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“And now my life has changed in oh so many ways
My independence seems to vanish in the haze”
The Beatles - “Help!”
The clear, moonless night enveloped the land in a cloak of darkness that no normal sight could pierce. Catharandamus, though, scanned the woods around him as clearly as if it were mid-day, his eyes glowing an unnatural red color. Before him, in a clearing, a small hill rose, its rocky peak jutting just barely above the woods around it. Satisfied that nobody was around to witness him, Catharandamus strode forward a few steps and raised his arms just above his shoulders. Red electricity crackled between his fingers as he concentrated, staring at the hill before him. The ground began to rumble.
“I have the power!” he shouted as the hill before him rumbled louder and louder. The rocks at its peak split, sending showers of dust and debris down its sides. Then, as if it were a giant awakened against its will, the hill rose grudgingly into the air, sending a minor avalanche of stones and dirt into the woods around it. Catharandamus, though, stood his ground, the dust and debris bouncing harmlessly over and around him. Across his forehead, beads of sweat formed, giving the only clue as to the incredible effort the priest was making.
For several minutes, the ground within a hundred yards shuddered and shook, cracking trees and sending sleeping animals and birds scurrying for safety. Then, when the noise and shaking subsided, Catharandamus lowered his arms slowly, the red glow fading from his hands and eyes just as his own reserves of energy faded and he collapsed to the ground.
What was once a hill of no more than twenty feet now towered one hundred and ten feet into the air. The clearing, once fifty feet across, had been forced wider, now covering an area nearly three times that width. The trees and bushes teetered precariously on a forty-five degree slope, some losing their tenuous anchoring and tumbling to the flat land below.
Catharandamus stirred sleepily at the foot of his new hill, exhaustion fading slowly from his body. Then, a voice heard only by himself, sent his eyes flickering to life in panic.
“Impressive work, oh great Catharandamus,” the voice said sarcastically. “But remember, I am your master even as I am your source of power.”
Catharandamus scampered to his feet with the little endurance he still had. “Yes, great one! I am here to obey.”
The voice chuckled in Catharandamus's mind, a laugh that filled the priest with terror. “You have built a great monument with my power. Now, you will summon forth a denizen of the underworld to do my bidding. He will be my eyes and ears, Catharandamus. You will do his bidding as you have done mine.”
“But, master,” the priest argued, “the power is weak. I have not the energy to do a summons.”
“Silence!” The telepathic order sent Catharandamus sprawling to the ground in pain. “Your power is as nothing compared to mine. Though you are my window to this world, you see only the power I wish you to see. Climb now to the top of this hill and I will grant the power you need.”
Catharandamus looked up at the slope with a grimace, then began his climb knowing that further delay could cause irritation to his master. Though his muscles ached from his over-use of the power in creating this hill, his will and fear of his master's wrath prodded him forward. When he finally reached the top, after fifteen minutes of awkward climbing, he was near the point of collapse.
“Stand firmly, worm!” the voice bellowed at him. Catharandamus mustered another burst of energy and forced himself to stand up straight, though the ground seemed uneven and the slope long and steep.
Suddenly, the fatigue drained from his limbs and his muscles felt a rejuvenating energy replenish their reserves. With a renewed confidence, Catharandamus stood straight and laughed aloud. “I feel the power again!” he shouted to the sky. Then, in a burst of unfounded arrogance, he cried out a curse. “You fool! You have given me the power to lay waste to this island, yet you expect me to cower and cringe at your feet? Without me you are as nothing. Without my eyes and ears, you are lost in a sea of darkness!”
There was a silence to the night that was unnatural. The turmoil caused by the rising hill had passed, so the animals of the forest had returned to their nocturnal stillness. Now, as Catharandamus stood alone on his hill, the wind faded to nothing and the stars above seemed to flicker one last time before their light became still and constant. A flash of fear plagued the priest, but quickly faded, his confidence fueled by the powers within him.
The voice returned. “You have squandered the powers I gave you before, Catharandamus. Your exertion has left your mind wide open to my presence. I will endure no further rebelliousness.”
Catharandamus, with a startled expression on his face, suddenly reached for a small knife at his belt. His arms felt numb as they lifted the blade slowly to his throat. The telepathic voice continued, “You are as nothing compared to me, because you are dead. Catharandamus died the night of the enchantment in Haven. Now you are merely a vessel with which I will return to my rightful world.” The blade pressed hard against the priest's neck, cutting the surface of his skin. As a trickle of blood dripped down the front of his neck, the voice continued. “I have seen the future. I know what will become of you. Would you like to know?”
The priest whimpered as the pain from his neck began to register, but he said nothing.
“You will begin the summons now, Catharandamus. Then and only then will I let you free.”
The blade dropped to the ground as the priest's arms returned to their own volition. “I will obey,” he said meekly as he lowered his head in shame and held his hand over the wound on his neck.
“Of course you will,” the voice said. “You have no choice.”
A light September drizzle maintained a level of discomfort far below Rana's liking, yet she stood patiently in the courtyard of Princess Argenta's castle anyway. Beside her, Seagoon looked lethargic as he stared blankly at Sorgol, still performing the ritual he had begun fifteen minutes before.
“Oh great Bast!” Sorgol spoke a little louder as he neared the end of his prayer. “I offer you these tokens of my faith.” He raised from a narrow stone altar a trio of writhing snakes, presenting them to the clouds above, before returning them to the stone. Brandishing a small, modestly decorated dagger, he made a series of delicate cuts across the snakes' bodies, taking a special care as if the cuts had to be made in a very precise manner.
Rana curled her lip in disgust and turned her head from the altar, mumbling her discontent, yet making sure not to say it loud enough to offend Sorgol. Seagoon, having been around his father, a priest in Baytun, had seen similar rites, though infrequently, and so looked on with curiosity rather than disgust. Sorgol's religion was one of the many taught in Backbone, four hundred miles to the south-west, and so was unlike any of the more nature-oriented religions indigenous to the islands.
Sorgol finished his sacrifice by carefully scraping the snake bodies off of the altar and speaking a final prayer. “If my sacrifice has pleased you, oh Bast, then allow your power to shine on myself and my crystal ball so that my companions and I may locate our most hated enemy: the one who calls himself Brother William!”
Rana, feeling dreadfully out of place, not to mention cold and uncomfortable in the drizzling rain, was eager to return inside. “Are you done now? Can we go back inside?”
Sorgol seemed not to notice Rana's impatience, instead he walked casually past her and Seagoon toward the entrance to the castle. “Let us return to the crystal ball and try one last time today.”
In the week and a half since the trio chased the evil priest Catharandamus out of the secluded mountain village, Sorgol had tried again and again to locate Brother William or his companion Wizard through his new gift, the crystal ball given to him by Mirablis, the court wizard in Haven. Since his training in the use of the crystal was slight and Mirablis had precious little time to teach Sorgol more, his efforts had so far met with little luck. Once he had latched onto somebody, but after several minutes of eager study, it was found to be one of the princess's guards, wandering no more than a hundred yards from Sorgol and the crystal. Further, as Mirablis had warned, extensive use of the crystal was exhausting and could be dangerously unhealthy. With that in mind, Sorgol exercised extreme caution and had attempted viewings only after considerable rest and no more than twice daily.
The three went into the room Sorgol had been given in the castle and the half- elf carefully pulled a fine cloth from over the crystal ball, resting in its metal stand. Rana and Seagoon sat next to him, encircling the ball, and Sorgol began concentrating as he gently waved his hands over the surface of the crystal. As before, a dull glow emanated from within. Sorgol concentrated harder, trying to shut out all thoughts of other people, and focus exclusively on the image of William. Rana and Seagoon, though they were unversed in the ways of spellcasting, maintained their concentration on the same person, hoping to help out in any way possible.
Slowly, the glow from within the crystal shifted and began to take the form of a picture. With the unexpected success, the three became excited and in their excitement, their concentration and the picture began to slip. This, though, had happened before. Instantly, the three forgot all else save restoring the picture they had tried so hard to form, and within a few seconds, it cleared.
Once contact had been made, it was no great challenge to maintain the picture. It was as if a great hill had been climbed and the three were able to rest at the top. Within the ball, a large room could be seen, with several tables and chairs. In the forefront of the image was William, seated at a table, along with a pair of men who looked to be sailors. The three held playing cards in their hands and a sizeable amount of copper and silver coins were piled within reach of each.
“Well what do you know?” muttered Seagoon. “There he is as plain as day.” Then, turning his attention to Sorgol, he confessed, “I was beginning to have my doubts about this whole thing, Sorgol, but it looks as if you've made good your promise.”
Rana was equally pleased, but Sorgol was not. “This is all fair and good, but unless one of us can identify where he is, we've gained nothing at all.”
Seagoon turned his attention back to the image. “It must be some inn or pub somewhere. I would guess those he is playing with are sailors, so they must be on the coast somewhere.”
“Brilliant, Seagoon,” offered Rana sarcastically. “We live on an island. Practically everywhere is on the coast!”
“Well, then. Have you any ideas?”
“I'm not sure, but it looks a lot like a place I frequented in Restenford,” she offered after some thought.
“Perhaps,” countered Seagoon, “but it doesn't seem familiar to me and I have spent a considerable time in the city myself.”
Rana was beginning to show some irritation at Seagoon's manners, and so countered his rebuttal with more than a hint of arrogance. “I was born and raised in the city. I should think that means more than the experience of a simple visitor.”
Seagoon hesitated not a second. “Visitors frequent the inns, Rana. Citizens have no need for them. Therein lies the difference.”
Sorgol, who had spent the discussion examining the image in detail, suddenly spoke up. “There's somebody coming in!” He pointed to the crystal excitedly.
Seagoon peered into the ball and his eyebrows shot up. “I know that man!” Rana and Sorgol were as surprised as the ranger. “He was in and out of jail in Baytun for awhile. He comes from Norpoint.”
“Norpoint,” mused Sorgol. “That would fit with our assumption that the two headed back through Restenford. They must have continued up the east coast.”
Sorgol, contented with their discovery, and feeling a little weakened by the concentration, waved his hand over the crystal and the image faded. “I think that is sufficient for now,” he suggested to the others. “Perhaps we should make plans to travel to Norpoint.”
“Our work here is still heavy,” Rana reminded the magician. “I would feel rather uncomfortable leaving so soon.” Seagoon agreed. “Every time I have been on patrol in the hills north of the village I have seen goblins. Only a handful of the original force remained, but that handful has been quite a thorn to the villagers, especially the dwarven miners.”
“I agree,” answered Sorgol, “but we should set a date for departure and then try to wrap things up here by that date. Otherwise, we will remain here far too long and William will never be brought to justice.”
Just then, a rain-soaked man rushed into the room through the open doorway, trailed by one of the castle's servants. “Searles!” Seagoon said excitedly as he stood to greet the dripping man. “What brings you to this side of the island? Not to mention this obscure village!” Before the man could respond, and before Seagoon could notice Searles's somber expression, he turned to Rana and Sorgol. “This is a good friend from Baytun,” he said in explanation. “He works with my father in the temple.”
Searles face was grave and the man said nothing when Seagoon turned back to him. Instantly, the ranger's enthusiasm faded. “Have you a message for me?” he asked hesitantly.
“It's your father.” Searles's tone of voice betrayed the gravity of the situation and for an uncomfortable minute, no one spoke. As Seagoon sat carefully back down, his friend spoke slowly, his speech practiced time and again in the days he had travelled searching for the ranger. “Eleven nights ago, an assassin of professional calibre forcibly entered the room where your father slept. It seems your father was able to put up a fight, but was overcome. He was found dead the following morning. Nobody in the temple saw or heard anything.”
Seagoon sat back, stunned. “I must go,” he said softly to the others after a pause.
“We will come with you,” Rana immediately volunteered.
“No,” the ranger said sternly. “This is a personal matter. You must stay and continue the work here in Haven. We will meet again in Baytun. Hopefully, by then, I may continue helping you in your search for William.”
The other two were reluctant, but respected his wishes and promised to remain in the village. Plans were made hurriedly and Seagoon packed his gear even as the three spoke. Within an hour, with Searles by his side, he was riding down the road to Sotton.
Karelia walked casually down the muddy street, carefully avoiding the rain- filled holes, yet showing no urgency to get under cover of the inn she approached. Beside her walked a wolf: an unusual pet in the wilds, an unheard of pet in the city. The animal plodded along, its head drooped slightly from the rain, never straying from Karelia's side, though it looked not to enjoy the downpour one bit.
Ahead of them was the only inn in town that allowed pets: The Cub and Piper. She fully expected to be sent back at the door. Sotton had given her more than a few problems so far and it had taken a rather lengthy explanation, mixed with a handful of white lies, for the guards to allow her inside with the wolf in the first place. Having spent six weeks outdoors, she was dreaming of a warm bed, especially now that October was only a few days away. With no money, though, she felt the city's hospitality would be an unreachable goal. Never-the-less, she made for the inn, if only to spend some time in a warm room.
She pushed open the door and held it for the wolf before she, too, stepped through. “Sit,” she commanded the animal as she closed the door behind her. Instead, it shook the water from its back, spraying the pub's nearby patrons. Not an auspicious entrance, she thought, as a group of angry faces peered at her and the wolf.
“'Ere now!” spoke a thin, bearded man behind the bar. “What's the idea bringin' a creature like that in 'ere?” He shook an empty beer mug at Karelia, “We don't take no wild animals here!”
“It's not really wild,” Karelia began in her defense, but the barkeep was quick to interrupt.
“It's damn well not a dog, is it? And it sure as hell ain't a cat, so I won't be lettin' it in my place.”
“Canis Lupus,” a half-elf from the back of the room offered, stepping forward as he did so. “I would say, Heath,” he said, turning to the barkeep, “that it is certainly no threat to this crowd.” At just a hair under six feet tall, the man was unnaturally tall for his race, yet he walked with a grace uncommon to the best of dancers. He carried a flute in one hand and wore a garish outfit of forest green and brown, topped with a plain, black felt hat.
The innkeeper's expression changed suddenly as this man stepped forward. “If you say it's all right, master Sly, then I guess I'll let her in. You're the animal expert here.”
“On the contrary, Heath, my friend. I believe I've been outranked.” He stepped forward to Karelia and bowed gracefully, his manners showing a command of etiquette and his voice a hint of a foreign accent. As the crowd faded back to their original pursuits, he introduced himself. “Greetings, fair druid, your presence here brightens this otherwise drab gathering more than I had expected this eve. I am known as Sly. And you are …?” Karelia paused cautiously, not quite knowing what to expect from this man. “What makes you think I am a druid?” she asked defensively, ignoring his question for the moment.
“I have seen a plethora of pets in my wanderings, some unusual, others dangerous, but rarely in one unversed in the arts of druidical magic have I seen one such as this magnificent creature.” He looked down at the wolf, his eyes wide with excitement. “May I?” he asked, reaching gently down to pet the animal.
“Don't ask me,” Karelia answered simply. “Ask him.”
The wolf watched Sly's hand carefully, allowing it to get within a few inches before it curled its upper lip and growled noisily. Sly stood up quickly, returning his attention to Karelia. “Ah, well. It seems a bit uneasy. Perhaps you would like to share my table.” He gestured toward one of the larger tables in the back of the room.
Karelia, still dripping from the rain, obliged and joined Sly, the wolf curling up on the floor at her feet. “Just because I have a wolf with me doesn't mean I'm a druid. So how did you know?”
“Ah, so you admit it!” Sly raised a slender finger to the side of his head, tapping it to his temple. “Powers of observation, my dear. It's as simple as that.”
Karelia stiffened. “I'm not your dear,” she said coldly.
For a second, Sly fumbled for an answer. “Please forgive me,” he finally said. “I meant no disrespect. I have forgotten my place, for I am only a student, whereas you are an accomplished authority. My humblest apologies.” He bowed his head politely as a finale, making Karelia wonder for a moment whether he was truly being apologetic or merely overacting to win her sympathies.
“I'm not all that accomplished,” Karelia said humbly after a hesitation. “I've been out of the college for less than a year now.” Sly nodded, intent on what she said as if every syllable carried vast meaning. As he waited for more to be said, Karelia reluctantly continued. “I trained with the druid circle on the peninsula,” she continued slowly. “I completed my training in spellcasting last year and left eight months ago.”
“Are you part of the local circle, now?”
Karelia looked uncomfortable at the question. “No,” she answered hesitantly, “I'm not part of the society anymore.”
Sly's interest perked. “Oh? Any reason?”
“I would rather not go into that, thank you.”
“Of course,” he obliged. “I'll tell you about myself instead.” He cleared his throat, about ready to begin an obviously long dissertation, the likes of which Karelia had no desire to sit through.
“You never said how you knew I was a druid,” Karelia quickly interrupted.
“Ah, yes,” Sly said, suddenly switching his conversation. “I could not help but notice that you wore clothing of a … shall we say 'rugged' nature. Furthermore, you were not noticeably discomforted by the rain as you entered. Most people would have hurried through the door, just to rid themselves of the cold weather as soon as possible. This indicated to me that you were used to inclement weather, probably from having spent a good deal of time outdoors. Finally, you wear a sword. This would make it unlikely that you are from the city, as such weapons are rather expensive and you carry no other major signs of wealth.”
“And from this you deduced I was a druid?”
“That and the fact that you wear a charm with the silver quarter-moon representing the elf god Corellon Larethian. If you weren't a priestess, you most likely would have settled on a less costly symbol to represent your faith.
Her mood somewhat loosened up by now, Karelia chuckled at Sly's observations. “Congratulations. I try not to be too obvious about anything, but you seem to have pegged me fairly well.”
“It is a part of my profession,” he explained.
“And that is …?” asked Karelia.
“I am a minstrel by nature, a fighter by obligation, and a practicing scholar in my spare time. I have travelled the world in my years and learned of things that would frighten even one such as you. But, before I go on, I simply must know your name.”
“Karelia,” she answered simply.
Sly gasped, and raised his hands to his face. “Karelia,” he said quietly to himself. “What a beautiful name. It fits you.”
Karelia did her best to ignore the extravagant flattery. “And what about you? Who would name their child Sly?”
“Well, nobody actually. My given name was Neil, but after my youth, I decided it did not suit me. I have gone by Sly ever since.”
“So, Neil, what brings you to Lendore. You have a noticeable accent. Are your from the continent?”
Sly balked at the use of his given name, but passed it off as a slip on Karelia's part. “I was born in the city of Marsvan, in the kingdom of Backbone. My parents were leaders in one of the local temples. I was expected to follow in their footsteps and become a priest. I decided I didn't want to, they decided I had no choice, so I left. Four years later, here I sit!”
“Four years!” Karelia was shocked. “How old are you? I took you to be quite young.”
“I am twenty-eight summers old, but twice that wise,” he said with a smile.
Karelia suppressed her first reaction. “Well, young man, I'm twice that wise as well, because I'm am twice that old! What were you doing jaunting off around the world at twenty-four? You're still a pup!”
“Ah, a pup to some, a hero to others! In human terms, my age is quite adequate. I have found little difficulty in my travels, though I am handy with a sword and it has saved my skin on more than a few occasions.”
As the talk continued, Karelia became more comfortable around Sly, and he likewise around her, though she continued to call him Neil given every chance. The two talked of the local villages, and the bizarre creatures that inhabit the villagers' legends. Karelia, having travelled the island more than Sly had, was privy to more interesting tales, the content of which Sly eagerly consumed. He, in turn told tales from his home kingdom, occasionally slipping with his well- practiced Lendoran accent, letting the idiosyncracies of the kingdom of Backbone's language show through. His storytelling was a practiced skill, which had, for the most part, funded his travels for the past four years. Even Karelia, with her generally sour attitude toward life found herself laughing out loud as he told some of his tales.
As the evening wound down, Karelia confided in Sly that she had no money to pay for a room, and had only come in for a rest from the rain. The chivalrous minstrel immediately offered to rent a room for her, but she refused. After several minutes of pleading, she finally consented when he handed a silver coin to the barkeep and refused to take it back when she declined again.
“The room is paid for, whether you want it or not,” he said with a smirk. “I see no reason why you should sleep in the cold, and my expenses are more than adequate to cover this small luxury.”
Succumbing to her own exhaustion, Karelia finally accepted Sly's generosity and went up to her room, the wolf obediently following behind. Before she went to sleep, though, she carefully blocked the door with a heavy chair. As nice as this Sly seemed, she was not taking any chances.
The next morning came without incident and she descended to the common room just as Sly was finishing his breakfast. The rain clouds had broken up and a feeble morning sun gave a sparkle to the still-muddy streets.
“I'm going to do some shopping today,” Sly said as Karelia came into the room. “Would you like to join me?”
“No, I don't think so,” Karelia answered. “I've no need for anything right now. Besides, I have no money.”
“Oh, but I have plenty. Come along,” he pleaded, “you needn't buy anything.”
Karelia consented, though with a little reluctance, and after she had a quick morning meal, the two headed out the door for the market area of the city.
Sotton was a crowded city, its walls home to nearly five thousand people. The lands around were well farmed, and a river provided enough waterways to have docks halfway into the city's center, though these were used primarily for fishing, not for commerce. Any trade ships that came to Sotton were usually just stopping on their way between Restenford and Spindrift. This seeming isolation had bred a sense of distrust into the citizenry, to the point where outsiders were more often than not guilty until proven innocent. This, in turn, led to less trade, and the vicious circle continued.
Breaking through this barrier of distrust, Sly wandered the market places, examining every item before carefully making a purchase. At times his haggling would lead to a price cut of over fifty percent, but never did he leave a vendor angry. Karelia, at first bored by these exchanges, became entranced as he continued to persuade seller after seller to give him improbable discounts.
“How are you able to do this,” she finally asked after Sly made off with a carefully made dagger for less than a third its original asking price.
“There are days that I could convince a person to give me silver for taking his goods.” He smiled at the druid and tapped a long finger to the side of his head. “It helps to know as much as there is to know about your material. It unnerves the sellers to find that their customers know as much as they about their product.”
The morning passed quickly as the two crisscrossed-crossed the market places. Sly picked out numerous items of clothing, some outlandish by Karelia's tastes, others quite practical. By mid-day, the minstrel had accumulated quite a bundle of clothing, enough outdoor equipment for a prolonged stay in the wilderness, and a pair of nice throwing daggers. It wasn't until the two were heading back to the Cub and Piper before Karelia asked why.
“I intend to leave town in the very near future,” Sly replied casually to the druid's question.
“And where are you heading?”
“I'll tell you when I arrive,” he answered teasingly. “And yourself? How long are you in town?”
“I had planned to leave this morning, but since it's already noon, I'll have to stay until at least tomorrow.”
Sly's attention perked. “You must have a destination, then.”
“Of course!” she snapped. Karelia had spent many months wandering the island at random, yet Sly's carefree mode of travel seemed almost alien to her. “How can you possibly have no destination in mind before you leave? At the very least you should pick a direction.”
“That I shall certainly do. I leave in the direction opposite that which I came. That way, I shall never waste time exploring and seeing sights I have already seen.”
Back in the inn, the two ordered a meal, taking two glasses of wine to a table while the innkeeper prepared their food. “Which direction are you heading?” Sly asked after taking a sip from his glass.
“North. There are some eagle aeries I've been meaning to visit for some time now.”
“North, eh? Would this be anywhere near the village of Haven?”
“Yes, the aeries overlook the eastern branch of the valley, why?”
Sly leaned back in his chair. “I have heard there has been quite a bit of trouble in that area in recent weeks.”
“Trouble?” Karelia became suddenly interested.
“Apparently, a band of goblins came swarming down about three weeks ago. They were pushed back, but they're still in the area.”
A contemplative smile formed on Karelia's lips. “Goblins? Who pushed them back? I haven't seen any ranger troops in the area.”
“That's just it,” said Sly with renewed energy. “It seems no more than a handful of people were involved. The rumors I heard listed three people: two men and a woman.”
“Three people against an army of goblins? I find that hard to swallow.”
“As did I, until I heard the story from several sources. I suspect that there are extraneous circumstances, though.”
“Naturally,” agreed Karelia, as she contemplated the possibility of tangling with a number of goblins. “All the more reason that I must leave as soon as I can,” she finally said.
“With goblins in the area? Are you sure you must?”
“Especially with goblins in the area. They could pose a threat to the aeries.”
“I doubt that. Goblins have a tendency to stay underground or as close to it as possible. They'd probably drop dead if they were to see the beauty from atop an eagle aerie.”
“Never-the-less,” argued the druid, “I've got to go.”
Sly paused a moment, carefully studying Karelia's face. With an uncharacteristically awkward stammer, he continued. “May I come along with you?”
Karelia did not answer for a few seconds. “And do what?”
“Learn,” he answered simply.
“Learn?” Karelia asked skeptically.
“You've had extensive training in the druidical arts. I've always been fascinated with nature. You've got somewhere to go. I don't. It's a perfect setup.”
`Setup for what?' Karelia thought, but said nothing. She thought back to a man she had known at the druidical college and once held a great respect for. For over a year she had been trying to convince herself that not all men were as evil and self-centered as he turned out to be. Still, the doubt was there, and it would not go away. After carefully estimating Sly's capabilities in combat, she decided he posed no threat to her physically and reluctantly agreed to his request. “You may come on one condition.”
“Name it,” Sly said eagerly.
“You do as I say every step of the way.”
Her tone was harsh, but Sly shrugged her seriousness off with a smile. “Sounds simple enough. We leave tomorrow?”
“We leave tomorrow.”
As the giant warhorse plodded through the drying mud-lined roadway, Seagoon gazed wearily forward. For six days, he and Searles had travelled hard, their journey from Haven to Baytun marred by the inclement weather and Searles' horse going lame outside of the village of Lookout. Their trip had come to a halt then until, unable to purchase a replacement steed, Searles offered to stay behind and let Seagoon continue on his own. The ranger, eager to get back to his home city and avenge his father's murder, agreed and the two parted.
Now, his trip neared its conclusion and the sights of the surrounding lands were becoming more and more familiar. If he continued at this pace, he expected to arrive in Baytun shortly after dark. The cold of October was only days away and the rains had served only to remind him of that fact. Now, his limbs weary and his stomach empty, he sought only a warm bed and a meal, forgetting thoughts of revenge for the time being.
Just then, a flash from off the road to the left caught Seagoon's attention. In an instant, his eyes scanned the countryside for any activity. He wasn't sure what he had seen, but whatever it was tugged at him with curiosity and, though he was weary, he turned his steed from the road and made off toward the location.
For a half-mile, he maneuvered his warhorse, Macha, through the woods and grassy hills, examining every detail, looking for the source of the flash. Then, as he was turning to recover his steps and return to the road, another flash grabbed his attention. This one, though, was much closer and its location was clear. He directed Macha around and rode to investigate.
As he entered a clearing, between two small, tree-covered hills, an uncomfortable feeling descended on him. He remembered back to an ambush he and his patrol had fallen into once. A band of goblins had set an elaborate trap for any foolish enough to pass through their territory. If it had not been a ranger patrol, the goblins may have survived. As it was, three good rangers were killed, though not one of the seventeen goblins left the area alive. A soul-chilling hiss from behind him caught Seagoon completely by surprise.
As Seagoon tried to draw a weapon and turn his attention to whatever threat had loomed behind him, Macha jumped in fear, an unusual reaction for a battle- hardened warhorse. By the time Seagoon had regained control over Macha and drawn his blade, the source of the danger had made itself clear. An unnaturally large snake had slithered from a tree, sensing nearby food. It was nearly twenty feet in length, with a body a foot thick and fangs long enough to pierce deep into any creature unlucky enough to get too close. Both Seagoon and Macha were far too close.
The snake sunk its fangs into the muscle of Macha's right hind leg, sending a searing pain through the beast. Seagoon, his sword still in hand, was force to dismount, realizing the pain from the poison would make Macha a useless ally in this battle. He rolled from his horse's back even as it fell on its side and began to tremble from the poison. A quick look at the giant snake confirmed Seagoon's suspicions: This was no normal snake. Not only was it twice the size of any snake he had ever heard of, it was also not of a variety he had ever seen in this locale or any other. Its eyes had an unholy color to them and its fangs were a brilliant white, speckled with the blood from his dying warhorse.
Seagoon held his blade defensively in front of him. This was no battle like he was experienced in. Whereas when fighting goblins, he could chance a minor wound to get close enough to deliver a death blow, this was different. If the poison from this creature was deadly enough to fell a warhorse Macha's size in seconds, its effect on a human would be far worse.
The snake raised its head high so its eyes were on a level with Seagoon's. Its body arced slowly back, ready to strike. Seagoon, though, was ready. Its first lunge was met with the sharp edge of his blade, slicing deep into the creatures hide. Any normal creature of the forest would have fled, realizing the price of its dinner was too high. This one, though, held its ground and prepared for another attack.
Again Seagoon held his weapon ready. The snake lunged forward and the blade flashed out. This time, though, just as the snake came to bear its fangs, it jerked back and lunged where Seagoon had dodged. Never had the ranger seen an animal act with such cunning, and never would he again. With his armor to protect him, the fangs of the creature could do no grievous damage to him, though it needed only a minor scratch to inject its poison. For a second, Seagoon thought himself lucky until he saw the trail of blood on his brassard. The dizziness and pain struck him immediately.
Of all the ways he had thought he would die, this was not one of them. To be laid low by a creature of the forest seemed almost an act done in jest by the gods. As his body fell to the ground, and his senses began to fade, his mind cried out in anger and frustration. The snake was poised for a killing blow as Seagoon collapsed fully into darkness, a shrill, almost mocking laughter seemed to echo from the treetops.
As the world went dark and all sensation faded from his body, Seagoon opened his eyes to a new world. In the darkness and emptiness around him he could hear the mocking laughter he had heard in the forest, though now it was a hollow sound, like death. Gradually the laughter quieted and a vision appeared before him. He was floating in a cosmos filled with beautiful strands of light, some narrow, some bright, but all tangled and interconnected. One shone brighter than most and weaved an intricate pattern through and around thousands of others, its light cutting some off suddenly and strengthening others just by passing close to them. With a sudden realization, Seagoon smiled. This vision was of the strands of fate, and the thread he watched was of his own life.
Suddenly, a second realization came to him. The strand was incomplete. Its full length had not been realized. It had been cut too soon. As he watched, the unrealized section of the thread faded from view, its light diminishing throughout its long, winding course. The effect was immediate. Threads that had been cut before flowered in brilliance. Others that had been strengthened faded into obscurity. Within moments, the entire pattern had become a tangled mess.
In anger, he cried out, his ethereal voice echoing only in his mind. He reached for the threads in an attempt to correct the damage that had been done. It took only the effort. As the vision faded from his senses, he could see the tangle of fate re-weaving itself into an orderly fashion. The sight comforted him and he let the vision fade as his body drifted toward the door away from this world. He could almost imagine hearing the mocking laughter stop, abruptly replaced by an angered scream.
“You have done far worse than betray your family, brother! You have betrayed your race!” The half-orc's words were bitter and his stance enhanced his anger. He stood five feet, eight inches tall, but his muscular build made him more than a match for those much taller. Armored in the finest chain mail available to his tribe, and armed with a great sword nearly as long as he was tall, this man rightfully fit the title he had recently acquired: tribal war-chief.
Before him, on the ground, another half-orc lay, in physical build a near- perfect copy of the former. This one, though, wore only a light leather armor, was armed with little more than a long dagger, and was covered from head to toe with an assortment of cuts and bruises. The fact that he still lived was an indication that he knew how to fight. The fact that he was not begging for mercy was an indication that he was not accustomed to losing.
“I have betrayed no one, 'brother',” the wounded half-orc said defiantly as he tried to stand. “My family is with me here, not in your orc-polluted hills!”
“Remember your origins, Kharoz. You cannot deny your birth.”
“Do not call me that!” the wounded fighter said angrily, suddenly regaining his feet. “That name is not mine!”
“If you deny your name, Kharoz, then you deny your heritage. Without that, you are only a weak-minded citizen of the enemy state: Rota. That alone is a crime carrying the death penalty.” The great sword became a flashing weapon around the muscled and armored orc fighter, and again the battered defender was forced to use all his skills just to avoid it death-dealing cut. By now, though, what little strength he had left was fading. It took no more than a few mighty swings before the great sword struck its mark.
With a flash of pain, the world went dark and the battered half-orc fell to the ground unconscious. It would take but a few seconds for the victor to deliver the death blow. This instance, though, despite the circumstances, was not to be.
The blacked-out half-orc floated in an ethereal world, knowing that his life was at an end. As his last consciousness faded, a starry vision appeared around him and he saw a tangled mass of glowing, darting threads of light. He knew not what to make of these lights, even though one of the many seemed, in some unusual way, familiar. Its path wound through and around only a handful of others and then abruptly came to an end, its light cut to nothing by the crossing of a brighter thread.
Then, as he watched, what was once a tangle of unrecognizable threads near to the familiar one grew and shifted, sending waves of change throughout the pattern. Where once a thread was cut by a brighter path, it now writhed and grew in response to the changes. Its intensity grew until it outshone those around it and where once it had been cut prematurely, it now flourished and expanded.
Consciousness slapped him in the face as the great sword loomed over him, ready to strike one final blow. With a mysteriously renewed energy, he rolled swiftly to one side and the plunging sword struck only earth. In a second motion, he kicked his boot high and up into the gut of his attacker, sending him staggering back away from his weapon.
With a roll, the once beaten man was on his feet and hefted the great sword from its stand, holding it as if it were a natural extension of himself. “If you thought I was beaten, brother,” he said through clenched teeth, “then you have made a deadly mistake!”
“You show courage, Kharoz,” the surprised and unarmed half-orc replied. “You cannot deny your tribal heritage now.” Though he was weaponless, he felt not at a disadvantage.
“I am not of your tribe!” the enraged fighter snapped. “I am not Kharoz!” The sword became a flurry of activity before him as he moved to the offensive. “I am Ozzie! And I will never bow to your evil ways.”
Fear showed itself for the first time in the war-chief. He fell back defensively, but with not so much as a dagger in his hand, he had no way of stopping the sword from striking home. Seeing the fury in his brother's eyes, though, he suddenly realized that even an enchanted shield could not hold back this one's assault. The battle was swift and final.
Ozzie stood silent over his slain brother, still holding the dead man's weapon in his hands. He thought of the apparition he beheld and even now, as the memory of it faded, he did not know what it had meant. He looked back to the village he had called home for fifteen years. His father had told him the stories of how he was not born here, of how he had been brought here and left by his true father when still very young. Yet for all that mattered, this was his home and the man who had raised him was his true father.
Now, though, the small village seemed different. Where before it seemed so safe and isolated, he looked now past it to the great city of Rota. Some days, if the weather was just right, the walls of this great city were visible. He had often thought of travelling there, but something had always held him back. He looked back to the still body of his brother, a man he had never known until just this day. His life here was over. He would leave for Rota tomorrow.
“I thought you said there were eagles up here?” Sly asked, warily scanning the group of man-sized bird-creatures that surrounded the two. Despite enormous wings of light brown and white, and a height of no more than four feet, they looked vaguely like men. Above their short beak were large, dark-colored eyes that resembled human eyes much more than those of a bird and their legs were remarkably thin and appeared to bend back awkwardly.
Karelia was just as surprised as Sly, though she showed not a trace of it. “There probably still are somewhere. The last time I was in this area, I saw nothing like this.”
“Are they intelligent?” Sly asked, still watching the creatures as they watched the two silently.
Karelia thought a moment and then whispered to the minstrel. “I'm going to try a spell. Be ready for any reaction.” Sly nodded agreement without taking his eyes from the bird-men and Karelia immediately began a series of careful gestures, accompanied by a soft, humming incantation. The creatures remained still, though some took a cautious step forward as she began her spell.
Suddenly, Karelia broke the silence by letting out a shrill bird call, followed by a series of quick chirps and whistles. For a second after she stopped, the creatures seemed shocked, then in a surprising cacophony, every one of the bird- men began cawing, hooting, whistling, and chirping. Sly looked to Karelia, a borderline panic playing across his mind. “What did you do?”
Karelia smiled and raised her hands. “I've found a language they speak,” she answered simply and began chirping and cawing as the bird-men were. Within a few seconds, the group quieted down and an orderly conversation ensued.
One of the bird-men came forward as a spokesman and for several minutes, the druid conversed with him. Sly, meanwhile, after recognizing that the bird-men were no threat, settled down on a nearby boulder to observe the whole affair. Eventually, Karelia concluded the conversation with a series of cordial gestures, which the spokesman mimicked, and the entire flock leapt into the air and flew back up their to their mountain top nest.
“Well?” Sly asked expectantly. “What did you learn?”
“They have only recently moved to this area, having come from an isolated section of the mountains farther inland. It seems they were driven out by passing goblins, some of which decided to stay in their area.”
“Perhaps those are the same goblins that invaded Haven,” Sly suggested.
“Probably. The Aarakocra, as they call themselves, settled here, but have recently been hassled by a more dangerous threat: a giant has moved into this area. Several of the bird-men have been caught and killed already.”
“Caught?” Sly asked skeptically. “Can this giant fly?”
“No, but he can throw rocks nearly to the top of their aerie. Anyway, I've offered to help. They seemed rather desperate and don't really have any more places to flee.”
“You're the boss. What's our plan?”
“I'll tell you when we get there,” Karelia answered evasively. Without letting Sly question her, she began gathering the equipment she had set down when the Aarakocra first appeared and whistled for her wolf who had panicked and run at first sight of the creatures. “His cave is some distance down the slope. Let's head out now and find out what is there.”
The two clambered down the steep slope and after only a few minutes met the wolf, eager to return downhill. Though they had spent nearly three hours getting to the level where they met the Aarakocra, they were half-way back down in only an hour. Karelia signaled Sly to stop and the two carefully climbed onto an adjoining ridge. “The cave should be somewhere in this region. Let's search independently. We'll find it sooner.”
Sly reluctantly agreed, having learned not to question the druid too often. It wasn't that he was fearful of her, but rather that he found the prospect of listening to one of her lectures unbearable. Having faced that fate twice in the three days they had been out was punishment enough.
Karelia, with the wolf's assistance, found the cave first and signaled Sly with a prearranged animal call while she concealed herself behind a boulder. As Sly made his way over to the area, Karelia examined the entrance. It seemed not to be natural in origin. Rather, she deduced, it had been carved out of the rock and dirt by the giant himself. Above the hole was a crumbly slope scattered with dozens of large boulders still sunk in the dirt of the hillside. Strewn before the entrance were numerous smaller rocks, apparently the remains of the giant's excavation. After examining them in more detail, though, she noted they seemed to have been placed and they were all the same basic shape and size. She was still puzzling over this observation when Sly joined her in concealment.
It took the two only a moment to decide upon a plan and less time to begin its implementation. Karelia stealthily made for the left side of the entrance and began climbing the small hill the cave was a part of. When she reached a point immediately above the cave entrance, she stopped, positioned herself between a large boulder and the side of the hill and drew her sword. Before the cave entrance, Sly watched carefully and when Karelia gave the ready signal, he stepped out into the open.
“Excuse me!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Could somebody help me, please! My legs seem to be broken and I'm helpless here!” He stopped and listened carefully for some response from within the cave. “I need some one to carry my four large sacks of gold for me!” Above the entrance, Karelia grimaced at the obvious implausibility of Sly's lies. Then, deep in the cave, a rumbling was heard. Sly froze for a second, then drew his sword, nervously clenching it in his right hand. “Oh look,” he continued, “a whole herd of lame caribou are passing by! It's a shame I don't have any weapons or I'd go hunting!”
Just then, a great form stepped from the dark cave into the sunlight, carrying a five-foot wooden club that was only half as long as he was tall. For a second it stood, its eyes adjusting to the light, but a second was all that Karelia needed. As Sly frantically flashed the ready signal, the druid began using all the leverage of her position to budge the great boulder she was behind. It was then that Sly first noticed exactly what she was doing. They had agreed that she would climb above the cave and try to drop a large rock on the giant as he emerged from the cave, but now, as Sly watched in horror, the druid, barely over five feet tall, heaved and strained against a boulder protruding six feet above the ground! “This is it,” he thought as the giant's vision cleared and it stared angrily at Sly, “I'm going to die!”
Just as that thought flashed across his mind, though, there came a grating noise from above. As Sly watched in amazement, Karelia rolled the great boulder from its perch and used her strength to divert its fall directly onto the surprised ten-foot creature. Even as the great weight toppled onto the brute, Karelia readied her weapon and jumped from her perch as Sly charged forward.
The giant, dressed in heavy pelts and leathers, had lost his footing when the rock crashed onto his head, but seemed more surprised than stunned. “Perhaps his head was the wrong target,” Sly joked nervously as he ran up.
Karelia's sword bit into the giant's side after it rolled to avoid what would likely have been a killing blow due to the druid's momentum. Sly, meanwhile, took advantage of the creature's vulnerable position and plunged his sword into its shoulder. The giant's heavy clothing, though, prevented any major damage from Sly's blow. Instead, it climbed to a standing position and, with a growl, back-handed the minstrel, sending him hurtling eight feet back to a painful landing.
The wound Karelia had delivered along with the damage from the falling boulder had taken quite a toll on the creature, but it was able to swing its club within seconds of dealing with Sly. The druid rolled to dodge the great wooden bludgeon, but at the same time slashed the creature's legs with her sword. The wound was superficial, but served to surprise the giant enough so that Karelia was able to get clear of his club a second time.
Nearby, Sly shook the giddy sensation from his head and stood, with his sword ready. Before him, the giant was intent on swatting Karelia with his club, even as a red stain trickled down from the wound on his side. With a silent sprint, Sly closed the distance between himself and the giant and, in a quick dart of his sword, penetrated between the pelts of the creature, scoring a direct and painful jab to the giant's posterior.
With a howl, the giant turned angrily to Sly. Sensing the obvious danger of his position, Sly made a desperate dive away from the giant seconds before the club sliced the air just inches above the minstrel's head. Karelia, meanwhile, having lost the giant's interest, pressed her attack. Before she could deliver a successful blow, though, the giant had reached to the ground, picked up one of the many rocks cluttered about and hurled it with uncanny accuracy toward Sly. As Karelia watched, the minstrel dove to the side, yet again, this time taking in the leg what surely would have been a deadly blow to his chest.
Diverting his attention to Sly, though, proved to be the giant's downfall, for just as he released the rock, Karelia reached high and pushed her sword between his leather coverings and deep into his lower back. The giant flinched in shock and whirled around, wrenching the still imbedded sword from the druid's grasp. For a second, it stood, glaring at Karelia with a burning anger in its eyes. Then, his shoulders slumped, his eyes rolled back, and the great ten-foot form collapsed forward, forcing Karelia to dive to one side to avoid its fall.
“Next time you want to go bird-watching,” Sly moaned, “give me time to hire a small army.” Though the minstrel joked, he sat on the ground awkwardly, nursing his left leg where the giant's rock had struck him.
Karelia pulled her sword from the giant's back and jogged over to where Sly sat. “How does your leg feel?” she asked.
“Like a very large person sat on it.”
“Here. Let me take a look.” Karelia pulled aside the torn leggings, revealing a badly bruised section just above Sly's knee. After carefully examining the wound for a time, she pulled a sprig of mistletoe from a pouch and began a short invocation. When she placed the mistletoe on the exposed skin, the leaves of the plant crumbled to dust and the bruise slowly faded away. “That should allow you to walk, but you'll have to take it easy for a few days,” she advised.
Together, the two explored the giant's cave, finding nothing more than partially-eaten animal and Aarakocra carcasses, and then made a camp for the night a few hundred yards from the cave. The next morning, Karelia left Sly in the morning to carry word to the Aarakocra about their victory, and returned by mid-day. From there, the two began the trip back to Sotton.
“So where to now?” Sly asked as the two maneuvered down the steep slope.
“Back to Sotton,” Karelia replied simply.
“No, I mean after that,” the minstrel asked eagerly.
“I was thinking of tracking down those heroes you mentioned who had saved Haven from the goblins,” she answered with a barely noticeable emphasis on the first word.
Sly stopped his descent, gently stopping Karelia as he did. “Milady,” Sly said quietly, with just the right amount of formality to catch Karelia's attention. “You have shown me much on this expedition and I am most grateful for your company and your wisdom. If it is not too much to ask, I would be most honored to accompany you further so as to learn more of the ways of nature.” He ended with a short bow and a downward glance.
Karelia smiled politely and thought for a few seconds. “Very well,” she said hesitantly. “But if ever you cross me,” she continued sternly, “you can consider your tutorship at an end.”
“I am always one to respect the wishes of my elders. I will do as you say, without question.”
Karelia thought about Sly's parents and why he had left them to wander the world, but decided not to mention his apparent hypocrisy. Instead, she turned her attention to the slope and continued the descent.
The woman was as beautiful as a goddess, because she was. Before her, seated on a great throne of gold and platinum and set with jewels and gems enough to buy entire kingdoms, sat a man as handsome as a god. The man sat with furled brow, his fingers playing across the fine precious metal of his throne. Before him, the woman stood defiantly, her expression stern and expectant.
“You dare accuse me of this crime, Bast?” the god finally said angrily. “I who am ruler of this entire realm am to be judged by a godling from an outside land?” He stood from his throne, a sheathed long sword dangled from his belt as he did so. “You have no authority to accuse me and no power to condemn me. Leave my home at once or you shall be punished!”
The woman's face showed her resolve. “Lord Hades,” she spoke sternly. “We are all equal under the laws of the twenty worlds. You have willfully violated the law of intervention and as such must make retribution to the council.”
Hades stood from his throne, a condescending smirk replacing his angered expression. “And where is the council now, oh great Bast?” he asked sarcastically. “They have the right to judge my actions, you do not. Why have you come without them?”
Bast hesitated. “They …”
“They would not come!” Hades answered for her. “They would not come because they fear my power!” He held a clenched fist in the air before him, his ever- present armor gleaming in the dimly-lit room. “You are a fool to come here alone!”
“Your guilt is clear, Hades,” Bast continued, unafraid, “else you would have shooed me away like a common servant.”
“And what would you know about my actions? What makes you the privileged one to have witnessed my alleged wrong-doings?”
“All of Godsland witnessed your wrongdoings, Hades. All of the gods saw the strands of fate tangle and all of the gods watched as Parádoxa, the time lord, weaved them back into a orderly pattern. I, alone, saw the cause and I, alone, have come to see you punished for your transgression.”
“I had nothing to do with the tangled fate,” the god said in his defense, though he saw no need to do so. “Such as that happens regularly. You surely know this. Or are you ignorant of even the ways of the flow of time?” he asked tauntingly.
“You allowed a mortal to view the future and by doing so gave him the power to alter the course of events. If you think me a fool to come here alone, I think you a hypocrite. You are the fool for thinking such a plan could ever succeed.”
Hades stepped down from the small dais. “In all the millennia since our exile from Earth, only a handful of brave souls have called me a fool to my face. Of them, you are the only one who yet lives.” With a gesture, the doors to the chamber slammed shut and sealed. “You are in my realm now, Bast. What little power you hold is as nothing against me. You have made a terrible mistake in coming here.” With another gesture, two man-sized creatures materialized behind Bast. “Kill her,” the god commanded simply.
The two servants were dressed in full-length black robes with hoods and exuded a stench as of rotted flesh. When Bast turned to them she saw their eyes glow red in the dim light. They extended bony fingers toward her and took a slow step forward.
With a snarling hiss like that of a cornered cat, Bast's body instantly transformed. Where once she had shoulder-length light brown hair, there was now a short, golden fur. Her entire head, in fact, became one of a great cat, and where once delicate human hands were crossed angrily before her, now she had the claws of a lion, extended as for battle. As one of the two creatures stepped forward, the goddess leapt into the air, easily clearing the creatures head in a magnificent full flip before landing gracefully behind it. Before it could even register where its lightning swift target had gone, Bast's razor sharp claws had slashed half of its back into pieces of crumbling debris that scattered across the floor.
Even as the first servant crumpled to the floor in a heap, the second made a move to attack. Its own grappling assault, though impressive in its own right, looked like that of an amateur as Bast dodged it as easily as she had avoided the first. Her claws sliced up once and the creatures severed head hit the floor. She turned angrily to Hades. “You shall see my power now, Hades, and the council will strip you of every luxury you have ever enjoyed!”
Hades seemed not to be fazed by the cat-goddesses words. Instead, he drew his sword, its ancient blade shimmering of its own light even as he drew it. His confidence was clear. “This shall prove to be most enjoyable.”