Land of Salvania

  "My nose itches," Ritter said. "Be still," the artist said, her charcoal-stained hand flying over the canvas. "Just a few more minutes." Ace stood beside Ritter and used his Elvenari discipline to remain as still as a statue. It made Ritter's nose itch more. "I'm thirsty," Ritter complained. "Hold on," the artist said without looking up. "You remind me of a sausage," Ace said, barely moving his lips. His sword was heroically crossed over Ritter's. The portrait was going to be amazing. "Why?" "Because you're a brat," Ace quipped. "Yeah? Most people don't know how I struggled with a serious drinking problem."  Ritter's tone was suddenly serious. "Oh, I'm sorry," Ace said, immediately contrite. He even moved his head to look at Ritter, eliciting a loud sigh from the artist. "It's better now. I brew my own so I have a reliable supply!" /// Co

  The wizard unrolled the partly burned scroll, looking from it to the monument and back. The scroll was written in a flowing Elvenari script, and the wording was so old, he could barely understand. His halting interpretation was: "Seek you the south bay whereupon stands the fox flame of Pamania. One whose art is pure may sense the power of the monument and be refreshed." Many weeks of continuous travel, storms, and hardship had brought him south. Long had he sought this legend, finally to determine its power for himself. His art was strong, but it refused to show him the way. Instead, he had to endure days of weary speech with suspicious villagers. None had heard of a place, god, or man called "Pamania." None seemed interested in the least in his origin or his quest. To the wizard, they were as witless as the cattle they tended. Finally, he met an old woman at a lonely cottage on the edge of some nameless village. He sensed a spark of the art in her, though

  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

Norrion du Venecan, a senior ovate with the druidic order of the Thistle Grove, waited on the trail, breathing in the Autumn air and listening to the pixies chatter in the trees. The air had a bite of winter promise, but the sun was warm, and the strip of sky above the trail was vivid blue. He wiggled his toes in his leather sandals, feeling the firm earth below him, grounding him in this one eternal moment of contemplation. His mind was free to wander where it would, but his feet always reminded him of his place in the universe. He heard a distant crow. It was faint, but it sounded like "they are coming." They. The Elvenari. He sighed. He would have to meet them and, if his instincts were correct, the Elvenari would agree to his terms. "All done," Kelraz said. Norrion felt the giant wechu's deep voice rumble in his very bones. Kelraz crunched through the foliage, make little noise for all his mass. "Nothing like a satisfying bowel movement to start

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 healer motioned Khevol to join her at the druid's campfire. The deep conversations were over, and the wine jugs had appeared. The druids, all women, and the Elvenari, all males, regarded this Dwarven in their midst. "This is Khevol. He is a wonderful bone carver and friend of my fire," the healer said. She looked at Khevol and winked. "So give us a story." Khevol was shocked. What kind of story would he tell to this auspicious group? "You have ambushed him," one of the Elvenari said with a smile. He stood beside a small shrine they had placed near the fire circle; Khevol saw a deer skull in a circle of tallow candles. Khevol pointed to the deer shrine, and said, "We of the Red Hills have a goddess named Artemin. One day, she was bathing in a clear mountain pool, and two trolls stumbled upon her. She was beautiful, and the trolls tried to violate her. Using her magic, she changed into a white doe and dashed between the trolls. They

Everyone called her Aunt Matilda. Each day, she cooked a cauldron of pottage with peas, carrots, onions, mushrooms, a few nuts, and black kernels of Elvenari rice.  Very rarely, a sliver of meat might appear. Nobody asked where the meat came from. It was hot, and it filled empty bellies. That was all anyone needed to know. She carried it one wooden bowl at a time up the stone stairs running up to the outer wall. She would deliver her food, a kind word, and a pat on the arm to each of the weary soldiers manning the wall. The soldiers would smile and, staring across the once-manicured market grounds toward the forest, eat their pottage in silence. Sometimes, an arrow would come out of the forest and fall short. The soldiers would jeer and call to the invisible enemy to improve their aim. Sometimes the arrows would go long, and the soldiers would call out to the people in the courtyard behind them to watch out. One day, an arrow landed next to Elzalore, splintering on the cobbled lane run