Tivar - Book 1 Chapter 1

People often argue that the Ae were "good" while the Ne were "evil". Such people are fools, ignorant of history, self-absorbed in their own world-view, blind to reality. What little we have remembered, what pitiful scraps of legend and myth that survived still teach us if we bother to look. To reduce the two to such base definitions is to ignore what they were and how this formed the roots of the Cataclysm they brought upon the world.

- Tibban Moll, A Philosophy of Creation

The first feeble rays of midmorning warmed Henton's face as he stepped out of the wall's shadow and performed the familiar about-face atop the Western Gate of Bridgetown. He paused a moment to watch the shadows of the bridge towers on the far east side of the city inch across the slate and thatch rooftops. Inns and houses slid into the autumn sun and Henton could start to make out the motion of people on the street. Some, like himself paused to enjoy the light and heat, others cringed at the glare and went on about their business. Tradesmen were setting out wares along the caravan route, the stables steamed with horses moving and fresh smoke curls rose from most of the tall slate chimneys and wafted slowly in the still air. The early sunlight did little to truly cut the chill in the air, long past the first frost but not yet into winter, but Henton let the rays give what little warmth they carried. The dull gray masonry of the city's outer wall seemed to amplify the chill anywhere the sun was blocked, and on the topmost walkway it was a small relief to bask for a moment.

Henton was tall and somewhat heavy, a combination of toned muscles and a love of succulant lamb and good ales. His hair had begun thinning on top, with only a handfull of graying hair left in the middle. This combination was not something Henton was fond of noting. His life as a bachelor and soldier had left little time for romance and his slow decent into an eventual pudgy old age was not going to help matters. Henton knew he could only allow himself a brief pause, so he relished a last lingering moment of rest. Talbert was on counterpoint and if Henton didn't arrive on time at the center of the tower gate promplty the young recruit could panic and call the whole Watch to arms. Henton smiled to himself, he thought Talbert was a decent enough guard but the young lad had yet to learn that being a member of the Watch was not the same as being a knight in some tavern story. It would take some time but Henton had seen the familiar relaxation from rigid adherence to comfortable ease in a dozen recruits, boys who would become men with an understanding of the flexibility of certain rules and regulations and the need to focus on the big problems. So long as Talbert did not become lax or lazy, it would help keep life smooth and peaceful.

Henton himself had joined the Watch to bring some peace and stability to his life. Growing up in the sprawling warren of houses and shops beyond the safe gates of Bridgetown known as Outtown, he had known peace as something treasured in pauses between riot and danger. In the darker corners of the ramshackle town spread behind him to the west life was usually a struggle. Thoe wealthy of the inner city paid good coin for protection and civility, outtowners set up militias and watches where they could afford it, and fed off each other's weaknesses when they couldn't. Henton had seen the Watch as a opportunity to escape the dangers of his surroundings and move in-wall. It wasn't always glamorous or rewarding, but with all the physical conditioning and weapons training the most dangerous part of his job was breaking up brawls between caravaners in the Inns. He managed enough pay to move from the barracks to a small apartment and the remainder served to keep him in food and drink at several taverns, all of which were most welcoming to a seasoned guard eating in their dining room.

Bridgetown lay at an intersection between the great Caravan roads leading northwest to Tivar, south to Avendoor and the kingdom of Huntsdelve and east to Carttas. The river carried merchants north to the Bay of Rushes and further to the Sorrin Sea with its many trade ports dotted along the edges. Although not the crux of trade that it had enjoyed during the Great Reign, each reduction in trade had brought with it a reduction in taxes as those higher on the chain of command than Bridgetown's mayors faded in power and influence. What little Henton knew of the so-called “Great Reign” he took with a grain of salt. Each telling seemed to make the leaders more powerful, their reach more impressive, their armies more invicible. A patina of time and the golden ages lost washed out the evils and difficulties that existed eternally.

The city was a collision of plan and sprawl, with the central inner city designed from the start to support the city's governing council, churches and guild halls. The roadplan catered to the massive caravnas arriving from the west and east and the barges moving downriver. Huge stables, inns, pubs and markets stood in grand lines along the main roads while smaller concentric roads housed the dock workers, smithies and other workmen who made their livings supporting the caravan trade. Beyond the inner core was the city proper, which had been laid out in radiating spokes. The further you went from the main caravan roads, however, planning had given way to practical need and opportunity. Streets divided into side roads and alleys only to dead end where a building addition or new shop had needed space to set up. Beyond all that, the outer wall provided safety and security. The wall hadn't been “outer” for a hundred years, though, the population had long since pushed beyond the gates to form ever more haphazard communities in the chaos known collectively as “outtown”.

None of this had anything to do with Henton's job at hand, of course, which was to keep an eye out for caravans arriving from the west, check the papers of those leaving westward and to keep the peace. With a small grunt, Henton turned and began the march back to the gatehouse. As Henton approached the top of the Western gate, he saw Talbert holding position and waiting for him. Any other guard would have taken a break, but Talbert was at full attention: back straight, arms rigid with his polearm held just-so. The fierce look was nearly comical, and for the twentieth time since the boy had joined up, Henton considered telling him to knock it off. The moment passed and Henton once again let it slide. The kid would ease into the job soon enough.

“Alls clear atop the Western Gate”, Talbert intoned as soon as Henton was within earshot, voice quivering with excitement.

“Alls clear.”, Henton said simply, his tone bland from years of such exchanges. Just as they were about to turn and repeat their sentry route, Henton noticed movement on the road beyond outtown. The lumbering pace suggested a caravan cart.

“Hold”, Henton said, “Looks like a caravan, Talbert. Check your blade and alert the keyman.”.

Talbert squinted into the distance, nodded curtly and rushed to secure his polearm. He then rushed down the stone staircase, disappearing below the wall. Henton watched him carefully to ensure he wouldn't be tripping over the pike later, then took down a large magical spyglass and the heavy leather log book. He placed the big book on its stand and turned to the latest entry page, opened the hatch where the inkwell sat and took out the pen. Henton set the spyglass on a slotted wooden bar that rose from the side of the stand and struggled with the ancient tool, trying to get the eyepiece to work. The device consisted of a long, dented tin cone with polished gold whose interior was inlayed with a careful swirl of gold. When you looked through, the enspellment caused distant objects to appear as ghostly shapes inside the cone. There were a large number of similar devices sold throughout the city and the Watch itself had several fine, high quality pieces. Not that this was one of them. This particular piece was well past it's prime and needed replacing, but command saw little need to equip lowly gate guards with expensive magical tools. When Henton finally got the caravan cart to appear clearly instead of the buildings to the left or right of it, he nearly knocked it over.

“Wait, Talbert... something's not right. There's only one cart”, Henton yelled. He fiddled with the cone for a second more then rushed over to the top of the stairs and yelled again to Talbert, who was barely beyond the bottom of the steps.

“Rouse the watch Talbert..”, Henton yelled. Talbert stood stunned for a moment, looking up at him. Henton leaned over the stone wall and yelled down, ”Call the watch to arms, Talbert. Call the watch to arms NOW.”

Tegg crested the last hill before home, somewhere near the midpoint of his litany of complaints for the winter.

“I'll be lucky to have half the furs of last year, Tanner'll be furious. Need to patch the lean-to again or the vermin will be twice last year's swarm. Boots are done-in. So help me if Kannet will be able to resole these... stone me if he'll sell me another pair with what coin I've left.

With the setting sun doing nothing to warm his back, Tegg paused to re-shoulder his ash bow and slingbag while fultilely attempting gather his flapping cloak back in place. He was a large man with broad shoulders and wind-burned features, dark black hair and grey eyes. Years of living alone had toughened his skin and hardened his stare to a perpetual scowl. He had chosen his solitary life, not only because he found the bulk of speaking creatures tedious and stupid, but because he found enormous comfort in providing for himself, by himself. His house was just ahead of him, what there was of it. Tegg had built it by himself out of timber cleared to make way for his minimal needs. As humble as it was he was proud of his construction, having only needed help setting and mortaring the rough stone chimney. Tegg surveyed the clearings behind him where deer occasionally wandered along old paths to a small creek southwest of his cabin. He avoided hunting there, even though the tall hunnit trees likely offered good stands and the creek was a fair draw of game. Game could be had further afield, and Tegg knew that he'd need the creek in an emergency. Each hunt would mark the area as dangerous for the animals, and given the shrinking bounty of the rest of the wood of late, Tegg figured he'd better hold on to whatever reserves he had left. With a sigh, Tegg started on toward the cabin, already thinking of warm fire and some lager.

Just a few strides from home a slight breeze ruffled his dark grey cloak again and Tegg paused. Something was odd. He surveyed the clearing around his cabin, trying to locate the source of his unease, lowered his slingbag to the ground and rested his left hand on a long dagger hanging from his belt. The small hut looked normal, there was no smoke and nowhere for anyone to hide. The lean-to behind it where Tegg kept firewood and his tanning oils looked undisturbed and would provide little cover for an ambush. There were stacks of firewood on the treeline, blocks of uncut stone and his tanning racks on the far end of the clearing, none of which seemed to be the focus of his unease. Finally the breeze lifted again and stirred something on the cabin's only door.

“Stones...”, Tegg mumbled, releasing the grip on his dagger and walking up to the hut. He eyed the parchment for a moment, wondering why anyone would want his attention so far into the wood. “Can't be anything good. Never that...”, Tegg said, starting forward again.

On closer inspection, Tegg's worries were confirmed. The large wax seal of Bridgetown was emblazoned across the bottom of the parchment, which hung from his door by an iron peg. The words didn't mean a thing to Tegg, they were so many squiggles of ink and contained none of the handful of words he knew by sight. There had clearly been no effort to sneak up on the cabin, the boot-prints showed that several men had walked up to his door and nailed the parchment with little concern of whether anyone saw them. All of this added up to something bothersome.

Tegg ripped the parchment from his door with one hand and ran his fingers through his close-cropped black hair with the other. What did Bridgetown want? It was bad enough to have to visit the outlying towns to sell and barter each Spring, but to have an official document nailed to his door meant unneeded complications in his simple life.

“Burn and rot!”, Tegg grumbled at the world, crumpling the paper slightly. His pipe, a drink and a warm bed were what he really wanted right now, but as he paused to consider the page it was increasingly obvious that his wishes were secondary. He had been out trapping for nearly half the season so there was no telling how long it had hung here. The parchment and wax showed clear signs of weathering, which suggested weeks hanging in the sun, rain and wind. He rescanned the page for any answer. While the line of numbers hinted at a date, it looked nothing like the dating systems used by the merchants in town. The script was flowing and official looking, spaced so as to fill the entire sheet and carve-copied, clearly at some great cost.

“So help them if this is a waste of time”, Tegg grumbled, putting the parchment into his weathered slingbag. It would get crushed in there, but there was little the he could do about that now and in his mood it suited him. With a mighty groan, Tegg turned and started back west following the contour of the hill then turned south, crossed a small stream to began his long walk.

Sirus awoke to the sounds of Mouse barking furiously. After a quick glance to check on his sleeping wife, he rolled to his feet and waited to see if the dog had spotted a overly-brave gormunk come to raid the hen's grain trough or if there really was an intruder. It had been a blessedly long time since Mouse had roused him for anything harmless, but he still held out hope for safety and sleep. When she didn't stop, Sirus rushed over and grabbed the crossbow that hung from a wooden peg beside the door frame. It took him twice as long to draw the string back in the dark, his hands slipped on the loadbar and the quiver of bolts wasn't where he was sure he last hung it. He cursed himself silently for not better tending the crossbow as the linch protested the load with an audible creak. In half a minute, however, he had located his lantern and was drawing a steadying breath with his back agaisnt the front door frame. Mouse stopped barking with a yelp, causing Surus to flinch. He checked the crossbow, imagining the worst, then turned and cracked the door wide enough to level the weapon.

The night was bright and cold, and Sirus squinted while his eyes adjusted. He could hear shuffling in the dark, perhaps 10 paces away, and could hear muffled speech and Mouse making noises. Sirus hoped she was alright and squinted to make out a shape to aim at.

“Oy! Who's out there! By Dalton's stones, if you so much as quiver I'll fill you full of iron!”, Sirus shouted, hoping his voice did not carry the jitters he felt. He knew he would never make the shot in the dark, with the moon blinding him and shadows everywhere. He suddenly wished he'd waited long enough to find another weapon, and desperately tried to remember where his hunting knife, or any knife for that matter, might be if he needed it. Sirus knew that the load time on the crossbow all but eliminated a second shot and if it came to blows he'd likely end up trying to club the intruder with the unwieldy crossbow.

“You'll shoot me from there Sirus?”, Tegg's voice came back from the dark, chuckling and mocking gently. “I've seen you shoot, old man. And if you shoot me 'By Dalton's Stones' you'll more likely kill poor Mouse here or shoot good Lord Dalton in his acorns than wound me. You know, I hear Dalton treasures his...”

“GAH! Hang you Tegg! Git off my land. We have a policy against entertaining fools until after sunup.”, Sirus interrupted, reaching down to open the lantern's shades. The stonelight inside glowed brightly and illuminated some of the front of his house as he held it aloft.

Tegg was grinning at him while trying to untangle himself from Mouse's fawning attention. “Ah, you know your friendship means more to me than anything, Sirus. How could I live without visiting you on this fine ...”, Tegg began, gesturing like a fool performing on stage.

“Oh Rot, you addled bastard. I'll not stand here and stomach your nonsense in the middle of the night”, Sirus growled, turning back into the house. Tegg laughed, watching the light dim behind the door. With a final scratch behind Mouse's ears he climbed to his feet and followed Sirus inside.

“What is it?”, a voice called from the bedroom as Sirus walked past. His wife, Alanha, peeked out from behind the heavy curtain. She was short and thin, almost tiny compared to Sirus' massive girth, with corn colored hair streaked with a few grey invaders and a rancher's endless sunburn. She blinked briefly and noted Sirus sholdering his crossbow.

“What's Bertegg doing out here at this hour?”, Alanha asked, through a surprised yawn.

“I'll let ya know tomorrow after I've beaten it out of him, dear.”, Sirus rumbled, setting the lantern on its peg and rubbing his forehead.

“Alright, I'll be in bed”, Alanha said, smiling softly and shaking her head. Sirus busied himself at the stove, stirring the low embers up and gathering some small logs. He listened as Tegg washed his hands at the basin and took a drink. As Sirus deftly worked the fire tongs, Mouse came up behind him and leaned into his back.

“Go on, ya traitor. Git back to bed.”, Sirus said playfully grasping Mouse's muzzle and shaking it gently. The dog wagged its tail, wandered over to the curtained doorway and vanished inside. “Seems I need a new dog... that one's gone soft on me.”, Sirus said, just loud enough for Tegg to hear. Tegg laughed and settled into a chair, dropping his cloak onto the floor.

“You'll need a new woman, too. Alanha's grown pretty tolerant of my trespassing and hanging 'bout long enough to swindle meals from you”, Tegg quipped, stretching his legs. Sirus chuckled.

The main room of the farmhouse was slow to warm up and Sirus grumbled and crossed his arms for heat as the big iron stove worked to push back the chill. The stove sat in the center of the large main room, dividing the kitchen from the living and dining areas. The kitchen extended from the back door and included a huge stone basin with water barrel and several food storage and preparation areas. The dining table sat to Tegg's right. It was a big, sturdy and simple table surrounded by six chairs. Tegg sat in the living area in Sirus' chair which was padded with wool. It was a typical lumpy farm chairs, meaning you could work a bit and find a position that was perfect.

“Stones, Tegg, what are you here fer at this hour?”, Sirus asked, turning from the flickering fireplace.

“No, Getty. I need him to read this to me.”, Tegg said, reaching into his sling bag. “Seems Bridgetown saw fit to send me a fancy note. Nailed it to my door, even.”. Tegg produced the parchment and offered it to Sirus, who waved it off.

“Ah, hells! Hang it, Tegg, I know what that thing says. Tohma got one just like it. You've been pressed into service!”

“It started... maybe around Netine on the caravan road. First they found some animals, birds, coon, even bigger stuff like deer and trogs. Some you couldn't even tell what they were.. just blood and fur. It got some of us ranchers and the farmers near Tivar worried, but nobody important seemed to care much about us hinterfolk being spooked by some dead animals. Then a rancher turned up missing.”

Tegg fought a yawn and thought back. “No... I don't believe I ever met him.”

“You're lucky. He was a moron and general nuisance. Probably the least likable man I ever met. Wouldn't have wished this on him, though. In any case, they found... well, most of him in a clearing up in the north wood where he kept his goats over on the steps of the Old Woman. He'd been torn to shreds.”

Tegg knew the area. The "Old Woman" was a large hill that sat near the "Old Man", a larger hill that resembled a hunched man. “Eaten?”

“No... not exactly eaten. Oh, birds had been at him a bit, but whatever took him down wasn't looking for food. What was left of him impaled on a log.”

“Oh, I hear it wasn't pretty. They managed to round up two or three of his goats, but that means 2 dozen or so ran off or met worse fates.”

“Made a lot of noise. Talk of finding a killer or a mad axeman on the loose...”

“I have no idea where that came in to this mess. I guess a crazed killer is only truly threatening if he has a giant wood-axe to mince you with. Anyway, it was the caravan that finally sparked action...”

“One wagon managed to limp into Bridgetown, said they'd been attacked in the dark. The guards sounded the alarm so everybody grabbed what they could and made for town. All the watch guards found was some busted up wagons. No goods. No bodies. Blood everywhere.”

“Seventeen total, most on one cart, the rest chasing after. One died afterwards, one might well've been better off if he hadn't lived”

“No. Now they've worked up some reason to think that goblins are responsible.”

“Hard to say. People want it to be something simple and evil, I suppose. The mayors aren't talking much. The rumors started to swirl even out this far and apparently his high-mayorship himself said that the council believed that gobkin were responsible.”

“Shades. So rather than doing something useful, they're looking for boogey creatures. Why not dragons or unicorns?”

“All I know is that his lard-ship called up the militia and drafted everyone who could carry a sword into service. They've got the whole town in an uproar and there's even talking of sealing the west gate. Anyway, that's what your pretty note is for. One dead rancher and nobody balks but threaten the caravan tolls...”

“I hardly think that you can compare one rancher to.. what, forty caravaners and a troop of guards?”

“Don't interrupt me when I'm ranting. Now that business is at stake, High-Mayor Cow's-RUMP...”

“COWRUMP has decided to actually remember the city charter he has so often ignored and has called up citizenry.”

“It appears so. You were supposed to report to Bridgetown by last week or so. I'm sure they know that people out in the wood or ranches will be slower to respond, so I wouldn't rush off.”

“Something like that. Well, you bed down out here till morning. Alanha will have my stones if you're not here at breakfast. Not often she gets to complain about me to someone besides Mouse.”

The next morning Alanha found Tegg drinking tea with all his gear repacked. “Thought I'd find you snoring as late as you showed up”, Alanha said, making her way to the stove.

“Well, as comfortable as your chairs are, I thought I'd better take off. I've got a long walk ahead.”, Tegg replied.

Tegg fought down a shiver. “Nira? Haven't seen her in years. Is she still alive?”

“She'll see our grandchildren have grandchildren”, Alanha responded quietly, pouring a cup of tea. “The last time I went to see her she said she had something for you.”

Tegg paused at this. The old herbwoman was an oddity, but not someone to ignore on a whim. He considered the magic she carried and her ability to glimpse into futures, weighing that against the dread he felt in the few times he visited her hovel. Tegg had only stopped to see Nira on the few occasions when he needed medicine, and each trip had been disturbing.

Alanha noted Tegg hesitating and chuckled. “Does the old woman frighten you?” she asked with a hint of singsong. Tegg grumbled noncommittally. “You're probably best to fear what she could do, but I doubt if you'd ever have to truly fear her, Tegg. Besides, by the time you'd offended her enough for it to matter, you'd be dead”. Alanha chucked a bit and replaced the kettle.

Alanha's amusement was not lost on Tegg, but he let it drop. He knew Alanha and Nira shared some friendship, probably thanks to Nira helping the boys out illness and scrapes that boys on farms always encounter. While Tegg was grateful for the herbwoman's skills on the rare occasions he personally needed them, he was also keenly aware of the unnatural forces that surrounded her. In either case, it hardly mattered. He'd go see the woman rather than live in fear of her sneaking his dreams while he slept or using some other strange spell to visit him.

After a few words with a bleary-eyed Sirus, Tegg headed out across the farmstead's courtyard. Chickens darted out of his way as he walked past the long, low stables and Mouse kept him company until he reached the edge of the far goat paddock. Tegg gave her a scratch around the ears , shouldered his pack, then turned and followed the rough wood fence east into the woods.

The morning included an occasional drizzle, threatening full rain at any moment. Tegg wasn't bothered by it so much as by the chill in the air. It was tolerable, but hinted at long, cold nights ahead forcing Tegg to consider his winter plans. At the end of the Sirus' far fenceline, Tegg broke through the underbrush of bramble and laurel and made his way into the woods. Here at the edge of Sirus' farm the soil was too poor to even graze goats, only scrub pines and twisted laurel trees bothered to grow. Tegg welcomed the cover from the drizzle and carefully picked his way as the ground sloped toward one of the many gullies and culverts that crisscrossed the foothills.

Tegg finally reached Nira's hovel late in the afternoon of the three days later. The low, wooden building hunched up against a rock outcropping and was absolutely swallowed by vines. To Tegg, it always seemed to be sulking, bitter for having lost some battle against the massive green tangle. The house was not alone in it's failure, however. The garden, if it could be called that, stretched out to the left of the house, wrapping around the huge stones. There was no fence or discernible border to the garden, just a sudden change from the brown pine needle floor of the forest to a maze of flowers, shrubs, herbs and other odd plants that seemed to exist purely to make the house look even less inhabited.

Tegg paused and considered passing by. He could already feel her magic out here, although he couldn't exactly identify how. The feeling of weakness against an invisible tide was grating. Combining that with unkempt look of it all, Tegg felt a powerful desire to duck and run for some sort of cover. His pride, and the knowledge that Nira was surely already aware of his presence, kept him from bolting. The final bother was that Nira had no physical door that Tegg could see. As he ducked under the looming vines above the doorway arch, Tegg encountered the tingling sensation that identified the border to the hut. To Tegg, it was a final reminder that he was out of his depth.

“Hello Tegg”, Nira's harsh whisper greeted him from the back area of the house. Tegg had never been further in, but assumed there was some sort of kitchen area and whatever odd nest or den Nira slept in. If she slept. “Tea?”, she inquired, with a hint of humor. Nira knew Tegg would not eat or drink anything offered. She had never taken offense, and in fact seemed to be amused to no end every time she offered.

The inside of Nira's home gave you an initial impression that chaos reigned inside as well as out, but a closer look would change that. There was certainly a lot of stuff. Every wall was completely covered with shelves nearly bursting with things indescribable. Tables, cabinets and trunks covered the floor, leaving only a few clear paths from the main door toward Nira's kitchen area. The amazing thing, however, was how organized it all appeared beyond the initial fascade of being heaps and piles. Everything, no matter how unusual, was situated among similar things. Baubles of red glass sat in baskets next to similar orange or blue baubles. The oddity of the items on display, the very nature of their being difficult to describe to anyone later, or his inability to discern any possible function bothered Tegg a great deal.

Tegg shuddered. “No, thank you Nira. No tea today” he replied. Nira's soft chuckle followed. “I'm on my way into town, and Alanha mentioned that you wanted to see me”.

“Oh, yes. I do wish you had come sooner. No changing that, though”, Nira said, emerging from her dark kitchen with a small candle. Nira gave Tegg a glance from head to toe, then turned to one of the tables. “I've held on to this for a bit, but it serves me no purpose now”, Nira said, carefully opening a small chest and removing some baubles from it. “And you, it will help you in this danger you face”.

“Oh, the war is coming, young Tegg” Nira said, holding up a small glass disk and peering into it. “There is a war, or there will be. Now it is just embers, but not for long, I think”. Nira crossed the room, pulled a small bit of leather strap from a basket and busied herself tying it to the glass.

“Shades” Tegg grumbled. “Shades and Hells. Why am I wrapped up in this?”

“Oh, a lot of people will be drawn into this, I'm afraid. But not Nira. No, I'm going on a bit of holiday.” Nira said, cheerfully. She clapped her hands and a loud creak emerged from the back of the hovel. As Tegg watched slack-jawed, a massive creature entered. Whatever it was, it appeared human, but Tegg had never seen anything like it. The creature had mottled, dark brown and clay red skin. There was no visible hair anywhere on it, and it moved quickly over to Nira. Its eyes were bright, black chips hidden in the shadows of its heavy brow. It was muscular and compact, barely taller than Tegg but wider by half.

“This is Genit, my helper” Nira responded with a chuckle, offering the glass and strap to Tegg. “He's especially useful when I need things moved around, like now.”

Tegg absently took the glass disk, staring at the creature. “Is it... Does it...” he stammered.

“Oh, he's certainly as bright as you are, although he cannot speak. None of his kind can.”

Nira laughed a high piping laugh. “Make him? Oh, he's not some construct of clay, although he looks a bit like it. He's actually my student, such as it is. I take one on now and then. They aren't interested in most of what I could teach, but they're certainly apt at a few things”. Nira turned to the creature and held out both hands, which the creature took. His short, wide fingers dwarfed Nira's and the two began wiggling their fingers together frantically. Tegg slowly guessed it was some sort of communication.

As their “discussion” started to carry on a bit, Tegg finally looked down at the glass disk. It appeared to be a eyepiece, something Tegg had seen very rarely and didn't understand at all. It was clearly made to be attached to something other than a crude leather strap, and was scratched and worn around the edges. In the center of the disk, Tegg could just make out a thin line where an inner glass disk sat inside an outer glass rim. The inner disk appeared to be in perfect shape, and only by turning it in the dim candle light could Tegg see the complete circle, so carefully had the two pieces been connected. As he turned the disk, Tegg caught flashes of color appearing in the center disk. He was just about to hold it up to his eye when Nira noticed him.

Tegg startled at the edge to her voice, so sharp was the warning. He started to speak, but Nira and Genit had resumed their finger-wiggling and Tegg was at a loss as to any polite means of interrupting a conversation that didn't use words.

Footsteps on gravel and a murmuring of voices alerted Vallen that there was someone outside. Almost without thought a blade was readied, muscles tensed for action and ears strained for a signal of danger. Fight or flight responses keyed up, escape routes were quickly reviewed and attempts were made to judge the number of possible targets, their level of threat and their locations in relationship to the windows and doors.

The sudden slamming sound against the door was deafening to ears trained for whispers or the slide of weapons clearing scabbards. Vallen flinched at the noise, pausing in route to the door. Standing in the darkness, she listened to the low murmurs and laughing outside her door and considered the possibilities. If they were enemies, they sure weren't worried about staying quiet. That meant they were either so confident as to be careless, so stupid as to underestimate their target, or that it was the town guard. She tried in vain to figure out if any recent deals could have been leaked to the watchguard, any unhappy customers or lost cargo. Nothing came to mind, which was good, but not completely reassuring given the circumstances.

A breathless pause at the door proved out the Watchguard theory. Unconcerned talking was followed by footsteps leading further along the street. Vallen chanced a glance out the window by slowly easing the shutter open, long dagger at the ready. Three guards were at the seamstress shop a few doors down, readying another bit of paper and nail. The coast was clear. Vallen let her guard down, and exhaled sharply.

Then, right on cue, the shakes started up. Vallen knew there was no chance of further sleep, the shakes would see to that. She could lie in bed for an hour, even two, before they would become so bad that she would have to crawl to the stove to make the tea. The bitter, accursed tea.

As she put the water and seeper on top of the stove, she cursed inwardly yet again and recited a wordless mantra for calm. It didn't help. It never did. So, the familiar pattern started. Water into the kettle, normal tea leaves into the seeper with a splash of water. Stir the low embers of the stove and add some wood. Finally, and most importantly, the tiny, dried and black-streaked leaves of the ariss vine. Measured in a small but deep spoon, carefully, as not to break the leaves. These went on top of the tea leaves. Never more than the careful spoonful, although the temptation was there.

“Come on... come on”, she begged, watching areas of the iron topped stove slowly lightened from black to a dark gray. Vallen impatiently put some smaller bits of wood into the stove and stoked it with the long hook, knowing it would do little except waste wood. The stove would become hot when it pleased, as it always did. The water would boil in a count of two hundred and perhaps twenty, as it always did. Then, and only then the tea leaves would seep and the cursed ariss leaves would release their bitter juices into the mix. A frantic stir, endless blowing and finally that first sip and the shakes would slow. A second, deep sip would stop them completely. Half a cup would make her feel close to normal. A cupfull and she could slowly feel young and agile again, her mind clear and focused.

When the kettle began to rumble, Vallen glanced across the small kitchen at the main door. She knew the guard had posted something on her door. Some notice of warning for all residents perhaps. Or a meeting about the caravans. Anything lesser would be posted in the Bridgetown square with criers announcing the general information. Whatever it was, it would wait a bit longer. The water was finally boiling.

The second cup of tea brought the mild swimming feeling that would last partly through the morning. It also served as notification that she had drunk most of the pot, which was more than enough of the tea for the time being. Another pot and a third cup would addle her mind for the entire morning, better to save it until late afternoon when the rush started to subside. Instead, she carefully put the illegal leaves into their box and walked to the door to check on whatever the town guard had seen fit to nail there.

The notification of service was a very unpleasant surprise. Vallen carried it slowly back to her bed and sat heavily. She eyed the small tea box she'd casually dropped next to the stove and decided that a third cup of tea was, in fact, worth having this morning.

Praelate Mogisor Donsi Olbersim dozed fitfully at a small reading table near the main altar to the Lady of the Light. The table was one of the few pieces of furniture not shoved against a door or broken down for burning. The Praelate was a huge, bald man with a ruddy complexion. Although his tiny flock generally called him “portly”, he would chuckle at the term while holding his enormous girth. Now, all of his flock had long since fled and the Praelate was holding final vigil against the invaders, protecting a handful of townsfolk who had come to him for sanctuary. Only the long-waning powers of his Ladyship had kept the church standing while the rest of Port Redcap burned.

In his dream, the Praelate sat atop the old wellhouse at the western edge of town, looking east across the smoking ruins of buildings down to the remnants of the docks. There, split and smoking poles seemed to float on the bay waters amid debris and the reflections of a few remaining fires. He was aware of someone sitting next to him, a man in tarnished white mail wearing a tattered white tabard.

“All is lost”, Mogisor sighed, looking hopelessly for anyone still alive in the charred rubble of the town.

“All here, perhaps”, the man said. His voice was low and airy, as if he was half-whispering from across a large room. The man seemed to gaze to the east as well, but was looking further on.

“Where else is there”, Monisor grumbled. “What poor flock I had have been scattered or killed. I have neither the money nor the life left in me to start somewhere else. This was her last house, and I am likely her last follower.”

“Perhaps”, the man said, with a flat tone that indicated he agreed. “Will you abandon your faith?”.

The priest considered this for a few moments. For the majority of his life this would have been an unthinkable insult. In the last few years it might have caused him pause. Now it was something to ponder. “No. Never that. I once dreamed of reviving her following, of bringing her church back and spreading her light. That dream looks to have died here, burned with the rest of this poor town.”.

The man sat silent for a minute, then, in a voice much clearer said “You will need your faith, Mogisor. Times may be darker than you know, but there is hope for her yet. There are visitors approaching. You must help them and beg service for her. You must send them to find Vinzin”.

Mogisor woke with a start, and hastily looked around the temple. The altar sat under the main dome, around which radiated short rectangular wings in the eight directions of the compass. Each arm had once held a small number of benches for supplicants to meditate on and further each held rooms for healing, research and the homes for the staff. Although Praelate Mogisor had been the only one using the living quarters, he had performed enough healing and given comforting enough to draw a small following. Most were not worshipers as such, but many came to pay their respects or give thanks for help given by the Praelate. Perhaps forty such supplicants now slept fitfully on the floor in the northern arm. Although most of the benches had been ransaked for firewood, the doors still held fast. Mogisor lumbered to his feet and walked over to the altar where a tiny white flame flickered. The holy flame seemed to hover above the intricate carvings in the stone altar, and was so low that you might walk past and never notice it. To Mogisor, however, it was comforting to know that this tiny remnant of the Lady of the Light still burned.

Mogisor placed his hands on top of the altar and rested against it, drawing strength from the massive stone. The vision had been clear, people were coming and he would need to help them to get help from them. It made some sense, until the part about Vinzin. The Praelate knew who Vinzin was, of course, although he might be the last living person to know the full tale. The great betrayal of the Lady of the Light would not loom large in the pages of any tome of history, but every worshiper of the Lady knew his name. Her great holy warrior, her great love, and his failure which toppled her church. Mogisor considered this for a few moments, then shook his head.

“If she wills it. Perhaps I am just too old or daft to understand”, Mogisor whispered, defeated. Gathering his strength, he walked to the table to prepare himself for the long night ahead. Whoever it was the vision said was coming, Mogisor just hoped they arrived soon.

Far to the southeast in Bridgetown, trouble brewed in another temple. Ren Enri Bennisen stood quietly at the arched doorway to the training yard and watched the school's master arguing with a guard holding a large bit of parchment.

“This is simply impossible”, Master Tonpen argued. The monk's tone was agitated, but his smooth, careful motions revealed control under stress. “ Our students are protected from the town charter. None of them are citizens of Bridgetown, thus none can be called into any service.”

“Look, I would love to argue this with you, but the mayors see it different. Some of your students have lived here for more than five years, which makes them citizens, so they can be called into service. You'll just have to...”, the guard tried to argue, but Master Tonpen would not be put off.

“No. It is inconceivable that one of my students be used in such a way. We will fight to defend this city, but to answer to your army as stable-hands or spies or any other such task would be against every”, Tonpen interrupted.

“Look, you'll have to talk to the mayors. I was told to give you this message” the guard grumbled. He forced the parchment into Tonpen's hands, turned and marched through the entryway and into the street.

Master Tonpen allowed the parchment to fall to the cobblestone walkway and rubbed his forehead. Although he heard another monk moving silently up behind him, he made no move to indicate it. Any monk would assume he was heard, especially by Master Tonpen.

“I fear not. Any resistance on our part will be perceived as a challenge to their leadership. They have the mantle of authority. We can either attempt to leave the school or acquiesce to their demands. Any other path leads to quicker confrontation,” the master said. Tonpen turned slowly to look at Bennisen.

“I will volunteer”, Bennisen said quietly. “I am nearing my time of sojourn, and if it would help the school, it will make it easier to go”.

Tonpen studied the student for a moment. “You have not completed your student trials” he said, with a bit of amusement in his voice.

Ren hung his head a bit. He knew the master was goading him to finish the trials, something he had long put off. It was unusual for a student to go so long without the exam, but Ren had encountered many difficulties in meeting the rigorous physical and magical training regimens of the school. Although the teachers recognized his talent, he was not the fastest student. His peers tended to be much younger in his classes, a fact that embarrassed Ren.

“No master, I have not. I believe that I may be ready. I did not mean to presume”...

“Nonsense. You are ready. I'm glad you are motivated to finish your first steps of training, but I am not sure that you are ready to take on the sojourn, especially given the circumstances.”

“Bah! Who put such notions in your head” the master chastised. “Your fate! You will come to be fully aware of your fate a year after it has come to pass.”. Tonpen paused and studied his student for a moment. “Very well” he said quietly, “It does solve two problems, and it will give us time to consider the future of the school here”. With that, Tonpen clasped Bennisen's shoulder and walked slowly toward the entrance to the school. “I expect to see your instructors petitioning for your testing tomorrow”, he said as he walked past the main archway.

Ren sighed. He knew the tests would not be difficult, his skills certainly exceeded those required to pass. However, a sojourn would mean five years out in the world. Having no family and only a few friends from school, such a journey would be lonely at best.

Apprentice Arasen Bott was in an all too familiar position. Having destroyed yet another experiment he sat quietly in the antechamber while his Professor and the Headmaster discussed repercussions. Headmaster Von's antechamber was not the sort of place for quiet contemplation. Huge, dark red wood tables filled aloves all around, supporting heavy marble vases and busts. Large paintings of former headmasters adorned the wall, hanging so close as to nearly cover the mustard colored walls. Although Bridgetown's school of mages was but a minor adjunct to the main school in Carttra, Von had determined that any student or visitor would understand that even a minor auxiliary facility was still part of the mage school.

The only thing new was the watchguard sitting across the room, his expression one of discomfort despite the massive padded armchair. Arasen had initally tried to strike up a conversation, but the guard grumbled something about official business and the conversation faded into stark silence.

Instead, Arasen considered the explosion carefully in his head. He'd been trying to speed up the chemical reaction by increasing a catalyst agent. It had been going well and Arasen had just been considering encasing the whole thing in clay using his talents when... well, something happened. Arasen wasn't precisely sure what, since he'd woken up in the healer's office and the cleaning crew had closed the experiment wing off to all students. He knew if he could just isolate when the reaction turned critical, he could reproduce the effect. It wasn't likely that the professor would allow that to happen, after all he hadn't been allowed into alchemy class for weeks after reducing the mortar table into sludge. It had eaten its way through most of the lower storage room before one of the master mages had managed to turn it into glass.

Arasen was still working out a way to sneak back into the lab when Headmaster Von appeared. The aged wizard looked surprisingly calm. He made his way out into the room until he stood nearly between Arasen and the guard and said, “It seems I have a volunteer for you, Watchgard Montin”

Duke Malloy walked slowly around the huge map table, listening to General Kenv recite skirmish after skirmish.

“Finally, there was an ambush on a Greyguard scout team in the outer forest here”, General Kenv said, pointing to the forests east of Tivar with a long stick. The huge map, carefully marked with multiple colored inks indicating mountains, forest and field, took up a table large enough to seat twenty. All of the dukedom of Tivar was shown, along with outlying settlements and neighboring kingdoms. “Four of the six returned, one badly injured. They describe the attackers much as every other team has, humans and their huge attacking dogs. A troop from Redguard was sent to investigate, but the attackers were long gone.”.

“Any magic?” the Duke asked in a dull tone that indicated he knew the answer.

“Yes”, the general said, heavily. “Some might have been trickery or smoke or such, but some was certainly magical”. The general made his way around to the northern end of the table. “There still seems to be no sign of siege preperation, nor are there any signs of camps or supply lines. Whatever their intent, they seem to be moving past us to the forests in the foothills.”

“I still say they are setting a camp in the forests in the hollow of the hills here, sire”, the general said, pointing to a large forest within a sweep of hills and mountains. “I know it makes no sense to my eyes, but every report has them going to or already in that area.”

“But there's nothing there” the Duke insisted. “It sits between the caravan road and those mountains. There's nothing there! No advantage to be had camping between us and Bridgetown, no resources but green wood and rock! I need to know why they hold that area, or I will remain convinced that this is but a ruse to draw our eye from their real camp.”

Behind the Duke a door opened, two guards in blue escorted another guard in red through the doors and toward the table.

“It was badly injured, sire. It never made it to Avendoor” the guard replied. “The messagemen say it may still live, but it won't carry again. Whatever attacked it must have wiped out the rest of the birds”.

Duke Malloy rubbed his temples in frustration and dismissed the guard with a wave. “Hells” he whispered. “No communications, farmers hiding within the outer walls, trade halted in all directions and an unknown enemy who is dancing to a tune we cannot hear! What I wouldn't give for some simple information!”.