Land of Salvania

  Pooki raised the hackles on her back and growled long before Sir Andrew spotted the hill worm. "Got over them hills quickly," the old farmer had said while Sir Andrew bartered with the farmer's wife for bread and cheese. "Don't let the sun set on you or I'll be collecting your bones tomorrow." Pooki stiffened as the huge worm raised up from the leaf litter, her growl changing to something more urgent. Gods, this thing was huge. Most of the worm - maybe two thirds - was still on the ground, but the part that raised up was taller than any person. It was as thick as his torso, and it stank of decay. "They got yella blood," the farmer had said. "It is poison. It also oozes out of its scales. I seen one. I know. One killed a stray calf last year." Pooki snapped her jaws, her nostrils flaring with the reek of poison. Sir Andrew drew his sword, already trying to figure out the best way to attack this unholy thing. The worm dropped

"So, good Sergeant, you will attend us at the ball tonight." Princess Juliska had eyes like a barn owl: large, beautiful, unflinching. She reminded him of Teng, a little. Andrew of Salvania, Sergeant of the king's wilderness guard, bowed - but not too deeply. She was a princess, but he was her elder by probably ten years. Hard to tell with girls, though. The Autumn day was cool, but the sun was just right. They were meeting in an alcove off the castle courtyard instead of the throne room. That suited Andrew just fine. He didn't care to be indoors much. He saw her glance again at the fresh scar on his whiskered cheek. She seemed quite taken with it in an unsettling way. He could tell she was dying to know. He touched the scar and said, "Troll got too close last week. It was my own fault; I'm much, much faster than a hill troll fattening up for his winter sleep." Her eyes never changed, but her mouth softened, almost like her lips wanted to say

Before Sir Andrew was knighted by a queen with questionable motives and a taste for Elvenari wine, he was called Sergeant Andrew. And before Sergeant Andrew was promoted on the battlefield after ransoming a king’s foppish son who enjoyed dressing up like a knight, he was called Private Andrew, just another farmer’s son looking for a way to move up in the world. Private Andrew slapped a fly that landed on his arm as he faced the line of Gargs that stretched for a hundred yards. They were about an arrow shot away, so sunburn was the only imminent danger. Andrew was on the left side of the Duke’s line, right next to a bloated Garg corpse covered in green flies. “Steady, boys,” Sergeant Hoyle barked as he walked along the line. “Arrow!” several voices called. Hoyle turned to face the Garg line and lifted his middle finger. As one, the entire squad joined him. The arrow landed well short of Hoyle, and he bellowed with laughter. As one, the entire squad joined him. This had been going o

"Wolf!" Teng cried out, her voice came from high above the snow-laden pines. "Almost on you!" Sir Andrew flung back his cloak and drew his sword, his heart pounding. He was too old for this. "Turn left!" Teng's owl-speech was a frantic "skwee." He turned in time to see a blue-eyed canine bounding through the snow, dodging trees like a wraith, a foot of pink tongue flapping like a pennant. It was chasing a white rabbit, almost invisible against the winter background. Andrew positioned his feet, ready to strike. "Hallo," the creature said cordially as it leaned right and flashed behind Andrew, close enough to ruffle his cloak. "Beg pardon." "What the..." Andrew turned to watch the canine vanish in a spray of scattered snow. By the Fates, that was one wickedly fast animal! Tengweerfanda dropped silently into view and perched on a troll-high branch. Her head pivoted left and right facing the diminishing rust

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

  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

Sir Andrew crouched behind some bushes and whistled gently, a simple warble indistinguishable from all the other bird calls around the lake. He was watching the two tents across the lake as his friend Quick Catcher landed on his hand. “Hello,” the small bird said. “As you can see, the bad men are still here. They are cutting wood and making a terrible racket. And some of them smell like trolls. Worse, really. Ya know, once I smelled a troll that had been dead for a week, and it actually smelled better, if you can believe it. Why I remember…” “Yes, my friend,” the old ranger interrupted. He peeked through the bushes; the camp was an easy kill-shot away - for a ranger. For this lot of ruffians, he doubted they knew which end of an arrow went first. “Thank you for finding them,” Sir Andrew whispered, trilling his “thank you” in songspeech. He must have gotten it right because Quick Catcher puffed up and flapped his wings twice in pride. “But now we must punish their many crimes

Sir Andrew entered the deserted town near sunset, hearing only the distant wind and the scrape of his travel-stained sandals on the cobbles. Somewhere, a shutter creaked and slapped a stone sill. Above the arch, someone had painted a black serpent, a warning to future visitors. He imagined one last brave inhabitant slinking back to paint the universal symbol, the sad admission that a dragon had invaded their land, eating cattle and brave defenders, finally tipping the balance of their harsh mountain existence from precarious to impossible. Since starting his long climb into the highlands a week earlier, he had seen more of these empty towns and overgrown fields with scattered bones of cattle. He had noted many fresh graves, their rows of makeshift markers, hurriedly pounded into the ground, some leaning. He had walked over to one and read the scrap of unweathered vellum tacked to a rough-hewn board. "Here lies our beloved Hildana. Rest well, brave shieldmaiden and protector.

  Sergeant Andrew looked up at the east tower, toward Ekaterina's apartment. He thought he saw the princess for a second, then the curtains dropped closed. A horn blew. The drums started. "Rangers on the flank," Captain Velten bellowed. The captain dropped his steel visor and tapped his warhorse with one shiny spur. The small cavalry squadron followed him down toward the open field east of the castle. Andrew let out a piercing whistle that warbled up and down in a specific way. His Rangers recognized the command for "Forward, Right Flank." He heard a distant whistle from the other side of the half-mile long line of fighters. Another Ranger squad was heading "Forward, Left Flank." This was going to be a mess. Once the fighting started, it was always a mess. But, with wizards involved, something bad was always just around the corner. "Sergeant," a young page ran up to Andrew. "A word, if you please." The boy was way too cl

Andrew bore the curse well. Or was he flattering himself again? Aching knees carried him slowly among the ruins. Some long-forgotten king or noble had built the castle. He imagined long-dead children squealing in delight as they chased geese, their spirits passing like smoke among the weeds. He turned right, following a sheep trail along the river. A scarred hunting horn slapped his ribs in the usual place. He remembered that time an orc spear would have skewered him in the same spot except for that horn. He felt his thumb instinctively rub across the orc-gash. Yes, he had been spared that day when so many others of better quality had died. Was it all a random toss of the dice? Some days he thought so. So why keep coming to the ruins? Why keep the ritual if it was all random chance? "Well met, this sunset," the hawk said from her usual perch. Her voice was a faint peep-skwee among the gathering shadows. She too was a creature of habit. Andrew skweed back, "Wel

     Sir Andrew, the old Ranger, went to the local wizard to see about a curse. Really, it was the son of the local wizard. The man Sir Andrew called "the wizard" had retired from public life a few years ago, and rumor had it that he had become a hermit up in the hills. He had given his remaining days to vegetables and contemplation. "So you want a curse removed," the wizard's son repeated unnecessarily. "You'll need to tell me more." The old Ranger spoke about obligations to his fallen comrades. He spoke about a new quest that the north winds had brought on a wolf's tongue. He spoke about the statute of limitations on responsibility. He spoke about suffering and memories and wounds that never quite close up. "So, if I stop summoning the spirits each evening, will I be struck dead, or given everlasting crotch rot, or something like that?" The wizard's son wasn't sure. If indeed a high quest had been visited on Sir Andrew, t

  "For a wolf, he has the strangest accent. Move me closer, please." The old Ranger (some called him the Old Relic) lifted Tengweerfanda higher so she could hear the white wolf's low, rumbling speech. "He says the forest smells wrong. And, there is a new silence in the hunting lands far to the north." Teng ruffled her feathers slightly. "He has traveled many nights to bring this knowledge to the Rangers." "Good hunting," the old Ranger growled, dredging up one of the few Wolfkind phrases he could recall. The wolf did not reply. He turned and disappeared over the Ranger's wall. Teng looked at the old Ranger. He looked back. The wind ruffled his hood, and he breathed deep, imagining what the white wolf perceived about this new trouble. Trolls again? No, troll stink was easy to identify. This was something new. "Sir Andrew, you cannot be thinking about taking up this quest," Teng said, unnecessarily using his formal title.