Land of Salvania

  There once was a knight on a quest. He galloped like mad to the west. It was quite a disgrace When the bug hit his face. He found it tough to digest. (I like this silly limerick because it leaves the door open to interpret what was so hard to digest: the bug or the disgrace of being hit by a bug.  Or both?) /// Copyright

  "I bet they write a song about us," Egil told his brother as they crunched across the snow-clad field outside the White River Castle. Einar snorted. "Songs are for the high born, not for us. I'll wager old Duke Roundbelly will take all the credit anyway." "His bard was writing something when we brought in the prisoner. Maybe it was about us," Egil insisted. "More likely, he'll sing about the murdering bitch and her felonious ways," Einer grumbled. "Fancy words. Felonious. Do you even know what it means?" "It means you should mind your own business for once." *** Just a few days earlier, they had been encamped off the road a day's hard ride from the siege at King Rience's castle. They were bringing news to the Duke that reinforcements were needed.  Twice the King's guard had tried to break out of the encircled castle, and twice they had been repulsed by the brothers and the Duke's surrounding arm

  The fourth and last shield was in place on the monument. A dozen scarred knights and dames silently raised their swords in salute. There were no profound speeches or weeping ladies in fine attire to pay homage to The Four. No nobles came forth to declare the bravery of The Four. No bard sang a song for them. The Four had held the line of retreat against a hundred gargs, falling back in good order while the townies had fled across the White River Crossing. When The Four had reached the bridge, they had stopped and held off the slavering creatures for two days and nights. None still living knew the full tale. One of The Four had been gravely wounded by a poisoned arrow, and he had scrawled a quick account for posterity. "Beware the green-tipped arrow of the foul savages," he had written. "For when the honorless creatures failed to best us with their numbers in a clean fight, they turned to cowardly poison. Mayhap they are not shrewd enough to make decent poison,

  Flint pulled a rune from the linen bag and placed it on the table across from the painted woman. Her elaborately decorated wagon was cloudy with incense. Outside, someone was playing a melancholy tune on on a violin. A dog barked, and children squealed. She leaned forward, tiny bells sewn into her red silk head cloth jingled. One of her hands hovered over the tile carved from a troll's lower tusk, her many rings glinting in the candelight. The rune Ansuz was carved into the tile. She ran a painted fingernail over the design, a vertical line with two parallel lines angling off the right side. It reminded Flint of a squashed version of the Elvenari letter 'F'. "This is important." Her nail tapped the ivory. Her entire hand was covered in elaborate henna designs. "Ansuz is the 4th rune by the Northmen's reckoning, an auspicious number relating to the four directions of the wind." A raven watching from a nearby stand said, "Northman. Nor

Suddenly, the fighting died away. From the castle wall, archers and healers were scrambling down ladders and ropes. Both groups found more arrows and bodies than expected. Echoes of horns and drums sounded from various distances, sending commands and queries to those that understood. The field beyond the Duke's castle walls was once a lovely garden. Now it was a ruined expanse of dead and dying horses and fighters. Hooves from enormous cavalry steeds had ravaged the lawn, leaving it as pocked as the Duke's jousting ground. Burning wagons and siege towers left black, smoking scars. Some of the Elvenari Sisterhood were already walking among the twisted shapes of armored combatants, motioning for stretchers when they found someone alive from either side. Torben found himself squishing through mud that oozed with horse blood as he gathered a handful of decent arrows that could fly again. His little Rock Dragon rode on his shoulder and squeaked in dismay at the unpleasant smel

  There once was a guard at a gate Who thought that the job was just great! His hat was so wide, It shaded his sides, And sunburned no more was his pate. /// Copyright

  Ulrich sipped frothy ale from his horn and stared into the snapping campfire. His mind began to wander, his gaze unfocused, and he somehow dredged up a memory from his youth. As a boy of ten years, Ulrich almost died twice in the same day. He had been out roaming the ancient forests and checking his fur traps near his family village when he heard men's voices. He hid, thinking he would jump out with his wooden sword and startle the men. "Ven vee get zhere, you get a bucket of coals from ze cook fire and blaze up a roof," an unfamiliar voice said. He had a strange accent. Ulrich peeked from the dense undergrowth and saw two tall men. Both looked similar: thick beards, long brown hair, wicked axes in hand. The one with the strange accent had a pale scar that split his eyebrow. The other wore a green tunic. "And I guess you'll be poking around for pretty girls to take back," another strange voice said. "Fah," the accented man spat. "I j

  Alliance Crossroads www.AllianceXR.com alliancecrossroads@gmail.com 520 Doc Hawkins Rd Greeneville, TN 37745 MUSIC ‘Another Night’ by Mid-Air Machine Licensed under an Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License /// Copyright

  "I found my first rock dragon on a sunny day in May just like today," Flint said as a little red dragon, no bigger than a squirrel, scrambled over his hand, arm, and shoulder before hiding in his hair. Other rock dragons were sunning themselves on the warm rock wall or peeking out of crevices. "They say half the Yunni keep them as pets and the other half keep them for breakfast." With a twinkle in his eye, he looked at a Yunni, one of the small forest folk, standing among the children making up Flint's "forest classroom." The children all looked at the Yunni who, even though full grown, was barely as tall as child. "Mister Flint," the Yunni said with great solemnity. "I would never have one of these delightful creatures for breakfast. I might invite one to enjoy my breakfast, though." She tossed a morsel of bread onto a flat rock. Flint's little red peeked out of his curtain of hair, but a bigger blue dragon flashed out

  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 Marc

  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

  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Ritter stepped outside wearing a fresh tabard, and most of the grime from his days of confinement was scraped off his face and hands. His kidnapper walked beside him. Both were smiling. Wellorg, the massive dragon queen sniffed the air and stiffened. The bandits' twenty dragons surrounded her, bowing and cooing their greetings to the green and black queen. A few of the larger blue dragons were starting to posture and nip each other to showoff their worth as possible mates. If she stayed around any longer, they would start fighting in earnest. "Like I said, she is huge, powerful, and more dangerous than you'll ever know," Ritter said, still smiling. "She will happily slaughter everyone - man and dragon - you see here if this goes sideways." "You're just trying to save your own skin," Morgan, his captor-turned-reluctant-ally, said. "You bet I am," Ritter said. "Just do what I said,

  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Ritter almost jumped out of his skin as the long dagger clattered to the floor. "We're here," Farsinger croaked, landing on Ritter's chest and gripping his nose with her beak to rouse him. "I brought help, too." Ritter, heart pounding, sat up from the tower's cold stone floor. His muscles ached, and his head was fuzzy from days of fitful sleep and gnawing uncertainty. He blinked crusty eyes; a recessed window sent a single shaft of vivid light across the empty room. His raven friend hopped to his shoulder then his hand, nipping at his dirty clothes, her excitement palpable. "His name is Pavia." She nodded toward the large vulture standing nervously in the shadows. "He was strong enough to lift the dagger all by himself." Ritter smiled at the vulture. "Impressive, Pavia. Thank you." Pavia nodded and said nothing. Ritter heard the echo of boots on the spiral stairs leading up to his

  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Wellorg felt Droth's spirit before she ever smelled him. He felt like a lonely wolf call in the night, full of sadness and purpose. He felt like the consort she never had, so unlike the dozens of other man-kin she had been knighted to over the swirl of centuries. She stirred in her rocky nest, opening one red eye to watch the steep pathway up her mountain. Maybe she would fly down to meet him, snatch him up in gentle talons and feel his tiny spirit flame up with bright fear and excitement. No, that would not do. She would not come running to him after this long apart. Still, her black heart beat just a little faster when she saw Droth walking up the path. He waved and she snorted, sending a fine mist of acid to sizzle the nearby moss. "My lady," Droth said with a short bow. "You are lovely, as usual." "I greet you, Sir Droth." There. That would set the tone. Cold and distant until he had groveled sufficiently. He

  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 The Jirrah named Ritter was a tough one to read. He seemed to be both truthful and deceptive at the same time. "I tell you," Morgan said. "I'm sure he is lying about this." He held out the golden dragon scale. The flickering lamp on his table reflected in a dozen directions off the angles and facets. "Looks real to me," Evie purred as she regarded him with the utter disdain mastered by all cats. She was resting on a pile of wrinkled vellum covered in some kind of meaningless scribble. "Only one way to know for sure." She was right. When it came to the unusual or arcane, she was always right. "I hate to ruin it." "Then don't. I don't care." Morgan went over it again. They had come back to the dragon keep after a botched raid, and here was this Ritter character standing in the middle of their courtyard like he owned the place. He had seemed friendly enough, asking for help from Morgan

  Part 1 Part 2 The company of twenty Jirrah warriors moved through the night-clad forest, their way lit by blazing stars and a few dim lamps scattered along the line of march. For being so heavily armed and armored, they moved with minimal noise across the dewy land, a mark of their expertise that never failed to impress Droth. They made a hasty camp with bedrolls, woolen cloaks, and sleeping furs. Talk was hushed and professional. Ritter, one of their own, was in trouble, and the mood was somber. Droth simply sat with his back against a tree and, wrapped in his cloak and hood against the early Spring chill, nibbled jerky and sipped water. The digestion would keep him warmer; it was an old woodsman trick. Well before sunrise, Droth tapped Briar, the company commander for this adventure. "I'm heading out earlier than we discussed. The more I think about it, the more I think I'll need extra time to convince her to help us." "Good luck. I'll see you ther

  Part 1 Farsinger was exhausted from flying all night, and the heavy fog near the outpost only added to her confusion and anxiety. When she finally found her landmarks in the mist, she winged through the village to Flint's cottage. He was the only one who knew Ravenspeech, and he could carry her urgent message to his flock. He wasn't there. "Fek, fek, fek," she burst out in dismay, using her mispronunciation of Ritter's favorite swearing word. "What shall I do?" "What ails you, sister blackbird?" The voice came from a nearby branch. It was Suncatcher! "Ah, sister bluebird, I must find your Flint. My errand is urgent. My Ritter is in trouble!" "Follow me." Suncatcher sped through the narrow lanes between cottages with Farsinger close behind. Soon, they emerged over farmland showing early spring growth. But Suncatcher kept going back into the misty forest. She landed near a fox. "Hello brother fox," Suncatch

  "I told you the map was worth it," Farsinger had declared as the hilltop castle had come into view. "It will only be worth it if we find the chest." Ritter and Farsinger explored outside the ruins for most of two days. Strangely, there was no village or ruins of a village in the area. Most castles had a town nearby for farmers and craftsmen to raise a family. Most disturbing of all, there seemed to be no way into the fortress. Farsinger had flown all around and through the ancient castle. "There are no gates for those on two legs or four. But I think you can work your way up an old stairway on the other side." "How did they resupply the fortress without gates for the wagons?" he wondered out loud. Ritter had spent most of another day huddled in a partly-roofed guard shack as cold spring rain lashed the hilltop, sending rivulets down from a hundred drainages. He ate pemmican and drank captured rainwater. He mended his armor and took a nap.

  Being dead was strange this time, Droth mused as he walked through the "wild land." He was in a forest where the colors were vivid but the edges were indistinct. It was like someone had draped colored fabric haphazardly on all the trees. The sky was brighter here. Sounds were muted. He stopped walking and let the moment stretch out. He laughed when he couldn't feel his heart beating. He recalled he had laughed last time too. It was good to be back. He started walking again, but he had no destination. Just me and my sleeping heart taking a stroll in the sunshine, he thought. Last time he had died, he remembered feeling more disconnected from the wild land. Last time, he felt like he needed to move along to his unknown destination. Not this time. He was in no hurry. No agenda, no stress. Stay. Go. It didn't really matter. Not this time. He had finished his task and was...what? What was this strange feeling? Several words came to mind, but he settled on

  "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