Geography Update

Pearl Ocean- While not a province of Kallendaros, the Pearl Ocean is the only major seaway near the region and the sole provider of saltwater fish and precious pearls in such abundance that mariners named the Ocean in honor of the bounty. The Pearl Ocean provides quick travel and is a vast lane of traffic for merchants, soldiers and bandits. The water is always crystal in color with choppy waves that tend to have a northern wind blowing upon them. The southern more reaches of the Pearl Ocean are darker and moodier in nature than the ocean that surrounds northern Kallendaros.

The Dead Ring- Hundreds of years ago a circle of water near the shores of the Lorewood Forest became black as pitch and stagnant, with no living things dwelling in them. Mariners fear the Ring as an evil omen and won’t travel over it if it can be helped. Bandits skirt the Ring knowing that military vessels won’t sail too close, but some of the bandit ships seem to vanish without trace, only to be found a time later, wandering aimlessly and bereft of cargo and passengers…if they are found at all. The sky above is often bleak or overcast, while storms of violent proportion haunt the region of black water on a frequent basis. Legend goes that the Dead Ring creates a vacuum of water that drags a vessel down and strips it of its goods before ejecting it back to the surface. Most scholars look down on this theory as pure rubbish, but it has never been proved whether that may be the reason so many vessels have met their end in this cursed patch of ocean. There is a small, swamp encrusted island within the Dead Ring whose heart is clustered with broken rock and barren earth. For much of the year an unnatural cover of snow and ice cover the small island in the heart of the Dead Ring, which was once a prison for notorious prisoners during the height of the kingdom of Telaine.

           

Gorgaroth Mountains- This underwater chain of mountains has three volcanoes that protrude from the surface of the Pearl Ocean. This sometimes gives the eastern horizon a dim red glow, or a false sun as the mariners named it. There are in actuality hundreds of mountainous peaks below the surface of the Ocean, but only a handful are high enough to protrude from the water. Unfortunately most of the mountains are high enough to become a dangerous obstacle to mariners and their sailing vessels, as they can tear holes clean through a hull. The three volcanic mountains are well known by mariners and have been named the Red King, Red Queen and Red Prince in order of their relative size. The wide channel between the Gorgaroth Mountains and the mainland happens to be a route of high maritime traffic in Kallendaros. It is said that giant beasts live on the Gorgoroth, residing in mountainous plains and valleys where copses of trees and cavern complexes choked with seawater can be found. It is believed by sages that the Gorgoroth Mountains were once connected to Kallendaros until the cataclysmic earthquake that tore the land asunder. The great valley between the mountains and the mainland sank, leaving the Gorgoroth isolated and slowly sinking in the vast depths of the Pearl Ocean. All along the southern reaches of the mountainous caverns, the ghostly whistling of Malignant Harpers can be heard for miles off. It is the largest known region where Harpers gather for food and for a den.

           

Arnor Desert- This vast Desert is a great body of sand, heat and despair. It spans weeks in every direction and is painfully hot any time of the year. The Desert plays host to little but the hardiest survivors and nomadic tribes that wander the sands in search of its secret treasures. It is home to sandstorms that are so severe that they can strip the flesh from a Human within seconds if they happened to be caught outside. The Desert also houses Mount Drake, a fiery mountain that protrudes from the desert floor like a crown of stone and lava. The mountain spews volcanic ash and rivers of red fire periodically, turning the land to dust around it. An ancient Dragon is said to dwell within the mountain, descended from Gildaryss the Tyrant Wyrm. The mountain is also infested with gatherings of Gorgon and Ebon. Streaks of sulfur and ash from the mountain can fall upon the Arnor Desert for miles around, turning the sand darker colors. A great gray/black cloud of sulfur and smoke hangs over the mountain, and the rare rain that falls from the sky is stained with its acidic tones, burning anyone caught beneath the cloud. There is also Thunder Road, a gathering of storms and wind on the eastern brink of the Arnor Desert. The land is dug in a desolate trench of stony earth where gypsies travel to avoid the heat of the Arnor, while risking a new danger in the Thunder Road, which manifests storms with alarming speed. The Road measures hundreds of miles long. The Abysmal Trench resides on the northern edge of the desert, a long, jagged break of earth where sand and seawater pour into a black, seemingly endless pit. The sound of the water and sand falling is tremendous, and a man could go deaf if he were there for more than a short while. The Trench spans for hundreds of miles, and exhales a cloud of choking steam mixed with desert sand that swirls and sweeps the barren cliffs and desert plains. The pull of both sides is quite strong and sea faring or desert dwelling folk take care not to stray too close to either side for fear of being drug into a deep, unknown death. Sharp, straight cliffs of red sandstone line the desert walls of the Abysmal Trench, as sand leaks through breaks in the cliffs like great white waterfalls. On the northern most brink of the desert where the ocean brings respite from the unbearable heat lay the Dwarven city of Deep Rock. Though the city delves deep into the earth, deeper than any other Dwarven city, it is the only known habitation that is not nestled in a mountain face. It is said that intricate canals of seawater were diverted from the Pearl Ocean to feed the bowels of the city, and that the water irrigates vast chambers of food stuffs for the Dwarves.

Bestiary Update

Deep god- These legendary monsters dwell in the seas and were worshipped long ago by sea dwelling folk who mistook them for deities, hence their name. Deep-gods are immense beings. They are about 150' long (50 yards). A Deep-god has three sets of arms, each ending with powerful, three-fingered hands. When their torso ends they possess a lower body akin to a shark, smooth and crowned with a fin. The head of a Deep god resembles an Elf with shining blue skin, complete with a pair of long frills that run the sides of its head where the temples are located. The eyes are dark orbs of ocean blue, reflecting light like burning flames. A Deep-god’s back is riddled with skeletal spines, some of them measuring ten feet in length.

They’re infamous for sinking or capsizing vessels when they surface; a less common occasion than mariners lead on. It is thought that Deep-gods are immortal, or their life span is so long that the races can’t gauge how old they become. It is known that Deep-gods grow as they age, a process that never ends. In time and with great age a Deep-god can grow three or four times their mature size. There is a legend of the eldest of the Deep-gods, a beast that swallowed an entire fleet of ships from the sea and whose remnants still reside within. Though rarely brought into conflict against one another, Deep-gods and Dragons loathe each other with a passion. While intelligent, Deep gods pursue solitude jealously.

Dire newt- A Dire newt is a hideous, lumbering monster that might stand up to 10' tall if it weren’t always hunched over, dragging its arms along with it. It has long, webbed feet ending in glossy black talons and knotted arms with oversized hands, also webbed between the fingers. A tangle of wiry, seaweed-like hair sprouts from the top of the head and runs down the whole of the monster’s back, reeking of filth. The creature is twice as long as it is tall, with a lanky neck and crocodilian muzzle and a long tail that lazily drags behind it. A Dire newt has an incredible healing ability, being able to mend broken bones, heal gashes or even re-grow lost limbs in only a day or less. Dire newts haunt deep swampland and stagnant rivers where the water’s flow is minimal- they prefer hot regions to wander in and are often found in the company of bog flies and other blood-drinking insects that are attracted by the Dire newt’s foul smell. The Dire newt’s preferred method of attack is to close into melee as fast as it can and pound enemies with its fists, tail lash or bite. It is not so stupid to pass up a weapon or throw a large object if that can even up the odds, though it has poor aim. A Dire newt’s bite and claws are said to be diseased by the filth that coats them. A Dire newt can breathe underwater indefinitely but prefers to fight on land, or at least in shallow water. Its greatest foes are the crocodiles that sometimes inhabit the same regions as they. Such meetings end in bloody battles the Dire newt usually wins.

Dornaar-  Dwellers of arctic plains and mountains, the Dornaar are massive, bat-like monsters that swoop and glide with stealthy silence to hunt prey. A dornaar has a 30’ wingspan and a 10' body length from snout to tail; all covered with a dull, ash-white fur that buffers cold and masks the monster. The beast’s eyes are a pale blue bordering on near-white and anyone that meets the Dornaar’s gaze on a clear day from 50’ or closer may be stricken blind for a number of days. The Dornaar likes to swoop down on prey and claw or bite, or smother the victim with its length and weight if the victim is small enough for such an attack. The Dornaar will not make an effort to smother a victim that is larger than man sized. Dornaar will sometimes hunt their prey in plain sight, being so silent and cloaked that no one notices their approach until battle begins. Dornaar live for about 90-100 years of age and mate during the winter every 3-4 years. Their pelt is prized by hunters for its unique color and resilience to the cold, fetching more than 1000 Crowns per adult pelt on the open market. While once quite common on the frigid plains of Parun, the Dornaar are becoming more and more infrequent in appearance, which has led some Rangers to form a guild that protects and even breeds the monsters, so as not to hunt the beasts into exctinction.

Dragon- Ancient and terrifying, the Dragons were the bane of the Elves and Dwarves during the ancient years of the realm. They are a vain, greedy and cruel race, given to fits of rage and acts of malice that terrify all that behold them. Dragons are immense beasts, and can grow to lengths of more than 200' by its most ancient (about 2,000 years or so). They have long necks and massive bodies, with trunk-like legs and a snaking tail that matches their whole body length as it drags behind them. Most dDagons can walk on all four legs or perch themselves on their hind legs, using their tail to aid in balance. Others are more brutish and don’t have the grace to stand on their hind legs alone. It is generally the older Dragons that can’t provide enough grace to stand on their hind legs any longer, having grown too large. Common Dragon traits are as follows: frills, gills, horns, spikes on their head, back or tail, a jaw that can distend, fiery breath, multiple eyes, a forked tail, a set of wings or claws adapted for climbing rock. Dragons can be slender and agile or bulbous and lumbering or anywhere in between.

Each single Dragon differs from the next. It is true that all Dragons are very hard to harm in their older age, as their scales become steel-like and their claws and fangs are sharper than the stoutest swords. Dragons dwell in deep places underground, beneath forests, behind waterfalls or under mountains (their favored place). All Dragons find a lair that pleases them and remain there the whole of their lives, taking great care to make their lair a secret. They pass this to their offspring, who go off in search of their own lair of similar design when they are old enough. Dragons that hail from varying regions across the realm will not look the same as their kin due to adaptations to better survive their chosen land. Most Dragons covet treasure and demand fear and awe from mortal races, loathing Elves and Dwarves for reasons even they can’t recall. All Dragons greatly prize treasure, most enjoying precious gems and finely worked jewelry but some taking great value in differing treasure. A Dragon’s breath weapon, generally a cone of flame, can extend up to 100 yards, with a width of 20 yards, creating a radius of heat so intense that it can make flammable items combust just by being near the flame. Anyone caught within the blast of Dragon flames is rendered almost completely to ash, weapons, armor and all. For aquatic Dragons this changes to a cone of super heated steam that travels half as far but has twice the expanse.

They are solitary monsters that do not welcome or appreciate company of any sort, unless they provide both treasure and sport with a slow, cruel death. Dragons eat anything they can catch but prefer large, warm-blooded mammals that can fill their stomachs quickly. They also value eating intelligent beings, especially if that being happens to be terrified of them. It is believed that there are only several hundred Dragons left in the whole of the realm, if even that. Since ancient times the Dragons dwelt in deep places in the underground, never caring or bothering to venture into daylight or open land.            

Mountain Brood- This sort of Dragon dwells in the lofty mountains of the realm, and have bodies that have adjusted to the demands of those frozen heights. Mountainous wyrms tend to have massive, trunk-like bodies with thicker than avergae scales and clusters of dense horns that grow on their crowns and jaws. Their faces are generally blunted, with eyes deeply embedded into their skulls and shorter necks. Their claws are keenly developed and can grasp or clutch with a similar ease that humanoid races enjoy. Their tails are sluggish, rough extensions that tend to drag behind them and erase the prints of their passage. These Dragons have little trouble climbing sheer mountains, even ice encrusted ones, and can easily brave the foulest weather that the mountains can offer. They tend to lair in the highest peaks of the tallest mountains, where they are sure to have as little intrusion as possible. It is very likely that their lairs branch for many miles, however, and have subroutes leading in and out of it from several well hidden exits far below the main lair chamber. Mountainous Dragons generally have a grey/white color, with exceptions of dusky blue, midnight blue, pearl-white or ash-grey. Their sense of sight is usually their favored asset, and they can see for many miles from their lair the land below, even through a raging blizzard.

           

Desert Brood- Desert dwelling Dragons have become adept diggers, having flat, hooked claws that can tunnel through earth and scatter large amounts of sand with frightening ease. Their scales are small and highly reflective to sunlight, polished to an almost gem-like finish due to their many years of travel in desert sun and sand. Their choice of travel tends to erode their otherwise capable wings, sometimes leaving this brood of Dragon without the gift of flight. Desert Brood have attuned their voices to keen when they are underground, a sonic asault which can level 20-200’ worth of earth in a few seconds, pulverizing the material and making underground travel for the monster all the easier. They may also use this to create lairs far underground, leave pitfalls for prey or wield it above ground as a weapon as opposed to their mighty fiery breath. A Dragon’s keen is entirely sonic and can shatter items or deafen foes in battle, even permanently. While a Desert Brood’s eyes aren’t the most keen from their choice of life they have excellent hearing and sense of smell, relying solely on those below ground and heavily on them above ground.

Dragon Curse- A Dragon bonds with their treasure; this much has been known for ages. But it is not fully known the extent of that bond. When a Dragon has a trove, they are aware of everything within it, down to the last bronze Crown. If any of it goes missing, they will know upon a mere cursory inspection. In this way raiders and plunderers of a Dragon’s wealth have been discovered and dealt with. Anyone carrying stolen Dragon wealth from a living dragon risks their own life and the life of anyone that they come into contact with. The Dragon whose treasure was stolen knows where it is and will come to collect it, usually in the dead of night or in a most inconvenient time.

Drak (Drake Kin)- A Drak is a sea dwelling monster with a sleek body that is swift and deadly in the water. The Drak’s flesh is smooth like an eel’s, with light colors of white, blue and green marking the surface. It measures about 40-50’ in length depending on its age. The Drak has only a slender trunk with a thin neck and tail, making it capable of cutting through the waves with so much ease. What makes its task easier is two sets of wings that sprout from the trunk. They are almost gossamer in appearance and measure more than half the length of the entire body. The tip of its tail acts as a rudder, with a long pair of stiff fins sprouting from the top and the bottom of it. The head of the Drak is crowned with a beak that is cloven. The upper jaw splits into two curved edges while the lower jaw is merely a larger sliver that slides in between them, giving the Drak a painful bite. Its primary method of attack is to expel a cloud of mucus onto a foe. This mucus is a membrane that traps air, keeping it from passing through and effectively suffocating the attacker. The mucus clings to any solid surface and may be destroyed with an application of salt or alcohol. The mucus can be wrested free by hand, but it is a laboring process, and not always a successful one. The Drak lives for about 500 years, spawning in the summer’s beginning, the male or female traveling with the young until they are strong enough to look after themselves. On the northern reaches of Kallendaros Drak are hunted by the people of Deep Rock in the Arnor Desert for the rich skins and mucus. It is well known that the Drak haunt the reefs of the Gorgoroth Mountains, along with Gnar Whales, which they fight for food and territory.

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The Canticles of Andurun: Dragonsong, Chapter Two

Marek Wargard lay in a place he didn’t recognize. The still, peaceful air, the soothing, dark wood walls, and the kindly men clad in simple earthen colors beguiled his senses. It was such a stark contrast from the last cognizant, panic stricken moments of his life. There was pain and blood, his own and others that he named friend and brother, and then there was the long dream. He ran from his own, for reasons that simmered in the recesses of his waking mind, vying to come again to the forefront of his thoughts now that weakness and hunger no longer consumed him. His last days of life had been a horrible, living dream that he could not escape no matter where he went, no matter how quickly he ran from it. It followed him, hanging over him and loosening his tenuous grip on reality until his world was a shamble of running color and broken images that might have once meant something. He realized in a rare, unblemished thought that his blood loss and infection had gotten to him and he was dying. But by that point such knowledge seemed to matter little, for he was a traitor to his creed, a deserter of the Priesthood. He was marked for death by his former brothers, and they would not rest if they knew that Marek still drew breath.

He lay on his back in a quaint, nondescript room with a single small window looking out into the deep wilderness surrounding the little village. His mind still trod that forest, fighting and stumbling through bramble and brush, grabbing onto nearby trees and heaving for breath when he felt that his legs couldn’t support him any longer. Every tree he touched, every twig that snapped underfoot was a clue to his passage, and the Priesthood might well have emissaries coming to the village even then, seeking him. In his weakened state he could hardly resist further efforts to end his life, so he resigned himself, and waited in his quiet little grave for the end to come. He wasn’t going to resist while he was infirmed, a patient of the kindly priests that were caring for him. He wouldn’t risk the lives of innocents. It was one of the reasons that had put him to flight from the first, he considered bitterly. A pang of guilt, a twinge of conscience was all it took for the former Cleric, and it echoed through his mind, poisoning rational thought and stripping away the layers of programming the Clerics wrought on him.

He wondered still where that seed of guilt had been harbored the last ten years he faithfully served the Priesthood without question. He considered how that tiny seed infected his train of thought and turned his own soul against his flesh, forbidding him from imprisoning more people against their will, from branding the young men that didn’t want the mark.

Closing his eyes, a half empty plate of food on a wooden stand just beside the headboard of his bed, the former Cleric tried to find sleep again. But the room was very still, and when the door began to swing open, near-silent as it was, it may well have been a rumble of thunder in his straining ears. Marek’s eyes flared open and he looked across the room, half expecting deadly Clerics to be stalking toward him, grim and cloaked as they closed in to finish their handiwork.

Instead came the aging, kindly form of Reverend Cerson, the elder reverend of the One God who ran the church and taught the younger reverends in the ways of the One. Reverend Cerson, clad in deep clothes of brown and tan, complete with a small felt cap that adorned his balding head, closed the door behind him and turned evenly to face the wounded Cleric. He looked surprised at first to find Marek awake, half expecting the man to have fallen back into a healing slumber after finishing the meal that the reverend brought him. Instead he found Marek regarding the old reverend with piercing eyes that held in them a cold intellect, born of so many years serving the will of the Dragons. But that cold intellect was warming with the waking of his dormant spirit, a portion of his soul that Marek shoved into the shadowed corners of his mind, keeping it barred away so he might faithfully serve without conscience being pricked, as it certainly would have been if it could voice protest over the evils Marek committed in his day. Likely, Marek mused dourly, he deserved the cold sword of his fellow Clerics. He had earned death.

“You have visitors, Master Wargard,” Reverend Cerson informed him as he walked to the foot of the bed, folding his wrinkled hands before him.

“Men sporting the same robes as I?” Marek laughed, knowing the answer. His cohorts would not allow the elderly reverend to precede them and announce them like wanted guests. No, they would have stormed into the room and Marek would have been dead before he could have cried out with alarm. So it didn’t surprise him at all when Reverend Cerson shook his head.

“The pair of young men that saved you in the northern forest and brought you back here. I summoned them to be present when we speak with you. They have a small right to hear what it is that you have to say.”

“I won’t argue,” Marek answered. “But I don’t have much to say. And I fear that you won’t like anything that comes from my responses, reverend.”

“We shall see,” was all Reverend Cerson replied before scooping up the half-emptied plate and making his way out of the room without looking back. He closed the door fully behind him and Marek was left to his thoughts again. It seemed unlikely to the former Cleric that the door out of this small church room was barred or otherwise locked, and Marek felt that if escape had been his desire he could have affected one with little trouble. But there was no point. If he fled now, and the Priesthood traced him back to this small village, the peasants that sheltered him would suffer under their anger. Marek felt surprised at the surging depth of concern he felt for folk he didn’t even know. A year ago he would not have been so heartfelt in his desire to preserve the lives of strangers, and the loss of a single village in the nameless northlands meant little to the Priesthood of the Dragon. But Marek would not flee. A small part of him wanted to stay and see the faces of his young saviors. One, he was told, was the son of William Eventine, the hunter that had patched his wounds and aided in saving his life, or prolonging it at the least.

Resigned to his fate, Marek drifted off into a light sleep that stole away the last of the daylight. It was a dusk of splashing red and burning gold when Marek woke with a mild start, the fading colors bleeding in a dying hue across the darkening sky beyond his window. A single lamp flickered with a pale light that endeavored to emulate the splendor of light far above with little success. He could hear voices beyond the closed door and the light from the door seam revealed a number of people who’s shadows drew long from the brighter light beyond. There were four men if Marek guessed correctly. William and Reverend Cerson, to be sure, and the pair of young hunters that saved him from peril two days prior. He propped himself on his elbows, the sheet falling slightly from a bare chest riddled with old scars from battles past, and waited to see the entourage enter.

William Eventine came in first, clad in a dark waistcoat and black gloves that cupped his hands and forearms. He was cool and calm, with no portrayal of emotion anywhere to be found on his face. Reverend Cerson, almost twenty years William’s senior, came after the man. The reverend offered a polite inquiry as to the welfare of Marek, to which the former Cleric gave a quick, casual reply. The Reverend nodded at him and stepped aside, allowing the others to file in after him. Both young men were no older than seventeen years of age or so, and it may have been that one, perhaps neither of them, had taken the brand of the Dragon yet. Marek didn’t have to look very hard to see the emotions etching every contour of their faces. One young man stared at Marek as though the wounded man might leap up at him and attack, or transform perhaps into a Dragon right before his eyes.

This one had taken the brand already, Marek surmised. The other youth’s eyes burned with an equal share of intelligence and contempt, shining in turns from those gray pits smoldering beneath his brow. The boy hadn’t been marked, and furthermore, the very prospect appalled him. Marek offered what he hoped was a disarming smile at the pair, but neither returned it. At the least, the first youth tried to smile back, but his bared teeth and pale look made him look ill rather than friendly, and Marek almost laughed before he caught it in his throat and coughed into his hand. The cough was a drum beat in the room, shattering silence and making the young man start something awful.

“I suppose that you’re my rescuers,” Marek began slowly, looking from one to other. “To that end, I owe you my thanks. My name is Marek Wargard, of Cantlin City. I am at your service, young masters.”

“Karan Cartwright, at yours, Master Wargard,” Karan stepped forward, speaking his introduction as though it were practiced. He stepped backward a little more quickly than he had come forth, looking with some apprehension at the young man beside him.

“Justias Eventine,” Justias offered soberly. “Is it true that you’re a member of the Priesthood, Marek?” Reverend Cerson shot him an abhorrent look and William called his name sternly, but Marek waved the men down. The lad was straight to the point, Marek had to admit.

“I am,” he answered, then retracted the statement. “I was,” he amended with a sheepish grin.

“I cared for you when my son brought you here,” William broke in before more words could be shared between them. He took a seat beside the bed, between Marek and the single window in the room.

“Then you must have been the one that removed the quarrels from my back.”

To answer that, William produced a rolled bit of cloth that still held a small blood stain near one end. The young men forgot their own fears and worries, stepping over William and looking down at the piece of cloth as he unwrapped it to reveal the contents within. A pair of severed, blood-encrusted quarrels lay in it, the shafts snapped so only two or three inches remained. Marek winced at the sight of the painful darts that had been driven into his back. He vividly recalled the metallic snap of the crossbows behind him, followed a heartbeat later by the blazing fire of the quarrels lodging in his back. If he hadn’t been so far away from the archers that fired upon him, then he would have been instantly slain in his escape. As it was the wounds and blood loss inflicted delirium that, for the moment robbed him of memory and kept him from recalling the last three or four days. Snippets of thought and sight and feeling came in heated flashes, but flitted away when he tried to grab hold of them, to make sense of them. They teased him with a glimmer of recollection, and they fled from him when he gave them full notice. But the wicked pain of the darts stayed with him. He turned from them after a moment, suppressing a shiver.

“These were lodged in your back, between your ribs, adhered to the bloody remains of your robes,” William informed him plainly. His cool tone of voice gave his son the impression that his father was speaking to a fellow about the coming summer weather or something equally trivial. He put the broken quarrels down on the stand near the headboard.

“I was fortunate to have survived,” Marek replied, half an explanation, and half a measure of thanks toward the man that healed him. William’s face was etched stone.

“You were spared by the One,” Reverend Cerson interjected pointedly, obviously not appreciating the cold way in which the others were dealing with the former Cleric.

“Was I?” Marek asked sardonically.

“Of course you were,” Reverend Cerson told him patiently. “How else can you explain the order of occurrence that brought you here, to be saved by William? Mere chance? I think not. Chance isn’t quite as perfect as our God.”

“I was under the impression that the Priesthood wasn’t welcome to the comforts offered by your God, Reverend,” Marek answered flatly. The older reverend only cast him a sincere and sad look, eyes marked with a deep well of pity for a soul that has rebuked redemption.

“The One hears the prayers of all who seek Him, Master Wargard.”

“There is nothing I’ve asked of your God, reverend.”

“Not aloud, perhaps,” Reverend Cerson retorted easily, resting a withered hand on the footboard of the bed, his eyes never straying from Marek’s. “But the One hears all prayers; those spoken and those deep within the heart.”

“I don’t think the lot of you have come to speak theology, have you?” Marek ventured, growing tired and a little irritated with the reverend’s quick answers. William nodded.

“How did it come to be that you strayed from your company, Master Wargard?” William cautiously asked. His deliberate tone gave Marek the impression that the hunter was choosing his words with care. The elder Eventine had chosen to avoid something of gravity with the question, and the wounded Cleric didn’t have to debate to determine what it was. Marek grinned sourly.

“I am of the Priesthood, a member of the company heading north for our yearly Tithing,” Marek explained, looking from William to Reverend Cerson. “I have been a member for ten years, ever since I was a man of twenty, living in Cantlin City. I took the brand of the Dragon upon my seventeenth year, like any must.” His eyes strayed to the pair of youths standing almost lost behind the old reverend. Karan stood breathless, a hand cupping his forearm where he was undoubtedly given the brand, the sign of the Dragon that marked a man as a citizen of the Priesthood’s dominion. Justias stared daggers at the man, defiance plain on his young face. Anger smoldered in those fine, clear blue eyes, and Marek accepted that. He of all men knew that he had earned it for simply being what he was. He wouldn’t begrudge the young hunter well deserved rage.

“Anyhow,” he hastened on, “The Tithing came my twentieth year, and the Priesthood had use of strong young men to fight for them. Men of import to the city, meaning married men with young or owners of guilds that helped the city prosper, were not recruited. Young men with no strong talent as an artisan and able to hold a sword were drafted. I was one of three hundred recruits that were taken from Cantlin that day. I left behind a mother, father and younger sister who were all so proud that I was elected to uphold the law of the Priesthood. Indeed, the Priesthood is the law in the deep south, near the Thistlebrush Wastes or the Nightshade Forest. There are highwaymen and outlaws, brigands that steal from the poor and murder the weak, taking what they wish by force.”

“How does that separate them from you?” Justias questioned sharply. Again the defiant stare burned into Marek’s face. The Cleric returned an even gaze, unflinching and cold from years of travel, trial and battle. Justias felt the conviction of this hardened soldier and looked complacently at the floor, his stare broken by Marek’s will.

“What separates the Clerics from the outlaws in the southlands happens to be the power of the Dragons. The great Dragon, Gildaryss, resides in the Kanaron Mountains, only a day beyond Southdeep’s borders. If the Priesthood failed to serve well enough she would find others that could fill the void, emissaries that acted on her behalf, to bring her the tribute of the lands. Is it not better that men intercede to act as her mouthpiece? Is it not better to send a small measure of wealth to the Dragons as tribute once a year, rather than the Dragons sweeping from the south, burning and destroying all in their wake like a tide? That was the fate of the Old Kingdom, two centuries past. It would be the fate of this entire continent, should Gildaryss will it.”

“It sounds to me as though you are seeking absolution, Master Wargard,” Reverend Cerson observed after a tense moment of silence. His even, warm voice was a soothing balm over the frayed nerves of the men surrounding him, who had been cut by the cold expletive of the former Cleric. William leaned back in his chair and swiped a hand through his hair thoughtfully. It seemed that he might say something, but his jaw snapped shut and he looked at Marek to continue.

“It may be,” Marek replied plainly. “But I served, for better or worse. I was taught the ways of the sword, and taught fealty for the lords of the Priesthood, the Dragons whom we acted in the stead of. Gildaryss being the greatest of these.”

“Have you ever…seen her?” Karan ventured the question, taken with curiosity. He raised a hand to retract the question even as it left his mouth, but Marek laughed and sat up more fully.

“Nay; few are the Clerics that have ever seen Gildaryss. She is the mightiest Dragon alive, it is said, a direct descendant of some great Dragon named Anzaryx, who was slain during the ending of the 1^st Age, when the Cataclysm brought ruin to so much of the land. Only the greatest among the Clerics, those that have proven themselves with deed and word, may come before her to present the rewards of the Tithing. The Zealots, who lord over common soldiers.”

“You were not among these men?” Reverend Cerson wondered.

“I never wanted to be among those men. Their zealous devotion toward the Dragons was nigh unto madness. Even when my faith was strong in what I was doing, secure in the knowledge that my actions were for the betterment of the people, I did not like the Zealots. I served without complaint, but I never took it upon myself to go farther than I must, to advance in the ranks of the Priesthood. Secretly, I feared a meeting with our draconic benefactors.”

“You have never seen a Dragon?” Karan asked incredulously. “If you’ve never seen one, then how can you know they are even still about? How do you know they were there to begin with? These Zealots, as you name them, perhaps they covet the Tithings, hording it for themselves somewhere in the Kanaron Mountains. It would seem an easy enough ploy to fabricate the fantastic threat of the Dragons still lingering in the mountains after they razed the Southern Kingdom, and then enact some clever plot on how to gain from it. A Human could make such an enterprising notion as easily as a Dragon could.”

“There would be merit to your train of thought if not for one simple thing,” Marek argued. “I told you that precious few have ever laid eyes on Gildaryss. But she is not the only Dragon, though she is the greatest of them. Others, not even Zealots, have seen the Dragons come down from the Kanaron Mountains. Some of them cannot fly, and they stalk through forests and plains like hunting cats loosed by the One God. Others take to the chill waters of the Pearl Ocean, living beneath the waves for weeks or months at a time. Oh no, young hunter, they are all too real, and they will enforce their will over the land with or without Human aid. Likely, they find us rather superfluous anyhow.”

“We’re getting off the subject,” William reminded pointedly. “You were going to explain your involvement with the Priesthood, and your subsequent falling out with them.”

“Of course,” Marek leaned back against the pillow. “Where was I? Oh yes, ten years of my life. I served for a decade, rarely seeing my home city, or my family, save for a seldom chance that I was given the task of being among a company that would collect the Tithing for Cantlin. Such a seldom chance was last year.”

Marek paused, his eyes reflecting the dark thoughts surfacing, strangling the words lingering in his throat. He gave a husky cough which he covered with a closed hand, feeling a slight pulling sting on his back. “I arrived in time to be a part of the recruiting process. Only this time it was my younger sister’s betrothed that happened to receive the honor of service. I was elated, but my sister didn’t share the feeling, and I found out later that my brother-to-be didn’t either. She accused the Priesthood of atrocity, stealing the wealth of the people for the swollen hordes of the Dragons, so they might rest on them, or preen their scales with gold that meant nothing to them, save for a shining nest to sleep upon. She accused me, her brother, of betraying her by stealing off with her betrothed, her beloved.”

“What was her name?” Reverend Cerson inquired. Marek shot the man an acid look, as if the question was meant to harm him. But there was only concern on his face. The Cleric didn’t dismiss the fact that the question was intended to stir something within him. The old reverend had perception to him, Marek mused.

Calming himself with a long breath, he continued. “Names mean nothing at this point; hundreds of miles and many months after the incident simply became another story for the people of Cantlin to gossip over. My sister’s betrothed fled on her council, and we were forced to give chase. It’s folly to call it a chase. The poor man wasn’t skilled at evading pursuit, nor was he gifted with the sword. But he fought bravely when we caught him.”

“You killed your sister’s betrothed?” Justias was aghast as the revelation struck him fully. The youth almost rocked on his heel, staring with newly acquired wonder at this enigmatic man. “How could you do that to her? How could you do that to him?”

“He wore the brand of the Dragon,” Marek offered lamely, softly.

“We have no choice but to be branded with it!” Justias roared with an anger fueled by outrage and helplessness. “The Priesthood is a tyrant, serving greater tyrants still! I wish those quarrels had found their mark a little better!”

“Justias, you will get control of yourself or you will be leaving this room!” William commanded, standing suddenly to his full height. The elder Eventine was almost a half foot taller than Justias, and his many years of experience were worn well on his shoulders, giving him an authority that pierced the youth’s anger, deflating the swell of rage until only a cool layer of kindled ash remained. Justias went stiff, half with dejection and half with embarrassment, mumbling an awkward apology to his father.

“You slew your sister’s betrothed?” Reverend Cerson said after a moment’s pause, giving everyone present a moment to collect their thoughts and their tempers.

“Not directly,” Marek said quickly. “I watched him die, withholding myself from a hopeless fight from the first. The Clerics don’t spare any who oppose their will, to make an example of them to others. In such a way rebellions and uprisings are quashed easily. We returned with his body to Cantlin, and I kept my sister’s treacherous words a secret from the Priesthood. They would have been sufficient enough to have her thrown in prison. I didn’t want that fate for her. But it seemed that she decided her own fate, the night after we returned to the city. My mother and father found her first, hanging from the rafters of the attic in their house, pale and lifeless, cold to the touch. They didn’t have to mouth a single word of blame. I took it all upon my shoulders without any prompting. In a single chance visit to my home city I ruined the lives of everyone that I had ever loved.”

Marek turned a gaze reddened with anguish and loss toward Reverend Cerson. “Is that the random chance of singular incidents, or the perfect timing of your God, I wonder?”

“The One turns all ends toward the good, Master Wargard,” Reverend Cerson answered without missing a beat. “The senseless deaths of your loved ones opened your eyes to the truth. Doubtless, it was the reason for your eventual defection.”

“It was,” Marek confirmed. “After I left Cantlin and traveled north again, toward Myrodia and the city of Grey Walk I was hollow. There had been great purpose in my life for so many years, and, along with my brothers, I had sought out bandits and thieves. We were the law of the land, but we were not. We were…are puppets, marionettes dangling from the lofty strings of the monsters that stole our rightful kingdom two hundred years ago. It was treason to even mention a breath of that statement to anyone affiliated with the Priesthood. Doubly so if you were a member of the Clerics. But there it was, a sliver of some simple truth had been driven into my mind by two terrible events, and it shamed me that it took so much for me to realize it.”

“Are they hunting you now?” Karan asked quietly, half fearing the answer.

“A bitter irony. I defected, I ran as my sister’s betrothed ran, but I knew how to escape detection far better. After all, I had been a member of their Priesthood for ten years of my life. By the time anyone knew that I had fled, I was almost a day ahead of potential pursuit, and heading in a direction that I wagered would be the last chosen.”

“You came north?” William shook his head wonderingly. “You must have known that the Priesthood was coming this direction in force, as they do every spring when they brand the young and collect the Tithing.”

“Indeed,” Marek replied evenly. “It was why I came this way. They would hardly believe that I would have the audacity to venture through regions the Priesthood is collecting Tithes within, when an encounter with an armed band of them would be my undoing. But I also knew that alone I could travel more swiftly than a body of Clerics following me might, and news of my betrayal wouldn’t have the chance to precede me. My goal was the Green Hold, a peaceful little patch of rich earth on the northern coastline, and I might have already been there but for a turn of ill luck.”

“I found, to my dismay, that news did indeed precede me,” Marek informed them, now his tone turning urgent. “I traveled the northern roads in full Clerical garb, hoping the ruse of my guise would deter too many questions. Members of the Priesthood are sometimes sent as messengers or errand runners in the safer northern regions. I crossed the River Rowan alone on a small ferry, disembarking at a city named Aradis, to the east of this village if I’m correct about where I currently am. However they managed to learn of my defection is a mystery I may never learn, but two days away from the city riding inland I was waylaid by my brothers. They came riding hard after me, likely from Aradis as well, and I was hard pressed to shake off their charge. Finally I lost my steed from a bloody rut on the road, and ran blindly through the wilderness. Again they were more clever. While men rode on ahead of me to cut off my chance of furthering my northern travels others took to the forest after me, armed with crossbows.”

Marek cast the lot of men a devilish grin at this point. “They may have had me trapped, but I wasn’t some unschooled peasant that only wanted marriage and family in his future. I learned the sword from the very men hunting me, and I knew that a good many of them were several years my junior. When I took note of them riding ahead I knew that I was a dead man at last. Weeks of running, of pretense and hiding only served to see me slain in a nameless forest in a land I knew not. I drew steel and stalked my stalkers, and I slew three men before they realized that I wasn’t running scared from them. The battle left me wounded, and it liberated me of the medallion that was the symbol of the Clerics. I planned to use the golden medallion as a bartering piece for some coin if I could have escaped eastern Kallendaros and the reach of the Priesthood. But at the moment, gold hardly seemed to matter. I simply drew forth the image of my dead sister, driven to death by the thing that I had allowed myself to become, the thing that I would purge from myself, even if it meant washing in the blood of the very men that I named brothers for so

many years.”

“You fought for vengeance, then?” William asked, almost entranced by Marek’s tale. The Cleric shook his head negatively.

“Vengeance could have been found with one quick act of bravery,” Marek said soberly, his intention on the matter clear. “But I wasn’t possessed of that sort of courage, so I fought like an animal. I fought like a trapped animal, and that was how they felled me. I wandered from the battle, having lost even my sword, for a day at least. It was closer to two, if my hazing memory isn’t playing more tricks on me. The rest of the tale has been written in for me, it seems.”

“There hasn’t been any sight of the Clerics,” Reverend Cerson informed Marek. “Do you know, perhaps, why they have been delayed? In all the years of running my God’s church they have never been this delayed before. But then again, in all my years I’ve never heard of a deserter coming to the northlands.”

“I can’t say with any honesty,” Marek declared after a moment of contemplation. “It may have been that I delayed them and they’re hunting me still, to ensure that I’m indeed dead. If that is the case, then I shouldn’t be in your village when they come here. They have skilled trackers, and will doubtless know I’m here.”

“I hardly think we would turn you over to the Priesthood for execution,” Reverend Cerson replied plainly.

“Have you not heard what I’ve told you?” Marek growled. “If you hide me or aid me further, they would have justifiable cause to send the lot of you to the prisons of Grey Walk! For me it will be a quick death, the death of a traitor or deserter.”

“I want to discuss matters with William,” Reverend Cerson told him, imploring the wounded Cleric to lay back and gather his waning strength. “We’ll debate the matter, and determine how best we might aid you without placing the village in harm’s way, if possible.”

“Your village is already in harm’s way,” Marek persisted, his earnest tone lost on the venerable reverend, who simply waved the words away with an open hand.

“My God is not a God of chance happenings, Master Wargard. There is a purpose for your coming here. And I am not the type of man to leave another to suffer when I might have some chance of changing the outcome. We’ll return in the morning to speak with you.”

One by one they departed, Karan eagerly leaving first, not even waiting to see Reverend Cerson wave for him to exit the opening door. The reverend followed after, and William, who paused to pat his son briefly on the shoulder. Justias matched Marek’s stare again, but with a mingling of emotion that the former Cleric could not decipher. Clearly something warred within the youth’s mind. Instead of speaking, Justias spun mechanically on a heel and fled out the open door, closing it behind him. For the time being Marek Wargard was left in solitude, and he found that it was the last place he wanted to be.

Night stole over the sleepy little northern village like a cunning thief. It spread its dark arms and drove away the failing light of day slowly, silently, until all the land was cloaked in its embrace. Pin points of far away, gleaming stars covered the gossamer curtain far overhead, winking with disinterest at the tiny and insignificant people that borrowed their light while a slight pall of wispy clouds roamed the edges of the dark. The night was fair enough, and Justias Eventine had spent its beginning, as well as squandering the last of the day, walking the many winding paths that surrounded the village. His village. It was the land of his birth, and it was where his father and his grandfather had been born, likely where he and his father would be buried.

His wanderings were half for the sheer pleasure of it, and half to spy out the land south of the village. It was only a mere four days to the township of Aradis that Marek Wargard spoke of, and if he was waylaid halfway, then the Priesthood could be almost at their doorstep. Not that Justias was fixing to do anything over the matter. What could a young man unskilled in the ways of battle do against the agents of the Dragons? Marek had been crystal clear what the Clerics did with those that defied them, a hard and final lesson for most. He was not a warrior. But this stranger’s coming only served to stir Justias’ blood more, making him wish that he could somehow avoid the branding. He didn’t know how he could still single out so small a thing in the grand scheme of what was transpiring around him, but it still meant something to the young hunter. It was painfully obvious that Marek wasn’t a sufficient pawn for Justias to avoid his fate. He was a dead man, that fate had played a cruel trick upon, and gave to him the fleeting hope that a spark of life might yet be spared to him, all the while sending the weapons of his end to meet up with him. Thinking no more of it, Justias turned up the small, beaten path leading to his house, waistcoat folded over an arm that was sticky with a light sweat. He paused when he noted a shadowed form lurking beneath the apple tree in his front yard. His heart skipped a beat, and for a second his blood ran cold. Then the outline of the form became all too familiar and Justias checked a sigh of relief.

Karan Cartwright leaned against the broad trunk of the apple tree, arms folded over his chest, thin cloak draping his shoulders and trailing like a fine film behind him, almost indistinguishable in the still night. Justias paused beside the walk and craned his head to meet his friend’s gaze.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“I was waiting to see if you might come back,” Karan replied sincerely. Justias started when he realized that Karan was being completely serious. The youth smiled and leaned over, putting a comforting hand on Karan’s arm.

“I can’t leave,” Justias informed him. “It seems rather clear what would happen to my father, or to anyone else close to me, if I vanish for my branding. Besides, I almost find myself morbidly curious what sort of fate the Clerics have reserved for Master Wargard.”

“Justias!” Karan hissed, standing bolt upright as though yanked by strings. “You know what they’ll do to him. He’ll be made an example of, and a terrible one, I’m sure. Clerics that defect are surely given some gruesome end.”

“You sound as though you pity him, Karan.”

“The tale with his sister, and her betrothed,” Karan was wistful, his voice wrought with a heartfelt emotion. “How can that not move you to empathize for his plight?”

“He condoned the man’s death,” Justias retorted, his own voice without emotion.

“I’d hardly say that,” Karan argued.

“What would you say? He went after the man with his company, stalked him from Cantlin City, and then helped put him to the sword. This he did knowing the grief that he would cause his sister, and still he did it anyway.”

A moment passed as Justias allowed the weight of that thought to infiltrate Karan’s mind. The younger of the two, Karan always had what William called a bleeding heart. He championed causes founded on sincere or profound emotion, sometimes at the loss of any logic to such founding. Justias’ own mindset was bent toward a taming of that passion. The passion could be dangerous; it clouded thoughts and spoiled judgment at crucial moments. Though Justias did indeed feel for the former Cleric, he also recognized the sins the man committed, and a part of his heart turned against the prospect of forgiveness. If there was a man richly deserving of such a fate, Marek Wargard had certainly earned his.

“I concede your point,” Karan said at length. “But I don’t agree with you.”

“I never expected you to, Karan,” Justias laughed shortly, removing his hand from Karan’s arm and beckoning him to follow him inside. They were stopped at the threshold by William. The older Eventine was clad in a deep tunic and heavy cloak of forest green, and his boots and gloves of supple leather. They were his hunting raiment, garb he donned when he wanted to stalk cunning prey. His cowl was turned back and against the backdrop of the lamp light shining through the open door, William was indeed a daunting sight to behold. Justias noted instantly the stout hunting dagger sheathed at his hip, and the small quiver of arrows belted just over his left shoulder, for ease of reach. Father and son stared at one another for a second. No words had to be exchanged for the younger Eventine to understand where William was going at this time of night, and why he was clad so. Karan, not having the mental rapport the blood-related pair possessed, cleared his throat loudly to get their attention.

“I’ll be back before the dawn,” William told them. Justias nodded soberly, fear suddenly coursing through his body. He knew that William and Reverend Cerson agreed to speak with Marek by early morning, but this must have meant that the discussion between the men was through, their course decided.

“What are you doing?” Karan asked quietly from behind them, little more than a shadow beyond Justias with the lamp light tainting the night, turning it into a sickly yellow haze.

“It is best for you that I don’t answer that, Karan,” William told him. He stopped just beside Justias and spoke in a tone no greater than a passing night wind. “When I return, I need you to be ready, Justias.”

“Ready for what, father?” Justias felt himself ask, though his body was numb.

“Ready to listen to what I tell you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Justias replied obediently. He stepped aside and allowed William to pass by, his chin trembling with a belated apology warring to be freed. He wanted to tell William that he was sorry for his sharp demeanor with him days ago, that he was out of line. But the words failed, sticking in his throat and festering there like bile rising into his mouth. Then William was simply gone, rounding the far corner of the house nearest of the wood line, entering them and vanishing as though the forest had taken back one of its own.

“Karan,” Justias called out, and Karan stared at him. “Would you stay here tonight? Until my father returns?”

“Of course,” Karan said softly, putting a hand on Justias’ back to usher him into the house and out of the quickly cooling night air. “I wouldn’t think of leaving.” The youth cast one last unnerved glance at the grove of trees where William had vanished, then followed Justias into the house, closing the door behind him.

The pair spent a brief night indoors, sitting in the modest commons of Justias’ house, playing Skulls, a Dwarven dicing game that required a consistently high rolled pair of numbers to continue. Whoever rolled under a combined score of ten, or rolled two odds was eliminated from the game. Justias was never very good at games of chance, but Karan seemed to excel at such simple games, which he frequently played and thoroughly enjoyed.

“Luck favors the confident,” Karan often quoted, a stolen line from some book the youth had read from his father’s small collection. Owning books was something of a rarity in the lengthy wake of the Old Kingdom’s demise, but they were beginning to grow in frequency, and even the small northern villages with little to offer the prosperous southlands was beginning to see its fair share.

Sleep found Justias despite his worries over his father’s peculiar and potentially dangerous task. He could only have guessed that the elder Eventine was running the familiar hunting paths hours south, looking for signs of the Priesthood and how near they were to the village. Justias also wagered that this meant both men agreed that Marek should be spirited away before the entourage reached their destination. But if hunting parties and trackers were snaking through the darkened forest, seeking signs of Marek’s passage, a chance encounter might be all it would take for William to be postponed, or stopped entirely. Late in the night, almost an hour after Karan had been snoring in a cushioned chair, slung over it like a giant throw pillow, Justias did something rare. He prayed. He knelt in the dark, trembling like a small child that was making ready for his parent’s scolding anger, and he prayed to the One. Sleep came a little easier after he unburdened himself, and he drifted off in his bed to the night sounds just beyond his window.

“Justias.”

His name, called aloud when nothing else stirred, jarred the young man from sleep as if someone had dumped a bucket of freezing water over him. Justias Eventine swung his legs out of bed, stood in a daze, and was fumbling for a woolen shirt to pull over his head before he even realized what he was doing. William Eventine stood in the doorway, a candle holder raised before him, the small white candle leaking hot wax all down its contour. The older hunter was grim, the hunting cloak and cowl still donned, night mist still lingering in gathering dew at the hem and around the hood. Justias blinked a few times to clear the sleep and take in the small, flickering light as he regarded his father.

“What’s happened?” Justias asked as he probed the room for his heavier boots. In his sluggish state, woken as he was, the youth felt dazed, as if his mind wasn’t aware that his body opted to wake. “Is something amiss?”

“The Priesthood will be in the village by first light. Perhaps sooner.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“They were only hours south of the village. They are outlanders, and pitched a small camp on the roadside when they would have been better served simply marching the last several miles to the village. But that was for the best,” William finished shortly, his tone filled with determination. The elder Eventine crossed the small bedroom and stooped a little to look out the tiny window near the corner of the room. There were a few houses and a fence line running for twenty yards, then low hanging, ancient trees that had grown rooted to the land long before the village stood. Likely they would be there long afterward, William mused silently. His attention reverted to his son, staring hard at his back as though his gaze alone might penetrate his father’s mind.

“I want you to lead Marek away from the village.”

Justias blanched at the notion. His father wanted him to lead a wanted man away from the law that was chasing him? Would that not place the village at risk? Or would they only come looking for the man that was their prey? If that was so, then Justias would be at risk, his life endangered by leading this man, to whom he owed nothing, to safety. Neither option appealed to the young man, and William could see it plainly on his tortured face.

“Recall what I said when I left this evening, Justias.”

“I recall,” Justias answered miserably. Guilt bound him, and he was inclined to obey his father, a man who had done well raising him since his mother passed on. He waited to hear his father out.

Satisfied that Justias wouldn’t voice dissent, William began to explain. “Take Marek south of the village, to our hunting cabin. Carry enough provisions to see you through an entire week’s time. After that, double back north and travel toward the city of Kartia, far to the north. It resides near a deep, dark watered lake bearing the same name.”

“Uncle Barlow lives there,” Justias added numbly, his senses reeling at what William was telling him.

“Yes. My brother will take you in, and I’ll write you a letter explaining the entire matter to him. Your uncle is a good man; he won’t turn you away if you’re in need, but it still may not be safe for Marek to be seen, even in a city as remote as Kartia.”

“I haven’t seen Uncle Barlow for two years,” Justias pleaded, not knowing where his plead was leading him. “Don’t make me do this, father. Do you know what you’re asking me? Why can’t we just turn this man over to the Clerics? Why can’t we just Tithe as if it were a typical spring, and let them be on their way, with him in tow?”

“Because sometimes you must stand and do what’s right, Justias,” William replied evenly, his features flashing with willful meaning. “Letting this man die because he has allowed others to suffer such a fate does not make it right. Committing a sin to absolve a sin sounds rather ludicrous, does it not?”

“How are we sinning by handing a man back over to his own?” Justias demanded, his voice piercing, his mind desperate for something to grasp hold of. He didn’t want to flee his home village and leave his father, leave Karan to the mercy of a people that didn’t know the meaning of such a word. But more so, he was afraid for himself, afraid to flee with this dangerous stranger and afraid of the Clerics that would track them down, quietly, skillfully. Now it was Justias’ turn to peer out the window, half expecting the night to be alive with eyes, looking back at him, daring him to venture forth into the blackness beyond, where they waited for him.

“You were satisfied to spare him before you knew his tale, my son. There is a sin when men stand back and allow something evil to happen. Can you tell me that your conscience wouldn’t be pricked by standing idly while this man is put to death because he realized that his way of life is wrong? He’s a man seeking redemption, Justias. I want him to have the chance to find it, if he can. It’s the least that anyone deserves. Now, will you do this for me?”

“Yes, father,” Justias intoned in a husky whisper, resigned to hopeless obligation.

“Now, gather your things and come with me to the church. Reverend Cerson is waiting for us there, making Marek ready for the travel. Bring your bow and hunting dagger, in case you need to find game in the wilderness.” With that William left Justias alone in his bedroom, a sliver of filtering star light creeping in and settling on the cold wooden floor beside his feet. Dutifully, the young man snatched up what clothes and tools he might need for a journey of so many days, especially if doubling back and traveling to Kartia meant that he must avoid every village along the way. He belted his hunting dagger to his side and snatched up his ash wood bow, so similar to his father’s own, slinging the sturdy tool onto a shoulder after buckling a cloak on.

He made his way outside, past Karan’s sleeping form. He was surprised that Karan had slept through their conversation, especially since Justias had raised his voice with the onset of panic. It was better, he felt, that Karan remain sleeping for the duration of the night. He would only want to come with and that would place Karan in a danger Justias would not dare to ask anyone to face with him. He paused at the doorway, looking back and seeing the steady rise and fall of his friend’s chest, one arm hanging completely off the chair he fell asleep on. Justias hoped that this would not be the last time the two saw one another. Then he pushed such negative ideas far from his mind. This was his land, after all. His father and Uncle Barlow had fashioned a great hunter between them, one that knew every animal path and watering hole for almost thirty miles in any direction.

Establishing a fresh courage with such bold thinking, Justias hastened over to the darkened church. A single light was aglow in the side window, casting an eerie pitch of shade to the otherwise still and blackened road just beside it. The sibilant whisper of the wind carried through the trees, and Justias had the distinct impression that all life was gone around him, and he was wandering through some deceptive wasteland, sprung up right around him where his village should have been.

With baited breath he knocked on the church door softly. Reverend Cerson admitted him quickly, closing the door after him without saying a word. From the haggard look of the elderly reverend, the man had not yet found sleep this night. Despite that, Reverend Cerson smiled warmly at Justias and patted the youth on the shoulder.

“Your father has told you of our plan?” the reverend inquired.

“He has,” Justias said as he found a seat in one of the pews that were lined side by side scant feet beyond the door. “But he didn’t tell me why I’m traveling south; if that’s the direction they’re coming from.”

“They’re currently north of us,” William answered sternly, coming out of the back door that served as a guest quarters and sick room when the village folk were treated at the church. Its current resident came hobbling out after the hunter, his face drawn and pale from weariness and pain.

“How…?” Justias stammered.

“They must have followed Marek’s trail through the forest, hoping to catch him before he came to anyplace of consequence, before there were witnesses that could place seeing the man. Likely, they simply wanted to end the matter quickly, quietly. There is a body of men camped hours south, but a larger contingent is north of us, and that is the direction they will enter the village.”

“Why come from the north?” Justias wondered, scratching his head. “Are they hoping to catch him in the village still, coming from a direction we won’t anticipate?”

“If I’m well enough to move,” Marek explained, “They will come from the north and flush me out of the village should I be hiding here, where another body of men is waiting south of here to receive me. I don’t think they know how badly they wounded me when I escaped. Another party of Clerics will travel north; in the case that I avoided this village entirely and just followed the road.”

“There will be three parties of Clerics wandering around the woodland?” Justias was aghast at the mention of so many well armed, well seasoned soldiers all grouped in the near region, in the very region his father expected him to lead a man that was half dead through.

“The largest body of them will detach and enter the village for the Tithing and the branding ceremony, which will have one of the Zealots present. The Zealots are of great import to the Priesthood, so there will be a good many Clerics on hand to safeguard against any danger,” Marek continued. Justias was still extremely dubious.

“You know all the forest paths, son,” William broke in. “You can weave a path in the deep forest that will go unnoticed. Take the southern paths to the hunting cabin and secure Marek.”

“They have names of every child born to the provinces, father,” Justias argued with logic.

“They know that I’ve come of age, as well as every other seventeen year old man or woman in our village. When I’m missing they may suspect something.”

“What will they suspect?” William countered. “That we’re aiding a fugitive? That we’re helping a man escape their wrath? Or that my son, a learned and aspiring hunter, has gone off to Aradis on an errand for me, and is delayed for some reason or another?” William gave his son a broad smile. “You know how distracted youth can be.”

“They would have passed me on the road,” Justias offered weakly, but he could already see an explanation forming in his father’s gray eyes.

“You travel the forest paths, for expedience and for experience at your trade. Perhaps you’ve been delayed because I thought you would take the woodland paths back to the village and you took the road instead. That being the case, you must be marching right on the heels of the Priesthood, due back from Aradis any day.”

“Very well,” Justias stood erect, filling himself with the same fiery determination that fueled his father. “I’ll go.”

“I have supplies ready for you,” Reverend Cerson told him, making his way to a pew near the front of the room, where a large, rumpled back pack was stuffed with all manner of travel goods, mostly rations and water skins from the looks of it. “I can spare you whatever you may need for the journey.”

“Spare me a prayer, reverend,” Justias said.

“Of course.”

“What do you need of me?” Marek asked the younger Eventine. Justias fairly glowered at him.

“Are you in any shape to defend yourself if need should arise?” Justias questioned.

“I can hardly move at a decent walk,” Marek answered flatly.

“Good. I wasn’t going to arm you anyhow.” Despite the pain that coursed through his healing wounds, Marek chuckled at the youth’s ill concealed sarcasm.

An hour later, Justias and Marek stood behind the small church, just a pair of still shadows lost in a darkened land. William was with them, and Reverend Cerson looked on from the back window of the church, the same window that happened to be Marek’s first memory upon waking. The elder Eventine was still informing the youth on what he should be doing during his journey, and Justias tried to still his thundering heart long enough to listen.

“You should reach the cabin within two days travel, even with Master Wargard wounded. Stay there no longer than a week’s time. That should be enough time elapsed to put you back in traveling condition, would it not?”

Marek grinned crookedly. “I was a Cleric,” he reminded the hunter. “We have long marches, and many duties. Horses aren’t always a luxury.”

“They won’t be a luxury this time, either,” William warned. “They may bear you more swiftly, but you can travel more freely, more secretly, without them. Follow only the paths beyond the road, Justias. Reach Kartia and give this to Barlow.” With that, William handed the youth a rolled parchment bound with twine. Justias accepted the scroll and stuffed it into a pocket on the inner seam of his tunic. “Keep your eyes open for signs of the Priesthood. They don’t know the land as we do, son. Use that! If you so much as guess at their coming while you’re at the cabin, flee. Or all of this will be for naught.”

“You’ll be fine, right father?” Justias asked, his face drawn with concern. The elder Eventine grasped his son and drew him close, embracing him. Justias hugged him back with a strange sort of longing, fearing that if he loosed his hold now, his father would simply cease to be, vanishing into a night mist as though he were no more than a dream.

“You will look after Karan, won’t you? He’ll be rather lost without me, I fear.”

“Worry not,” William put the boy at arm’s length, appraising him. “I’ve long looked on Karan as my other son. I’ll make sure he isn’t fat and bored by the time you return to the village.”

The flippant remark served to heighten Justias’ spirits a little and he huffed with a held breath, feeling the cold air invigorate him. There wasn’t even two hours before the dawn came over the horizon and Justias intended to be miles away from the village before the creeping light of the newly born sun came looking for him. He bid his father a warm farewell, and waved at Reverend Cerson, still lingering in the window just behind them. The old reverend raised a hand in a gesture of peace and disappeared from sight. Fetching the straps of the heavy pack that rested on his back, Justias began to march from the church, stooping lower to keep the back pack from catching low hanging branches and taking care to mind where he strode, so as not to leave much of a trail out of the village. He dared a look back at his father, a black form, rigid in the still night, content to watch his son make sluggish progress away from the safety of the village and into a forest and a land filled with perils. Quietly William Eventine gave a prayer of thanks that there was no one with him. His eyes stared hard at his son’s fleeting silhouette, and they shone, for a short time, stark fear at what he thrust Justias into. But his fear fled with the notion that, no matter the dangers that may come before his son on the long road ahead, he and Reverend Cerson had just accepted the brunt of the peril on his behalf. He bowed his head and knew that his son’s wish was granted. The One go with them.

Sunrise came cold and pale over the small village that morning. It was a light yellow, bordering on white, and the gleaming aura cast across the sleeping land was an illusion of warmth that utterly failed to drive away the sunken chill of the passing night. Thick beads of night mist clung to bowing plants and bent branches, trailing along the sills of the quiet homes. Only the industrious stirred at this point, men and women who wanted a quick start to their day, racing the sun in an effort to fit a little more work in before it finished its reign and surrendered its celestial crown to the pale orb which casually took its place. A crisp air hung still on the slight wind, driven through thick groves of trees and against shuttered windows that withstood its probing fingers. The morning might have been passable for a late winter morning, and it was in this fashion that the Priesthood of the Dragon entered the sleepy village.

They rode in slowly from the north, in pairs, clad in raiment of shining mail armor and cloaked with thick robes of deep green, splendid in make and color. A striking purple sash belted the robes, and beneath a soft leather belt clutched battle worn swords to the sides of their foreboding forms, numbering more than thirty in all. Their heavy cowls were turned down, revealing a fine weave of steel links adorning their heads, glimmering dully in the gathering light. The company rode right into the small village square, between the scattered shops and the local church, halting in uniformed fashion.  By this time everyone awake was watching, and anyone sleeping was being roused by those awake with shouts and prodding. The Tithing had come again, despite the strange delay that befell the Priesthood. The older folk of the village seemed rather nonplussed, though they did unconsciously rub at their forearms, as though suddenly bothered by an old injury that was complaining. The young gathered in small droves, at a safe distance, to marvel and gape at the gathering of southron Clerics and their fearsome assortment of armaments. Little children were clutched to their mother’s breasts, mostly to keep the youngsters from harassing the Priesthood. The Clerics were not well known for their kindly behavior. They were as much soldiers as they were Clerics, and to those who could recognize and accept that they knew well not to cross them if it could be helped.

The gathering of Clerics parted, the twin rows of horsemen moving an arm span apart to allow one more through, who had been riding near to the rear of the congregation. This one possessed an air of authority to him, with his strong shoulders and piercing stare. His eyes were a deep brown and his square jaw was cleanly shaven. The chain mail armor he sported had a luster the others did not, and his forest green robes were clasped at the chest by twin seals of the Dragon, cut of pure gold. The shining metal sparkled like radiant drops of molten sunlight, caught on this man’s breast and suspended there like a badge of power. At his waist was a sword with a curved hilt and a jeweled pommel, requiring two hands to wield. And there was no one present who doubted for a heartbeat that this intimidating man could not wield it with so much ease.

The Cleric, who William assumed was a Zealot, dismounted his steed and held his reins aloft with one mailed fist until a rider came up beside him to fetch them, holding the animal at bay while the Zealot strode forward slowly. His hands shot behind his back and his barrel chest pressed forward a little, the golden seals catching like a kindled flame when the sunlight touched them just so. He took in the lot of peasants before him with a face that harbored no emotion on it. At length he spoke.

“I am Julias Darkmane, Cleric of Gildaryss, and I extend my greetings. You all know why my company has come, but there is another, more pressing matter I must address before I collect the Tithing. A man may have crossed through your village some days ago, dressed as one of the Priesthood. Have you seen this man?” William knew that it was pointless to lie about whether or not Marek had been through their little village, so he stepped forward and addressed Julias before anyone else could.

“He has been through our village, and treated for some rather serious wounds.” He added with emphasis, “We were sorry to see him leave.”

A murmur of confusion and shock ran through the crowd gathered about the Priesthood, and Julias Darkmane collected all he needed to know about Marek from their bizarre and ill-informed retorts. His stern, lifeless eyes drifted to William, and the elder hunter matched the gaze calmly. He had to uphold the ruse.

“You treated this man, you say? If he was so badly wounded, then why did you allow him to leave? Where has he gone?”

“Two questions that I cannot answer, my lord,” William replied humbly. “He fled last night, during the deep of the night. He told us little about how he came to us, why he was clad as one of you, or why he needed to depart with all haste. Is there something amiss?”

Instead of carrying on the conversation, Julias abruptly changed the topic. “Who are you, sir?”

“I am William Eventine. I have lived in this village all of my life, raised in the house you see right over there. Everyone here knows me.”

There were nods of accord and general approval to allow Julias to know that William was well known and indeed well liked among the people of the village. Julias unfurled a lengthy, aging scroll and perused it casually, his keen eyes running up and down its contents as he stood motionless. Then he rolled the parchment back up and put it into a casement at his side. Again his gaze matched William’s.

“Where is your son, William? Where is the young man named Justias? According to our records it is due time for his branding ceremony. Is he not forthcoming?”

“My son has gone on my behalf to the city of Aradis. There were medical supplies in Aradis that we did not possess, and I wanted to lend further aid to our mysterious guest. I wagered that treating one of your own back to health was more important than having my son branded upon your arrival.”

“When did he leave?” Julias asked patiently. The garbled throng of voices was dying to a stifled trickled as the people around this pair of men began to sense something was amiss. A tension was slowly mounting; an air of disquiet hiding somewhere beneath the simple answers William was casting out. Many folk had seen the poor man that Justias and Karan had carried into the village days past, and they could not believe that he would have had strength enough to flee the village in the dead of night without anyone taking notice of him. Where would he go with such wounds? But no one dared to speak, mostly for fear of causing those lifeless eyes to turn in their direction. Instead they waited with bated breath, watching some peculiar drama unfold.

“He left just this morning,” William countered, trying to maintain a level tone. He guessed that this man was trying to shake him, to see if he was lying. At least that was what William prayed he was doing.

“Then he should be back directly,” Julias informed him smoothly, arching an eyebrow and the side of his mouth tugging into a half smile. “I have Clerics positioned only scant miles down the road, and they will turn the youth back in this direction, unless he happens to be traveling in the company of the man we seek.”

“Are you accusing my son of being a traitor?” William spat out.

“Why would you word it so, William?” Julias called mockingly, that half smile still playing on his lips.

“What?” William asked, confused.

“You challenged me by saying I accused your son of treachery. What, I wonder, is his treasonous act? Perhaps the devilish coincidence that sends your son out of the village the same morning that my wayward Cleric goes missing?”

“My son simply went to Aradis City,” William replied mechanically, feeling his face flush and knowing that his shot told. His ruse slipped, if only a little with his foolish choice of words. “He is a hunter, like me. He probably took to the forest paths for speed of passage.”

“Then you sent him away from the village with the intent of avoiding his branding ceremony, and it would appear that you are both traitors.”

“Would you deny your own man medical care?” William argued hotly, feeling that he was suddenly lost. This shrewd man had seen right through him as though William were not a being of substance at all, ripping through flesh and bone to find the lies harbored beneath. He cleared his throat. “There were quarrels lodged in his back, which I dislodged. There are healing ointments in Aradis…”

At that point Karan had emerged from a dreamless and not too restless slumber, creeping out from the Eventine house and rubbing sleep from his eyes as though he were still in a waking dream. He cursed himself that he had slept through the coming of the Priesthood. Julias whipped his head to stare plainly at the young man, and then beckoned him forward with an outstretched hand. Karan, seized by immediate fear, did as he was bade, wide eyes seeking out William. The elder Eventine fixed Karan with a hard stare, but dared to do no more for fear that his ruse would be rent apart. As it stood it was on the verge. His lack of foresight left poor Karan without a story to fall back on, and the young man was doomed to unwittingly betray the lot of them. William was helpless but to stand there and watch, rooted to the spot.

“William here spoke of his son being a traitor, boy. What do you say to that?”

“Justias?” Karan balked, his jaw dropping open. “I’ve never met a more loyal, more forthright person in all my life, except perhaps his father, and Reverend Cerson, of course.”

“What is your name, boy?”

“Karan Cartwright,” Karan answered so quickly that Julias had to laugh a little.

“You are…friends with Justias?”

“I am,” Karan replied, somehow feeling vulnerable all at once. He looked desperately to William, but the older man was no help.

“He has traveled southward, toward Aradis. Why is the Cleric with him?”

“I told you that my son is alone!” William hollered, fearing Karan’s answer, “We don’t know where the Cleric vanished to…” Julias raised a mailed hand into the air and clenched it. Behind him a Cleric obediently raised a crossbow from the saddle of his mount and launched a quarrel with a metallic hiss. It shot through the air, and before William had the chance to think of dodging, the sharp head bored into his shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him face first onto the ground. There were terrified shrieks from women and children, and several village men raced to William’s aid, but Julias glared at the advancing villagers.

“Leave him be,” he warned. The men cast the wounded hunter apprehensive looks, seeing the growing puddle of red beneath him and hearing audible moans of pain as William tried to wrest the dart from his flesh. It was imbedded too deeply, and the elder Eventine dropped onto his back, his bloodied hand resting on his heaving chest. Satisfied that no one was going to act out of line, Julias turned his icy gaze back to Karan. “Tell me where to find Marek Wargard.” The mention of the Cleric’s name sent a rippling surge of panic through Karan’s entire frame, but the youth didn’t answer. He found a strange courage suddenly, perhaps drawn from the cowardly, unjust attack on William. Regardless of its source, Karan found that he possessed will enough to resist this man. He gave a wide eyed, puzzled look and shook his head as though he didn’t understand the common tongue all of a sudden. Julias glowered.

 At his command, two of his men seized a young girl from the crowd of onlookers and brought her before the Zealot. She was kicking and crying, her eyes squeezed shut as she was held aloft by cold and merciless hands. Julias grabbed a handful of her bright red hair and dragged the poor young girl over to the wounded hunter. Mother and father screamed protest behind the entire scene, and the father tried to charge the Zealot, but his Clerics formed a ring of armor and steel that warned against foolish behavior. The child’s mother sagged to her knees just outside the ring of Clerics and stretched a feeble, shaking hand in her daughter’s direction. All of this William was dimly aware of through his pain as he struggled to sit upright. The wound throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he knew that if it were not treated, he would soon black out. But all he could think of was the task at hand, and his son’s welfare when he stared defiantly into Julias Darkmane’s cold, unfeeling eyes.

The Zealot knelt down so an armored knee touched the cold earth beside William and with casual strength, dragged the hapless girl before them, so she could stare at William with tear streaked eyes. Her mouth trembled, working words that would not come, and William couldn’t long bear to look upon her, this girl of perhaps ten years.

“Your son,” Julias intoned evenly. “Where is he? Where is the traitorous Marek Wargard? I won’t ask you again.”

“I’m doomed whether I answer or no. It might please you to know that I hold the information you seek, Cleric. Why do you seek him? I may answer you if you answer me.”

“I think you already know why I seek him,” Julias replied shortly. “You are a courageous fool of a man, William Eventine. Now, tell me where Marek is, or I will spill this girl’s blood. I’ll open her throat, and ensure that you live a long, long life to regret your reluctance to speak.” For effect Julias produced a small, slender dagger sheathed under the folds of his green robes. It gleamed with deadly purpose in the morning light as he turned it back and forth before the young girl’s frantic eyes. She tried in vain to free herself, but the Zealot simply shook her hard and she gagged, breaking into a pathetic sob that escaped her lips.

“You wouldn’t dare,” William challenged him. “There are more than a hundred people here, and you have no authority to go killing at your pleasure whoever doesn’t cooperate with you! Kill me if you want for my imagined act of treason. Or take me to Grey Walk and lock me in your prisons, but I’ll never tell you where my son is!”

“You already have, really,” Julias told him. “I asked where Marek was, and you refuse to tell me where your son is. So they are together. When I find them, I will kill them both, as I have leave to slay this entire pathetic village if it suits my goals.” He turned his lifeless eyes to the young girl, who was little more than a blathering mess by this point, numb to the shouts of anger and outrage rising up all around her. “Do you know what’s happening here?” Julias inquired of her. “Do you know why?” The girl shook her head slowly, terror fairly dripping from her. Julias sighed, raising his dagger before her. “Pity; one should know what they’re dying for.”