the campfire, sharpening his arrowheads on a whetstone.  “Mind a little company?”  He asks.  The ranger shrugs and continues his sharpening, occasionally stopping to inspect his work.

“I never would have guessed in a thousand years those two would have gotten along so well.  They’ve developed quite a friendship.” Pfren says.

“The mage and the priest?”

“Aye.”

“I wouldn’t call them friends just yet.” Replies the ranger.

“Oh, and why not?”

“They are both bookworms, so they understand each other.”

“That’s my point.” The druid returns.

“Their mutual prattling is novel to each other for the time being, but that will wear off soon enough.”

“I don’t know, either one of them is pretty capable for going on for a looong time before getting bored about those…topics they talk about.”

“That’s not the point.  So far our travels have been easy.  We are still in friendly territory.”

Pfren sneers. “If you can call Bear country ‘friendly.’

The ranger looks over to the druid.  “I thought you were of the Deerfolk Clan?”

“I am.” Returns the druid.  Aubrey peers hard at Pfren and spies a bit of the wolf-tooth necklace sticking out from underneath his leather traveling tunic.

“Ah, I see.  Forgive my bluntness, Pfren.  But inter-tribal squabbling is nothing compared to the real hostility we are about to face once we cross out of these territories. ”

Pfren is about to interject, but decides to hold his tongue as Aubrey continues.

“We, as a group, have not yet been tested; our bonds have yet to be strained by any real…pressures.  After the shine of novelty wears off and things become more stressful, then we will see how ‘friendly’ those two are towards each other.”

“I see now why you are called ‘the Grim.” Pfren says after a bit.  “But what about your given name?  I have been meaning to ask you about that.”

“What about it?”  The ranger asks.

“Aubrey.  It…doesn’t sound like typical name given to a Son of Míl.  It sounds more like a Viskothic one.”

“It is from Mirabar, given to me by one of our bards there.  It means ‘elf-friend.’  I suppose she thought that was funny.”

Pfren gestures, prodding Aubrey to elaborate.

“When I first left Inis fál many years ago, my first stop on the continent was to Waterdeep.  There are occasional trading vessels that work the lanes between Corca and that metropolis.  It was there that the bard named Artemisia had given it to me.  She said that I stuck out like a sore thumb, and that if I wasn’t going to be a “good little ranger who stuck to the bushes,” then I had better stop running around looking like a bog-hick who was fresh off the boat…which, of course, I was.”

“And why would this bard be so concerned about the appearance and name of a ranger she didn’t know?”

“She was a bard in enemy lands.  That means she was one of our spies, acting on the behalf of the druids.  I was on her turf, my very presence drawing unwanted attention to the foreigners, especially the tribesmen who were there.”  The ranger laughs at the memory.  “You should have seen me then, Pfren.  Standing gawk-eyed on the wharves of Waterdeep, covered in forbidden tattoos and blue as a berry with woad.  Everywhere I went, people were gathering and pointing.  That bard surely saved my life.”

“Why?  I thought Waterdeep was a sanctuary, the one place where our people were free from the fear of being hunted by the Dogmatists.  Mirzam claims that even wizards can be found there.”  Pfren asks.

“That is only partially true.  Waterdeep maintains a de facto autonomy by the strength of its merchant guilds.  But it is still officially part of Mirabar and within the jurisdiction of the Crown.  As such, because Mirabar is within Reginum Éruvius, the Dogma has real power there, too.  Basically, the “sanctuary” provided by Waterdeep means that you will not be actively hunted within its walls like you will be outside of them.  Of course, if you make a nuisance of yourself, no one is above inviting in a few priests to look closer into your past.  Perhaps it was pity for an ignorant fool, or perhaps it was the desire to avoid attracting the attention of blackrobes to the area.  Either way, Artemisia took me in under her wing and instructed me in the basics of how to travel about the city without ending up tied to a witch’s stake.  I have found the information invaluable for staying alive outside our homelands.”

“That reminds me,” Pfren interjects “You’re not going to continue to wear that woad once we cross the border, are you?”

The ranger laughs, brushing a couple of fingertips across his cheek and looking at them.  “What, this?  I just wore it for the benefit of your elders.  They get a real kick out of those of us who keep to the old ways.  It’ll wear off in a few days.  Or sooner, if those rainclouds I spotter earlier today keep their promise.”  The ranger puts his newly sharpened and polished arrows away and begins to work on his blades.

“So…”  Continues Pfren, not wanting to go back to the isolation of the campfire.  “Why do you say that your new name is funny?”

The ranger stops his sharpening and looks back at the campsite.  “Perhaps it’s the fact that I am from a land where the elves still roam freely.  Perhaps it is the fact that such a name still exists in a land where friendship with that race has long been extinct.”

Something in the ranger’s tone gives Pfren the impression that there is another reason the ranger is thinking.  “Or perhaps what else?”

The ranger’s eyes dart to the druid, looking at him with suspicion.  Wondering if he has unintentionally crossed some line, the druid tries to back-peddle.  “Uh, my apologies if I…”

“No,” The ranger interjects.  “You have done nothing wrong.”  He looks back to something at the campsite.  “Or perhaps she knew of my geis. Bards have a knack for knowing the strangest things.”

Pfren takes a sharp intake of breath.  “You have a geis?”  He looks back at the campsite, trying to figure out what is there that ranger keeps looking at, wondering if it is relevant to this conversation.  “Forgive me for asking, but is it something that I need to know about?  Something that may hinder us?”

“No.”  The ranger answers reflexively.  “Well, possibly.”  Aubrey hesitates.  Geasa are not things that people like to be reminded about let alone discuss, for obvious reasons.  Understanding his hesitation, Pfren remains quiet and gives the ranger the time he needs to continue.

“It was augured upon my birth that my doom would be encompassed by a magus of the firstborn.”

Pfren’s eyes widen, his whispered response almost sounding like a hiss.  “Mirzam?!”

The ranger merely shrugs.  “The geis conveniently failed to disclose the exact name of my killer.  Only what, not who, is known to be the cause of my death.”

“Then why,” Pfren pressed, “in the name of Obad-Hai did you accept this quest?”

The ranger simply laughs.  “We are all going to die, Pfren.  It is the gift, or doom of man.  If my destiny is to die at the hands of Areledh Beleghaun, then it will be so.  Whether here and now, or upon some distant future date, there is no escaping fate.”

“But why tempt it?  Aren’t you afraid your doom will color your ability to keep us safe, knowing your killer may be the one you are protecting?”  Concern is evident in the druid’s voice.  He does not like the possibilities that are forming in his mind.

“Be at ease, druid.  I had no knowledge that Areledh was to be in our company.  By the time I did know, I was committed.  Your hierophant was owed a favor by my chieftain, and I owe my chief both my fealty and an honor-debt besides.  As to your growing doubt about my ability to not let my fears of the shadow of death jeopardize this quest, let it be lain to rest.  To be honest, I do not believe Areledh is the broker of my doom.”

“And why is that, exactly?”  Pfren asks.

“There are seven elvish magi that I know of for certain and two others who may still be alive, but who have not been seen or heard from in an age.  Four are in Oríel, two reside in Albion, one was last seen in Annwn, your friend Areledh lives in Slíen and the last one, who was named Minya remains unaccounted for, but was last heard to be bound for Lí Danu, that elvish isle of the uttermost west your people call Llys Dôn.  Minya is the one that rouses my interest the most.”

“Why so?”

“I was born under the constellation of Cern, and my geis was first augured by the druids under the light of Telpësîr.”

“Cern?  Ah yes, the hunter, we call him Cernunnus, the Green Man.

“Aye.  But while The Hunter is obviously an auspicious sign for a ranger to come into this world under, the histories tell us that he fell in battle with the Kinslayer when he tried in vain to defend the wounded Telpësîr, the last of the Silver Dragons.”

“How is that relevant?”  Asking an increasingly confused Pfren.

“Minya is the direct descendant of Silinté, who was a lieutenant of the Dark One.  It was Slinté who actually delivered the killing blow to Cern and the dragon upon orders of that terrible traitor.  Lastly, my geis was made known to me upon the night I was inducted into the ranks of the rangers.  Upon that night, the Triad was ascendant.  Minya was born under that same constellation.”

“I still don’t see the connection.”  Pfren remarks.

Aubrey sighs, and takes a moment to restate his theory.  “The elven magus Silinté killed Cern, who was the elven hunter under whose star I was born.  He also killed Telpësîr, under whose star my geis was written.  Minya is an elven magus, just as Silinté was, and he is also the latter’s descendant.  And finally, the Triad was dominant in the sky when I first learned of my doom.  They were also dominant when Minya was born.”

Pfren remains quiet for a moment, thinking over what the ranger has told him.  “It sounds a bit…”

“Far-fetched?”  The ranger adds.  “Tenuous?  Aye, but that’s the nature of augury.  The gods are very adverse to just giving us anything without making us jump through hoops in one form or another.  If prediction was made to be easy, it would become common and the gods would have a harder time unfolding their plans.  Be wary of portents whose meaning is clear to all.”

“But couldn’t you make an equally circumstantial case for any of the others?”  Questions the druid.

“No, and I’ve tried.  Sure, all of them have something connected to them that could be seen as a link, but nothing as strong or clear as with Minya.

Pfren considers this new information that has been given to him.  “In light of this new…knowledge, you would lose no honor if you backed out now, friend Aubrey.”

Aubrey laughs, a sound utterly devoid of mirth.  “I would lose more than just honor, friend.  And you would lose too much time.  We are stuck together until this is finished, one way or the other.  I have accepted that fact.  You should as well.”

The druid wanted to say something else, but the sound of the whetstone gave him the impression that the discussion was over,

Pfren returned to the campfire, but left again within the hour.  He gave himself ten perfectly reasonable explanations as to why he was so restless.  Fear of an unknown fate in enemy lands was one possibility he refused to admit.  He got up and walked along a deer path that led up to a grassy knoll that was high enough to break above the canopy of the trees.  The moon was not yet half full, but it was enough.

To the east there was a distant glimmer of light, likely some nearby village or camp.  To the north and west was the yawning darkness of the sea.  To the south Pfren could just make out plains beyond the edge of the forests, not more than a few hours march from where he stood.  The Pale.  The northernmost lands of the Dutchy of Viskoth, the lands of his enemies.  This was farther south than he had ever been in his life, and he was not looking forward to pushing that envelope any further.  And yet, that was the price for the life of a friend.

 

***

  The next morning the companions packed their gear in silence.  The dawn brought with it a damp chill.  Mirzam sniffs the air.  “If we don’t get moving, were going to get caught in that storm that’s rolling in off the sea.”

“It’ll get us either way.”  Replies the ranger.

“Aubrey,”  Mirzam says.  “Can you, just for awhile, pretend your name is ‘Aubrey the Optimistic?”

The ranger regards the elf for a moment.  “Aye, then.  I’m fairly certain that the winds aren’t going to shift too far south and cause us to miss that lovely downpour.  Good thing, too.  Since the border is most likely going to be watched, we’d be in a real fine stew if we had to cross it on a clear, sunny day.  But who knows, maybe we’ll get really lucky and still get to see some Viskothic patrols.  I’m sure it’d be a really swell time.  They don’t get too many groups of heretics, pagans or demons of the deep, dark woods friendly enough to just walk on over to their side to chat with.  Maybe to celebrate the event they’ll even build a bonfire…or four.”

“Thank you.” Replies Mirzam stiffly.

Within two hours the storm hit, and it was a lovely downpour indeed.  The winds picked up just enough to slant the rain, making it nearly impossible to keep dry, even under heavy traveling cloaks.  But, miserable and cold as it might be, the ranger was right.  The heavy, buffeting rains had reduced visibility significantly.

The group was under the eaves of the forests edge.  Looking out across the plains, they saw a very strange thing under the light of the sky-fires.  A thirty foot high wall of earth and stone lay before them a quarter of a mile ahead stretching from the coast to as far as the eye could see inland.  The occasional wooden lookout tower poked menacingly up over the wall’s top edge.

They were waiting for Aubrey, who had gone out ahead to scout.  When he returned, he yelled out to the companions to follow, and hurry.  The rains were so heavy at that point that even his shouts were barely heard.  Under the canopy of the forest there was some cover, but now they felt the full brunt of the gale-force rains.  The group double-timed it south, running towards the strange wall.  Directly ahead and next to one of the towers they spied a large wooden gate whose doors were slightly ajar.  The ranger pulled the gate open and ushered the others through.

As they ran past the inner side of the gate, they saw the dead bodies of 3 men lying on the ground.  They were wearing long chainmail coats that draped down to their knees.  Over these they wore white tabards with a large blue “X” across their chests and backs.  The ranger grabs Pfren and yells into his ear “Help me drag two of these to the other side of the gate!”

Under the circumstances, the druid was in no mind to argue or ask questions, so he grabs one of the dead soldiers under the shoulders and drags him out like the ranger instructed.  After this is done, Aubrey closes the gate and throws down the locking-bolt.  He finds the monk kneeling over the third guard, trying to performing last rites in the heavy rains.  The ranger climbs the wooden tower and yells for the monk to move.  Jonas either cannot hear the ranger or is ignoring him, focused on the dead guard.

When the others see the ranger draw his bow and take aim, they rush in and grab the monk, dragging him away from the dead man.  Aubrey aims for a good few seconds before firing, sinking his arrow deep into same eye he had stabbed when he had first killed the man.  Jumping down from the tower, the ranger slings his bow and yells at the companions to run, chasing after them and cajoling the three like a sergeant down the road that started on the inside of the gate.  The forced march continues for about fifteen minutes until Mirzam collapses from exhaustion.

When the ranger tries to goad him to continue, the elf screams at him through the rain.  “What in the nine hells has gotten into you, man?  What is all this madness about?”

“If you’re strong enough to shout, then you’re strong enough to keep going!” Replies the ranger.

“I..can’t!  I…I’m not..I’m not built…”  Mirzam tries to speak, but it is all he can do to keep breathing.  “Gods, my lungs feel as if they are on fire!”

“That’s what you get for smoking so much leaf all the time!”  The ranger retorts.

Pfren and Jonas crouch nearby, holding their knees and breathing rapidly, thankful for the respite from the running.

“To be honest,”  Pfren says to the monk, “I expected you to be the first one to give out.”

Jonas says nothing, but simply looks at the druid, a wicked smile creeping across his face.

“Damn it, Areledh!  To stay here is death!  We must ke…”

At that moment, Jonas runs over to Mirzam, swoops down and in one fluid motion hoists the elf over his shoulder and takes off into a full run down the road.  The ranger and the druid just stare at Jonas and then each other in disbelief for a few seconds before running to catch up with the monk.  Even through the pouring rain, they can hear Mirzam shouting, “AA…AA…AAH!  Put…me…dow…own…y…you…stu…pid…ooh…oaf!”

After a few minutes, Mirzam agrees to keep running, the pain in his lungs being deemed preferable to the indignation of being carried around like a sack of potatoes.

It was hours before they saw any other sign of life on the road.  The ranger dropped back closer to the group at a few occasions, usually when there were travelers passing who might look like trouble.  The dark, overcast clouds and the sporadically heavy rains provided excellent cover for the fellowship, allowing them to put enough distance between themselves and the gates that they could begin to breathe easily.  At one point when the rains subsided and ranger was with the group, Mirzam speaks up to question him.  “So tell me, ranger.  What was that whole…charade with moving those bodies around about?”

“It is against their laws to do so, but sometimes the guards of the wall will trade with tribesmen if either have something of value to barter.” He replied.

“Why is it illegal for them to do that?”

“Because they are enemies.  And their commanders don’t want the guards to fraternize with the tribesmen.  It creates potential breaches in their defenses.  I was told that sometimes the Fianna Scátha-na-Duilleog will lure guards out with promises of goods or services and then murder them.  It is a common method they use to breach the walls.  But usually they do it just to keep the wall-guards on their toes.”

“OK, so why frame your fellow rangers with those deaths?”

“I was covering our tracks.  Two guards with slit throats and missing coin purses on the outside of the locked gate, along with a third killed by an arrow who still has his coins on the inside, looks like a trade gone bad.  I made sure the gates were locked so whatever commander investigates that incident believes it was just a normal occurrence of soldiers breaking protocol and dying because of it.  I don’t want to give him any reason to believe that those gates were breached, lest he raise the alarm and cause the guarded areas down the road to be more on the lookout for us.  As it is, as long as we keep our hoods up and our heads down, our cloaks wrapped up tightly around us and that monk out in front, we should be able to slip past most of the guards we come across from here on out.”

“How did you get past the gate in the first place?”  Asks Pfren.

“Those walls need to be smoothed over more.  They have too many handholds.  As it is now, that thing is more of an obstacle than a barrier.”

“Was there no way to get past the wall without murdering those poor men?”  Jonas asks.

“None that I could think of in the time we had.” Replies the ranger.

“And will we be killing people all along the way?”

Mirzam and Pfren exchange glances, neither comfortable with the direction the monk was taking the conversation.

“That’s up to the three of you.”  Aubrey replies.  “Every time someone makes a mistake, someone may die because of it.  That’s the nature of the game.”

“And what ‘mistake’ did those three men at the wall make?”  The monk presses.

“Brother Jonas.”  Pfren moves up and walks next to the monk.  “I am sure Aubrey felt the killing of those three men was necessary or he wouldn’t have done it.  I know you must be feeling angry about the seemingly needless death of your kinsmen, but you must understand our situation here.  This applies to you as well now, too.  We are in dangerous…territories.  We cannot be seen for what we truly are, lest the hatred between our two tribes work to stop our progress.  We are not here to cause the deaths of your people, but rather to prevent the deaths of our own.  It is for Seth and his company that we have come this far.”

The monk says nothing but continues to walk along the road in silence.  Gods, the druid thinks to himself, it must be hard being forced to choose between two loyalties who oppose one another. Pfren begins to absently stroke one of the wolves’ teeth on his necklace.

Later that evening they break to make camp, a stone’s-throw away from a small village.  Mirzam presses for them to try their luck at the village’s inn.

“We’ve been out of doors for over a week now, and in the rain for the last two days.”  The elf looks longingly at the lights of the village.  “A hearth-cooked meal and a nice warm, dry bed…doesn’t that sound just magnificent right about now?”

“It’s safer for us out here.  And for you especially.”  Replies the ranger.

“Your dourness is getting predictable, peredhel.”  Mirzam says, sighing and returning to the camp to sit down and sulk.  “What about you, Jonas?  You could go to town easily.  Maybe bring back a pint or two.”

The monk remains silent, his eyes downcast.

“Come on, Jonas.  Don’t you want to see your own people?  I’m sure you must have gotten just a little bit homesick, being away from friends and family, surrounded by strange foreigners for the last few years.”  The elf presses.

“I’m not from this area.  My home is many leagues to the east and south of here.”  Jonas replies.

“That’s not what I meant.  I meant your own kind, your own countrymen.”

“I have no money.”

Mirzam looks over to Aubrey, who is just about to leave the campsite.  “Aye, but the ranger does.”  Aubrey stops and looks over at Mirzam questioningly.  “Those coins you say you lifted from the guards you…came across.”

The ranger thinks for a moment before reaching into the satchel at his side.  “Yes.” He says, grabbing out a small pouch and tossing it onto the priest’s lap.  “I’ve no problem with the monk going.  As long as you keep your eyes and ears open, your mouth shut and your wits about you.”

Jonas just stares at the pouch of coins for a few seconds.  “Fine.”  He says with obvious indignation as he gets up and stalks off down towards the village.

Aubrey looks to the other two with confusion.

“What did I say to offend him?”  Replies the ranger.  “I just thought it would be good to have a pair of eyes and ears down there to see if any word was being spoken about our breaching of Hadrius’s Wall.  Besides, he looks like he could use a good meal.”

“It’s not what you say, as such, ranger,” answers Pfren “as how you say it.  You can be a bit…rough with people.”

“Who, him?”  Jokes Mirzam.  “Nah, you should run for chieftain in your homeland when it comes up, ranger.  You have a knack for persuasion.” He says sarcastically.

Aubrey sneers.  “I would never do such a thing.”

“Oh, why not?”  Asks Mirzam, looking for another opening to tease the ranger.

“Leaders are like shepherds.  The position requires far more patience then I am capable of.  Most men, like the sheep they resemble are too oblivious to see what’s happening around them.  And even if they do catch the scent of a predator, all they can manage to do is huddle around each other and bleat out how their predicament is everyone else’s fault but their own.”

“That’s…a disturbing way of looking at things, Aubrey.”  Pfren says after a moment.

“You want to hear disturbing?”  Asks the ranger.  Pfren remains quiet, not really wanting to hear anything more.

“Do you know what the real difference between the shepherds and the wolves is?”  The ranger leans in and lowers his voice for effect.  “Wolves are far more honest in their intentions towards the sheep.”

“So, uh, Aubrey.  You got a girl back home?”  Asks Mirzam.

The ranger looks at the mage, his expression inscrutable.  “I’m going to scout the area a bit before retiring.”  With that the ranger leaves, disappearing in the deepening gloom of the dusk.

“Yeah,” Mirzam says under his breath.  “Didn’t think so.”

***

  Jonas walks away from the camp and heads towards the lights of the village.  Moving quickly at first, he slows down as the anger gradually subsides.  He looks up and can see the first few stars shinning in the dark violet sky.  The moon was still beneath the horizon, or at least obscured by the distant trees.  Most of the ambient light in the immediate area was from the dimming aura of the sun that had just set a few minutes ago.

Apart from the occasional patch of light woods, this region of Viskoth was quite developed.  Large stretches of farm fields dominated the area, parceled up by planned copses of trees or low stone walls.  The few crops that were visible this time of year were still fairly low to the ground.  But the wild grass of the fallow field he was walking in now was already waist high.  The crickets had begun to chirp now that the rains had subsided, and a warm breeze lifted his spirits a bit.

He stops at the edge of town, just behind what looked to be a smithy’s backyard.  There were less than a dozen buildings in all, most of which were cottages.  All but one was single-storied, and all had thatched roofs.  He could hear the ambient noises that signaled the presence of civilized life, sounds he had not heard in over four years; the metallic clang of a distant cowbell, the creak of a signpost, the faint barking of some farmer’s dog.  Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, the monk straightens his hair and his robes before walking towards the main street.

As he passes the front of the smithy, he can hear the sound of mewing.  Looking to his right, he sees a young cat sitting at the front door, the windows of the place dark.  When the cat sees the monk, it continues to meow, walking over to him in a rather friendly matter.  Jonas kneels down to pet the purring cat as it basks in his attention.  “Good evening, brother.”  He looks up quickly; unaware there were any other people about.  It was a man and his wife, out for a stroll in the evening.  The woman smiles at him gently and nods as they pass.  The man had spoken to him in his own language.

The monk continues to watch the couple as they walk past him down the street.  They looked to be peasants by their manner of dress, most likely farmers who lived in the area.  It was at this moment when Jonas was struck by the differences between the Viskoth and the tribesmen.  Physically they looked the same, but Jonas hadn’t really paid heed to the differences in the styles of dress since he first came into contact with the tribes of the north years ago.

It was an odd feeling for him, to see something that was at the same time both familiar and yet now somehow strange.  The husband wore the typical knee-length gray woolen tunic of the peasantry.  A white linen under-tunic could be seen at the neckline and wrists.  Tight gray legging-hose, called braies covered his legs to the ankles.  The shoes were black and made of sewn leather.  The man was clean shaven and his hair was rather short.  A small knife, called a seax was tucked under a belt around his waist, the symbol of his status as a freeman.

The woman wore the double-layered woolen gown that was the common fashion of the day, with the looser beige one over a tighter white one.  A dark green mantle made of fine flax-linen was draped over her shoulders, and must have cost her husband a few pretty silvers at least.  Upon her head she wore a loose, burgundy kerchief which covered her hair and neck.  In all, the monk could not help but be struck by how…civilized they looked.

Jonas’s mind drifted back to the Blackmoors and the people who populated that desolate and mist-riddled land.  Most of the men and woman dressed the in the same fashion. It was as if the concept of gender had little currency among them.  Both wore their hair long and uncovered, often braided.  If it was ever cut, it was into bizarre and barbaric styles like the mohawk, or shaved for all but an odd queue that was worn at the front of the scalp.  Sometimes they would soak their hair in a limestone mixture and mold it into outrageous spikes.

No man was clean-shaven, unless they were bards traveling to or from the south.  The most common forms of clothing were full-length leggings made of wool that were bounded around the waist with a belt of leather and sometimes at the ankles with straps.  Often these leggings were brightly colored and ornamented with strange checkered or plaid-like designs.  Few bothered to wear anything else, like shoes or tunics, let alone any sort of undergarments.

Of all the tribes, the Deerfolk seemed the most civilized.  Tunics and small cloaks of linen and wool were common, though they also were fond of stripping these off in the warmer months.  What seemed even more bizarre was the fact that the warriors were the ones who always seemed to be wearing the least.  None ever wore armor that he saw, and some of the more savage tribes even walked around completely naked wearing only their weapons.  And everyone, man and woman alike, druid, bard, warrior or maiden, irreverently marred their God-given bodies with unwholesome tattoos.  The tribesmen from the Moonshaes, men like that ranger Aubrey were the worst, often tattooing even their faces and extremities.

The cat, sensing that Jonas isn’t paying attention to it anymore drifts off in search of a meal or more scratches behind the ears.  After a minute the monk stands back up and looks around for something like an inn.  He spots a two-story building further west down the road with a sign hanging over the door and windows that glow with firelight.

As he starts to walk towards it he thinks back a few weeks ago to the harrowing experience of his haircut.  The Benéjesuit Order, of which he is…was a member wore their hair in a distinctive manner to identify themselves.  The hair was parted down the middle, with the bangs worn down to the cheekbones in the front, tapering off as it went back and up to the crown of the head.  The rest of the scalp was worn very short, or even shaved.  Their faces were kept cleanly shaven, with only the upper ranks wearing neatly trimmed beards.

But in four years, the monk had neither shaved nor cut his hair in the prescribed manner.  He had started to look very much like the savages he lived amongst.  Even his robes were in tatters.  Seeing that in his current condition he would be of little use to the company, Pfren had the monk shave off his beard and recruited one of the mohawked tribesman, a warrior named Caradoc, to help get the monk’s hair back to its original form.  The experience was a long, painful and not exactly bloodless affair.  The druid had also managed to acquire a relatively new set of Benéjesuit monk’s robes for him.  When he asked Pfren how in the world he managed to get such a thing, the druid only cryptically replied “Best not to ask.”

Still, they were in decent enough condition.  They consisted of a white woolen robe, high collared and long sleeved.  The hem reached all the way down to the ankles.  Over this was worn a brown scapular with a cowl, tied at the waist with a simple cord.  To complete the ensemble he was also given a pair of sandals and traveler’s cloak.

He reached down and grabbed the bronze cross-wheel medalion of his order that rested upon his chest, the only real possession of his left that he owned.  It gleamed softly in the twilight, newly polished after three years of neglect.  The monk reflexively ran his thumb over the multi-colored stones set at the center and each cardinal point.

As the monk approaches the door to the inn, he looks at the hanging placard of the sign and can see a crude drawing of a black pig drinking out of a tankard that it holds in its hooves.  He can hear the sounds of talking, clinking of earthenware and what sounds like a lira.  With his hand on the door he closes his eyes and listens to the faint tune.  It strikes the chord of a distant memory.

Nues-tros o-jos es-tán-en ti.

En tu mon-bre con-fia-mos.

Dios.

  The monk sighs, as a flood of memories long forgotten return of happier days.  He opens the stout oaken door and the rush of sounds increase.  As he walks in, he hears the accompaniment of a lute, its deep resonance filling him with warmth.

***

  The companions awaken the next morning and feast on some cold jerky and hardtack bread.

“You know, “Mirzam quips while eating the tasteless, chalk-like bread, “this stuff doesn’t taste half bad after awhile.”

Pfren looks over at the mage.  “Are you serious?”

“No.”

They pack up their belongings and head out onto the road.  Jonas was there waiting for them just outside of the village.  They travel south and west down the King’s Highway, which hugs the coastline of the sea.  Once again, the ranger stays well ahead of the others.  They are out in the open countryside, with high grasses on either side of the road.  Beyond the grasses are wheat fields, the stalks little over a foot high.  Planted trees can be seen about a quarter mile beyond.

The sun is an hour or so away from its zenith before the mage asks them to stop for a few minutes so he can rest.  The companions agree to take a short break and move to the side of the road to sit underneath the shade of a small crabapple tree.  Mirzam drops like a sack of potatoes.  Jonas, still in the middle of the road, sets his prayer book down and fiddles with the loose straps of his sandals.

“Hells, these books are getting heavy.”  The elf complains.

“Well then why in Obad-Hai’s name did you bring them?”  Asks the druid.

“I have a test, remember?”  The mage returns.

“You said it was six months away.”

“It is.  Well, closer to five, now.  But I had no idea how long we were planning on being out here.”

“I’m sure it won’t be that long.  I still can’t fathom why you bother with those tests.  They seem like more trouble than they can possibly be worth.”

The mage pulls back the hood of his cloak.

“I wouldn’t do that, Mir.”  Pfren warns him.

The mage sighs deeply with annoyance.  “Why do I have to wear this thing up all the damn time?  It’s getting hot as hell.”

“Not nearly as hot as the fires they’ll burn us in if someone sees you.  Put it back up, Mir.”

At that moment, they spot the ranger running at full speed back down the road towards them.

“Get out of the road!”  He yells as he approaches.

“Why?  What’s wrong?”  Asks a worried Pfren.  The ranger doesn’t answer, he just grabs Jonas’s arm and pulls him off the road into the tall grasses on the side.  “Take cover, now!”

The druid and the elf pull themselves into the tall grasses next to the other two.  After a minute of lying there, Pfren leans over and whispers to the ranger “What is it?  What did you see?”  But his question is rendered moot, as suddenly he hears the sound of horses galloping, moving fast down the road towards them.  Jonas starts looking around, searching for something.

“Stop squirming, monk!”  Aubrey hisses.  “They’ll see you!”

The monk peers out into the road and gasps, for he sees that he has left his precious prayer book out in the middle of the road.  He starts up and darts out, terrified that the horsemen will trample it.

“No!  Get back here, fool!”  The ranger curses under his breath as he impotently reaches out to grab the monk.  But it’s too late.  The horsemen have spotted him and call out a hailing.  Realizing that he is seen, the monk freezes in the middle of the road.  The horses stop short before him.

“Anbidian! Hwæm béon þú?!”  Yells a deep muffled voice.

“Fæder ure þu þe eart on heofonum, Si þin nama gehalgod.”  Replies the monk, as he stoops to pick up his book.

The druid, lying on his stomach, peers through the grasses trying to catch a glimpse of the men.  All that he can really see is that they are mounted, and the bulkiness of their form indicates that they are armored.  At this point, Pfren can hear Mirzam mumbling softly at his side and realizes with horror that he is casting some sort of spell.  The druid rubs his temple, not sure which will be worse, the fight with these mounted men or the fight between the ranger and the others if they survive.

“Eh?!  Hwæm si þon?!”  One of the nearer voices speaks loudly, the tone in his voice indicating alarm.  Pfren can see the speaker pointing in their direction.  They must have heard the mage.  Mirzam whispers “Stay here,” and then does the unexpected, for he stands up and walks out to the road, throwing back his hood.  Pfren can hear their startled gasps.

Ælfen!”  Yells one of the men, the shock and fear clear in his voice.

“Fæder on heofonum!”  Hisses another.

Pfren can hear the faint noise of a stretching sound next to him, like leather being stressed to its breaking point.  He hazards a look at the ranger.  Aubrey is crouched so low to the ground that he is practically lying on his side with his right arm stretched out.  His bow is parallel to the ground with an arrow knocked and drawn, angled upward.  As he sees this he can hear the scrapping metallic ring of swords being withdrawn from their scabbards.  The druid’s brain feels like its being stabbed with needles.  He has never yet tasted the ‘thrill of battle,’ and he’s not sure that he really likes it so far.  It is too reminiscent of cold terror.

“Soþlice.  Soþlice. ”  Replies Mirzam.

The druid is so focused on steeling himself up for battle that it takes him a few seconds to register the fact that the sounds of killing have not yet begun.

“Ic cyðe eow, þæt ic wylle beon hold hlaford…”

Strangely, they are still speaking.  Pfren was certain that any warriors of Viskoth would attack Mirzam on sight.

“Und unswicende to godes gerihtum und to rihtre woroldlage.”

And then it hits him…that’s Mirzam talking!

“Urne gedæghwamlican hlaf syle us todæg?”  Says the first voice.

“Ic nam me to Mirzam gemynde þa gewritu and þa word, þe se arcebiscop Lyfing me fram þam papan brohte of… bróðor Jonas?”  Mirzam speaks again.

“Uh, Dena.  Dena meodosetla.”  Says the monk.

“þæt ic scolde æghwær godes lof upp aræran and unriht alecgan and full frið wyrcean be ðære mihte, þe me god syllan wolde.”  Mirzam is speaking again.

“Get up you two.  Nice and slow.”  Mirzam says after a moment.

Pfren looks to the ranger, waiting for him to react to the command of the mage.  He can’t help but think of their discussion the night before they crossed into Viskoth.  More importantly, Pfren thinks to himself, is HE thinking about it too?  The next few second seem to move as slow as hours.

“Guys…”  The sound of Mirzam’s voice is getting strained.  Despite his seeming bravado, he is obviously feeling the tension as well.  After what seems like an eternity, the druid thinks he can hear the faint sound of a curse as Aubrey relaxes his draw and stands up.  Pfren follows suit.  At their standing, the three horsemen gasp further.  With his cloak wrapped tightly around him and his druidic robes safely left at home, Pfren could easily pass for a traveling peasant pilgrim.  But the ranger was holding his bow, so his cloak was wide open.  With his bare chest, dark green plaid and checkered leggings, and body covered in savage tattoos, it was hard to mistake him as anything other than a tribesman.

“Mægþum!  Gomban gyldan. Þæt wæs god cyning!”

Clearly, they were not pleased.  But a few more words of calming by the mage, and the three mounted warriors are soon ignoring them, all focused on the elf.  And what was more fantastic yet was the fact that the longer they spoke, the friendlier they seemed to become, with even some laughter passing between them.

Pfren took this time to inspect these Viskothic warriors more closely, for he had never in his life seen one up close.  The Wolf Clan where he was fostered was to the north of the Bear Clan, so he never had an opportunity to come into contact with anyone from the Free Kingdoms.  Except, of course, the monk.  But all he wore were the priestly robes.

All three horsemen wore the same heavy, chainmail tunics that were worn by the border guards.  Metal skull caps were on their heads, with the brow’s edge dropping down over the nose.  Their faces were covered in a chain veil that only left two holes for their eyes.  Under the chainmail they wore beige knee-length tunics and leggings.  Their high boots were made of dun-colored leather and laced from the front.  Over the chainmail were the same white tabards with the large blue “X” mark on the front and back.  They rode on saddles similar to the kind his people used, only with odd straps that looped around their feet.  After a few more minutes of speaking, the three warriors seem to bid the group a fond farewell and continued along their way down the road.

“Apparently,” Mirzam begins, “there’s a group of some nasty yrch that have somehow slipped into the area and are running amuck.  That’s what those fellows were after.”

The other three say nothing, but just stare at the wizard, waiting.

“Well, as much as I would like to stand here all day, I suppose we should get going.”

Mirzam looks at the other three, noticing that they are still just staring at him.

“What?”

“How is it,” the ranger says, “that those warriors did not attack you on sight?  Or us for that matter?”

The mage just shrugs.  “What can I say, Aubrey?  I’m just a likable elf.  It just goes to show that if you are nice to people, then quite often they’ll be nice to you back.  You should try it sometime.”

“Areledh…”  The ranger replies through clenched teeth.

Mirzam sighs, clearly annoyed at his friends for needing an explanation.   “What do you think I did?  By the nine hells, I’m a wizard!  I ensorcelled them.  It’s what I do.”  He turns to Pfren, poking him in the chest with his finger.  “And THAT, dear Pfren, is why I still take those tests.”  With that the elf hoists up his book bag and starts to walk down the road.

To be continued…

***

Notes:

Reginum Éruvius:  The religion that unites all of the Free Kingdoms and the Empire to the south is the Dogma of  Éru, a monotheistic and homocentric religion intolerant of other faiths and species.  Magic is strictly forbidden in this faith and in the lands where it holds sway.  Reginum Éruvius means all of the lands under the sway of the religion of Éru.

Areledh Beleghaun:  pro. “ara-LETH BELEG-awn.”  Mirzam’s elvish name.  Mirzam, like many mages, favor the use of pseudonyms or ‘stage names.’  Only mages really know or care why they do, and they tend to be quite secretive about their real names.  This, however, means little to those who know them well enough to know their mothers.

Geis: pro. “GEES.”  A magical curse or gift, depending on how you look at it.  Often augured at birth or before a significant event in life, these are magical taboos that can mean death and dishonor to those that break them.  Some claim there is great honor or even power to those that observe them.  Most tribesmen, however, would rather not deal with them at all.  Those that do have them never are given the choice, as they are bestowed upon individuals by the gods.

Peredhel: pro. pa-RA-thel.  Elvish word for half-elf.  Technically Seth is a paredhel, as his mother was elvish and his father was human.  But the peoples of the Moonshaes are often colloquially called this because of the significant amount of elvish blood that has entered into their veins from centuries of intermingling with the elves.

The song Jonas heard entering into the tavern was Nues-tros.  A traditional Latin song that translates into “The Beauty of Jesus.”  If you haven’t figured it out by now, the Dogmatic faith is heavily based off of the medieval Roman Catholic Church.  If it seems my version is overly critical, it’s only because the slant of the campaign was based upon the pagan’s point of view.

Yrch: pro. “URKH”  Archaic (and elvish) form of the word ‘orc.’

S.E.F.A.