Land of Salvania

  I was traveling through an unfamiliar part of Salvania, north and east of the White River Castle, seeking new herbs for my apothecary. Storm clouds were gathering, and distant thunder echoed over the swaying wheat stalks. I stabled my horse at a tavern and settled in for a night with the regulars. I sipped a leather jack of frothy ale, and listened to the chatter nearby. A group of obvious adventurers was drinking heavily near the fireplace. "I tell ya, I seen it myself," a scarred Dwarven man-at-arms said as he ran his dagger over a whetstone, his voice raised as if launching into a well-worn debate. "I was part of the Duke's timber crew before I got started in this line of...business." "Yes, yes. And the trees attacked the timber crew," a woman in a blue robe with matching eye coloring said with acid sarcasm, her many bracelets jingling as she waved away the idea. A small Yunni laughed as he continued to stitch a leather patch over a gash in ...

"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...

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

  "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. ...

      "You may call me King Borrhas," the big man said. Ulrich was surprised at the depth of his booming voice; it reminded him of an avalanche. "My lord," Ulrich said without bowing. He wore a crown, but if this giant man was a king, it was a kingdom of one. Ulrich had not seen another town, village, or hut in the past ten days. Borrhas whistled sharply, never taking his eyes off the smaller northman. In seconds, two white wolves came to his side. Like the king, the wolves were larger than usual, big enough for a child, or a Yunni, to ride. Borrhas indicated the wolf on his right. "Moonrunner will lead you to my visitor cabin. You will find dry wood and pemmican for your comfort. We will speak after you have been refreshed." "Most gracious, my lord." Might as well play along with the charade. He needed supplies and information about these gods-be-damned endless mountains. He followed the massive wolf to a cabin nearby. It was not lo...

Syndra felt her Elvenari blood tingle. This forest was not what it seemed. The forest life was too quiet here, the faun tracks and chattering pixies were absent. The birds sounded distant. The shadows were deeper. She noted more moss, more decay. She drew her sword, and it hummed in her hand. "Something unsettling has happened here," Tokrara said in her mind. "The land is in pain." Syndra knelt and touched Tokrara's tip to the soil. "Yes, pain is here, and a memory of defilement. Something was taken away, and this place still remembers." /// Copyright

The wizard Osran of Sangrey City followed the bright new star with the long tail west each night. He slept during the day in a Bubble of Seclusion, which inexplicably did not work on pixies. Indeed, the pixies seemed to be drawn to the simple magic like hummingbirds to a honeysuckle. Each evening, he awoke and collapsed the bubble, now simmering with pixies glinting in and out of existence all over the surface. Usually, within a few minutes, they would scatter in rainbow light to their usual forest haunts. But not today. Today he crossed the White River, slept, and awoke before sunset as usual. But the pixies over here positively clung to him, flashing like jewels as they came and went through the ethereal realm, clinging to his clothes and hair. At first, it annoyed him, but he got used to it. It actually worked in his favor. As he walked through a town the next evening, the cloud of pixies drew a crowd. So he stepped up on the town fountain and went through his usual busking...

    "State yer business," the gatekeeper growled. Osran had no immediate answer, so he just said the first thing on his mind. Sometimes, that worked. "You are the gatekeeper?" The old man stared, his scowl deepening. "No. I'm the bloody faery princess." He thrust his flickering lamp almost into Osran's face, close enough to smell the tallow. Osran tried the truth. "I am looking for a special person. His name is Elzalore." The gatekeeper's brow furrowed. "He ain't special." Osran held up a gold coin. "Would you help me find him?" The old man took the coin and growled, "He ain't here no more. Been gone two days. Headed north on foot with a pack mule." The old man stepped back into the courtyard and slammed the gate in Osran's face. /// Copyright

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....

Ulrich the Northman mumbled a song, frivolous as a drinking ditty or a child’s nursery rhyme, as he walked through the winter forest, his eyes scanning endlessly for red-berried troll bane to sell in the village. “In the land of fey, No morn is gray. Though rain will come When it may.” Thus said a crow I had come to know. Her silly name Was Icy Snow. Icy Snow never lied. Although once she tried. It made her sick And a bit cockeyed. Now, her sight awry, She grew quite sly. She trained to sharpen Her mind’s third eye. The brooding winter passed. She thrilled to feel, at last, Her vision wake With inner sight so vast. In forest fey our paths did cross. I stumbled through the fog and moss, Mind a-whirl with fairy spells. “I see your feet are at a loss.” So now we never stray. Her mind’s eye guides the way, And in my ear she croaks, “Let’s live our best this day.” /// Copyright

  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...

On a grey day of the waning year, Khevol overtook a man in the forest. He was tall and bearded, and an owl rode on his broad shoulder. He was dragging a small sled of chopped wood with a massive ax strapped atop the pile. "Greetings," he boomed, and his owl companion fluttered in agitation. "Easy, my sweet." He rubbed her brow as she settled. "We don't see many of the Dwarven kind around here." "Hello," Khevol said, wrapping his tongue around the man's language. "I have not seen another soul in five days. Is a village nearby?" "Indeed! Follow me; it's not far." They walked and chatted for an hour, and the subject of Yule celebrations came up. The big man said, "At the village, they have a custom where eight men dance wildly around the square with stag antlers on their heads. We say it brings good luck for the coming year." Khevol nodded. "My people sweep out every corner of their homes. E...

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....