Land of Salvania

  I couldn't sleep, and my bladder was rousing me as urgently as any cat; the benefits of decrepitude never cease. I rose early and, after settling the score with my bladder, donned light armor. The Autumn sun was an hour from rising, so I stopped by the empty mess hall before heading outside. "Good morning, m'lord," the young sergeant of the guard said as he stood. His post was on the far side of the castle moat, and he doubtless heard the creaking drawbridge planks before he saw me. I offered him a slab of cold pork I had liberated from the mess hall. He nodded thanks, and the pork was gone in two bites. I asked for his report, and he replied simply, "All quiet. Heard an owl about an hour ago." "Any more smells?" I asked. The undead had a particular odor we had learned to recognize. "No, m'lord. But the wind is flat so far." I sent him to his bed and took my turn early. I hoped it would be quiet duty, just right for an old m

  Duke Arthelon was worried. He gathered his advisers and said, "With the plague raging through the knights, how are we to defend the east wall? One said, we can dig a pit and fill it with vipers. Another said, we can setup empty armor on the walls to trick enemy spies. All of his other advisers spoke for or against these ideas. Except one. After the clamor died down, Duke Arthelon looked at the silent adviser, saying, "So, my friend Cendrol, you have said nothing. Do you have counsel?" Cendrol stood and looked at the faces around the room. "I have the solution, but you're not going to like it. Follow me." He led everyone to the wide balcony overlooking the east wall. A lad was below, looking up. He stood near a wooden crate big enough to hold a hunting dog. Cendrol said, "I found this specimen during my travels in the southern rain forest." He waved toward the lad. "Go ahead." The boy used a poleaxe to lift the crate's latc

  Kyllen, baker's apprentice turned soldier , would forever by mystified when recounting how he came to lead the last squad fleeing the Duke's burning town. Kyllen was just a conscript, pulled into the Duke's service for a month. That was almost a year past. Things had not gone well. Gargs were everywhere, burning and looting, their animal cries mocking the Duke's folly. Their cries filled his fitful dreams. In Kyllen's dreams, the terrified faces always turned to him, the "owner" of the glowing Elvenari blades, expecting him to lead them out of the mayhem. In his dreams, we smelled the stench of Garg and burning bodies and blood. Always blood. Everywhere. He still didn't know how he had done it. There were strange half-memories of the retreat. He had fought without tiring, without fear. Some inner coil had released. Or snapped. He didn't know. Maybe the softly glowing blades had taken over when his mind could stand no more. He took o

  Kyllen was a baker's apprentice. The only blades he had ever handled with any skill were found in the kitchen. Even then, he managed to cut himself - somehow - at least once a month. Yet, here he was, walking the sunset ramparts with other untrained men and women called to service by the Duke's latest dustup with a cave full of pissed-off Gargs. The letter bellowed out by the town crier and nailed to the castle gate had said... By the DUKE A Proclamation For Protecting Our Beloved Subjects And Ancestral Properties Whereas our Sovereign Lands have been defiled by bloodthirsty Gargs having no respect for our Laws and our Ways and, Whereas by their many Disturbances and Slaughters of our subjects, our livestock, and properties have shown to be our Enemies and, Whereas enmity has forever been their lot against our peaceful people and, Whereas our recent enforcement Action against them has depleted our Soldiers We therefore declare that all Men of ages 18 unto 50 and all Women of

  The portal shimmered behind them, churning with disturbed light. Handol, the aging thief from the southlands pulled out his "pig skinner" and stared into the misty castle courtyard that had appeared before them. "Steady, my love," Bradyn cooed, stroking the hawk that rode on his shoulder. "All done. See, it wasn't that bad." "Speak for yourself," Handol said. "I thought I was gonna puke." His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the misty courtyard bathed in flickering red and yellow light. Although they were surrounded by swirling fog, it was daytime here on the other side of the magick. "The architecture looks correct," Bradyn said. He blew out the candle in his lamp. "And there it is." He pointed toward a fountain set into the stone wall. Handol followed as Bradyn walked slowly forward. The water from the fountain seemed to pour slowly, almost like syrup, into a stone basin. The basin drained into

  The wizard Elzalore opened his lamp, pulled out the sputtering, feeble remnants of the tallow candle, and used it to light the last candle in his haversack. The tunnels under the Queen's castle were rumored to be so vast that entire squads of soldiers and miners (and doubtless hundreds of treasure-seekers) had vanished over the years. He believed the stories now after spending two days in the chill damp, sleeping on stones in the utter silence. But Elzalore had a map. The old herb lady at the edge of the moors had said it was a true map from her grandfather. Her grandfather had helped build a new tower on the castle as a young man a hundred years earlier. Elzalore had paid her ten gold for it, a princely sum he hoped to recoup with a single discovery. For, in addition to the map, he had a scroll that pulled him toward his destination. Soon, he hoped, he would find old Skandarnish's dusty bones and the jewel he had carried when alive. The jewel was reward enough, but the

  "Danger! Danger!" the magic staff screamed in his mind. It jumped out of his hand and clattered on the cobbled bridge, flopping like a fish out of water. Ever since he had found the staff in that abandoned lair under the mountains, he had regretted bringing it with him. Far above the castle, he heard a dragon's piercing cry from somewhere in the storm clouds. The staff screeched again in his skull and started inch-worming away from the castle. It was going to be that kind of week. /// Copyright

  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

  The old shaman needed an obscure spice called turmeric. He had his youngest son accompany him on a rare visit to White River. "It is the name they have given to the river, the castle, and the town surrounding the castle," the old shaman said. "Creative bunch," his son quipped. "I once heard it described as a wretched hive of scum and villainy," the old shaman said with a secret smile and a wink. "We must be cautious." /// Copyright (Special thanks to Old Ben Kenobi.)

  (From the series "Gerantus and Pall") Gerantus was labeled "peculiar" by those who didn't know him and "amazing" by those who did. He and the dragon Pall occupied a run-down fortress abandoned a generation earlier by all but owls. The townsfolk in the valley below loved to spread the rumor, possibly started by Gerantus, that he subdued the dragon, making it his pet. The truth was even better. As a babe, Gerantus was left in the care of a kindly aunt in the south of Salvania. She was a friend to the area creatures, so taking in a small human was no more worrisome than tending a baby squirrel. Gerantus grew up roaming the ancient forests with as much stealth and skill as his animal friends. He also exceeded his aunt by befriending Pall, a red dragon. They stumbled on each other in a forest opening. Pall was scraping his long snout across some rocks, and Gerantus was intrigued. Pall had a tick "the size of a grapefruit" buried under his chi

  A crowd of insurrectionists with red banners came up the cobbled road. Some had rusty swords, but most had farm implements or kitchen knives. They stopped a stone's throw from the queen's sentries at the south gate. The lead insurrectionist stepped forward. He had teeth the color of river mud. He needed a bath a month ago. "We are twenty, and you are four. Give way, for we mean to enter the castle." The sentries did not move or show any reaction. Except one. One guard in a leather beret stepped forward, stopping within a spear-thrust of Brown Teeth. "Hello my fine fellow. I can see that you are distressed. Was it from missing a night in your sister's bed?" He roared with laughter, and a few of Brown Teeth's fellows twittered at the barb. The other guards might as well have been statues. Brown Teeth blinked in surprise, his face reddening. "We have the advantage. Step aside." The sentry said, "You would do well to go home.

  "Milady queen wishes you good health, Great Healer. She cautions you and all newcomers to take care in the hills. Trolls are on the move, none knows why. I heard some speculation from the fishmonger's daughter that every 27 years, the trolls pick a new leader. The wresting and fighting is savage, I hear. I hear a lot in my travels. I suspect that is why Milady queen asks me to greet all visitors. Why, just last week, I greeted a giant brute of a Northman with tattoos from his fingernails to his earlobes. Nice enough fellow, but he used butter to slick back his hair, and it had gotten rancid..." The healer let the queen's emissary continue for a full five minutes. The little bird may have gone on forever, but a shadow obliterated the sun. "Oh, dear," the bird squeaked. "I must go now. The dragon Hom is visiting today, and he may have news. Goodbye." The healer smiled as the little gossip sped away, chasing the enormous creature while castle horns

The fur trader sat at his stall outside the castle walls. He watched the Dwarven troll hunters haggle over a massive pelt that weighed as much as a cow. The filthy foreigners, coming here to take business away from him, to take food from his family’s mouth. Before those uncouth savages had come to White River, everything had been perfect. He could set his own prices, and he had lived well from fairly small, substandard pelts. He stood and rearranged his samples for the tenth time; maybe a buyer would come. But it had been a week since his last sale. Old Wilmer had come by and said, “I need some rabbit for my grandson’s gloves. How’s the business?” “Rabbits are good this year. Business is booming.” Old Wilmer nodded, playing along with the lie. “Ya know them Dwarven are all the rage. I hear they are planning to stay. Maybe start some kind of village of their own.” “Rages come and go,” the fur trader growled. “Remember when everyone wanted Elvenari shoes a few years back?” Old W

Ulrich blinked in the gods be damned desert heat as he trudged over the baked scrubland toward a shadow, a castle. They built it around an oasis for parched travelers if the rumors were true. Maybe they built it around an eligible princess as well. He was amazed that there was only one guard outside the castle. He wore no obvious armor or shield, and his desert scimitar was no match for the Northman’s axe. Moreover, he looked well past his prime. When Ulrich reached a spear-throw from the guard, the man stepped forward and held out his hand. A string of unknown language followed. “I am sorry, my friend,” Ulrich said, showing his empty hands. “I do not speak your language.” The leather-skinned guard regarded him for a moment and scratched his scruffy beard. If he was like every other castle guard in every other part of Salvania, he was probably figuring how to extract a “toll” for entry. He stepped forward to meet Ulrich.  “Why is you be here?” the guard asked. “What is you busy