Warden E-Book

Johnson DW

• Herausgeber: DW Johnson
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Iron League
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 319

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Arastor Frostriver, Warden of the Spotted Woodlands. The ranger loved everything about his forest home. He kept the woods safe from any and all who wished the natural world harm. He had no idea a stranger at his door would thrust him back into a place he swore he would never return. “The King has summoned you. You must go. The Ruby Mountain needs you.”

Leseprobe

Warden

Iron League Book 2

DW JOHNSON

Copyright © 2018 by D. W. Johnson

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2018

Dedicated to My Heavenly Father

Thank you to Ardy Pearson for all her hard work on this book and my other novels. I could not do it without her dedication to the projects.

A very special thank you to my daughter Dawn for the love and joy she has continues to bring to my life. Words cannot express how proud I am of her.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Other Titles by DW JOHNSON

Darkwater

The Xenkur Chronicles Book 1

Shadowmage

The Xenkur Chronicles Book 2

Songweaver

Iron League Book 1

Amborlaine

Chapter 1

Spotted Woodlands

“I don’t like this. We shouldn’t be in these woods.”

“Would you rather be out there with them?”

“Papa says these woods are haunted.”

“No, he didn’t. He said the woods are guarded.”

“What’s the difference?”

The snap of a branch froze the three in their tracks. None of them could move. Fear had turned their muscles to stone.

“What are you three young’uns doing in these woods?”

The oldest of the three peered around a tree to see a Dwarf sitting on a stump. The old man was dressed in brown leathers like a woodcutter. His head was lacking any hair, all of it having slid down to form a long beard, braided into neat rows. In place of a hairy dome there were Dwarven runes tattooed about his skull. He was whittling and, from the look of the shavings, had been doing so for quite a while.

“It’s all right, little ones, I won’t hurt you. You can come out.”

The three moved out into the clearing, hands and legs still shaky from worry.

A red squirrel ran up into the Dwarf’s lap, “A treat, little brother.” The man held out a small boca nut for the squirrel.

“Now what are you three Halfling children doing in the forest?”

“Hiding.”

The Dwarf put his nose to the wind. “And best you are. Those are some nasty fellas that follow you.”

The small girl said, “They chase us.”

The middle child of the three asked, “Sir, are you the one who haunts this forest?”

“Guards, not haunts.” His brother corrected him.

The Dwarf chuckled, both beard and belly rolled with the laughter. “You might say I am both. I am Arastor Frostriver, Warden of the Spotted Woodlands.”

“Sir, can you help us? There are bad people following us.”

Arastor stopped whittling, “I know of what follows you, little ones. You have no need to worry. The forest will handle them.” The Dwarf motioned to a tree in the distance. Out from behind came a small brown and white deer. Its fur and antlers shimmered with an iridescent light.

“It’s a fairy deer,” cried the youngest Halfling.

Arastor chuckled again, “Follow the deer, young ones. I will handle those that hunt you.”

The Halfling children did not question the command; they only ran after the stag.

The horses and their dark riders came to a sliding halt.

Arastor did not look up, but continued his whittling, “Your kind are not welcome in these woods.”

The leader of the group yelled out, “We go where we please, Dwarf.”

“You need not shout. I can hear you plain.”

The dark rider jumped off his horse, threw his cloak to the ground, and drew a long, blood-stained scimitar. “I will shout, I will scream, I will burn this forest to the ground if I please.”

Arastor did not flinch; he only continued to whittle, “As I said, Orcs and their brethren are not welcome here.”

The Orc let out a violent scream, “Who are you, tiny Dwarf, that you can command a tribe of the Nations?”

“The Nations?” Arastor looked up at the sky, “The Orcan Nations are no more. The war is over. Dregu is dead.”

“As long as one of the blood lives, the Nations live.”

“I see.” Arastor slowly peeled a large sliver off his whittling wood. “You five are a long way from Moonharbor.”

“How did you know...?” the Orc shook his head. “We are from the Scar!”

“If that were true, then you have come a long way only to spill your blood in the mud and leaves of this forest.”

“Where are the Halflings?”

“Safe with me.”

The Orc went from screaming to laughing.

One of the horsemen still mounted said, “There are five of us and you are only one tiny worthless Dwarf.”

Arastor spoke an insult in the Orc language that translated loosely to, “You’re as smart as the mud on my boots.”

All five of the riders yelled.

The leader hollered, “His skull is mine.” He trudged forward to gut Arastor like a fish. Until a root snaked out of the ground and wrapped around the Orc’s ankle.

The Orc slashed the vine away, cutting leaves, grass, and dirt with it. Another root immediately wrapped itself around the other foot, working its way up to just below the monster’s knee. It wound so tight as to cut off the Orc’s circulation.

“I don’t think you’ll get that loose without cutting off your foot,” said Arastor.

The Orc yelled in his native language. Arastor looked up long enough to watch one rider point a crossbow his direction.

“Not a good idea,” said the Dwarf.

A tree branch whipped across the shooter’s face, knocking him backwards off his horse. The crossbow went sailing into the air and fired. The bolt lodged itself into the back of the lead Orc, still rooted to the ground.

Arastor went back to his whittling, “Leave now. It will only get worse.”

The other three riders leapt off their mounts and made a run at Arastor. The ranger sat calmly until the enemy was halfway to where he sat.

Arastor then exploded in a flurry. Seemingly out of thin air, two short swords appeared in the Dwarf’s hands.

The ranger’s movements were swift and graceful. It looked more as if he was dancing than in combat. His short arms and stubby legs showed elegance no ballerina could match.

At one moment, he was on his knees, sliding on wet leaves as an attack sailed over his bald skull. Next, he was in tight against a foe, his blades cutting and slashing at vital areas. Before anyone could land a blow on Arastor, he was off again, spinning, tumbling, and leaping movements aimed at either attacking or avoiding. Dirt leaves and twigs all flew joining Arastor in his dance. 

When the Orcs thought the Dwarf was cornered, two massive brown bears ran out from the cover of the trees and tore into the three in defense of Arastor. 

Moments later, three dark riders lay dead in the fallen leaves. The bears growled and spit blood.

“Get back on your horses and ride out,” Arastor said to the two who remained, “Don’t come here again.”

****

“Do you think the bad men are gone?” The youngest Halfling stroked the small deer.

“I don’t know, Yesna. We’ll wait here for the Dwarf man for a while.”

“Can we at least go inside Osvon, I’m getting cold.”

“Papa said never to go in a stranger’s house.”

“And a wise man is your father.” Arastor walked out of the trees into the clearing.

The three Halfling children each jumped at the Dwarf’s voice.

“And I would give the same advice,” said Arastor. “But in this case, I think it would be best. These woods get a might chilly at nightfall.”

“You’re not going to eat us?” asked the youngest.

“No, little one,” Arastor laughed, “I’m so full of troll I could not eat another bite.”

The youngest child giggled. The other two were not sure whether to laugh or run.

“Go inside.  It will be all right.” Arastor petted the deer on the neck, “Thank you, brother, for your help. Now go home to your family.”

The Halfling children watched the Dwarf talk to the deer with great fascination.

“Mister Dwarf-sir-man,” the youngest pointed, “you can talk to animals?”

“I can, little one. Now let’s all go inside out of the cold.”

The cabin that Arastor called home was new to the children. Halfling's live underground. But not like Dwarves do. Dwarves carve out their massive cities from great caverns under the mountains. Halfling settlements are burrowed underground, like gophers. It is possible to ride right past a Halfling village and never know it is there.

Arastor’s home appeared a combination of both styles of living. His house was carved and dug into a hillock in the forest. The front of the home looked like a human cabin; the back of the home was set into the hill, so it lay underground. 

“Mr. Dwarf-man-sir,” said the youngest Halfling, “your roof is grass like ours.”

“Yes, little one. But I do not live as far under the ground as you do.”

The interior of Arastor’s abode was filled with nature. Furniture carved by Dwarven hands from dead logs. Plants and herbs in pots made of moss. Even the ground’s roots that made the dwelling’s roof had grown down into the room. It had a single fire pit and the sweet smell of Honey Redbud and Black-eyed Parsley covered the air.

“Caaaaw.”

“Yes, Chawk, we have visitors.”

“Is that bird bouncing its head or bowing at us?”

“Chawk is paying high respects.   He is bowing.”

“How does a bird know about bowing?”

“And respecting,” shouted the youngest.

“Chawk knows many things,” Arastor said. “He is my smartest and most faithful companion.”

The youngest Halfling bowed back, “Nice to meet you, sir bird.”

Arastor threw several wool blankets on the floor near the hearth. “Warm yourselves. Are any of you hungry?”

All three Halflings jumped up and down, “Yes! Hungry.”

“Ok, ok... I have some stew I can heat.”

“Sir Dwarf-man,” said the oldest child, “what meat is this in the stew?”

Arastor smiled, “There is no meat in the stew. I do not eat forest animals. What tastes like meat to you are the Hancrack berries. I’m told the flavor is like chicken.”

“No meat?”

“No, but it will fill you up and warm your belly.”

“Sir Dwarf—”

“Just call me Arastor.”

“Are the bad men gone?”

“Yes, and they will not return.” Arastor took to filling Tobak into his smoke pipe. “Why were the men chasing you? And where are your parents?”

“We’re from—”

“Undercorn,” Arastor said.

“Yes,” said the oldest child, “how do you know?”

Arastor took a few puffs of his pipe, “It’s the closest Halfling village to the Spotted Woodlands.”

The oldest continued, “The bad men came. Took many of our friends. Papa put us in the wagon, sent us off.”

“Do you know why the bad men took your friends?”

The children shook their heads.

Arastor took out a piece of wood and his whittling knife, “You can sleep here by the fire. In the morning, I will take you to the ferry-man in Stonepoint. From there you can ride the barge across the river.”

****

“How may I be of service?” The Dwarf with the red tunic made a shallow bow.

Cratha had ridden two hard days to reach Tinker Town. She was exhausted and sore. She had neither the time nor the inclination for pleasantries. “I need an inn for a few days.”

The Dwarf said, “An inn for tall folk. The first you’ll find is the Black Bird at marker 585.” The Dwarf took notice of Cratha’s expensive clothing, “If you’re looking for something more regal, the Blushing Lord is at marker 501.”

Cratha spurred her horse on. “Thank you.”

The woman was surprised at how crowded the Blushing Lord was for such an early time of the night.

“How can I serve you?” said the barkeep.

“I need a room for three days. Something big enough that I can entertain company.”

“I’m sorry, Milady, we don’t run that kind of establishment.” The barkeep blushed.

“No no,” said Cratha, “for meetings. I am the Librarian from Fallfell. I am here on business.”

“My apologies, Milady. I have a wonderful suite of two adjoining rooms. However, it is costly. A gold crown a day.”

“That will be fine.”

****

 “I ain’t seen her around these parts since before last winter.” The old man motioned for the barkeep.

The dark figure standing next to him looked more like a shadow than solid form, “Any clue where she would go?”

“Can’t say. She ain’t got no family I know of.”

The shadow set a gold crown on the bar top, “Where did she stay when she was here?”

“She had a shack behind the pottery house.”

The shadow figure moved silently through the back alleys of Hollowrock until he found the pottery house. Moving swiftly through the various complete pots and broken shards of clay, the shadow made his way to the back of the home until he stood before a ramshackle hut that was too dilapidated to be termed a shack and which had been empty for some time.

The door, empty of a lock or even a handle, creaked when pushed open. The shadow looked around the small cabin. In the moonlight all that was visible was a cot, torn and broken at one end. There was a chair, worn with age, and a small table. On the table sat a large rag and a well-used honing stone.

“Damn.”

****

Arastor had sat by the children for most of the night. Eventually sleep came to the Dwarf, but not without fitful dreams to accompany it.

One dream stirred his consciousness, and he woke with a cold sweat on his neck.

When his brain had once again regained its bearings, he found himself used as a pillow and blanket for the three Halfling children who had cozied up to him like a cat in a sunny window.

Arastor was accustomed to not sleeping alone. He often woke with various forest creatures in his bed. This was the first time since he was a child he woke with other people.

The raven leapt from its stand and flew out the window. Arastor slid out from under the children, doing his best not to wake them.

The Dwarf pushed aside a small cupboard near one wall, exposing a tunnel just large enough for his girth. It was only ten paces to the end of the tunnel. It ended directly under a hollow stump. Arastor peeked up out of the stump at the front door to his home. He saw a shadowy figure in the early morning light.

The ranger silently pulled himself out of the stump hole. Barefoot, he crept toward the front of his home. Arastor slid a curved dagger out of the back of his leather tunic. 

Arastor had silently made his way to within inches of the shadow figure without it noticing him. He slid the curved dagger between the shadow’s legs and gently lifted the blade into its crotch.

“Surprise.”

****

“Woman, you’ve made a deadly mistake.”

“Deadly?” The lady stood at the end of the alley. She made a point of blocking the men’s escape. “That’s an appropriate choice of words.”

The woman took a step forward, “You’re good when it’s three on one.”

Each of the three men standing over a beaten and bloodied body of a girl slid out a weapon. “This urchin robbed us. We have just given back what we got.” 

“I don’t care.”

The man closest to the woman tilted his head. “You don’t look much like a vigilante. Those swords you wear, know how to use one?” The men laughed, “Run off, woman, or we’ll do that same to you.”

The woman slid only one of the two blades from its sheath on her back.

The men looked at the sword in the lamplight, its thin long curved blade gleaming. “A katana. That’s a fancy sword for some street whore.”

The woman placed the sword out in front of her, gently setting the tip of the blade so it touched the cobblestone. She released the handle, and the blade stayed in place, perfectly perpendicular to the ground. 

“It was my father’s. He called it Bamosi.”

All three men laughed in a tense, fearful way. “Oh yeah. What does that mean?”

The first man rushed forward with his partners fast on his heels. 

The woman was well prepared for anything the three men would or could do. She had spent her life on the streets and had taken down her fair share of foes.

She waited till the last moment then fell to her knees, grasping the standing sword with both hands, spinning it down onto her but then thrusting upwards to the left.  She took the lead man’s right hand off his body.

While he was screaming in agony, the woman spun still on one knee tripping the second man. She laid into the third man, slicing just above his boot. The cut was so severe the man fell, a gush of blood spraying onto the alley.

The first man was coming again with no weapon; one hand missing, he was in a rage of pain.  His only focus was to kill this woman.

She stood still, head bowed until she could feel his breath. Once again, the katana came up; this time taking the man’s other hand. As the no-handed man passed her, she twisted the sword cutting into the man’s back. The woman felt the tip of the blade slice through his spine.

The second man was near now, his blade coming down to her left. She ducked, making a short stroke cut across the man’s hip exposing bone.  He fell to the side against a building, trying desperately to keep his balance.

Two more cuts, one across his knee exposing the bone, one across his chest. The man slid down the wall, his eyes open but not breathing.

The last man saw his companions cut down without a single blow to the woman. Prepared to run, he froze for only a breath. That was one breath too many.

The man’s head fell to the cobblestone alley, his body falling after that.

“Bamosi. It means reckoning.”

The woman picked up the girl, carried her from the alley, kicked open the tavern door of the Road Apple tavern and carted her into the backroom.

“Rain! You can’t keep doing this,” the barkeep cried.

“I can as long as I breathe,” said Rain.

“And I suppose there are two dead bodies in my alley now.”

“Three.”

“Great!” The barkeep threw up his hands, “How many is that?”

“I don’t keep track.” Rain laid a blanket over the young girl.

“If this was any other town, they would hang you for murder.”

Rain spun on the bartender, “But this isn’t any other town, this is Hollowrock. And no one here will care how many I kill.”

“That may no longer be true,” said the bartender.

Rain was surprised at what he said. “Why?”

The man lowered his voice and closed the door to the back room. “There was someone here asking about you.”

“When?”

“Last night. I sent him to the shack behind the pottery house.”

“Nice. I haven’t lived there in over a year.”

The barkeep handed Rain a small leather bag. “It’s not much, but it should get you as far as Allond.”

Rain shook the bag, “Thank you. I’m sure it will be enough.”

“How are you going to get out of Hollowrock?”

“Steal a horse.”

****

“And she left for where?” The anger could easily be heard in the shadowy figure.

“She refused to tell me.”

“So, she left you in charge of it all.”

“At least for the time being.” The short man sat down on a crate.

“That makes no sense.”

“None of it does. You don’t think she knows about me?”

“We took every precaution. This has been years in the planning. Although anything is possible, I can’t see how she could have any inclining.”

The short man rubbed his legs. “And the Halfling?”

“I sent him in pieces down the White River.”

In the darkness of the alley, the short man could not see the shadow figure smile, remembering how he had carved Falbin into bite size pieces for whatever lies at the bottom of the river.

“What are his next orders?”

“The plan he set to me may have to be changed now that the woman has gone traveling.”  The shadow peered around the building’s corner, “I will take this news back to his eminence.  Wait for my return.”

The short man grasped his canes and began to leave, “I understand.”

Chapter 2

Choices

King Gimadin spent many decades with the High Priest. The priest advised his King in every major conflict that plagued the Ruby Mountain. Orcs from the surface world were a constant threat. The Drow from below would harass the King’s people.

The races that made the Underdark home. The monsters that were spoken in hush whispers. Umber Hulks. Eye Tyrants, Deep Gnomes, and the most dangerous of all, the Illithids.

The King in his short reign faced many of them with his High Priest right there every step of the way. The priest was a constant calming influence on the King.

This new danger was far worse than anything so far. It was a battle against the unknown, a battle for the Dwarves’ survival.

“I don’t know. I have seen nothing like this.”

The King understood the concern in his High Priest’s voice. He too felt trepidation and frustration at the situation, though he had no one to voice it to.

“How many have fallen to these stones?”

“One hundred sixty-four so far.”

“Pull the outlying farms farther back. Post sentries as far back as possible. If it comes to it, we collapse that portion of the tunnels. We need to keep this in check.”

“Yes, your Majesty, right away.”

King Gimadin turned to his advisors, “No mention of these... these... spheres in the archives?”

“We researched the archives all the way back to before the loss of Ibrenevall. We have found nothing.”

“Blazes! And we can’t get close enough to examine them without losing more people.”

“Your Majesty, if I may. Perhaps it has something to do with us.”

The King gave a puzzled look.

“I mean ‘us’ as in Dwarves of the underground.”

“I’m not following,” said the King.

The advisor explained, “There was a sickness, back when I was a child, that ran through the Rock Gnomes of Caraphat. Only those Gnomes got sick. Their cousins the Tinkers never got ill. Maybe this sickness is much like that one. Maybe it only affects Dwarves that live underground.”

Another of the King’s advisors spoke up, “If that is true, it still hurts us. Every Dwarf lives underground.”

The King grabbed a nearby map. “No, not every Dwarf.”

****

“I... am sorry to disturb you. Arastor of the Clan Frostriver. I mean you no harm.”

Arastor had not heard his clan name mentioned in so long it took a moment for it to register in his brain.

“Frostriver. What do you know of the Frostrivers?”

The man turned to face the ranger, “Barmek Gembreak of Clan Silvercreek. At your service, Master Dwarf.”

Despite Arastor knowing the names, he did not remove the blade from the man’s crotch.

“What does Clan Silvercreek want with me?”

“It is not my clan that asks for you. It is all clans. I have been sent here by King Gimadin.”

Arastor eased his grip on the blade and slid it away from the man. “King Gimadin. Then King Gramdek is dead.”

“Three winters past.”

“Then Clan Hardstone is the ruling house now.”

“Yes.”

Arastor was disheartened by the news. Clan Hardstone had been rivals with his kin for time immemorial.

“King Gimadin asked for you.”

“Why would I be requested by the new King?”

Arastor opened the door and walked inside. “Come in, Barmek Gembreak of Clan Silvercreek. You have much to explain.”

“And that brings us to the present.”

Arastor listened to the story, found it fascinating, but did not understand the point.

“So, no one knows where the stones came from or why they are influencing the population.”

“Our wisest priests do not understand.”

“If finding me is such an important task, why send only one Dwarf?”

“The King felt it necessary. The Clans are losing people at a rapid pace. He did not want to deplete the warriors in case something or someone made a challenge to the kingdom under the mountain.”

Arastor had for the moment forgotten about the Halfling children in his care. That is, until he heard Chawk squawk. Arastor looked up to see the youngest child with a handful of the raven’s tail feathers.

“I must take these children to safety. I’ve no time to travel to the Ruby Mountain.”

“I was told not to return without you.”

Arastor was shocked at the statement, “To banish you if you fail... the King must be in dire need.”

“King Gimadin believes you are the only one that can help.”

Arastor had no desire to go back to the mountain. In fact, he believed going back would be a death sentence. Arastor was dishonored by his family and all his kin when he followed in his great uncle’s footsteps and left life under the mountain to go to the forest and live. Going back would be nothing but pain, sadness, and humiliation.

“And your answer?”

“You can stay the night Barmek.”

****

“This is what I could gather on such short notice.”

“I thank you, Felver,” said Cratha, “I appreciate everything you are doing.”

The Gnome stooped, “I am sorry to hear about Enorim.”

“Yes, thank you.” Cratha winced every time she heard the Elf’s name. She so missed the man.

“Your first visitor has arrived.”

“Thank you again, Felver. Please show them in.”

The man left the room, giving Cratha a few moments to prepare for her visitor.

A tiny knock on the door. Had there been any noise in Cratha’s room, she would not have heard it.

“Yes, come in.”

The Halfling, small even by Halfling sizes, opened the door, barely able to reach the knob or turn it when he did.

“Ms. Cratha, I am Vinster. I believe you asked for my brother, Oszu. He cannot come. He a...”

Cratha was already annoyed at the Halfling, so timid and weak. She had pressing matters, and this alteration was unwelcome. “Why?”

“Ms. Cratha, we buried him last week.”

“Oh my. I’m sorry. I did not mean to be so rude.” Cratha made a motion for the Halfling to sit, “Please come in. I would like to hear the story of your brother.”

Cratha sat with calm silence as she listened to the horrific story of what had befallen Oszu. After the small Halfling had finished, he wiped his eyes and drank the rest of his tea.

“I understand. Thank you for bringing me the news of your brother. I am sorry for your loss.”

Felver escorted the young Halfling out of the room. “Milady Cratha, there is another here.”

Cratha scratched the name Oszu off the paper in front of her. It could have been a freak accident, Cratha thought. Woodsman is a dangerous job. Cratha kept telling herself, Oszu may have gotten careless. But she could not drive away the nagging feeling that Oszu’s untimely death was much like Enorim’s in that it only looked like an accident.

“Send them in.”

A tall man dressed in white robes entered. Taller than most male humans, the man had enough height to run his fingers along the roof of the room. His white robes were colored blue at the hem and cuffs. A large silver half circle adorned his chest.

“May the goddess bless you, Cratha Nalinskat.”

Cratha stood and nodded to the priest, “And to you, Padgal.”

The priest bowed, “How may the Priests of Latariss aid the Iron League?”

****

Arastor had slept little in the night. The arrival of Barmek and the news of a new King under the Ruby Mountain pulled the aging ranger back to when he was a boy, when his uncle left life under the mountain and headed south to the forest.

Arastor was a child when his uncle left. The family disowned the rogue Dwarf, saying that Dwarves live under the ground; they do not travel off to the forest to live like Elves.

As a child Arastor did not understand why they would not be happy that his Uncle found a place he would be at peace, no matter where it was. That’s when Arastor decided when he was old enough he would go to see his uncle in the forest and tell him about the love he had for the man and how Arastor thought it a brave and powerful notion to follow one’s dreams.

It turns out his uncle’s leaving was a prophetic sign, as his family fell out of favor with the current royal house and things for the Frostriver clan went downhill from there.

When Arastor came of age, he left the world under the mountain to travel to his uncle. Once Arastor saw the beauty of the forest, the green expanse, the sun and the life the trees held, Arastor vowed never to return to the Ruby Mountain.

Sadly, Arastor never reached his uncle. The man disappeared before he arrived. No one has seen or heard from him since.

A small tear streaked the ranger’s face. He would explain it away that it was because of the crowd that now filled his home. But knew better.

The children had all climbed into Arastor’s bed. The Dwarf smiled as he watched the children turn his bed into a pile of Halfling arms and legs interspersed with twisted blankets.

Barmek slept in the only chair in the home. His feet spread across a small table as a makeshift ottoman.

The ranger had a lot on his mind. He needed to help the children find their family. Yet the King of Ruby Mountain was no doubt in a crisis. That he planned to banish Barmek should he fail his mission was not to be taken in anything other than the strongest light.

Arastor’s mind could decide easily enough. The children came first. But his heart would not be so easily persuaded. The Dwarf had no desire to go back to the Ruby Mountain, but they were his kin.

Arastor’s eyes, lost in their reverie, locked on the small leather bag that hung over his bed. The purse still had the note attached.

Fallfell, Arastor thought. I never went down there. The ranger remembered Shariana. She gave him the bag with the three rings before he left Allond. Arastor remembered the day he met the Songweaver, in what was left of Burrafirth.

He remembered those awful weeks that followed—the pain and the death. Whatever the rings and the note meant, Arastor no longer wanted to be a part of that world, the one filled with such evil, such desolation. No, Arastor wanted no part of it.

Yet there had always been a tinge in his heart, a guilt that he had never completed the wish of his friend and taken the bag to Grey Star tavern.

Arastor gestured to a forest mouse running across the bedpost, to retrieve the bag for him. The Dwarf dumped the contents into his rough hand. Three rings. One of wood, one iron, and one black obsidian. Shariana’s cryptic note never gave the purpose of the rings or what waited in Fallfell.

With a firm set jaw and a sigh, the ranger pulled his old bones off the makeshift bed and packed. I must take these children to the ferry. Fallfell would only be another two days’ ride south.

Arastor decided it was time to find out what his friend, Shariana, had given him. Traveling to Fallfell would be the perfect excuse why the ranger could not help those in the Ruby Mountain.

****

Rain sat on her mount facing due east. The rising sun warmed the woman’s face. There was a stiff breeze coming out of the Great Forest to the north. Though winter was many moons away, the wind that surged across the plains and into every crevice of her clothing felt like frost.

Two signs stood in front of Rain. One pointed east and read Fallfell; the other pointed north and read Tinker Town.

Rain spoke to the rising sun, “I could head south. Fallfell is only two days’ ride. Or I could head north. I have never seen Tinker Town.”

“Side ho!”

Rain was shaken out of her musing by a caravan moving at a healthy rate. The woman backed up her horse with hardly enough time to spit when the wagon surged past.

Rain continued to back her horse away from the road and into the prairie. She stopped on a small little hill that gave her a better view of the valley.

She had paused only a moment when five riders, wearing dark armor, raced into view. Their horses were flat out, doing everything possible to catch the wagon.

“Let’s see what this is.” Rain spurred her horse into a run.

The dark riders saw Rain coming in from their right. Three of them veered off the road and headed straight for her.

“A welcoming party. Why not?” Rain slid a katana from its sheath; standing higher in the saddle, Rain spurred her horse faster.

One of the dark riders drew a long-curved sword, another a crossbow. Rain saw the arrow leave the device. The marksman was good. The bolt would have struck her in the chest if it had reached her. Not long after the missile left the crossbow, it veered right and stuck itself into the dirt.

Rain thanked her father, wherever he was, and continued forward without pause.

The four met in a cloud of dirt. Rain fell off her horse to the right, using her empty arm to wrap around the dark rider on her right, tearing him from his saddle. Rain landed on her feet, but her foe did not.

The other riders leapt off their mounts and made their way towards Rain, stopping short to help their companion up.

Rain drew her second katana. She made several impressive moves one would only see in a sword instructor’s class then ending in a flourish. The moves were designed to scare and to loosen Rain’s muscles in the chilly air.

The warrior raised her katanas to catch the morning sun. “This is Bamosi, the Sword of Reckoning,” the warrior spun the katana. Then she spun the second sword, “And this is Nightbane, the Soul of Widows.”

“Stupid bitch. You are not scaring any of us.”

Rain made a small bow to her opponents, “Death is but a moment in time.”

****

The shadow man adjusted himself atop his horse. He found a small little hillock that allowed him a full view of the woman and her three opponents.

Though mist and chill still hung within the air, the shadow man could not feel the cold. He was not tired or sore from riding through the night. He had spent so much time on the back of a horse, drifting through the land like a lazy stream, he did not feel the aches and pains of normal men.

The new day’s sun was peeking over the horizon, silhouetting the coming combat.

“Now, let us see, Milady, if you live up to repute.”

****

“It is working better than we expected,” said Misnia. The priest rubbed her dark hands together.

Thokuhm stood at the edge of the precipice. From this height, he could see far off to the other side of the cavern, to the lights of the city of Bhorboldihr.

“It’s only a matter of time and the Red Mountain will be yours,” said the priest.

“Sire.”

Thokuhm did not remove his gaze from the far-off city. “Yes?”

“The King called another meeting with his advisors.”

“Excellent,” Thokuhm grinned. “After the stroke of the night-bell, roll the boulders another twenty paces.”

****

Barmek was shocked. He had not expected Arastor’s answer, “So you are not coming? Even at the request of your King.”

“He’s not my King,” Arastor said.

“Sir Dwarf-man, are we going to the ferry today?”

Arastor patted the child on the head.  “Yes, soon.”

The children started singing and jumping as children often do, asking questions faster than a speeding arrow. Arastor only caught a few of the questions and answered them. Though by the time he gave the answers, he was already a dozen questions behind.

“Yes, you can ride the pony,”

“Yes, the bird is coming with us.”

“What shall I tell the King?”

“Tell him nothing,” said Arastor. “You are banished. You cannot return to tell him anything.”

Arastor swung open the door and Chawk took to the air with the children racing behind.

“I am taking the little ones to the ferry.” Arastor reached into his pocket and felt the leather bag and the note. “And then I’m going to Fallfell. You are welcome to come.”

Arastor closed the door, “Perhaps you can make a life for yourself in that town.”

Barmek had little choice but to travel with the ranger. He could not go back without him and knew no one in the world outside the Ruby Mountain. Perhaps I can convince him along the way, thought Barmek.

That morning in the Spotted Woodlands was, like most, chilly but sunny and beautiful. Sunlight filtered through the Sonberry Trees and lit the blue needles of the Haven Pines with a golden glow.

The three children atop Arastor’s pony were giddy. Animals of all kinds came to greet the ranger and his party. Squirrels used Arastor like a tree, chasing each other in and out of the Dwarf’s clothing. Festidill Birds would land on Arastor’s shoulders to sing their twee-nee songs.

“Mr. Dwarf-sir, are the animals always like this?”

“In these woods, young Halfling, the animals are free and happy, protected by the magic of the forest.”

Barmek scoffed, “Magic of the forest. Why do you fill these children’s heads with such nonsense?”

Arastor smiled under his heavy beard, “You do not believe in magic?”

“No,” Barmek corrected himself. “Well, priest magic, yes. I mean healing magic from the gods.”

“So only priests can wield magic?” asked Arastor.

“Yes, well, no.” Barmek had to correct himself again, “The mages of the Grey Spire have wizard magic.” Barmek cleared his throat, “Or so they say.”

“Then why have these magic wielders not fixed the King’s problem?”

“I don’t know. I was only sent to get you. They did not fill me in on details.”

“So that is the only magic? This forest has none?” Arastor halted the pony.

“That is right,” said Barmek.

Arastor chuckled and walked over to an Aple’ak tree, one with a girth twice the size of the Dwarf. Arastor put a hand on the tree and bowed his head for a few breaths. Then the ranger walked into the tree as if it was not there and disappeared.

Barmek screamed in shock.

The children cheered and clapped their hands.

Twenty paces away, Arastor walked out of a similar-looking Aple’ak tree, without as much as a single scratch, not one blemish on any part of the man.

The ranger, shaking his head, walked up to Barmek, “No magic in the forest... hunh.”

****

King Gimadin had slept little in the past few months. He had eaten less. The Queen was worried. She saw her husband’s weight drop. His eyes were black. The skin on his face was dull and hung on his skull like wet laundry.

The lack of sleep was becoming a problem. The King was becoming forgetful, absent minded. His temper flared easily, and the Queen could find no affection in his touch.

The Queen pleaded with her husband, “My King, please you must eat something.”

King Gimadin slapped the food from out of the front of his face. The Queen only sighed and turned to leave.

The breakfast room was dead quiet. Much like the rest of the palace.

The King had kept only one advisor close to him, and that was only for a word of one piece of news.

“No word from Barmek?”

“No, Your Majesty, he has not returned.”

“What is the count now?”

“Two hundred seventy-four.”

King Gimadin pounded his fist on the throne, “We have no more options. Alert the miners. Tell them to collapse those two portions of the tunnels.”

“Your Majesty--“

“Seal it off!”

Chapter 3

Onward

“That proves nothing. Just a trick of the eye. I saw once a Dwarf make a pig disappear.”

“Barmek, I have to say you are the quintessential Dwarf.”