Land of Salvania

  Mouser drew two long daggers as the black figure emerged from the midnight shadows. Somewhere behind the terrifying shape, Mouser heard a horse snort and stamp. Old Barley was right about "black riders" after all, Mouser thought as the black-robed shape stood before him, swaying a little like a silent, ebony tree. Barley was still shakey after his inn, The Prancing Pony, had been ransacked two nights earlier, "By men all in black, or more like...like shadows that has taken the form of a man." It had taken more cajoling, but the last thing he would say is, "They was after my guests, four nice Hobbits from the Shire. Then these Hobbits ran off with another ranger, meaning no disrespect to you yourself, you see." Mouser, a ranger of the North, had been looking for Strider, his captain. Many roads and rumors had finally led him to Bree, where, it seemed he had barely missed the 90-day wonder of intrigue and mayhem. Even the old men of the town constable...

Elzalore tossed and moaned in his sleep. He was young again, maybe 14. He was a starving boy during the siege, trapped behind the duke's walls for months while the enemy outside stopped any chance of relief.  He had been roaming the streets at night, mad with hunger. He had become a senseless animal, driven only by the need to survive. He was a scrawny, dirty, growling thing. He prowled the empty shopping district, just one of many places he checked each night. He looked under baskets and found human skulls gleaming white in the torchlight. He looked under stacks of bloody rugs and found bones. Finally, he reached a distant part of the market. Somehow, he knew this was off limits. Dangerous. He stopped, tense and coiled like a cat deciding to leap. Maybe there was food back there. Had he ever looked? No. Or had he? He wasn’t sure. He heard a small noise behind a stall. Was someone there ahead of him? Was someone taking his food? That was enough. He rushed forward, h...

Osran stood back in the crowd, trying to be inconspicuous. He watched the traveling seer, named Ivakius, perform an elaborate ceremony with a smoking bundle of sage. He wore ceremonial face paint, and he had stripped down to a thin tunic in the summer swelter. "Now, my friends, this place has been purified," Ivakius said, his voice deep and serious. "I will begin to reach into the realm of spirits, and we shall see what we may." As the seer closed his eyes and mumbled, Osran reached out with his astral thoughts, seeing the situation with the Deep Magic. He almost giggled. There was no more magic about Ivakius than a house cat. No, he was being unfair. Osran had seen some house cats with a glint of magic, and this charlatan had none at all. "I can feel a spirit that wants to speak to someone in the crowd. Has anyone lost their father?" Osran smiled as half the crowd raised their hands. Of course. Ask enough vague questions and you can steer the cr...

The shaman tapped Khevol's arm and whispered, "We have a visitor." Khevol looked past his steaming mug and the crackling fire, his eyes following the shaman's gesture. A lovely, large hawk was perched atop the camp's totem looking back at him. The shaman said, "This is a sign to you, my Dwarven friend. Hawks are careful; they watch an area before taking action. Our lore says the hawk spirit invites you to study a situation thoroughly before making any quick decisions. Never be rash since every action brings consequences both seen and unseen." Khevol nodded. "Our word for this hawk spirit is 'trangnarn'. My people say that the trangnarn represents skill and precision. When you see a trangnarn, you should look at areas of your life where you should improve your choices more before acting." The shaman nodded. "Yes. We may look different, but our people are much alike." The hawk peeped in agreement. /// Copyright

"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...

From the scroll "Battle of Lindrin in the Ninth Year." Scholars of the Arcane Brotherhood think much of it was written by Duke Nultan of White River. "Lindrin'' is possibly the ancient name for Lyndaran, a small walled village notable for two standing stones atop a large earthen mound. Some say that birds refuse to land on the stones or the mound. The "ninth year" likely refers to his ninth year after inheriting his title and lands. Written by mine own hand one week after the battle. The battle raged throughout the night. Gargs without number, and other demon beasts, came out of the uncanny wall of flames in endless waves to break upon our lines. Our stout soldiers showed no fear as they repulsed one shrieking assault after another. I must admit, even when my own sword grew heavy, the raging shield maidens of the northlands seemed never to tire, dancing among the fell creatures and flailing slender blades like a mower's scythe. At last, I fel...

Elzalore had finally reached his limit. He had remained calm while the inbred gate guard with missing front teeth had looked him up and down. He had remained calm when the dolt asked him about his business at the castle. Then the guard stepped in it. Deep. "You will need to swear an oath on yer gods, if ya have any, that you are not some kind of deviant. Like a queer or a Dwarven-lover." The Deep Magic came so quickly, and so focused, that Elzalore was startled to feel it pouring out of his hands without effort. Indeed, he had never felt so in tune with the power of the universe. "AHHHH!" The guard cried out and stumbled back, the bones of his face twisting into a hideous mask. A lady at a nearby market stall screamed and ran away with a toddler in tow, his dirty feet barely touching the ground. Dogs all over the surrounding village began howling. A flight of crows called out and erupted from the trees. "Stop right there," another guard bellowed...

The village shaman stood before the bonfire in the cleared center of the pine grove. The crowd hushed in expectation; even the wild fae-folk, eyes glittering orange, listened from the forest shadows. He started tapping a small drum and chanting about the wheel of turning seasons and of the balance of light and dark. "Today is the ending of the equinox, the Alban Elfed. Now comes the waning of the day as the night takes her due. We mark this moment to give our thanks for the blessings of abundance." As if on cue, a new baby cried, and the assembly giggled politely. Smiling, he continued. "But we also have another blessing: the blessing of change. As the darkness grows, let us leave her with the things we discard. Bad habits. Sadness. Sickness of spirit. All of these, she will take, and gladly." He removed a piece of broken stalk, the chaff of the day's winnowing, and tossed it into the flames. "So I give my sadness to the night. So may we all....

  Leeka was gathering firewood for her mother, and a glint caught her eye. She spotted a book with dried mud on the leather cover. Two glass beads glued in its corner were scattering the morning sun. The book was laying on top of a thorn bush like it had fallen from the sky. It tingled when she touched it, and she heard these words in a strange accent… I shall call this meditation “Claiming a Cloud.” Spoken in my true voice as Kalendarian the Bard in the fifth year of Duke Nultan of White River. I am in the forest with browsing deer. They look at me but they do not flee. I like that. It is as if I am a spirit here, without smell or threat. Just another forest citizen. In this timeless space, ancient information prevails. Bird songs and scamperings in dry leaves travel along little-used paths in my mind. No city noise here. No cries of sorrow. No traders bellowing their wares. No requirement for justice. The vivid blue after image of the dappled sunlight appears behind a tr...

The little Yunni were all around the trader, some barely visible in the dense undergrowth, but all were armed with bows and wicked looking weapons. Some of the weapons looked too much like butchering tools. “Why are you in our hunting lands?” a larger Yunni, maybe as tall as his waist, demanded. The trader slowly sat on his wooden trunk and showed empty hands as a gesture of friendship. “I am a lost traveler, my friend. I did not know I was trespassing.” He heard movement behind him as well, and he was sure an arrow was pointed square at his back. “One does not just stumble into our lands while carrying such a heavy...” The larger Yunni rattled off a string of foreign words, and another Yunni answered. “Crate.” “Yes, well, my boat sank on the river near here. The rains swelled the river, sending us on a wild ride, and we broke on some rocks.” The Yunni chattered rapidly among themselves. “What is in this...crate?” the spokesman said. “Just a gift for my son.” It was not entirely...

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...

Ivey's brother stepped lightly down the stone steps and smiled at Khevol, the full moon blocked by his armored bulk. "Well met, my Dwarven brother from the Red Hills. I am Bomruid Shadowborn. Ivey says you're a troll hunter." Khevol appreciated directness. "Well met, Shadowborn," Khevol glanced at the badge on his armor, "Of the Clan Steward, I see. I don't know many Stewards who'd want Dwarven folk among their number." Shadowborn tapped the badge over his heart. "That's a long story. The short version is that they don't mind dwarven folk who slay trolls that sneak into town and steal their goats. When I'm off this wall tomorrow, we'll have an ale or three and discuss it." Khevol nodded. Ivey had already told him more than that. Shadowborn had saved a child, not a goat. Khevol appreciated modesty. /// Copyright

Khevol had a pleasant supper with the woodcutter, whose name was almost impossible to inflect with his Dwarven tongue. Eventually, the man laughed and said, “Just call me Dyado.” Dyado poured a small amount of deep red liquid into two wooden cups. “Nazdrave,” he said with gusto and drained his cup. “Cheers,” Khevol said and followed suit. It was like drinking fire; his eyes watered as he fought for air. “By the gods knees,” he sputtered, surprised that his exhalation did not ignite his sleeve. “Give me a hot coal to cool my throat.” Dyado laughed and slapped his knee, though his eyes were watering too. “This will make your sword strong, my friend!” Over the next hour, as the pleasant conversation and dinner and drink settled him, and the crackling fire filled the cabin with dancing shadows, Khevol melted into a rocking chair and dozed lightly. He dreamed and woke and dreamed some more. It was a rare moment of complete restorative relaxation that his recent hardships had not al...

  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...

  "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. ...

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...

“The green glamour is upon you now,” the Yunni shaman said. “Those with the inner sight may still be able to see you, so beware. The faeries of the forest will see you as easily as always, but few others will notice more than a shadow drifting at the corner of their eyes.” The healer felt somehow lighter. It was like he had removed a heavy pack basket he had been lugging up a mountain trail. “My skin feels...strange. Like it is tingling.” “Yes, the mushrooms in my potion do that sometimes. I find it quite pleasant.” The healer nodded. “So the effect will fade when I leave the forest?” “Yes. My power is modest.” The small Yunni smiled. Modest? The healer chuckled. Even the most haughty, bejeweled wizard visiting the queen’s court had never claimed they could make a man invisible. “This glamour will only fool the eyes. Ears and noses can sense you, so you could still find your way into a troll’s belly.” /// Copyright

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 ...

      "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