Land of Salvania

  Tommy was a boy who visited the ruins every chance he got. Even though he liked the same games and roughhousing as the other village boys, he also liked to stand alone in the shadows and let the silence bear down on him. He noted that some horses liked to wear a blanket when it stormed, and he guessed he was the same. The silence was his blanket, calming the storm in his mind, helping him forget the beatings. Years later, after many adventures and battles that had torn the boy out of him, Sir Thomas the Bare returned to the ruins. He earned the nom de guerre "The Bare" for selling his great war helm to buy food for his troop. After that, he never wore a helmet in battle again. It was foolish, but it emboldened his soldiers, and that was enough. Sir Thomas let the silence soak in. It took a while, for he was out of practice, and his mind had become accustomed to a continuous swirl. But, inch by inch, he calmed, reclaiming a bit of the boy. The boy recalled the bruises...

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...

  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...