“Justias, wait for me!” Karan exclaimed as the younger man hastened to keep up with his friend. The pair of young men were on the hunt for nearly the last hour, after Justias’ keen sight had spied a young buck near the northern wood line of their village. An exceptional shot from the longbow he carried ensured that the animal bled a trail they could follow, but the young men cursed their ill fortune that Justias’ wound had not been more dire. The buck had led them on a merry chase through the end of morning and beyond the field that was their village’s northern boundary, deep into the forest beyond filled with lofty trees and their spidery roots. But the trail was becoming fresher. The buck had nearly breathed its last, Karan felt sure. He also felt sure that Justias was going to have the bloody thing killed and cleaned before the young man ever caught up to him.
“Justias!” Karan paused on a slant of rich brown earth, half cloaked in the shade a mighty old elm tree accorded him. He cupped his hands to his mouth after taking in a few labored breaths. “Where the devil did you go off to? I’ve lost the trail!” Karan had never possessed the hunter’s instinct that his friend obviously displayed, though Justias had tried in vain to teach him many times. The blood trail had vanished in a small stream that wound, nearly forgotten by all, through a little ditch between raised mounds of moss-clad trees. Karan, who had lost sight of his excited hunting partner almost ten minutes prior, thought the deer had ran through the stream for a measure of time, and that had masked the blood loss and hoof prints. Only now had he began to wonder if the buck and its fevered pursuer were going the other way, doubling back toward the west while Karan traveled east. It wasn’t that the young man feared the danger of the forest he and Justias hunted in. Truth to tell, he couldn’t have felt safer. There were wild tales of southland forests filled with titanic old trees that blocked sunlight from reaching the ground, and the fell things which roamed such bleak and shadowy regions, but they were far from the River Rowan, and the pioneered land of the south. The worst that the surrounding wilderness could offer could be dealt with by a well placed arrow. Unless that worst entailed getting lost because he couldn’t manage to find the trail he was looking for.
Just when Karan decided that it may have been his folly to travel to the east, and he was readying to double back along the winding stream, he heard a rustle of noise beyond a small gangle of saplings behind him. Something barely heard over one of the lengthy mounds which sported the great old trees drew his gaze, and he sharpened his senses to it, as Justias had taught him. Readying to call for him again, but suddenly thinking better of it, Karan instead exhaled deeply in a long, labored breath, and jogged over the mound and beyond the line of kingly trees.
“It serves me right, letting him sprint off like that,” Karan reprimanded himself, knowing well the speed and fervor with which young Justias pursued anything that he put a mind to hunt. Though Karan was one year Justias’ junior, it felt to the young man that sometimes he was some years his senior. Many were the times that Karan was the voice of reason for the brash young northlander when trouble reared its head within the village. Justias was outspoken about many things that he felt were of import, anything too important to simply be bottled up or overlooked. It was same for him every time the Clerics would come to their village for the annual Tithing. Karan knew that Justias loathed the Clerics, and their yearly visits in the middle of spring. The young man secretly feared that one day, when Justias had reached manhood that he would simply flee from the village without sign of his passing. Or worse, resist the Tithing that had been a part of the village for the last hundred years. Karan allowed this dark thought into his mind in the deep of the night, when he was alone and could hold it secret, safe. The young man pondered on those silent nights if he might chance to follow Justias when and if he elected to leave the village, putting behind them the Tithing and the Clerics. But was there a land in all Kallendaros that was not within the reach of their justice? Karan put aside his jumbled pondering as he neared a clearing of knee-high grass.
Blood scent held faintly in the air, and a line of matted grass at the clearing’s eastern edge was peppered with trickling, fresh blood. The buck had passed through the brush line, and that meant Justias wasn’t far off. Karan didn’t bother to call out for the young man. He knew that his friend was completely absorbed right now, whether it was finishing the deer at last, or cleaning the doomed animal, Justias wouldn’t answer him. Ducking low and trying to stay quiet, Karan wove his way into the clearing of waving grass surrounded by a ring of younger trees.
There stood Justias Eventine, as Karan predicted, grimly assessing his query, one hand gripping a fine ash wood bow that he favored for hunting. Sheathed just behind his back crossways was a curved hunting dagger that was always razor sharp for just such an occasion. Justias turned his head knowingly, his young, handsome features already forming a greeting smile that Karan mirrored as he hastened to join the young man over the body of their future meal.
“What kept you?” was all Justias said as he knelt down beside the felled animal. A single arrow protruded from the left side of it, right where its heart would be, and all that allowed the deer to survive such a skillful shot was the simple fact that Justias had been too far away to breach deeper into the buck’s body. A small pool of blood caked the soft earth under the felled animal, and crusted under the boiled leather boots Justias wore. Karan took care not to dirty his own boots with the animal’s spilt blood.
“What kept me?” Karan was incredulous at the simple question Justias shot at him. He waved his arms as though he might try to fly off right then and there, an exasperated expression that was lost on the young hunter as he peered down at his kill. Karan sighed.
“What kept me?” he repeated. “The next time you charge off after the poor animal that you shoot, you might do well to leave those with less hunting skills a better trail to follow. It’s a wonder that I didn’t backtrack and see if you and the deer didn’t run right past me while I was hollering for you through the whole bloody forest!”
“You’re out here to learn hunting skills, are you not, Karan?” Justias replied coolly, as he took hold of the deer’s forelegs and drug the dead animal away from the spilt pool of its lifeblood. “How are you to learn those skills if I have to play nursemaid every time I chase a kill? Sooner or later you’ll be alone. Then what will you do?”
“A fine mentor you make,” Karan argued bitterly, half mocked and half real. “You get so excited at the prospect of the hunt that you forget what you’re doing at the chance for sport.” Grudgingly, Karan added in, “A fine shot, though.”
“Thank you,” Justias replied as he finished dragging the deer. He stood and leaned his ash wood bow beside a tree to his left, then fixed Karan with a patient stare. “Now are you going to help me clean my kill or not?”
It was late in the night, but the friends hardly noticed the passage of time as they supped on the fine meal of venison from Justias’ kill. The moon was a pale orb, holding silent sway in all the clear night sky overhead, its ghostly light a cloak of serene shade that dark things stirred within. To combat the haunting of the countryside the pair of friends kindled a small campfire; first to cook their meal upon, and then for warmth and light. It may have been late spring, but nights in the forest could grow chill at a moment’s notice, as this one had. Karan had almost abandoned his thick hunting cloak that he favored when he and Justias scoured the land in search of game, such was the heat of the hunt, but now it draped over his shoulders, warding a good measure of the night’s cold from his bones. But it didn’t soothe completely.
The fire danced and leapt gaily as it fed greedily on the gathering logs that the youthful pair collected before finding a nice, flat stretch of field to camp for the night. Karan knew without a second of hesitation that their village was a mere two miles south of them, almost directly, and that a path ground into the packed earth of the forest could see them safely back in a half hour or less, but neither young man desired to seek a warm house and soft bed, and Karan rightly knew why. He just didn’t know if his young, opinionated friend would deem to talk about it yet. Then again, nothing did make Justias feel better than a well won bit of hunting.
“What bothers you, Karan?”
The question startled Karan out of his reverie, and he jolted to look up from the hypnotic, hungry flames to the cool blue eyes of his friend. They regarded him behind a sober mask that adorned the young man’s face. Despite himself, Karan laughed, as Justias had beaten him to the very thing he was going to ask. It served his purpose, at least. Now he could simply return the question.
“Mayhap I’m still sour about you leaving me in the middle of the wilderness,” Karan replied jovially. Justias leaned against a slender fir tree just behind him and tossed a twig into the flames. They leapt and twisted, seeking more, but sank back down into a contented drone with the new morsel tossed its way.
“You know the paths north of the village as well as I do,” Justias said coolly, thinking perhaps that Karan was serious. “I would have given you a share of the spoils whether you would have caught up with me or not.”
“I don’t care about the deer, Justias,” Karan returned plainly. He sighed, and then shook his head. “Don’t think I don’t know why we’re really out here. The Tithing is coming soon.”
“I’m out here to hunt. Nothing more,” Justias rose from his seat and paced the length of the fire’s light, hands folded behind his back, his young face stern with thought and brooding contempt.
“You’re of age, Justias. The Clerics will want you marked,” Karan reasoned, knowing that his every word would provoke wrath. Still he persisted. “I took the brand at fifteen, when one is deemed old enough; you have been avoiding it two years, Justias! If you are eighteen and still unmarked, you are going to have your privileges as a citizen revoked! Don’t allow pride to prevent you from plying a trade, or marrying. Someone unmarked can do neither.”
“I’ll not be branded by the bloody Dragon Clerics,” Justias growled with fresh anger, shaking his fists for emphasis. “I’ll not be marked like some man’s cattle; meat to be decided how best to profit from it later!”
“It is tradition,” Karan reminded him calmly. “You’ve avoided the Tithing season for the last four years.”
“Five years,” Justias amended.
“Fine. You’ve avoided the Tithing for five years, coming here and going there when the clerics come from Myrodia to collect; you avoided them before the time when you were even old enough to be branded. Every man in the village bears the mark of the Priesthood, as should every man when he reaches his seventeenth year. Your father and your grandfather bore the Cleric’s mark.”
“They were men protecting their families, and both lived with regret, with shame for being herded like sheep. You take the mark and name yourself a follower of the Dragons, or you’re not welcome into any northron village. You are marked as an enemy of the Priesthood. It sounds to me that I’m marked either way I look at it.”
Karan feared how easily Justias came to that last conclusion, as though the young man were considering resisting the will of the village elders and one hundred years of tradition simply because his pride warned him otherwise. Angrily, Karan clutched the mark of the Clerics that lay scarred over his right forearm, a serpentine head with folded draconic wings that ran under the chin, no larger than a child’s fist. The pain of taking the mark had been great, an echo of memory that made Karan wince a year after its happening. He carried more than physical pain since that day, as though his pride bled from the wound almost daily, leaving him a little more pliable, a little weaker in mindset so that he might adhere to the will of the Priesthood. Suddenly, an angry part of his mind longed to encourage Justias on his train of thought, but Karan mastered himself quickly and admonished that inner voice.
Collecting himself, Karan knew without doubt his place in the debate. If Justias failed to show himself for the Tithing, and the Clerics knew that the Eventine family had a son that would be of age to be considered for their Priesthood, then they would look for him. They might even imprison Justias’ family. “For the sake of the village, for the sake of your family, don’t do anything rash, Justias. You have been the best friend I have ever had, but I can’t respect a man who would trade the safety of his entire village because he can’t condone the loss of his pride. Every man has a master.”
“In that, I agree,” Justias said softly, though with no less anger. “But I, in turn, can’t respect a man that sells himself cheap, like the harlots of the southern cities. I will not be another man’s property, the Priesthood’s, or a Dragon’s.”
“You make life sound so easy,” Karan remarked sourly. “But it isn’t. You can’t live as you want and still have ties to those that love you, or you live selfishly. That isn’t you, Justias. I know that you have ideals, and I applaud your efforts to uphold them, but rebellion against the Priesthood, the greatest military power anywhere in Kallendaros, is an act of idiocy! You chided me when I was branded so young, but it kept my family safe, Justias; it kept the village safe. Where will you flee, or to whom will you turn for aid if you are exiled from all northron villages?”
“There are the Dwarves,” Justias mentioned casually. To that Karan chuckled.
“Certainly, there are the Dwarves. I’ll tell you what: you go and rally the Dwarves, who couldn’t care less about the plight of our people, while I waylay the Priesthood, who are due to be here in less than a week’s time. The Iron Keep Mountains are only two month’s travel from our village, if I remember my geography.”
“I see your point,” Justias said bitterly. He threw himself down on the log that was his seat for the night, and rested his open hands on his knees. His palms were bleeding a little from where he had dug his nails into them. “I see it, but I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it, Justias,” Karan told him calmly, hoping that his words had stayed, for the time being, his friend’s bold mind. “You just have to endure it.”
“Easy words,” Justias traced a finger in the air, mentally capturing a figure revealed to him in one flashing tongue of red flame. “But what if I can’t endure it?” Karan had no words of consolation for him, and decided it best to let the conversation be at that. Justias may content himself with a verbal victory, Karan hoped. His kinship would never break with Justias, and if the headstrong, willful fool ran away from their northron village, then Karan would have to come with, though he rather doubted that he would be as much an aid as he would be an encumbrance to the accomplished woodsman. And if he chose to fight… Well, Karan didn’t really want to ponder that option for very long. No man lived long when they disputed the will of the Clerics. Mulling over such thoughts, he cast his fears into the flames and hoped secretly that the gorging little fire would consume them for him and leave him a measure of peace for the night. As he lay down upon the firm, open ground of the small field Karan knew that sleep would be a long time coming to him.
Morning came silently over the young friends, stealing away the cool comfort of the night shadows and spreading probing fingers of yawning white over the newly born day. Karan rolled away from the coming dawn at first, tugging at his travel cloak to pull it over his eyes and shield himself for a few more minutes of unbroken sleep. Of all the times of day, he hated waking the most. It was such a small act, that of simply standing from a comfortable, warm place and shaking the welcome, lulling feel of slumber from your bones. When viewed in that light, Karan thought it wasn’t a small act at all, and dozed back off beneath the bowing arms of a weeping willow.
Five minutes later his cloak was torn back and the sunlight bit at his closed eyelids as he fumbled for the item’s hem.
“Justias!” he barked. “Can’t you let a man sleep?”
“I could,” Justias answered thoughtfully, though his tone was playful. “But we might never see the village again. Besides, breakfast is ready, and you don’t want that deer to go to waste do you?”
“Just because you rise with the dawn doesn’t mean that I have to,” Karan grumbled quietly, to no one in particular. Justias cast him a keen eye. It seemed that Karan hadn’t been quiet enough.
“If you want to learn how to become a skilled hunter, then you have to be quick to rise. You may find that you have only a little sleep to work with when the hunt comes on you. The prey won’t worry over much if you happen to have fetched only a little sleep when they happen by.”
Karan snorted, but knew that Justias was truthful enough. The young man had been on a number of lengthy hunts since his ninth year, both with his father William Eventine, and Barlow, his uncle. They were expert woodsmen that seemed almost born for the role, and the only thing that restrained them from committing all their lives to the quiet comfort of the woodland and the boundless reaches of nature was the obligation of family. First, to their parents, and then later to wives and children as both men married early. Justias was William’s only son, and Karan believed the elder Eventine could not have been happier with how his child had grown into manhood. He possessed a keen mind, quick wit and peerless perception that belied his young age, traits that Karan sometimes envied his friend. But Justias’ most glaring flaw was his unyielding spirit, a quirk that William jokingly blamed his mother for. Justias, even in his earliest years, while they learned letters and numbers from the deacons at the local church, had a will of iron. Years of trials in his youth began to temper that iron, molding it into a refined vehicle that drove the passionate Eventine toward loftier heights and ideals. It seemed to Karan a riddle within a riddle. Did Justias’ ideals fan the flames within his soul and temper that iron will, or did the young man’s incredible sense of will direct his moral choices? These strong forces were a part of what pulled Karan Cartwright to the young Eventine. Justias was a defined young man with little pretense to him, a veritable mirror of his father.
Karan roused from the forest floor and stretched the sleep from heavy limbs, feeling the long hunt and ending pursuit wearing on him. His legs were a little stiff and sore, and his lower back throbbed a bit, nothing that a good walk on the smooth forest trails wouldn’t cure at length. Karan caught his friend regarding him from over the newly kindled camp-fire, roasting a strip of venison over the spitting flame, a mere ghost of the warmth that was a leaping, growling animal of light and heat the night previous. Justias chuckled and shook his head, returning his attention to the stick he held, and the piece of venison affixed to it as tongues of flame licked at it.
“You’ll make a poor hunter with the aches and pains of an old man already hounding you.”
“It was because you had me chasing you while you were chasing the bloody deer!” Karan retorted quickly, pulling up his travel pack and slinging a strap over one shoulder. Seeing that Justias was well past any banter dealing with yesterday’s hunt, Karan shrugged and settled onto a slanted, moss-clad log about a half dozen feet from the small camp-fire.
“Are we returning to the village today?”
“I assumed we would,” came the terse reply. Karan stared at him.
“Are you going to stay in the village when the Clerics come?”
“I’m debating it,” Justias pulled the roasted strip of meat from the stick and gnawed at it half heartedly, staring hard at the flames, as if his thoughts could reflect in the rolling colors of yellow and red. In his mind’s eye, he was struggling with something profound. Karan stayed silent for a time, stealing a chance for a bite to eat and a brief drink from his water-skin.
“Have you ever heard of the great cities of the south?” Justias asked suddenly, giving Karan pause.
“A little,” Karan began. “My father says that they are massive in scope and design, remnants of a dead time, a time that will never return.”
“What do you know of them?”
Karan eyed the young man intently, trying to gauge his reasons for asking out of the blue. He inhaled sharply, as if about to speak, and waited to see if Justias would look up at him. When that failed Karan loosed the breath in a long, sad gasp and fished for a good beginning to his telling. It would hurt little to speak of the southern cities, he deemed. After all, there had been many occasions on trips such as this one when Justias pressed him for knowledge of the south. Karan doubted that he could tell him much more than he already knew, and he fully believed that Justias must have the tales memorized by now. Karan indulged him regardless, as a brother might.
“There is the most ancient of cities, said to have been the first to be built by Humans. Southdeep rests less than a day’s ride from the Kanaron Mountains which frame the southern boundary of Kallendaros, and serves as the last residence of lordship for our people. It is said that this bastion is so well defended that even the Dragons could not destroy it, despite their attempts, but neither can our people advance beyond its thick walls to reclaim what it is said we’ve lost, or they have forfeited the safety of the city. It is a stalemate, and one that my father says the Dragons will win. They are immortal.”
“Nothing of flesh is immortal,” Justias interrupted heatedly, tossing his stick into the fire.
“Southdeep rests on a high cliff, a chasm formed centuries before its building, and a highway spans from the north gates to Cantlin City, on the edge of the Thistlebrush Wastes, the region surrounding Southdeep. Cantlin is governed, it is said, by the Dwarves, and is built in the bowels of a dormant volcano. The Dwarven folk harness the power of the volcano to forge their goods, which they export to Southdeep and coastal cities, or to their own kin in the Kanaron Mountains.”
“What is a volcano?” Justias asked.
“A mountain that spews fire and ash, and spews molten flame from its peak, like a bloodletting of sorts. Father says it comes from the deep places of the earth, where rivers of molten fire flow like great surface rivers, only coming near to such a river would be the end of a man.”
“Would it be the end of a Dragon?” Justias queried.
Karan shot him an incredulous look. “Do I look as though I have knowledge on the weakness of Dragons? The Old Kingdom failed utterly to defeat a mere handful of them two hundred years ago with all their mighty weapons and high towers. I hardly think a flow of flame, even liquid flame, would do much harm to such a beast. Besides, father has never seen a volcano, nor has anyone from the village. No one travels south, to the Thistlebrush Wastes, Justias. If the Clerics didn’t apprehend you and interrogate you then highwaymen surely would. They’re abundant to the south, in Myrodia and beyond, I hear.”
“I wonder,” Justias said, rubbing his chin in thought. Karan glared at him.
“Stop wondering. If you don’t mind, I’d like to return to the village now.”
“Very well,” Justias sighed with resignation as he jumped up and slung his own pack onto his broad shoulders. He stamped out the lingering fire and turned to face Karan with a plain look. “I got us here. Now you’ll have to get us back.”
“Another part of my training?” Karan scoffed. “You’ve been such an excellent teacher thus far.” When Justias failed to answer Karan turned slowly on a heel and scanned the surrounding wood line beyond the clearing, visually hunting for a telltale sign that would let him know where he was in his homeland. Minutes lapsed as the young man grew first apprehensive, then irate. There was no stream, tree, mound of earth or stone that looked immediately familiar to him, which startled him a little. Karan was under the impression that he knew this land every bit as well as Justias did, but the young woodsman proved him wrong simply by choosing a camping sight. He stomped once and turned to face Justias, hands placed squarely on his hips. His booted foot tapped the hard earth as he waited for the slowly spreading smile to form on Justias’ face. There was a hint of laughter as his frame shook a little, but Justias mastered himself and gave Karan a wondering look. He waved an open hand and swept the vast woodland, waiting for the young man to select a path or direction to begin the march. Karan glared daggers at him.
“Where in the name of the Oath have you brought us?” he asked at last, a little exasperated.
“We’re two miles north of the village, more or less.”
“More or less,” Karan echoed skeptically. Justias smiled.
“Your lesson is at hand, Karan. Find the path back to the village, if you can.”
“What?” Karan roared, his voice lost into the rolling hills and trees of the surrounding forest. The impact of his exclamation stilled the woodland for a scant second, and then life and noise returned as animals declared his anger hardly worthy of notice, these strange outlanders. “What if I get us lost?” Karan argued.
“Then I’ll take over and lead us back. I know this land well. My uncle Barlow loves hunting in this region for deer pelts. I’ve spent three winters scouring this very patch of forest for stray deer with bow and spear. There are a few bear dens as well.”
“Bear dens?” Karan felt the words leave his mouth with a certain chill.
“Yes. But my uncle and I never hunted those. Too much bother, he told me.”
“Wonderful,” Karan threw his hands into the air and stormed away a few feet, futilely scanning the wood line again. Perhaps, he reasoned, he may recognize the landscape from a different perspective. With that in mind Karan led the amused Justias across the field and beyond a patch of spindly poplar trees before coming to the crest of a low slanted hill that was crowned just off to one side by a strong, middle-aged oak tree. The roots ran deep and wove through the side of the hill like seeking daggers, cutting earth and stone until it ended at a small, still stream bed that barely flowed with an inch of shimmering water. Judging by the size of the stream it must have been thrice that size when it rained, or just after winter’s thaw, but now it was a pitiful thing that Karan doubted any animals came to drink from. He was just turning his attention to the south again when his head whipped back to the stream. This must have been a branch of another, more familiar body of water that cut a fine path through the woodland all to the west, though its depth at the point was a little more noteworthy.
Karan shot a sly glance at the waiting Justias and grinned wolfishly. “You aren’t as clever as you think,” he remarked as he began to jog slowly along the side of the stream, descending the sloping hill and leaving the oak to its solitude. Without word Justias followed, taking keen note of every action Karan made, of every step and twist he took, of every pebble or leaf the young man stared at. Barely fifteen minutes elapsed before the trail ended and the stream vanished beneath the rounded countenance of a giant, pale white rock that lay forlorn in the midst of the forest, a rock which Karan did not recognize. He stared hotly at the stream’s path as it passed beneath the great rock and then totally underground, and he could feel Justias’ smiling face watching his back. Without looking over a shoulder Karan leapt onto the rock and stood erect, scanning the region for a sign of where he might be.
“You’re overlooking the obvious,” Justias said from behind him casually.
“And you aren’t allowing me enough time to weigh out what I intend to do,” Karan replied without meeting his gaze, hand to his eyes to blot out the morning sun. Then, like a bolt of understanding, it dawned on him. Jumping down from the rock, Karan shrugged off his pack and looked for a taller tree that he could easily climb. After a brief search he scaled one and peered about, looking for the smoke lines that would outline the markings of the village south of them. At the least there would be a single black plume where the local smithy was working on his projects, and indeed a fine, small sheen of rolling black lay to the south, not two miles south east of where they currently stood. Sliding down the tree and grabbing his pack from the forest floor, Karan began his jog anew, this time mentally mapping out the straightest direction toward the village. Since he didn’t know this region of the forest very well he would simply go south east until he happened to find a marker he could use to straighten his bearings. Behind him Justias beamed with approval, following in stealthy silence.
After a mile of steady jogging Karan came to a brief halt under a copse of trees that had a beaten northward path running through it. The path was the nearest thing to a road that the village possessed leading to northern villages along the coast of the land, and the far reaches of the Green Hold. The few people that possessed wagons or horses found the narrow paths a little easier than endeavoring to trail-blaze through the rugged land, and the obscure paths were blessedly free of highwaymen, unlike the more dangerous southlands. Karan reflected that this road would soon be trod upon the Priesthood of the Dragon, the Clerics that Justias despised, making their yearly trips to collect the Tithing that were owed by all the northern tributary lands. Many young men and women would be branded this spring, besides Justias. The Clerics had founded many laws under the authority of the Dragons whom they served. The brand was a mark that recognized the bearer as a servant and subject of the lands that the Dragons ruled, and therefore a citizen of the Priesthood’s dominion. A man could not find guild work without the brand on them, and men or women could not marry or have children without it. Property was taken and people were sent to the terrible prisons of Grey Walk, deep in southern Myrodia if they failed to comply with the Cleric’s doctrine.
The sun still climbed through the boughs of the trees, pushing the drawing shadows of the wilderness farther from the pair of travelers, and continued its ascent unabated as Karan stood on the road, lost in thought. At length Justias prodded him and his thoughts scattered like a fine mist in a morning wind. Karan managed a feeble, sheepish smile at his state of absent mindedness. Justias frowned.
“I thought that brooding was my duty,” he told Karan.
“What can I say?” Karan replied. “I’m learning more than hunting skills from you.”
They were about to turn south, a straight path that would lead them to their home, when Justias dropped a hand on Karan’s shoulder. “Hold,” he breathed softly, and Karan knew that his older friend had sensed something amiss. Justias’ stern face was fixed to directly ahead of them, into the deepening woodland across the small road. Karan puzzled over what caught his attention, unable to note the same subtle hint that must have tipped him off.
“What do you hear?” Karan whispered.
“Nothing,” Justias mouthed in an equally short whisper, but it sounded more a hiss, and with that Justias was hunched like a hunting cat, ash wood bow coming from his back in a flash, arrow knocked onto the taut string. Karan failed at first to understand what Justias had meant by that last comment. Then he realized that no animal stirred in the forest beyond the road. The creatures would only have ceased their noises if there was something nearing on them that they did not wish to draw the attention of. Something that hunted, or was out of place in their native region. Karan tensed, but not with hunting reflex. He flushed with a sort of tingling fear that almost compelled him to run along the road toward the village. There wasn’t even a mile before they could be in their home, safe amidst the houses and people gathered there. The tale Justias mentioned of bear dens in this region, something Karan had not known, made the fear more real; less fabricated.
Was there a bear lumbering toward them out of the wilderness? Would the creature attack them if it found them on the road, and would a bow and arrow even harm such an animal? Karan failed to recall the telling of bear hunts, but he did remember that men hunted the great animals with traps and spears, not with bows. Karan fought the impulse to call out his warning to Justias, to tell the young man that his ash wood bow may only sting and incense a dangerous beast, but his words didn’t come. Likely, Justias knew all of this already, and had come to these same conclusions even before Karan’s muddled mind had labored through them. But still the youth advanced into the silence of the forest.
Karan at once admired and envied Justias anew. He endeavored to draw inspiration from Justias’ courage, and with a deep breath and a quivering hand, the youth drew forth a sharpened hunting dagger before him. The gleaming, short blade may prove of little more use than skinning and cleaning a felled deer, but the small piece of steel made him feel braver than having nothing at all in hand. He envisioned fantastic tales of yore that his mother read to him when he was a slip of a child, little more than waist high. He was a Knight from those tales, sword in hand, stalking confidently toward his enemy. A small part of him wondered suddenly if the Knights in those old stories, chasing off after glory and Dragons, ever felt the pangs of icy fear that gnawed suddenly at him.
There was a sudden rustle in the foliage, not fifteen feet from the road’s shallow ditch that barely diverted rainwater when it came in the later spring, not two weeks hence. Justias lowered to a knee and trained on that spot where the noise and the rustling seemed to originate and waited patiently, arrow knocked and string straining back to an ear, his arms strong and unflinching. Breathing hard and trying to restrain the trembling fear that washed over him, Karan stood just behind his friend, dagger clutched tightly. Tense seconds of silence ensued, and the pair of young men could see some form making its way toward them, but it wasn’t directly. It seemed to shamble a little, then stop, as if deciding which direction to take. After electing a way, it moved again, but slowed and then faltered entirely after another minute. Justias lowered his bow and released the edge of secrecy.
“Who goes there?” he called loudly into the forest. No answer was forthcoming.
Karan placed a restraining hand on Justias’ shoulder, peering hard at the form that was so hard to see in the shade of the woodland. “Bears won’t answer you, Justias.”
“This isn’t a bear,” Justias retorted sharply, not looking up at his friend. “A bear wouldn’t act so. This is a man, I think, and one that doesn’t know his way through the forest.”
“If it is a man, it’s one that must have been drinking a little too much ale at the local tavern before wandering alone through the forest,” Karan added in. Justias only shook his head and called a greeting again, to no avail. At length a man did appear, but his sudden intrusion on the lonely little road put off both men.
He was taller than they, with ragged black hair and hardened features of a man thirty years aged, with flowing green robes belted with a deep purple sash. The robe was torn and frayed by grasping branches and bramble, and oozing cuts that had naught to do with the wilderness were plainly visible on his face and exposed hands. His dark eyes fixed on them without knowing, and reaching with one blood encrusted, shaking hand, he staggered toward them. He was pale and sweating, collapsing before the startled pair before he was fully on the road, as though it took the man all his waning strength simply to find the road and clear the underbrush that lay between it and him. Justias dropped his ash wood bow without thought and went to bound forward but was stopped by Karan’s still lingering hand.
“Can’t you see?” Karan barely breathed through clenched teeth, his face nearly as ashen as the fellow that just happened upon them. “Look at him! He has sweat and blood covering him! He’s ill, perhaps diseased!”
“Diseased!” Justias spat the word out. “It looks a little more like wounds than the marks of sickness, Karan. What bothers me more than his condition is his attire. Those robes he dons, they look familiar.”
“Clerical robes,” Karan said, matter of fact. He noticed Justias wince, and the young man hesitated in his rush forward. He stood more erect, his blue eyes now drifting back to the ash wood bow and to the silent wilderness this single man had come from.
“The Priesthood of the Dragon?”
Karan nodded. “I took the brand, remember?” Karan rolled up the leather sleeve of his hunting tunic and revealed the symbol of the Priesthood that Justias so reviled. He let the sleeve slip back down his bare arm and pointed at the fallen man. “There should be a medallion hanging from his neck that proclaims him a member of the Priesthood; a Cleric.”
Justias approached the man and stooped low, apprehensive about touching him. Chastising himself for behaving so foolishly, Justias gently rolled the man onto his chest. His neck, like his face, was caked with partially dried blood but lacked a necklace or medallion that marked him as a Cleric. But the robes told a tale the lacking medallion did not. There was no mistaking the colors of the Priesthood. Justias puzzled over this odd discovery, mulling it over in his mind until a firm, shaking hand gripped his own. He started, and looked down into the dark, haunted eyes of the wounded man.
“Help…me,” he stammered, his voice losing strength with even so few words spoken. Justias peeled the hand from his own and placed it on the man’s heaving chest, trying to appear calm and concerned. He wasn’t rightly sure how much compassion he felt for a man that served the Dragons so blindly, but this strange happening might have a bearing on his village’s safety, and Justias couldn’t ignore that prospect.
“I’ll do what I can,” Justias assured him flatly, patting the man’s arm. Seemingly assured, the man drifted into an unconscious stupor, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and his body sagging, all its strength finally spent.
“Now you’ve done it!” Karan exclaimed in a fit, pacing back and forth from one side of the road to the other, which only happened to be a half dozen steps or so. “He touched you, and now you’ll take on whatever he was carrying!”
“He isn’t ill, Karan!” Justias barked from where he crouched. “And you’ll be touching him as well. We’re going to find a way to bring this fellow back to the village so he can be treated. Perhaps my father can divine something from this.”
“What?” Karan could only stare blankly at him.
“Someone had to inflict these wounds on him,” Justias reasoned calmly. “It may be that there is some danger to our village. Now, I would rather risk sickness to bring this man back to the village so we might learn what happened to him rather than simply leave him right where he lay to die. Do you want to let him die?”
“We can’t leave a member of the Priesthood laying here!” Karan nearly screamed, though Justias was only a few feet from him. Justias held up a hand in a silent plea for Karan to quiet himself.
“Then why are you arguing point? Let’s make some kind of stretcher to carry him on and make haste back to the village. The sooner we return, the better the chances of him recovering quickly and being of some use.”
“The Clerics are coming for the Tithing soon,” Karan noted absently, staring hard at the unconscious Cleric.
“Then it may be that one of them might know what happened to this fellow, who is obviously one of their own. Either way, I’m going to need your help bringing him back to the village, Karan.” Without another shared word the pair of friends slunk off the road, finding a pair of stout saplings they might hew down and use for a stretcher, their thoughts churning over the implications of this sudden, disconcerting appearance.
They ended up carrying him between them on a makeshift stretcher comprised of two spindly poplar saplings and Justias’ hunting cloak, torn at the edges to allow the crudely carved poles to slip through the ends. Justias always made sure to carry a small axe for the case of chopping wood for fires and the like. It would have proven almost useless in the case of any real danger, but this instance made the small tool doubly useful. Justias took the front, his ash wood bow slung over a shoulder, while Karan hauled the back end, a bitter, confused look still marring his features. The mile between them and their home village seemed to extend to tenfold its length with their passenger and the gravity of his presence weighing on them. Before they took up the stretcher Justias had skirted the wood line and the bramble where the Cleric had emerged, hunting for any sign of his identity or purpose, or any sign that others had been with him. He had been unarmed and alone, bereft of his medallion even, wandering aimlessly through the northern forest where small settlements didn’t even house the Temples of the Dragon, where the Clerics hailed from. The youths couldn’t fathom what this single, wounded man was doing meandering in a haze of blood loss through their native lands, and the prospects of any answer filled both with quiet dread.
To Justias’ credit, the young hunter said nothing of the matter, fixing his capable mind on the task at hand and praying to the One God that his father might know the answer to this riddle. If they were fortunate they may wander into the village, Cleric in tow, and find the rest of the Priesthood that he belonged to, there and waiting for him. It seemed highly unlikely that his fellow Clerics would not notice his absence immediately and search for him, even in this remote and rather uncharted region of Kallendaros. In his mind’s eye Justias was already formulating some lofty goal that might be achieved through this odd twist of the fates. He would appeal to the Clerics when he returned their man to him, and beg that they refrain from branding him with the seal of the Dragons, proving with deed that he was a faithful servant of their Priesthood without having to say as much. Spoken loyalty would catch in his throat and choke him like a bitter wine. It amused him that, for the life of him, he didn’t know where his disdain for the Priesthood began, or what fanned the flames of his anger into blind hatred for those that served the Dragons without question. It may have been the half conceived tales of the Southern Kingdom, the Old Kingdom that Humans once ruled so much of the land with. Two centuries ago, a long time in the count of a Human’s mind, it prospered and centered their race. Then the Dragons razed the greatest cities with horrifying ease, leaving only Southdeep standing. But didn’t that mean the Dragons were not infallible? Southdeep stood! He only vaguely realized his contempt was not directed so much at the fantastic monsters that had beaten and subjugated his race, as it was aimed at his own who sold out their heritage, their very nature, to gain the favor of the Dragons.
Karan’s thoughts mirrored some of the woes and sorrows that Justias brooded over, but his were of a more personal nature. His father was going to be cross with him, allowing Justias to lead them on another odd adventure into the northern forest. Only this time it wasn’t a stray animal or a deer pelt they were coming home with, it was a man, a Cleric of the Dragon. Karan didn’t know the ways of the Priesthood very well, but they were as much an army as they were a conclave of Clerics. Had this man been in a battle with enemies of the Priesthood? What sort of folk would even dare to combat the will of the Clerics? Suddenly Karan fancied a band of highwaymen were shadowing them, lurking in the high foliage of the forest and waiting for their opportune moment to strike and finish what they began. It chilled him to the core when he willed that image to his mind and he could see, in the lead of this rough and tumble band of outlaws, Justias Eventine stalking at their lead, ash wood bow strained back with all the tension he could muster, his fingers ready to loose the deadly shaft…
Karan shook his head from that train of thought. Justias was no killer. Karan would wager his life on that. He looked ahead, jarring himself from the conjured world of his imaginings to see Justias and the unbending little road before them. Tall, bent trees hovered over the pair and the road, their bowing branches mere feet overhead as if they too wished to listen to the tumult of doubts and fears that Karan harbored. He cast them a rueful look and forcefully stared ahead. A pair of straight wooden beams protruded from the ground just ahead of them, marking the hundred yard boundary of the village. Karan sighed with relief, eager to be rid of their burden and more than a little anxious for it to be passed off onto someone else.
The pair passed the markers of the village and turned, following the road as it quickly opened and shot off in a smaller, straighter path into a deep grove of pine trees, where a good many of the village folk built their yards and homes. To the left a broad road carried travelers past a local tavern and a small, well kept, church where the young were taught their letters and numbers. Both buildings had their back porches against the heavy wood line that served as the village’s borders, and the road opened into the closest thing that they had to a plaza, or town square. There was a small stone well for water in the middle of it, and a cluster of other houses for families that catered to the needs of travelers, as well as smaller shops like the baker’s and the butcher’s. A little more than a handful of people were present in the little square when the young men carried their burden into plain view of their fellow townsfolk, half expecting to be swarmed with angry Clerics. There were no carriages from the south; no tethered horses or green-robed men waited for them. Some of the folk hastened over, concern and a little fear plain on their faces as they asked the nature of their find.
“I must speak first to my father,” Justias informed everyone in a loud, even tone. “Someone fetch Reverend Cerson from the church; we’ll need his skills. This man has been wounded and he needs medical aid.”
They scattered like ants before him, some of the people rushing off to the church to find Reverend Cerson while others fell in behind the pair of men, forming a veritable wake in their passing. Karan couldn’t help but compare the procession to a funeral wake, and another chill coursed from head to toe. He pursed his lips together and noted silently that he was allowing Justias’ dark moods to rub off on him.
“Go ahead of us!” Justias called out through clenched teeth, the weight of his passenger growing painfully burdening. “Go ahead and find William! Find my father and have him meet us!” Again more people scattered, eager to lend aid to this odd procession. But for every two or three that leapt to do Justias’ bidding, more took their place as the hunters passed their houses and shops. Soon a quarter of the village was following behind them, a mob of some one hundred twenty heads. The droning buzz of their excited talk was like a gaggle of swamp flies following greedily after them, stealing and stamping out all other sound so that nothing else existed save that mingling cloud of senseless prattle that neither man could understand. Dutifully, stiffly, they ignored more incoming calls and questions, holding out the last of their failing strength so they might lend it to their arms for the last hundred feet. Ahead of them came William Eventine, Justias’ father. Brown robes and a similarly colored tunic waved in the spring wind as he ran toward the gathering of people. His fine features and waving hair, so much like his own son’s, were seasoned with enough age and wisdom that the elder Eventine could recognize a potential problem the instant it came to his notice. The first order of business would be to bring the wounded man into his home and disperse the curious onlookers.
By this time Reverend Cerson had jogged up from behind them, politely weaving through the throng of folk that clustered together so tightly that little space was left to admit any more from behind them, and they began to fan out and block the whole of the village square with their bulk. Justias matched William’s stare and nodded a curt hello to his father.
“Karan and I found this man not more than a mile north of here, father,” Justias quietly explained as the deacon came up beside them, panting a little. The good minister of the One God was a bit more seasoned than Justias’ father, and as such had begun to trade his physical prowess for mental and spiritual gain. The aging servant considered the barter to be more than fair. He waited in silence for the young Eventine to explain more.
“What happened to him?” William inquired as he took the poles of the stretcher from his weakening son. Justias smiled gratefully and stepped away from his duties, as did Karan as Reverend Cerson took over the role of holding up the rear. Karan vigorously rubbed his wrists and forearms, half fearing that they were simply going to fall off now. They were as heavy without the stretcher’s burden, and hung dead at his sides.
“He was wounded somehow. I didn’t bother to examine him; I didn’t want to waste the time bringing him back to the village. He was alone and unarmed, with no clue as to who he is, but there is a distinct marking of what he is.”
William cast his son a curious glance, keenly noting the distaste in the tone of Justias’ voice. “He’s one of the Priesthood, father.”
“William’s face was a carved mask of stone, whose gray eyes betrayed little. He nodded slightly, indicating that he had heard his son, then turned slightly to speak under his breath.
“Say nothing more until we are in the house. I feel that this shouldn’t be a matter of public address just yet, especially with the Clerics due to be in the village any day now.”
The Eventine house was situated near the southern end of the village, less than a dozen feet from the edge of the road as it wound beyond the driven posts that marked the village’s entrance. It was a sullen place over the last several years as the Eventines adjusted to life without a wife and mother; Justias’ mother having been taken by fever more than three years ago, during the winter. It was a single story in height, as were most of the houses in the village, with a small shed and an outhouse located on a twisted foot path behind their home and hidden from initial view. The only item of note on their yard was a single apple tree that bore yearly fruit without fail for as long as Justias could recall.
That was how he met Karan. Karan had snuck into his yard for many days, stealing an apple or two from the branches and sneaking back off, thinking himself rather clever. But Justias had noticed him by the second day and had a crude trap waiting for the hapless youth by the fifth day, after Justias was certain that the boy came every day at the same time, which happened to be just after Reverend Cerson and the deacons of the church finished teaching letters and numbers. Justias launched a net trap made up mostly of thick blankets that enfolded and nearly smothered little Karan before the youth could unbury the poor boy that was suffocating beneath a seemingly too well orchestrated attack. Karan had wept from fear and embarrassment, and Justias awkwardly offered a hand in friendship, hoping to smooth matters over. Karan, by way of apology, offered the stolen apple as a gift and Justias accepted it, not thinking that the item was his from the start anyhow. They had been fast friends ever since. So it happened that a measure of their first meeting played through the young Eventine’s head every time he passed by that apple tree, even as he was rushing forth with an injured Cleric in tow. Despite himself he smiled at the recollection of that meeting and the many good years of friendship that had followed.
Justias opened the door and William entered quickly with Reverend Cerson directly after him. Karan tried to stave off the curious folk of their village, who wanted a better look at the poor man and the nature of his injuries, thinking that he might be sick, and fearing a spread of fever that was too common in the northlands. Reverend Cerson was there in a heartbeat, patting Karan on the shoulder and ordering him inside while he stepped onto the small porch to the side of the house and closed the door behind him, his first order of business to disperse the crowd of people that suddenly forgot that there was still work to be done, and it would hardly be right for the Priesthood to ride into the village and find them all gathering around a single house like a pack of scavengers waiting for their meal to finally pass away.
“What have we here?” William asked to no one in particular as he cast back the folds of the cloak and had a look at the man beneath them. He noted with grim certainty that the fellow was a member of the Priesthood, and that he was weak with blood loss and wounds. He also noticed immediately that a pair of spots had soaked through the tough cloak Justias used for a makeshift stretcher, and drips of dark blood were falling onto the wooden floor where he lay, suspended between a cushioned chair and a kitchen chair from the common room.
“What do you think happened, father?” Justias probed quietly, not wanting to interrupt his father’s train of thought. “Where did this man come from?”
“All I can guess for now is that he is a part of the Priesthood that is making its way north,” William answered cautiously. “He strayed from them, by choice or by force, and was attacked.”
“By choice?” Karan broke in, not liking the sound of William’s answer.
“He may be a deserter.”
“Someone that left the Priesthood of their own free will?” Justias seemed delighted at the notion. “That’s great! We have to nurse him back to health and make sure he recovers!”
“What happens if the Clerics find one of their own here?” Karan questioned softly.
“I’m not sure,” William said, though he felt more than a little certain he could guess easily enough. “It may be that they tend him and nurse him to health, then hasten him south where he’ll doubtless come to rest in the prisons of Grey Walk City. Or they may simply execute him.”
“What?” Justias declared, waving his hand. “We can’t allow that! Karan and I brought him back to the village to save his life! We didn’t return him to the village so he might live long enough to face imprisonment or death at his fellow’s hands!”
“Justias,” William explained patiently. “This man may well have been attacked by, or have attacked, his own. He may be a deserter and a criminal. If his presence endangers the village and our people, would you not give him up to keep them safe?”
“No! I would find a way to do both! You can’t balance a man’s worth against other lives! No one has the right to judge in such a way!”
“You are young,” William stood to his full height, some inches higher than the younger Eventine. “You are young and filled with the optimism that becomes your age. But a man must learn to make sacrifices; he must learn to exist with those around him if he is to do well, Justias. Single-minded zeal really makes you no different than the men that did this to that poor man lying before us.” Without saying more, William dutifully fell to treating the wounds of the man with the gentle care born of years of practice. Justias glared balefully at the wounded man, then at his father.
“So, you’re telling me that I must surrender my ideals to move ahead in life.”
“Son, I am telling you that life doesn’t possess the fine sensibilities that you do. It is a cold creature, bereft of comfort or compassion, ruled by those that currently possess authority. Thusly, it obeys only the commands of those that conform to its rules. All I’m saying is that sometimes compromises must be made.”
“Like the compromises you made?” Justias regretted those stinging words, and the harsh tone that accompanied the instant they emerged, but there they were. He had wounded his own father, and he couldn’t retract the sting. Karan looked aghast at him, as though he didn’t even recognize his own friend. William flinched only a little, then continued what he was doing without looking back, saying nothing. Justias felt the sting of tears welling up and went to say more, to apologize for his rash, thoughtless words, but they caught somewhere in his throat and he turned on his heel. Karan watched him go, too shocked to follow, to stunned to intercede and say anything on either’s behalf. Wisely, he chose to say nothing. Though it seemed the verbal sting had little effect on the elder Eventine, a sharp eye might have noticed that William treated the wounded man on the stretcher with hands that trembled with grief.
Two days had passed, and the Cleric of the Dragon had become, in his infirmity, a local celebrity. It couldn’t be kept secret for long that Justias and Karan had brought back a man from their hunt, and that the man sported the green robes of the Priesthood. Speculation and rumor ran rampant through the small community, despite Reverend Cerson’s best efforts to quash it. The man was some sort of warrior, a soldier for the Priesthood that was severed from his fellows and wandered afar from the field of battle to their sleepy little village, only to be found and rescued from certain death at the hands of the two young men. That, in turn, made both young hunters into local celebrities by association. It was the day preceding the Day of Alms, where the folk of the village gathered at the church for worship, to pray to the One God and learn of His ways. The fate of the stranger was paramount in the prayers of nearly all, though sometimes in very different ways.
Since his treatment at the Eventine house he had been moved to the church so the deacons might care for him, and since that time Justias and Karan had not seen the man. Truthfully, neither youth wished to see him again. Not yet. That day found Justias on the muddy shore of a small clear water pond only a quarter mile south of the village, where many folk came to fetch water, swim or bathe, depending on the season. It made for poor fishing waters of any sort, but it was clean and almost constantly fresh. Justias stood ankle deep in the water, ignoring the biting cold as the lingering feel of winter still played in its crystalline depths. He had cast his boots and travel coat near a fir tree by the small trail that served as the passage to the pond from the village, the day being warm enough to disregard a need for heavier clothing. With a deft hand he pitched smooth, rounded stones across the placid surface, watching them skip several times before sinking to the pond’s bottom, where a boy would undoubtedly swim down and find them all again sometime later in the spring or summer. His best skip was seven times, which he could never seem to beat no matter how he tried, and he often found himself here, trying to best his personal record when matters of the soul weighed heavily on him. Consequently, he found himself here a lot. Reverend Cerson told the young man that he was partial to soul-searching, not entirely a bad trait to possess. Karan merely thought that he took himself too seriously, his penchant for brooding. But the gravity of the current problem seemed far from any woes he previously struggled through, eclipsed only by the passing of his mother, Sherl, and the lingering fears of the branding that sought to remove his cherished freedom.
“I thought I might find you here,” Karan’s voice drifted past him and across the still waters of the pond as though in a dream, and Justias checked his throw. He glanced back and shared a knowing smile with his oldest friend. Karan strode up; his own travel coat buttoned almost to the neck, shin high boots moving with quiet grace as he stopped just beside Justias. A faint trail of ripples still spread in a series of widening circles from the last throw, and the pair watched them abate in silence.
“It wouldn’t have been hard to find me,” Justias replied.
“If you weren’t here, then I would have found you at the graveyard, at Sherl’s grave.”
“My mother needn’t be bothered right now.”
“You fancy that she’s upset with the way that you spoke to your father?” Karan ventured. Justias grimaced, but smoothed his face quickly. The memory of his heated words still left a sour taste in his mouth, as if he spat out poison, but a measure of it failed to leave him, a kind reminder of the incident.
“I’m sorry that I raised my voice; that I said what I said to my father.”
“I don’t think that I’m the man that should hear that,” Karan told him.
“I know,” Justias spat. He saw Karan flinch and knew instantly that anger colored his tone. He sighed and shot a smile again. “I know,” he said more evenly. “I’ll tell him I’m sorry, friend. I promise.”
“Reverend Cerson sent me to fetch you.”
“Why?” Justias asked. He guessed the answer before Karan even spoke.
“The Cleric woke not more than an hour ago, and he thinks that you and I should be present when he and your father speak with him. We were the men that brought him to the village.”
“And you wanted to leave him on the road,” Justias chastened jokingly.
“He looked ill to me!” Karan argued point, jabbing a finger toward Justias’ chest. “I didn’t want to catch ill so soon after winter’s passing. How else would I learn from such a great hunter if I’m too sick to keep up?”
“Is that some lame way of saying that sickness scares the wits out of you?” Justias questioned cynically.
“A little,” Karan replied with a slow sigh, looking down at himself in the placid waters. The bottom of the pond was a cluster of rounded pebbles and light green plant-life, only barely seen in the afternoon light, Karan’s own reflection superimposed over all of it. Then Justias tossed another stone and Karan’s face warped and bent in a myriad array of carnival-like images that increased in distortion, then tapered off and became still again.
“Does he want us there now?” Justias probed, tossing another rounded pebble up and down in a bare hand.
“The man’s awake. Don’t you want to speak with him, Justias?”
“I don’t know yet,” Justias answered flatly. “Has there been word about the Priesthood yet?”
“No sign of them yet,” Karan returned, his tone worried.
“They’re never this late,” Justias stated. “There must have been some incident to the south involving that man that held them up. Now they’re going to come to the village, find him, and kill him.”
“You don’t know that,” Karan interjected.
“What other explanation can you offer?” Justias turned quickly and stared mere inches from Karan’s face before stalking away. Without pausing to speak of it further, he stooped and snatched up his boots and coat, holding them in one arm while Karan hastened to follow after, content to allow Justias to have his solace. The youth turned at the last, his last stone forgotten until then, and pitched it toward the pond with a grunt of effort. The little rock sailed clear over the pond and settled in the marshy grass at the far end, landing with a small, muffled thump. The pair vanished into the woodland, hiking back toward the village and their first waking meeting with the mysterious Cleric.
