Land of Salvania

  The tracker whistled loudly, a long, warbling whistle that echoed down the valley. A hoot came back.  Moments later, Panadel drifted overhead on silent wings and landed on his arm. "Good morning, Sweetling," she said to the old woodsman, her spirit voice sounding clearly in his mind.  "Did you find the tracks?" The tracker squatted, showing her the broad, muddy print left by a troll.  The owl adjusted her talons and hopped gently down his arm to a better vantage.  "Its a big one," she said.  "It is.  But it ain't healthy."  He touched the soft ground, and ran his finger along a crooked toe print.  "Broken or disloacted toe.  Probably hurts like hell." Panadel preened a little, working a white feather back into place.  "I saw nothing from on high.  Maybe it came through yesterday." "Yep." "Got any meat?" she asked, suddenly. The old tracker smiled.  Long conversations bored both of them.  He pulled a b...

  The druid Mecmac donned his best green cloak. Usually, he wore a white cloak for ceremonies, but this night was different. Taking his ornate horn off a peg above the hearth, Mecmac slipped out of his small cottage and walked easily down the familiar path leading to the Dragon Stones. The moon was full, and the night was full of promise. He was the curator, of sorts, for The Stones. A few times a year, some visitor would stop to ask about the long-lost builders and the magic they must have used to handle such huge stones. Mecmac knew some of the story from the lore of his Order. He knew some from reading old scrolls that hinted at other scrolls he had never seen. That was how he had restarted a new/old ceremony: he had read from a crumbling scroll that the Order of Green, possibly an ancient mystic order like his, once held ceremonies at The Stones during the change of each season. Don thou the green of thy station And seek the standing stones. Do this under the Worm Moon in ...

  Watching Girl was born with a twisted leg. She could not do some of the things that other children could do; it bothered her parents, but it didn't bother her. She seemed to get around the tiny village and surrounding woods well enough with her walking stick. Watching Girl's mind was keen, and she could sense things that others missed. It might be the flick of a squirrel’s tail or a distant ripple of a pond turtle's snout, but she was the first to notice it. She could see the frog struggling to emerge from a piece of wood, needing only a little sculpting with her carving knife to free it. As she grew older, she came to see other invisible things. She could see the sadness in the grandmother who stared into the fire at night. She could see the brooding anger in the skinny boy who always lost the wrestling matches. On the same night that her long-anticipated womanly flow arrived for the first time, there was a bright star that flashed across the sky, heading north, in...

  The trackers listened carefully to the queen's emissary, Blue Eye. The rapid cadence and accent of her Bird Speech were hard to follow, and the news was too important to get wrong. "The insurrection leaders are in the forest about a crow-hop away," she chirped. "What is a crow-hop?" Mishka asked as the bird paced along his finger. "Is it longer than the queen's castle wall?" "Yes, maybe two walls long," Blue Eye said. Mishka looked at his cousin. Vinka's striped hood was pulled up, and he swore it helped trap sounds coming from ahead. He was kneeling and looking at the clearing they would need to cross. Vinka cast off his hood and shook his head. "We cannot cross without being seen. You should claim your favor." "Favor?" Blue Eye asked as she looked from one face to the other. Mishka seemed to think it over, and he signed heavily. "It is a shame to waste it." Vinka shrugged. "I can't th...

"So, good Sergeant, you will attend us at the ball tonight." Princess Juliska had eyes like a barn owl: large, beautiful, unflinching. She reminded him of Teng, a little. Andrew of Salvania, Sergeant of the king's wilderness guard, bowed - but not too deeply. She was a princess, but he was her elder by probably ten years. Hard to tell with girls, though. The Autumn day was cool, but the sun was just right. They were meeting in an alcove off the castle courtyard instead of the throne room. That suited Andrew just fine. He didn't care to be indoors much. He saw her glance again at the fresh scar on his whiskered cheek. She seemed quite taken with it in an unsettling way. He could tell she was dying to know. He touched the scar and said, "Troll got too close last week. It was my own fault; I'm much, much faster than a hill troll fattening up for his winter sleep." Her eyes never changed, but her mouth softened, almost like her lips wanted to say ...

The Yunni shaman looked up at the towering wizard. Even for one of the small folk, the shaman was tiny, his stature further reduced by an aged stoop. "Greetings, my friend. My name is Deep Lake." The wizard did not reply, but Deep could see he was agitated. Deep glanced at Leaf on the Water, the young Yunni hunter who had guided this unhappy giant to the village. "Leaf tells me you have need of us." The wizard's jaw muscle twitched as he ground his teeth. By the spirits of tree and river, what was causing his fury? "I have need of no Yunni-kind," he spat. "I would have provisions as mine were stolen since entering this evil land. And a guide to see me out of this cursed place." Deep nodded. Perhaps it was his pride that was singed. Indeed, how would a great and mighty wizard lose his provisions and his direction? Maybe he was not so mighty after all. "I see, my friend. I will be glad to help you." Deep whistled, and a ...

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...

  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...

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...

  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...

  "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....