Land of Salvania

They called Samuel an idler. He just seemed to drift around, leaving town for a week or a month, then coming back. He sometimes came back dirty and ragged, thin as a shadow. Once he came back with a cut face and a skin disease that looked like he had been burned by a dragon or a druid's curse. "Stay away from him," upstanding mothers told their children, clucking in righteous judgement. "You don't want to be like him." The barkeeps knew better. Each time he came back to town, he had a purse full of dwarven gold. Yes, he thought to himself, his mind alive with memories and schemes, let the small people have their petty opinions. He swirled the ale in his tankard and looked idle indeed. /// Copyright

Sir Andrew stopped at the edge of the ancient forest, his skin tingling, his feet heavy. He had felt this same odd sensation once, long ago. He had been called "sergeant" back then, and his squad had been jogging forward, passing through and around the mostly untrained militia - farmers and boys with ramshackle armor and rusty swords. It had been a terrible day. And today, facing the shadows of centuries-old giants, he felt...stopped. It was like his feet were moving through mud. His spirit was reluctant to advance. His mind whispered that it would be nice to turn around, wouldn't it? Go back into the sun and leave this alien place behind. He lifted a heavy arm and pushed against the empty air as if it had become a locked door. A shimmer of color glinted around his hand. It swirled and vanished. So, this is magic, he thought. Was it magic like this that had slaughtered his squad? Was it magic like this that had slowed his steps as his friends and comrades trotte

Ivey's brother stepped lightly down the stone steps and smiled at Khevol, the full moon blocked by his armored bulk. "Well met, my Dwarven brother from the Red Hills. I am Bomruid Shadowborn. Ivey says you're a troll hunter." Khevol appreciated directness. "Well met, Shadowborn," Khevol glanced at the badge on his armor, "Of the Clan Steward, I see. I don't know many Stewards who'd want Dwarven folk among their number." Shadowborn tapped the badge over his heart. "That's a long story. The short version is that they don't mind dwarven folk who slay trolls that sneak into town and steal their goats. When I'm off this wall tomorrow, we'll have an ale or three and discuss it." Khevol nodded. Ivey had already told him more than that. Shadowborn had saved a child, not a goat. Khevol appreciated modesty. /// Copyright

Khevol had a pleasant supper with the woodcutter, whose name was almost impossible to inflect with his Dwarven tongue. Eventually, the man laughed and said, “Just call me Dyado.” Dyado poured a small amount of deep red liquid into two wooden cups. “Nazdrave,” he said with gusto and drained his cup. “Cheers,” Khevol said and followed suit. It was like drinking fire; his eyes watered as he fought for air. “By the gods knees,” he sputtered, surprised that his exhalation did not ignite his sleeve. “Give me a hot coal to cool my throat.” Dyado laughed and slapped his knee, though his eyes were watering too. “This will make your sword strong, my friend!” Over the next hour, as the pleasant conversation and dinner and drink settled him, and the crackling fire filled the cabin with dancing shadows, Khevol melted into a rocking chair and dozed lightly. He dreamed and woke and dreamed some more. It was a rare moment of complete restorative relaxation that his recent hardships had not al

  Sir Andrew stood in the velvet silence of the Ranger Chapel. Here, it was easy to believe that the ghosts of a thousand generations stood beside him. It was easy to feel the abiding melancholy of so many who spent their entire existence in service against the darkness, and the darkness seemed as strong as ever. He looked at the simple, unadorned walls. Just like himself. Like all the Rangers, calling no attention to themselves, slipping in and out of civilization only when needed. His spirit felt heavy, as if it wanted to droop and ooze out of his boots and be free of the fading husk that housed it. If he let it go, would his spirit stay within these bare walls? Would it at last be content, commingled here with the dust and the ghosts of friends? Teng flew into the room and perched on a beam. "I feel your sadness," she said. "Come away from this place. It is not for you. Let us roam the hills again and be free to sing with the moon." Andrew nodded, the sp

  "Why must I wear this?" Ulrich asked as the Yunni shaman handed him the bear skin headdress. "It has been part of the seeking ceremony for centuries. The first seeker saw it in a dream from the Star Bear," the shaman said, then he smiled. "And the faeries like it." The massive Northman, his hand big enough to almost encircle the tiny Yunni's head, put it on. "Ridiculous." "It is no different from the many images inked all over your body." Ulrich shrugged. "Maybe so. Now what?" The shaman leaned toward his fireplace and ladled out a steamy liquid into a wooden cup. "Drink this and lie down. The doorway will open when it wants. You must be patient." Ulrich swallowed the liquid. It tasted like simple beef broth, salty and mushroomy. He reclined on his back and stared at the cottage rafters hung with garlic and other drying herbs. "What if I go to sleep?" "Feel free," the shaman said.