Wizard's Apostasy

The horses screamed. There was so much mayhem that the horses could not bear the sudden disruption. The sounds of fighting and screaming rent the previously quiet night, and that disturbed them. An eerie, almost sickly glow permeated the air, with little twinkles of malevolent light punctuating it. Each flash announced when someone died, and did it in a cold and detached way. The horses knew that those flashes didn't mean anything good, although how they knew it was a matter of question. They realized when someone died. The horses could see it happen. That person would tremble and lay still, or this person would thrash around and scream, but no one touched by the lights survived for long. Some of those touched tried to run. They would run away as quickly as they could, even though some would fall. If they fell, they got up as quickly as they could or simply expired where they lay. Others stood their ground, singly and in groups. Those railed at the oncoming pestilence, and died with loud curses and cries of defiance upon their lips. They sacrificed themselves so that others in the town could try to escape.

Only a few did.

Several of the larger antagonists seemed to shamble around without conscious thought to direct unholy fire toward the villagers. Other attackers fixated on the structures of the town. A double handful of houses became kindling in short order, the destructive power evident in the speed that flattened the wood. The chosen buildings constructed of stone fared no better. When the materials of those stone walls disintegrated, the smaller rocks that broke off flew everywhere. Anyone caught in the path of deadly arcs found that the sheer pain added much more to their problems. Those that survived the impacts, that was. The smell of flaming thatch, wood, and pitch further upset the horses, and the ones in stables started kicking at their stall gates.

The attack had started an hour or so previously, with no warning. The evening sky was filled with an unholy miasma of color as scores of townspeople were lost. The draft animals in their corrals were spared, but to them that didn’t much matter considering the circumstances. In the here-and-now, they found themselves in a situation that wasn’t better at all. Their chances of being cut down like wheat was slim, but the horses in the stables didn’t know that. Not knowing that really made things worse and put them in a bad way, and they reacted the only sensible way they knew how. They stampeded out of the destroyed corral, and soon the stabled horses joined them. They left behind a shattered stable and a fight still raging.

The cows and other animals, not quite as high-strung as the horses, were not as worried. Whether that was due to the differences in their existence or what it could have been was hard to say, but they retreated to the far end of the huge corrals. They watched as the horses panicked, and wondered what all the commotion was about. The distant flames concerned them, but here it didn't bother them as much. They stared philosophically at all that was going on, with only a little disquiet.

A different thunder rolled as hooves fled toward open ground. The herd, now free of the confinement of the small town, ran away from the killing behind them. In their terrified flight, they could not notice that the occasional appearance of dark beings made them shy away into a new direction that was as good as another. It seemed to them that the choices of stampeding the menacing figures was not a choice at all and that avoiding them was better. They ran as fast as they could to find somewhere that would be safe. Anything was better than going behind and back to that deadliness. 

Soon the herd stopped in a quiet area.  They found themselves in a peaceful place, with plenty of shelter, grass, and water. No one was here to chase them. No one tried to kill the ones they grew up with, and the sky was open and tranquil with a host of stars welcoming them. Still shaky and jumpy, with hammering hearts and hot blood, the peacefulness of their find calmed the herd bit by gradual bit. One of the younger horses felt his belly complaining about the lack of food in it. He'd neglected to eat earlier, wanting to play around and have fun with his younger stablemates. The young horse looked around and found a likely spot, and he reached down for a mouthful of grass.  He found it to be very good grass, and had another mouthful. He wasn't long out of colt-hood and he wasn't averse to the idea of sneaking more food when he could. Others noticed and started to follow his example. In due time, but for a few lookouts, all the horses in the herd were grazing without worry. The peacefulness of the quiet glen and the good grass had put the fearful dash out of their minds. The reason for that same dash was long forgotten, now. Soon the herd was calmed, but the occasional scent of death carried on the shifting winds in their wake kept them from finding their way back.

Far behind them, the town sprawled in ruins. Every building was touched in some way by the attack. Most still stood, but with insidious signs of attack. Others retained a general outline, some still had a semblance of a roof, some had partial walls remaining or gaping holes. Maybe half had the capability of providing some kind of shelter for a lonely traveler. In fact, a few had simply ceased to exist. The ground was ripped up and sod scattered everywhere, soaking up blood and other things. Bodies lay on the ground or leaning against broken trees, misshapen in their final torments. Those with recognizable expressions wore terrified countenances fixed on their still faces, stiffening into wordless finality. 

The attackers spread out, having achieved their assigned primary objectives and moved on to the secondary ones. They looked in every remaining building, plundering, looting, and pillaging, as the expression sometimes went. They kept eyes out for anything that was unusual for a town of this size. Those in charge directed others toward this or that, observed for things that needed to be made note of, and watched out for unseemly behavior. That part wasn't strictly enforced, since the lives of the townspeople wasn't really a priority. To them, the villagers just happened to be an inconvenience. Any such nuisances were dealt with according to the tendencies of the one or ones doing the dealing. Some of the townsfolk found themselves herded like so many cattle, with less concern than any usual shepherd.

At one of the town's two forges, a blood covered marauder stopped. He had a strange feeling about this building and he didn't know why. The marauder wiped some of the blood off, and thought back to the preamble to the attack, back at their hideout. He remembered the tall form of his master standing in front of the assembled group and muttering something incomprehensible that he didn't really pay attention to. To be honest, he was just looking as attentive as he could and faking the pose until he could get out here and take part in the pillaging. The one beside him in ranks poked him when no one was looking to remind him to look more interested in what was going on. 

In the middle of all the commotion, he wanted to find out what was compelling him to go inside. There was something about this building and he didn't know what it was that was bothering him. That feeling of the unknown also bothered him. It was one of the few that was stonework and so burning it down like the wooden ones wasn't really an option. So, he bashed in the heavy door and strode inside.

A strapping young man bellowed a war cry and came at him. The young blacksmith swung a heavy hammer at the marauder’s head. For his part, the invader simply dodged the improvised weapon. He let the hammer's inertia propel the blacksmith past him and rammed his sword deep into the young man's ribs. A scream announced the heavy blade's entry, and the assailant shoved down on the hilt. The young blacksmith's ribs acted as a fulcrum, and the murderously sharp point ripped up his organs.

As the young man lay moaning, the attacker looked around. He noted the bubbling blood on the unfortunate man's mouth. He watched the death of the blacksmith on the floor without much concern, and the strange disquiet in his head sharpened as his eye fell on a trapdoor ring. Something had to be there.

First, the marauder did a quick survey of the surrounding area. He didn't want to be attacked while he investigated that trapdoor. A few minutes established that no one else inhabited the forge's spaces, save himself and a dead body. He shoved aside heavy sacks and raised the trapdoor completely. The hinges creaked reproachfully, but with a little effort he got the trapdoor up without breaking a hinge. He leaned the door against the wall and looked down into the trap. Several chests lay there, and upon removing and unlocking them with the key he found on the dead man's body, he discovered a modest fortune in gold. As far as he was concerned, this was all he needed to look for, and he stood up. He relocked the chests for fastidiousness' sake and looked around the outer part of the forge.

There were several things on the wall that the now expired blacksmith had been working on before the attack. A very stout and very sharp battle-axe leaned up against the wall. It seemed odd to find one here in a farming town, but since no one in his group had one like it, the attacker took it. He took a few practice swings and was impressed with the heft and weight. The craftsmanship of the weapon was striking as well. It fit well on his broad back. Several knives went into his belt, and a strong sword very much like his own also found a place on his person.

He turned to go. The chests of gold awaited his presence by the door, and he bent to pick them up. The immense strength in his body barely noticed the weight. He had forgotten the trapdoor behind him – in fact, he'd completely put it out of his mind now that he had his plunder. He was thinking about finding a woman or two now.

Before he could step outside, that strange feeling returned to him doubled in force. He quickly set his burden down, and turned to stare at the yawning trapdoor. Something else had to be there. He didn't see anything else there, just dirt.

The sounds of the plundering, screams, and jeering behind him receded as he stared thoughtfully at the dirt. He shook his head again, and stepped back to leave. The same strange notion grabbed him again, and this time it was more insistent. Irritated, he looked around the shop and found an old shovel. He divested himself of the weapons he'd found and picked up the shovel. The edge was bright with a recent sharpening, so he attacked the hard dirt with it.

Shovelful after shovelful of dirt flew out of the wide trapdoor and cascaded down the walls as he dug down. He was guided by that pesky suspicious thought that maybe his master had given him a mental suggestion in all the incomprehensible mumble. The marauder didn't much care for that thought, and he wanted his mental space to be his own. He wasn't really paying attention when the shovel struck the edge of a small wooden chest bound in iron.

Suddenly, the feeling evaporated, replaced a sense of curiosity. He wanted to know what was in it now, since he'd found it. His quickly-dug hole was too confining to really open the box up, and dark besides. The marauder carefully dug around the box and wiggled it free of the confining earth. He clambered up the hole, gripping the sides with his feet and one hand.

The lip of the hole was a welcome sight, and he tossed the chest up. He heard it slide a little way and then settle on the edge of the shop floor, and carefully clambered up and out of the hole. He had to be careful, since all the loose dirt threatened to tip him back down the hole. The marauder didn't think he would survive the sudden stop at the bottom of the hole, once he landed on the upright shovel he'd left down there.

He wanted to see what was in that chest, and as he rolled up onto the floor of the shop, he was very interested. The marauder got a foot under himself, and froze. He realized that he was not alone. It was still dark in the shop, but there were no problems recognizing the somber presence of his master. The tall form was seated on a stool with the chest on his lap. He absently tapped the chest and peered at the marauder's stricken form.

Oh, relax. I'm not going to kill you. You found what we came here to find, and for that, you deserve a rich reward. It's the first item, and there are more to find. If you find more, then you'll be rewarded even more richly.

The marauder's face relaxed, but he was still wary. He knew that wizards had the strangest and sometimes lethal ideas about richly rewarding someone, no matter what they said. He nodded to his master to show that he was listening and made himself relax. He'd be thrice-damned if he showed fear or even the least intimidation, no matter where his thoughts went. The wizard glanced at him, and a small smirk tweaked the corners of his mouth. He knew what his subject was thinking, and it amused him greatly. It wasn't that important to the wizard what his subject thought or what afraid of, so long as the marauder did what he required.

I found the gold in those chests that you discovered, plus the weapons. You can keep those items, with my compliments. Plus, any women you find later.

The marauder grinned, still a little uneasily. His master went on.

But I'm afraid that this, he tapped the small chest again, is something that you can't have, or for that matter, something that you can't be allowed to remember.

The marauder's eyes widened at the sight of a glowing wiry hand reaching out for him. More words that was total gibberish to him sounded in his ears and he swooned in a dead faint. The walls sounded with the clatter of his body sprawling ungracefully on the hard packed dirt floor. After a few minutes, his eyes opened and he sat up. He was dizzy but looked around, his feeling of disorientation very strong. The marauder was along in the forge's shop, and he thanked the M'reyac deity of plunder for that. However he came to be unconscious in this place, he was glad that someone hadn't found him and pounced upon him.

It was strange, this place. There were the chests of gold. He remembered that much, and he fingered the key on the leather thong around his neck. Over there, stacked neatly was the battle axe, his new knives and the swords. Those were remembered, too, quite easily. Wasn't there something else? The marauder remembered quite clearly finding all of this – the axe, the chests, the blades. All of that. But wasn't there something else? The thought faded away and he dismissed it. He looked around from his seated position on the floor. Why was he on the floor to begin with? He saw the trapdoor and stood up. Stumbling over to it, he leaned over to see a hole. It was apparently fairly deep. He kneeled down, picked up dirt clods in both hands to drop them in the hole. After a moment, he heard them hit the bottom and the sound echoed back up.

How strange, he thought, standing up again. Who would dig a hole in here? For what? It's just an empty hole. The marauder brushed the dirt off his hands, and shook his head at how much seemed to be there. The erstwhile blacksmith did good work, but apparently he hadn't been much on keeping a clean shop. He kicked the trapdoor shut, then turned and loaded himself with his plunder. The marauder left the shop in a very good mood to find his servant and some slave women.

Soon there was a definite stillness in the air. No woodland creatures hastened to break the silence that hung heavily over the town. Most of those had fled the area during the attack. The only readily identifiable visitors were several vultures. They remained silent on their perches, in demolished trees or battle worn clearings, and surveyed the surroundings. Strangely though, they did not turn to their usual appointed grisly tasks of clearing the dead. The few that got to that unhappy piece of ground first waited for several more to arrive, then the group studied the town with impassive eyes and the occasional rustle of wings. A couple of the earlier vultures flew off into the sky without disturbing the morbid tableau, and that seemed to decide the rest. They, too, left without comment or complaint.

Behind them, the once vibrant town lay peaceful in the aftermath of sudden, horrific death.

… My solemn oath on this:

I will fulfill my duties to my Sovereign with all honor, loyalty, and truth – though they demand of me my life ...

Part of the oath sworn by King's Rangers

Did you hear what happened to Kamouraska a week or so ago? the thickset blacksmith said somewhat conversationally to his customer. He picked up the payment for his new order and put it away. The day had been slow due to the icy weather, and he was bored and lazy enough that he didn’t care to get started right away on his commission. Instead, he wanted to talk as the wind blew outside.

The other man paused. It had been a long ride in the cold, and the heat in the shop was welcome. He was tired and irritable, but needed to get a couple of blades sharpened before he found lodging for the night. He really wasn't in the mood for conversation, but decided to play along anyway.

No. What happened? And where exactly is this Kamouraska?

The blacksmith waved a dirty hand negligently to the side, in the other direction from where his visitor had come. His expression intimated that the fellow in front of him was stupid, or at the very least slow, for not knowing the local towns.

It’s two days’ slow ride east, as you follow the road. It was wiped out by fighting wizards, or so the talk would have you believe. Louts, the lot of them. Flapping their gums instead of tending to their own business.

The other man raised an eyebrow. It wasn't clear if the blacksmith was referring to the chitchats or the wizards, and he wasn't interested in clarifying the point. Wizards he had no use for, although he knew well of the abilities that came with a magic user. Plus, as far as he knew, wizards kept to themselves and didn’t congregate. In fact, he didn't know that there were many wizards left in this day and age. The fact that the blacksmith had used the plural as he spoke of the town's fate was unusual enough. He wondered if the other man was prone to exaggerating his facts.

Why was the town destroyed? Does anyone know? 

The curiosity in his deep voice was evident and despite the earlier pious reference to talk, the blacksmith’s inherent gossipy nature was roused. He faced the other man squarely and looked at him after putting away the knives. The blacksmith’s face held a grinning look of confidence as he leaned over the counter. His voice dropped into a lower register.

Well, not much, if anything, the disappointed note in the voice couldn’t quite cover the uneasiness, but Tambor said -

The other man interrupted with a bored grimace.

Wait. Who is Tambor?

Sorry. He's the local farrier. He’s got a workshop some little ways up there, the blacksmith waved again, in a different direction no less carelessly than the first time. He went on with his story, that he pretends to do work from. Lazy old sod, he is, and no joke. Anyway, he said that he was working in his shop, and saw a man on a horse come down the road. He wasn’t moving too fast, he said. Tambor doesn’t see too far nowadays anyway and thought he was just out for a ride and couldn't hold 'is drink. It was pretty sure to everyone present something was wrong when the poor sod fell off his horse a few scant yards from the town gates. Landed like a sack of rotten potatoes, he did, and didn't move. 

The blacksmith paused, and the other man nodded for him to continue. He looked around first before settling down more comfortably on the counter and going back to his tale. His audience moved back a step.

So, Tambor and his apprentice Bill ran out there with blankets and things, and some others followed them right quick with a wagon. The man was in bad shape, and muttering things as though he was drunk or been chewing on that mage’s shroom. At least, that’s what I thought when I put my eye on ‘im. Had people working for me once on that stuff, and this looked pretty close to what this one was doing. 

The blacksmith was warming up to his story. His huge callused hands started to move about, describing events in a tale of their own. It was good for him to have something to gossip about, and he made the most of it. He thought this town was dull and anything to spice up his days other than his usual pursuits helped out greatly. Again, the other man nodded for him to continue and mentally discarded the useless information.

So, he looked a fright.  All covered in blood and burns, clothes ripped up and burnt – used to be good clothes, too, you could tell – and…. He was interrupted again by the other man.

Was he alive, or dead? The blacksmith paused, irritated that his tale was not allowed to develop properly using his supposed natural storytelling gift. He glared at the man to put him in his proper place before continuing.

Oh, aye, he's alive, but bad off. He was taken to the Donkey's Ear. That's the inn in the middle of town. Now are you going to keep asking questions, or let me finish?

The other man smiled grimly, and affixed a frosty stare on the smithy.  He was a tall fellow, with hard gray eyes.  The smile faded slowly, and as it left it seemed that the warm temperature of the shop dropped by several degrees. The blacksmith, although not a weak man himself by nature of his work, suddenly sensed through his self-importance that his visitor was not impressed by his tale and that he was deadly. This realization did not sit well with him. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, or so it felt. The customer spoke again, and those cold gray eyes cautioned the other man behind the counter to keep from wasting any more time.

So what else? What happened to his mount? A moment passed before the blacksmith spoke.

Well – nobody's really said anything else one way or another.  I don't know what happened to his mount. It looked half dead anyway. For all I know, the poor thing is dead. Ask Tambor – he'd know. As for that poor sod, it's been several days since he came in, almost a week. I don't really know if he's even alive or dead. Any road, I haven't seen him walking around. If he is walking around, the least he could do is come in and be thankful that I was around to save his life. A note of careful outrage revealed itself, despite the blacksmith's attempts to speak casually. The other man nodded thoughtfully, ignoring his posturing.

So he spent a few days here, and a couple of days’ ride, plus other things on general principle. About a week and a half. Maybe two. More careful consideration, then a decisive jerk of his head to change the subject. How long to finish those blades?

Relieved to be on a subject that he didn't have to gossip about, the blacksmith decided to answer truthfully. He was made uneasy by the arch gaze of the other man, but tried to project confidence anyway.

A couple of sharpened long daggers? What with all the other work I've got lined up to do, it'll be two or three days if I start now. Cold weather and you'd think people would stay in their homes, but no. Bring it out and make me have to get out in the cold. Metal doesn't do well in this weather. But, no matter. Payment first, and I'll give you a receipt. When I'm done, I'll send word to – well, where are you staying?

A shake of the head was his answer, and the other man grunted.

I will come back here in three days. I have other things that need doing. 

The gray eyes watched as the blacksmith painstakingly wrote out a receipt for his payment in tortured script. Without anything more, he turned and left with a silent swirl of his long coat. The door banged shut, creaking open with the occasional breeze only to bang shut again. The gray-eyed man was long gone. The blacksmith gawped after him, then shook his head and realized that he needed to get to work. He did not want to have that man come back and not have his order ready. Soon the sound of grinding and ringing metal was heard in the blacksmith's forge, and passersby wondered at the greater than normal intensity. A few comments were made, but most had too much to do in their own work to worry about unusual work in the forge.

The Donkey's Ear inn was warmly lit and packed. It sat in the protection of several very large trees, which helped break the force of the blowing wind. Passing traders seemed to be the primary clientele here, which was a good sign for the small town. Several long tables stood occupied by what looked to be one large group of people. The other smaller tables stayed occupied by people who was playing games and, judging by their laughter, either telling jokes or embarrassing tall tales. Even most of the stools at the bar was occupied, though nobody seemed to mind more company. Several of the patrons stood at the bar once all the stools had been spoken for.

It was evident why it was a popular place for travelers.  The inn was not overly big, but it seemed to have a few beds available.  The roaring fire in the hearth and the smell of a tasty stew immediately announced their respective presences when the door was opened.  The evening chill never made it but half a foot past the threshold before it was arrested in a stern hold by the fire's warmth.  A woman carrying several tankards of ale looked up with a natural smile on her face. A stranger stood facing her, after gently closing the door against the blowing wind. From his greater height, he looked down at her as she put the tankards on a table and spoke to him. Her blue eyes greeted him.

Hello, stranger! I'm Maera, the innkeeper. Are you looking for a room? He considered her question, looking around the room.

Yes, for a night and maybe tomorrow, too. 

His posture in itself was not threatening, but she could see that he could be dangerous. The man looked a like a barely restrained coiled spring.  His gray eyes regarded her calmly. She didn't flinch away, but stood up straight and put her hands on her hips while looking straight in his eyes. The barest trace of a smile ghosted across his lips at this display and he relaxed. He crossed over to a stool and sat down. She followed him, going behind the bar and presently placed a mug of ale in front of him.

How much for a room and stabling for my horse?

Three copper siglois for the room, and five kones for the stall per night. He nodded and dug around for payment.

I'll pay for three days; in case I should need more time. Will that be a problem?

She shook her head, since business had been a little slow recently. The upsurge in paying customers made things busy at the moment, but she had help for that.  Maera found herself to be intrigued by her new tenant. Still, business was business, and she had to attend to it.

No, that will not be a problem at all.  I have a room ready for you.  I don't tolerate fighting or drunken behavior in my inn, so if you do that, you'll get thrown out.  And no refunding your money if you do! He did smile, this time, which seemed a little odd on his face. He still seemed to be an intimidating presence, but she found herself grinning back.

Don't worry about that.  I can hold my wine very well – and not many men are stupid enough to pick a fight with me.

Maera studied him closely. What others wryly called her female intuition told her that she was safe with this man, so she was able to see him in a way that the blacksmith earlier could not.  The height and the gray eyes stood out. He wore his hair fairly long in a braid, with wide shoulders and a deep chest.  Long fingers on rough hands curled slightly, as though fitted around a mug or a sword. That thought prompted another, and she soon found the baldric which supported the sword at his back.  The belt at his waist was wide and strong, with several items that she couldn't make out.  A long coat covered his body, but she could see that he had powerful legs and strong, well-worn boots.  Maera heated slightly, but managed to keep her composure. She had to think about the last thing he said.

If you want wine or anything stronger, that won't be here. The Vulgar Cleric Tavern is down the way, owned by my husband. He shook his head.

Another time, but thank you. She felt oddly disappointed. He went on, oblivious to her mental byplay. A bowl or two of that stew I smell would be nice, though.  How much?

A kone, but the bread is free. He dug around for the cost, while she bustled around to fill his order. When it came, he nodded his thanks and bent his head to eat.  She motioned toward a table, but he shook his head and continued to eat. The innkeeper walked around behind the counter across from the fireplace and picked up a key hanging under the wide surface of the counter top.

I'll call the stable boy to see to your horse. Your room is up the stairs and to the end, left side. Here is the key for your room. If you lose it, there will be a charge for the replacement of it and the lock it matches.  He nodded his understanding, still eating. By now the bread was gone, and most of the stew had disappeared. 

Do you want more? No charge for that.  He nodded and surrendered the bowl. She refilled the bowl and got more bread. When she returned, he again nodded his thanks, and tucked into the second bowl. He found a dark corner to eat, but still didn't sit down. The innkeeper sat down behind her counter and made a show of going through books, waiting for him to finish the second bowl.  He took his time with it, savoring the taste of the stew and the softness of the bread. The fire was guttering down, so she got up to tend to it.  Another couple of logs went on the fire and the ones that had been burned down was poked around to complete burning up. It soon came back to life, roaring up to where it had been. The room became a little brighter as she went back to her books.

Footsteps thumped on the path outside.  The innkeeper moved back to her counter, and her new guest melted further into his corner's shadow. The door banged open and a burly man in a tattered and heavily patched coat stumbled in. He peered around uncertainly, then belched. The woman behind the counter stood up abruptly.

Winstan! What do you think you're doing, coming in here like that?  You've been drinking! You know the rules!  He stared blearily at her, pondering what she was scolding him about.

Rules. He blew a contemptuous sound, full of vapor.  I'm not…. not drunk. I just a little – had a bit to drink. 

She snorted.

Just a little, my rotten left foot! Did you leave anything in the tavern?

At this, the man in the shadows smirked and continued watching. The drunk man was thinking about what to say to that. He was taking his time, and the observer was beginning to wonder if he was going to answer at all. Finally, he came up with something witty.

Yes! Well, I think so. I'm pretty – pretty sure I did. He hiccupped. The fire in the innkeeper's eyes matched the one in the hearth.

Go to bed, Winstan! You need to sleep it off! He smiled a drunkard's smile, crooked and a little lecherous.

A – Alone? He shambled toward her position behind the counter. She tensed. Even drunk, he was still twice her size and much more powerful. She was trapped behind the counter and he grabbed her roughly. A large hand went over her mouth and she tensed. A drunken chuckle escaped as he grasped a handful of the front of her shirt.

The sound of a chair being roughly placed on the floor thumped behind them.  The drunk man paused, unsure of what he heard.  The innkeeper's eyes widened, as a shadow was cast from before the fireplace.  Winstan belatedly realized that he was standing in that sudden shadow. His shoulder was suddenly and painfully gripped by what surely felt like a set of iron tongs. He yelped and slung his arm out to try to throw it off, but his hand was twisted up behind his back. The drunken man rose up, dancing on his toes, futilely trying to escape the sudden agony that seemed to start somewhere at his shoulder.

The surrounding room revolved sickeningly. He found himself in the chair, but without any clue as to how he got there.  Before him, stood a man he'd never seen before.  Winstan was still feeling a bit of pain, but with the amount of alcohol he had consumed, he could reflect that it seemed to be coming from the wrist that was being gripped by the stranger.  For some reason, Winstan was being shown his own palm, with his fingers sticking straight up.  He decided to get up and finish this impudent stranger.

Pain blossomed suddenly, and traveled up his forearm. He yelped again, sitting back, and the stranger leaned in closer. More pain traveled up his arm, and he found himself falling out of the chair. Winstan went down on a knee.

I think you were told to go sleep it off. The deep, rumbling voice merely underscored the cold gray eyes flashing under dark brows.

Winstan was quite unsure about what had happened or how.  He was quite sure that it hurt.  Still, he felt he wasn't someone's dog, to be told what to do.  No woman was going to tell him what to do, and no man was either. The copious amounts of wine and liquor he had consumed earlier made his decision easy.  He again decided to rise from where he was, and swing with the other fist.

The room revolved around him again, quicker than before, and he heard a pop as his wrist exploded in fire. He yelled, then realized that the fire in his wrist was nothing compared to the fire a foot from his nose as he sprawled on the floor.  A real fire that snapped its indignation, blazing with logs and with hot ashes that settled primly on his face. The drunkenness was receding and a frightened sobriety was making its presence known through the dim haze. The fire before him was making him sweat copiously, and his face was getting very hot. His arm was bound behind him, trapping him to the floor. The voice above him was solid as hammered steel and dripping with scorn.

Now, are you going to go sleep it off, or do you need more convincing about rules? Or for that matter, about scrapping with strangers?  Winstan moaned an assent.  In response, the voice was even harder.

What? Speak up, man.  I can't hear you over the fire.

Winstan was getting hotter and unable to move.  His face was feeling more and more as though he'd spent too much time outside in the summer.  He could barely speak, but he knew now he had to or be burned.

Yes! Yes! Whatever you say!  The arm was suddenly released, and he fell forward into ashes. The harsh voice continued.

Get up, slug. Go to your room, and do not come out until you learn respect for those that provide you a roof over your head and food for your gut.

Winstan slowly rolled over and despite the fire burning a foot away, was chilled to see a man with a sheathed sword and a definite air of menace shrouding him like a cloak. The stranger was standing over him. He knew then that if the stranger had drawn that sword, he would be dead and all because of his drunken behavior. Winstan resolved to never drink another drop, or at least cut back a great deal. He also resolved to change his pants, too.

As Winstan slunk away, the innkeeper's eyes were on the gray-eyed man. The few other occupants of the common room also glanced at him warily, noting a silver tattoo that had peeked out from his sleeve. He stood, seemingly unaware of the regard placed upon him, as he tracked the unsteady progress of the frightened man up the stairs. After the sound of Winstan's door shutting drifted down to them, he turned and faced her with a raised eyebrow.

She didn't say anything, though, but looked away with a slight smile on her face. He gave a very slight nod, then walked over to the corner where his bowl lay abandoned. He picked it up and carried it over to the counter top. It lay on the corner empty, forgotten and forlorn. He waited for her to look up.

Does he do that a lot? She grimaced.

Yes.  The look on her face was more than irritation or anger. It reminded him of resignation, mixed with worry and fear.

Well, from what you were saying about rules, why don't you throw him out?

I can't, really.

The man's gray eyes hardened.

Why? What makes him special enough to flout your rules?

She bowed her head and turned away, drawing in a shaky breath. A tear ran slowly down her cheek. He waited for her to speak, and after a few minutes, she did. Her words came out so quietly that he had to strain to hear.

He's my brother.

A startled silence met her words.

Forgive me for saying this, but your 'brother' is a man who will force himself on women. That's not even a man. That's an animal.

Her face tightened, but she didn't say anything. He went on. 

And full of drink, that removes the stops you or I would have sober. As drunk as he is, that just reveals what kind of man he is, especially to go after his own sister. Or are you not his blood? Her face tightened again and she nodded. This time it was his turn for his face to tighten. She spoke softly.

If I throw him out, he will die within a week.  He doesn't have anywhere to go.

An uncomfortable silence settled for a few minutes, then he grunted. He decided to change the subject for now.

I've heard that there is an injured man here.

She nodded, still a bit warily. He noticed, and spoke quickly.

I have no desire to harm him. But he may have information I require for the job that I do.

She pondered this, considering the fact that she didn't really know him, and weighed the tone of his words. He regarded her calmly, and waited for her to make up her mind. Finally, she made her decision. She stood up and motioned to him.

He's this way.

The sick room was dimly lit at night, to allow caretakers to work, but still let the ailing person in the bed to rest as much as he was able.  The innkeeper opened the door after a light tap, then went in with a torch held up to see.  She slid the torch into a waiting sconce and went to the bedside. The gray-eyed man followed her warily, and watched as she bent over the bed.

I think he's asleep. Are you sure you want to awaken him?

He considered the still figure on the bed, then shook his head.

He's awake and aware of our presence.  He went on, addressing the man under the blankets. I am sorry to disturb you. He paused, as he noticed that he was being watched. He made a complex gesture with his hands and head. May the guidance of Lady Venwalyn be with you.

The reaction was immediate. The figure sat up, with a groan of pain and gripped the hastily offered forearm with as much strength as possible.  The innkeeper was surprised but gave a sound of dismay.  Neither man listened to it. The weakened figure, now breathing a little harder after the exertion, was staring at the gray-eyed man with more than a little surprise.  For his part, he continued the gaze.

And – and to you, the blessings of Lady Venwalyn.

This was accompanied by a similar gesture, but the other two could tell that the injured man couldn't execute it properly. Still, he tried and that seemed to satisfy both of them.  The deep voice of the gray-eyed man spoke, with gravity and joy curiously mixed.

El sila erin lu e-govened vin. 

A smile broke out on the battered face of the invalid as he pushed back the dirty hair and revealed the Elvish ears hidden there.  A stifled gasp of surprise again came from the woman. She throttled the sound but she seemed mortified at her reaction. The Elf went on, in a voice that while slightly strained from pain, was light and strong.

More than one star, I would think. I am Abiradon, son of Akirotan. What is your name, friend?

I am Cuileán Abel.  It is good to see you able to speak. From what I heard of the attack yesterday, I was sure no one survived.

The Elf's face darkened at the reminder.

Very little remains, I am sure.  I was lucky to have found this village, or rather, my horse was lucky.

How are your wounds now? Cuileán inquired. The Elf shifted on the bed with imperfectly concealed grunts of pain.

Not as bad now as they happened to be then. I am lucky to have a quick healing ability.

The gray-eyed man contemplated the Elf.

You still have a little way to go in that regard, it seems. Would you accept my visit tomorrow morning after breaking your fast? I think we have something to discuss.

The Elf smiled. Even though his wounds were still serious, he had the sunny disposition of many Elves.

My new friend, it would be my pleasure.

Good. I will take my leave and see you tomorrow morning.

Cuileán nodded to Abiradon, who returned the nod, then turned and left the room with the innkeeper in tow.  She impatiently waited until they were at the door to his room, then exploded with questions as they walked down the hall.

Who is he? Do you know him? What did you say – 'Venwalyn?' Are you an Elf, too? the torrent of questions bubbled out quickly, and Cuileán waited more or less patiently for the flood to trickle to a stop.

I can only tell you a little, since there is much that must remain untold or even hinted at. First, you are doing a good thing by helping him in his time of weakness. Second, the fact that he is having a time of weakness is a sign of trouble for us all. Third, no, I am not an Elf – leave it at that. Fourth, the Lady Venwalyn is the deity for his monastery and it's said that she carefully watches over those that please her even as she tests them. And last, don't forget this: your help for him will bring you good things—but you will have lost that if you go wagging your tongue. Keep your mouth shut about the nature of your guest. Elves have long memories, and they never forget their friends and the people who help them – just as they never forget those that don't.

Her eyes took on an obstinate air, and Cuileán began to wonder just why her husband ran a tavern, instead of helping at the inn. On the heels of that thought was the next, which wondered if he actually sold his pints.

Not one word? was the challenging response. Cuileán fixed a solid gaze on her and remained quiet.  A frown accompanied it. After a moment, she started shifting. He let her squirm for a few minutes.

Not one word – unless you want to be permanently silenced by whoever can do that to a fighting Elf or worse, a group of fighting Elves. Plus, you would have your inn and all the town sacked and burned. Or more likely, every man, woman, and child blotted out and made as nothing, along with every stick, stone, and dirt of the town. Very much like Kamouraska, in fact.

The realization that there was much more to this than one badly injured Elf was like a splash of freezing cold water on her. She sobered up and nodded, then left to tend to others who had just arrived downstairs.  Cuileán watch her go, then opened his door with a thoughtful look on his face.

His room was sparse, with a bed and a window, and little to nothing in the way of furniture. That suited him since all he needed was the bed, and that wasn't strictly necessary, either. He was accustomed to the usual discomfort outside and to have a bed for tonight was something to relish.

There was no need to be lax, whether outside in the rain or inside under a roof. He examined the window and smeared a slick substance on the sill. Small breakables were carefully placed to serve as an alarm.  The door was carefully looked over and locked.  The heaviness of the door met with his approval, but he was still careful to make his own additions to his personal security.  Lastly, he looked for trap doors and skylights and found none.  He grunted with amusement at the thought of these, knowing that while it made his erstwhile sleeping quarters more secure, neither could he escape or fight his way through one if one didn't exist.

Finally, he unslung his sword and baldric. Cuileán unsheathed the sword to inspect it, as he did every night. The sword glinted blue-green in the reflected moonlight through the window. It seemed to have a glow of its own. As long as he had carried it, he couldn't decide if it truly did or not. The sword's black quillons absorbed light and faded into the surrounding darkness. Satisfied, he re-sheathed it. Cuileán leaned it against the wall and took off his dark overcoat, then removed his heavy belt.  This belt contained a great many objects that he had found to help with certain tasks and give him an easier path in his travels. He stored it with careful respect and silent thanks for the suggestion given to him that led to the creation of the belt. His fellow Rangers wore a variation of it, for the most part. He couldn't claim the idea for his own invention, but he could use it.

With great relish, Cuileán lay down and kept the sword and a matching dagger within close usable distance.  If anyone burst in on him tonight, Cuileán was damned sure that would be that person's last action on this world. He listened for a little while but all he could discern was the sound of the muted conversations in the main room and the occasional pop of the fire. There wasn't much sound outside, and that worried him some, but after a short time he grunted again and went to sleep.

A few rooms over, Abiradon lay quietly, mediating.  A muttered healing spell began to work upon his more grievous injuries, and for energy he had devoured the large bowl of stew Cuileán had asked to be sent up. His injuries now were not as serious as when he'd first arrived. In the past, he had taken for granted his race's sometimes ability to absorb great damage and heal quickly. Not all Elves had it to the degree he did, however. He greatly appreciated it now that he really needed that same ability, but his younger and more foolish self had not.  In matter of fact, he had been a thrill seeker to such a degree that the elders of his clan decided that something had to be done. What to do about it had been a real argument among the elders.

At the time, Abiradon had been blithely unaware of the discussions concerning him and his ways. If he had been, he would have paid it no mind at all anyway.  His joyful abandon where the various things he did caused head-shaking at the least and hives and gray hairs at the most.  Abiradon's days of running wild ceased abruptly when he met an older Elf who carried an ironwood staff. Literally everyone else he knew, including himself, carried the ubiquitous bow. The dissonant sight intrigued the younger Elf, so to relieve his curiosity he asked why that was. The answer he got was not equally intriguing. In fact, it was greatly confusing.

The staff holds me up and keeps me down, the older Elf said with a gleeful smile.

At the time, Abiradon had no clue what to make of this. He spent the rest of that day puzzling out the koan, quite oblivious to the smirks and speculative looks the others gave him as he passed.  The elders did some of that as well when they noticed. Although to be fair, when they asked the staff-laden Elf what he'd said to the younger Elf to prompt that reaction they were no more enlightened than the hapless Abiradon.

Warrior monks happened to be a group that many considered to be quite different, if not completely cracked.  The elders knew that to have one or two in Amselume was a good thing, for spiritual purposes. However, no one with any sense ever went out of their way to play a prank on one.  Most monks had a singularly strong lack of a sense of humor. The ones that did were known to be worse when it came to return pranks, or probably a more appropriate term – retribution.

The ones that made enemies of the warrior monks soon found out that retribution was a gentle term compared to the various responses available to the inventive monks.

The warrior monks kept an order a little farther out in the woods around his home of Amselume. No one knew exactly where, since the monks used magics as well as physical camouflage. It probably helped that the name of their chosen forest was called the Giant Devil-wood Covert, and so they had very few visitors other than the ones that they invited. They spent their time gardening, communing with the spirit of the Lady Venwalyn, and studying all manner of philosophy and physical disciplines. In the case of one of the monks, the time spent drafting building plans to take to various markets and faires. This monk would have been a rich Elf outside of his order, but the wages he and his apprentice earned went to the maintenance and upkeep of the buildings. The few visitors couldn't help but notice that the order's temple and other structures showed a strength and stability coupled with beauty and form that could not be matched.  Hence, the unspoken advertisement and the draftsman's popularity with the order – especially when another plan sold and more money came in.

The teaching method that the warrior monks used involve a lot of guided confusion, since it was their contention that order must first come out of chaos, and without chaos there would be no order. The High Adept was the best at creating mental chaos for teaching purposes, and he passed on this ability to the monks under him. Some monks had family in Amselume, and they would visit to seek out more Elves to practice on. The older Elf Abiradon had encountered was a particularly good student of the elderly High Adept.

So it was a few days later in this unprecedented and quite unusual state of confusion, that Abiradon encountered the other Elf. He politely greeted the older Elf.

I have a question.

The older Elf was enjoying a treat of a pastry that his family's bakery made, and he licked his fingers as he looked at the younger Elf.

Ask away, young one.

What did you mean about your staff both holding up and keeping down?

The older Elf began by explaining that he was a warrior monk, which in itself was so strange that Abiradon was having a great deal of trouble wrapping his mind around it. The Elves that became warrior monks was an extremely small group that took vows in service to the Lady Venwalyn. She was a goddess of knowledge and justice, and she accepted service from other races, too. After the few Elves, there were Men, who made up the most of the rest.  Dwarves did as well, but rarely so. To be fair to Abiradon, Elven warrior monks were still rare enough that even the elders of his clan had the same trouble. Still, that didn't answer his question, as strange and unexpected the answer given had been.  He said so, too.

A genuine smile broke out on the older Elf's face at the peeved response.  

For you to understand your question more completely, you must first look at the root.

By now in this strange conversation, Abiradon was sure he was being put on. But there was a part of him that held a raging, unsatisfied curiosity. Yes—he was indeed a thrill seeker and adventurous, but that curious part of him was analytical and questing for knowledge.  He didn't even realize that he had that trait, but it was awakening. That was if only because of a frustratingly elusive answer. The older Elf grinned to himself as he recognized the trait within Abiradon that needed some harnessing.

So, Abiradon started to look at the root.  Or to be more precise, he started looking at different roots. Tree roots, shrub roots, grass roots and vine roots.  He learned a great deal about fluid transport, support and stability, structure and strength, but it didn't help him with the question of the ironwood staff. He studied the ironwood, too, but while that was very interesting, it didn't answer the question. In fact, all this studying did was raise more questions.

The monk was one of those who had relatives that lived in Amselume, so Abiradon paid them a courtesy visit to find out where to look for him.  The visit was an enjoyable one, with plenty of laughter and fun, and Abiradon was very surprised to discover that he'd been buried in roots, almost literally, for almost four months. After the shocked surprise wore off, he was told that the monk was expected to return in a few days.  Abiradon thanked them and wandered off, still bemused at the time he had spent on roots instead of thrill-seeking.

When the monk returned, Abiradon was waiting for him. The monk smiled at his posture of attentive leisure, able to see the desire to have the aggravating answer but not desiring to be rude or show that the answer was bugging the younger Elf.

So, young Elf! My family tells me you have sought me!

Abiradon had been doing just that, but didn't want to admit it so baldly.  Still, it was truthful so he simply nodded. The monk seemed a bit capricious.  That wasn't a problem for Abiradon, except he could see keeping up was going to be a bit of a problem.  He had answers to get, in any event. Never mind the little fact that he didn't have the monk's name.

Yes, but I find it hard to ask a stranger. I am Abiradon. What is your name? the younger Elf felt like a youngling meeting someone new on the playground, for all his phrasing.

Call me Dyaffraes, the older Elf suggested, with yet another smile at the younger Elf's expression. Dyaffraes waited expectantly for the question that Abiradon was struggling mightily to suppress. The younger Elf fidgeted, momentarily forgetting the reason that he wanted to find Dyaffraes, and a little mad that he could be mentally unbalanced this easily.  The presence of the staff suggesting that he could be physically unbalanced just as easily was a bit worrisome, too. The older Elf carried himself with an ease and economy of motion that Abiradon could only envy. He reflected that maybe it was a good thing that the warrior monk seemed to carry around a perpetually happy soul. Otherwise, it might not be so good for others.

After a few minutes of highly amused silence on Dyaffraes's part, while the questions Abiradon wanted to ask battled with either a sequence to tumble out or a polite way to phrase them, he relented.

"Yes, my name is unusual among Elves, and unique.  My father became a sailor in