Land of Salvania

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

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

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 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

  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

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

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