Marlsbeth, Chapter 1: Departure

Chapter 1—DEPARTURE

         Raised well Prince Khristophor, his father's joy to which hope found strong.  Amid peril of beasts granted young atheling wardship of hopeful people without consent or title of a crown.  Reared this brave child to manhood and matured to king wherefore his rule was good and just.  Khristophor, king of the Ireanites, saw through ambitious labors of his kin.  Stretched afar broad battlements from peak of stony mount to gatehouses bedded on foot of plain and set the last stone.  Encircled thick walls on frontal face of Mount Bergendun and rejoined at king's keep.  Behind elegant veneer by which housed the donjon sculpted mountain helm.  Toward heaven-realm jutted a staunch tower flanking the keep on either side.  Turrets rose from length of wall along the mountainside.  Emboldened strength of man for Irean achieved its stronghold. 

Five years in following streamed prosperity from Irean and raised her twin in mirror image.  On Mount Eadmund built the yearning of man, to make safe the land of wrong doings, and hoist a motto of unification beneath a flag of hope in parallel to her twin.  Isabelle rose in the shade of Irean for no wiser a king ever lived than King Khristophor.  However, King Gregin found glorious prowess in battle and sage counsel proffered noble Khristophor.

Neighbored the Dark Forest of Shyle to Isabelle dreaded bowers that wore rightly a loathsome name.  Defended man their fold united far afield and pushed back to Shyle the filthy goblins.  Bared their shields too strong for raiders of ValGalor to reave and prey on good men any longer.  That is, until a cruel march brooked from northlands and set its ire on man.  Aligned the goblin horde to the will of Lord Gim and bolstered his Dark Armies to which doom cast fair Isabelle.  Wielded the Shadows Claw an evil authority, freed King Gregin his prize, and seized Lord Gim his throne. 

Dark Isabelle turned aim toward stead of righteous living Irean, where uncertainty endangered his idol and the crux of man’s reign ruled.  The overlord bade grim forces to waylay such treachery as the virtue bestowed on these sons of man, and laid siege to them. 

Masses spilled into the hidden and barricaded halls of Mount Bergendun.  The terrible rattle of war cracked their ears and sorrowful wail of dread sank through rock and earth.  Amongst clamoring hoards remained hopes of prudent folk.  The battle for Irean tolled through the hollow labyrinth.  Most would have died in battle if not for a keen ruler with foresight to proclaim his subjects to sanctuary.  King Khristophor furnished Wyn plot to lead citizens of Irean and upturn a settlement beyond glare of the Dark Armies.

In course of these ill-starred times, the Raven, Lord Gim, expanded his long shadow, claimed, and conquered.  Ambition suffered the Shadows Claw for sweet nectar of immorality, and Dark Isabelle swelled with power.  The might of the Dark Armies bore a cruel reign across the sum of Marlsbeth.

The siege extinguished and forth departed the last bright embers from a trounced bed of coal into cold countryside.  Freedom’s ring took flight from mountainous hollows foreknowing cause of self-preservation.  From the dreary Slotherin Mountains passed Irean’s remainder and Gnadolin would rise from ash by hands of those who fled the warrens of Mount Bergendun. 

Between the sticks and hills, faraway and friendless, resided the village of Gnadolin.  Within its dwellings hosted the last remaining civilians, empowered by the steady king.  These elders were forerunners of his people to keep order in the fiery twilight of doom.  Simple men of a ripe old age persisted many years from Irean’s glory.  On this night gathered the order to discuss the fate of Marlsbeth, as they did with regularity, however, this night would spawn a unique course.

Many years removed from downfall of a budding empire gathered the Elders Order in center of Gnadolin within a small, round, wooden, fortified structure.  This edifice constructed with intention of township counsel and stronghold during times of great peril. 

Lanterns flickered and illuminated the hall, quaint and dim.  Encircled benches enfolding center of an open room where gathered the superiors.  Behind circular arrangement secured several handcrafted pillars from which flags hoisted heraldry once prominent to the kingdom of Irean.  Crest of the citadel secured the center of the room beneath their feet with an intricate hand sculpted centerpiece fitted flush in the wooden floor.

Wyn, leader of the Elders Order, subsisted as a farmer and sole political patron of Irean.  His was the last vote to any verdict their forlorn village ceded.  Thados, elder farmer; Havrid, blacksmith; Jalib, shopkeeper and Rhondim, farmer, composed the guild.

Political ally to Steady Khristophor, Wyn often sojourned back and forth from the twin kingdoms of Irean and Isabelle to meet with good King Gregin of Isabelle.  King Gregin often submitted to wiser Khristophor for he realized the decency and wisdom of the almsgiver of Irean.  Wyn was a gifted speaker on part of his king and journeyed to elf settlement of Aurendale upon request of the elves. He grasped well the ideals and ethics of his kingdom and relayed them amiably. 

Taking rest on wooden plank benches addressed Wyn order of their aim.  The years long and unchanging groomed him a cynic.  “Elders – once more, we gather with hopeless ambition to restore the benevolent crown of Irean…” 

He looked out on his fellow Elders respectful from behind small, round glasses.  Wyn declared, “I bid of you men?” striking his gavel on the rich, brown, sturdy wooden podium.  The politician addressed his counterparts in a rather harsh tone.  “How may we few villagers of Gnadolin possibly threaten Lord Gim and his legions of the Shadows Claw?”     

A silhouette in the darkened doorway pitched a strong-willed voice.  “We may not...  In order to claim realm of the Shadows Claw we must first gather a suitable alliance of men-at-arms,” he said despite having not seen any-such thing.  The noble patron seized the air, and garnered of that he learned in historic record.  “Not merely an army of men, but a group of all origins of Marlsbeth – the elves, dwarves, humans alike!  Such as days of old ere this congregation bade the alliances of man…”

“Who so rudely interrupts this assembly?” demanded Wyn of the stranger barging into his counsel. 

Feet fell forthright unto glow of the russet room, declaring of heartfelt ambition.  “It is Banion, Gnadolin guard and defender of Irean!” 

Chestnut tresses etched by gold draped stout shoulders.  Deep blue eyes pled a light of wisdom spanning beyond his years.  Tidy garments attired Banion more regal than regular occasion.  A linen undershirt with viridian green tunic he wore topped by a simple leather belt and long, brown coat.  Glaucous blue pants with distressed leathers of brown boots and long gloves.  A selfless mien carried this valiant, strong-jawed lad through his days, just as the ranks he served. 

Wyn replied with sarcasm, “AH – The vanity of youth…  You ponder the notion so slight.  You believe the expired allies of the twin empires might aid the men of Marlsbeth?”  Wyn said with a curled brow, soured from his years of partisanship to the crown of Irean and ideals of a fallen king. 

Wyn knew this youthful defender, as well his intentions.  However, experience was not a tool this sentinel possessed in the articles of war.  Rash and bolder than his wit thought the elder, whence abandoned this nameless child to women of those hollow places that rattled under mountain, and raise this man so brazen.

“We have long chattered of the resurrection of Irean and Isabelle!  The steadfast brigades of the realm no longer endure…  Those who might pose a threat to the dreaded Raven and his swarm expired with downtrodden heroes of old,” he implied from a weakened demeanor.   

Separated shadow and form drew forth in appearance a tall, slender, silvery-bearded figure with long windswept hair, attired in a dull grey tousled coat.  A tall, pointed hat sagged slight and shrouded the man in the dusky cloak. This grinning senior bore the brand of Wizard, and accredited by a myriad of names, Mandivor or The Advocate most common titles amongst this meek realm of men.  Although his title rather plain garden variety, his authorities boast of lore. 

Tales bound of the long, knobby staff he carried, tipped by an unusual white stone.  An unassuming relic remaining in his possession and many believed it to hold magic.  The multitudes thought perhaps even an article of his unkempt clothing wielded a supernatural ability.  However, neither a possession of physical state gave him authority, nor a mortal man, nor bindings of dark forces grant his claim.  Mortal man dared not speculate whereabouts or origin of the Advocate for he surfaced in days of old alike to this day and never for long did he stay.  Long absent his bearing midst dominion of man yet cautioned his presence of imminent prophecy.

“Still the unbeliever Wyn?” begged the blue gaze of the wandering wizard. 

His soured manner shook with fret.  Wyn responded, “Do not come to this meeting with your exaggerated tales of deliverance and freedom Mandivor!  Nowhere lingered your authorities when kings fell and man long suffered…  The age of Gim’s destruction wrought havoc upon man!  Where were you then?” 

The Advocate’s demeanor did not waver with his reply.  “Where I may or may not have been is not important.”  His hand waved slight in direction of Banion.  “This youthful defender is right.  And his appearance is a timely one…” 

Cool blue to red-hot raised the magus.  “This is the moment to turn face against the rising tide of the Shadows Claw!” steamed the sorcerer.  Countenance softened, he offered a calm warning.  “Petty arguments shall not undo our troubles, nor shall they veil this township forevermore.”

Jalib stood in disgust, gazing out at his peers.  “Have we not suffered long enough Wyn?  Our families and lives were fordone at hand of the cryptic armies of Lord Gim!  Take a moment to recall the life we once bore in the haven of Irean…  The city which garrison of King Khristophor defended till their quick deaths!” shouted Jalib as he observed the group of men.  Thrusting his hands toward revered crest of Irean bid the shopkeeper.  “Is this NOT the crest on which we gather – the very ideals of our people?” 

Upon handcrafted crest, presented reminder of what Irean signified.  The very motto scribed along top.  It read UNSWYDD.  “Of One Purpose!” he declared. 

Jalib scorned Wyn’s doubt.  “Old men, we may be – but our line shall not yield a barren harvest as we!  They shall die by the same blades if not for a convicted effort.”

Pleased nodded Mandivor to Jalib, and looked upon the untried brow of Banion and across the room of elders.  Behind a long, grey-bearded face of consequence, he exclaimed, “The ill-divining of the Shadows Claw grows within grasp of Lord Gim, if we shall not stand and fight!  A growing presence of destruction shall enclose all of Marlsbeth in a choking grasp!  Goblin armies of the west and trolls of the east grow in strength.  The bitter lamp nears its twilight…  If something is not done soon we shall all perish at the hands of this wintry malice…”          

“I cannot allow the few men we have to walk armless unto the lair of toothy beasts!” Wyn said with conviction of a man he no longer was. 

Mandivor sighed as though expecting such a reply and pled, “Wyn, this is not the calling of the villagers or your simple regiment.  This is a journey one man must make...”

As the wise spellbinder spoke fretted the elders with obvious concern. 

To the brave guardian fell truthful eyes of the Advocate.  “Banion – you must move swift to assemble an alliance capable of infiltrating the very heart of a dark legion… 

Look northeast and vale of the dwarf.  Cross the stretch of abounding Wood of Ages toward the Valley of Handenmire.  Seek the road to the gates of Zandengard.  Request Wendin of Geerik; he is a brazen warrior.  His hammer has risen against the Goblins Guild a time or two.  You shall find him at hand.           

Across the verdant Emerald Mountains shall you bear course.  To the citadel of Aurendale – amid the Eternal Forest – seek out elf chieftain Arogrim.  He may discover you first.  The Brave Elf offers matchless aim…”

Grin to grim circumstance altered the sage in presence.  “From broad flatlands of Plains of Silence, thou shalt unearth the beacon of Magra.  Jarumon, city of the Goblins Guild is thy course.  Keep your wits about you – be both cunning and discreet.  You shall free Pelnowin, elf warrior and sentry of Aurendale.  Whence the Dark Armies besieged the Eternal Forest outlasted elf capture. 

Aurendale, you may know, is secreted capital of elf folk.  Precise location of the citadel is phantom to most...  The ill divining Shadows Claw came very near its realm.  Many were lost in this battle and few of the guards of the south survived.  Those who evaded death did therefore by fettered hands. 

A band of ghoulish trolls, hailed Creepers, and armored goblin Tierians made this devastating attack.  Those few who survived endure capture and made slaves to the Goblin’s Guild.  Jarumon will pose a myriad of threats and you shall need your good sense about you…

Across long, grey mire of Ittock shall thy union pass.  Outlast the dismal gloom, and breach the shores of Sevenwood to find your solace.  Find rest in Dwarringnol.  Once present, you shall find Brend Bryron.  He is of the olden race of dwarflings called Bantamins.  These individuals are quite different from standard mine workers of Zandengard…          

In bygone times of Marlsbeth ruled the ever-working dwarf and keepers of the Eternal Forest.  Before menacing kin of Falgania intruded on thriving cities, or dawn of man endure – these guardians did thrive and enemies lurk.  Bloodthirsty trolls, and bone-shattering ogre wandered and hunted, and wisest of these, dreldik – elf term for goblins, did prey upon any whom they may.  These looming beasts bore lesser numbers then, or perchance, mingled in smaller parties. 

One group of dwarves from the village of Ordowik suffered a gruesome attack!  Slaughtered by a pack of grimble; forest trolls of Shyle.  Legend says a few dwarves fetched their babies to the forest before foul beasts would take them.  The Sprites of Sevenwood also inhabited this enchanted forest.  Creatures of light and virtue the Sprites of Sevenwood never lingered in midst of man.  Watchers they were of forest and ears of the unseen.  Miniscule stature ceded the fairies merely the size of a human hand.  Weowyn, mother of sprites, and forests, felt the presence of infant sons and daughters of dwarf within her realm, their cries like pulses of light echoing across the forest.  She, along with her two sons Cleiodin and Mintgave, nurtured these dwarf children.  The sprites suffered precious babes of Ordowik, loved and raised them to be sensitive creatures as they.  Subjected no longer to physical toil of mines, as their forebears, reared the dwarflings to the dominion as Bantamins.  Their deep empathy beckoned a vision of unknown for gifted they were with offerings, and traded great strength for keen sight.  Be wary though if compassion does not rise to hearts of truth, then dwarflings shall find no forecast. 

These tales shall yield discernment…  I digress,” said Mandivor with a flick of his hand, taking a couple paces outward into illumination ahead of the order. 

“Brend shall be your escort.  Yield his presence and he shall aid thy journey.” 

A face as pale as the jutting snowcaps that rest upon the Alps of Humbidid did Banion reply somewhat sarcastic, “Are you certain that shall be all?” 

The forehead of Mandivor wrinkled up and noted forthright, “This course shall not bear the path of least resistance, however if endured this quest shall make a man out of you.”  Broad and curling grew the elders smile and replied over a thick, grey brow.  “Indeed my boy – that is all…  You shall do fine lad, you shall do fine,” reassured the wizard.

The Elders of Gnadolin wandered about the room in thought.  Frail Rhondim exclaimed with a look of deep concern and skepticism, “You can’t possibly expect this young man to endure such trials?” 

Bewildered by such a bold prophecy, Wyn, figurehead of Gnadolin proclaimed, “This boy was not yet born when we vanquished the warrens of Mount Bergendun and outfaced perils of the Slotherin Mountains!  Banion yields tales of elders – no more…  He was not there to see the strength of man succumb to the shadow of deaths march!  The guardian has slain a rogue troll or wandering ogre – but this accomplishment bears little likeness to the vexed glare of the Dark Armies.”   

The Advocate snatched his hat from thick, silver hair and tendered, “Does not the eagle cast from its nest with a purpose of flight?  Shall the morning star fail to yield its light if thou hast not agnized its intent?”  Outright stepped the wizard, facing the Elders Order and cast a purposeful gaze.  “The aspect of man does not observe the nature of things – yet they bear forth consequence.  History has written account of Marlsbeth, and the path has led here.  Indeed, he will do – it is his fate!” decreed the sorcerer. 

The stone countenance of Mandivor was more than enough to convince the Elders of Gnadolin in just this brief congregation.  In spite of the fact Wyn may have not agreed or comprehended the ways of the wizard, he realized idle words yielded little consequence. 

The Advocate shifted to Banion.  “I shall see you off this night.” 

An unbelieving glare Banion bore upon the wizard.  “How shall I leave my loved ones this night for an unforeseen deed?” 

“With an unwavering certainty!” proclaimed wise Mandivor, “Take not my words as fable boy.  You withhold conviction of an endearing strength!  With a rising vigor shall your counterparts be lifted, and beyond their own faculty, and unto the likes of thee inherent trials of man.  With you bear the heavy hearts of your people … as well your own devotion shall submit to the plot – with hope – one day the family you love may walk midst emerald lawns of the kingdom you covet…” 

With a startled gape replied the green sentinel, “You leave little to the imagination thoughtful prophet.  I am unsure of such an endeavor, but if the Advocate of my forebears declares such is my fate, then I shall not impede...”  With a heavy heart passed each breath ill at ease, yet beyond circumstance took seed a strength to the fiber of his being. 

In a warm tone equipped his sage escort.  “Endure not by sight, but by strength in knowing this course has been set before you.”

Yeoman by trade and loyalist to the crown of Irean, by which salvaged the people of his beloved stead, engaged Banion at a youthful age in noble art of combat from company of Gnadolinian guards.  He stepped ranks, for prowess in battle and leadership dressed his sleeve.  Dreamt big his heart to see Irean glorified and Isabelle restored.  Alike stoked the fire for his people as well.

From ash arose heirs on the strong of their backs.  Well built the sons of man, and founded the village Gnadolin in the fold of forestland beyond gaze of the Dark Armies.  Positioned to the northeast corner of dreary Slotherin Mountains dwelled these people within a fortified parish.  Hesitant dwellers were to venture beyond the emerald bowers of Greenwood for peril of life amid such harsh a realm were real. 

The healthy forest of Greenwood hemmed in the township on all but one side holding grim ridges to the back of Gnadolin.  The ridged mounts protected their backs and from behind protective walls of lumber lived simple folk.  These barriers held belfries operated duration of day and night in this nameless town.  Nameless to most others, Gnadolin was wary of travelers to this scarcely traveled stead.       

The troops of Gnadolin were admirable liegemen.  Their creed hinged on the very honor that forged the moral iron of Irean.  Contained the stockade a village garrison versed in mock-battle.  Sparred the sticks and earned their metal to harness skills dire in need.  Such was the fortitude that bred men-at-arms under sovereign rule of King Khristophor and his kingdom a heralded dominion.  Wardens of peace hailed good omens on the Knights of Irean and come-what-may these humble villagers endeavored to die just, to die hard as those who came first.

Gnadolin sustained forces with aged and dilapidated armaments gathered of elder chieftains.  Squires were these men to the ennobled garrison of Mount Bergendun.  Upright men of Irean saw it only fitting to pass along the heritage of the honorable cities.  Trained rightly stood guards of Gnadolin strong in the face of villainy. 

The untried ranger mounted his horse and began what would be a memorable journey home.  Such a quest he dreamt although never did he imagine it would ring true.  Across familiar village admired Banion upon its stone and wooden face as any family member, or old friend, reflecting on life amongst warm confines. 

Violet haze of moonlight and amber glow of golden lanterns mingled over the village.  Stars danced across clear, spherical, midnight blue horizon.  Smoky in appearance, chill of night lifted discernible breath amid silvery moonlight. 

Onward he reminisced from the gentle rocking of his saddle.

His heart nested a warm place.  It resided in guardianship of his taking wife Mevanwyn and lovely daughter Dawn.  His flaxen haired angels were the treasure he sought, spotless and pure as the driven snow.  They were blessings not finding a day without his enrapture. 

Knelt Banion to his matron, large-eyed and adoring, and whispered soft, “A dateless love, thy feather-bed; our brood – my sparrow’s catch.”

Her heart swooned with broad ache each time he dressed her in such fervent words.  She blushed as the day they wed.  “My dearest, we are alike bewitched in the devotion you bathe us…”  Lifting his chin, she met his fixation.  “You are a good and noble man and your eyes I could submerge in like a warm tub of water.”  With glow of unyielding adoration, they met and with a kiss, time suffered of no duration.

Into quaint and warm lodgings of his family entered proud husband and father midst late evening hours.  He gazed upon vivid, deep crystal blue pools of his counterpart. 

As if two of a singular thought, she captured his veiled notion and alleged, “What is it Banion?” 

He took a quick and slouched seat upon the wooden bench of their dining table.  “I must leave for a spell.”  His glare focused on flicker of firelight across a simple table facing him, an obvious weight to his words. 

“What is this you speak?” she inquired with distress. 

She gathered his proposal and justified the bolt from the blue.  Although startled by such tidings, she knew his valor.  Aware she was of perilous trek and sighed heavyhearted.  “My husband, take not the weight of such a task upon thyself,” Mevanwyn said soft, but unyielding as she placed her hands upon his shoulders.  “You have much strength!”  Lifting her husband’s head to her gaze, he perceived conclusive faith in his wife’s stunning glare as sky on a brilliant and lucid day. 

Banion acknowledged.  “Wherefore shall you have so much belief in me?” 

Grasping her husband close, Mevanwyn supposed, “Such a day as this I knew would come – thou shalt achieve something greater than our own discernment…  I saw such dwell in you from our childhood.” 

Midst a warm embrace pulled away her thoughtful love and dwelled upon the soft vibrant face of her; nudging at Mevanwyn with a growing smile.  “I wish you made me aware of this!”

Like a bunny hopped a small, frazzled, blonde mop from a hiding place.  “Daddy!” cheered Dawn as though she had not seen her father in some time. 

Demeanor softening his gaze sparked as though a heavenly figure materialized with wonderful tidings.  “Yes my dearest,” her father bade with a cheerful grin. 

“Take me with you!” her flaxen curls bounced as she leapt into her father’s arms.  As if a moment were an age, she was secure in his tight grasp, her blue-green eyes glossy with tears.  Cradled in her father’s arms Dawn’s full intention was to leave with him. 

Placing this small child upon their table his loving gaze met the captivated glare of his daughter and concluded, “A greater task I implore thee Dawn,” he whispered.

“What is it?” exclaimed enamored child with the adorable and inquisitive ogle of a spring fawn. 

With risen attention engaged her father’s eyes, “I endeavor you might take care of your mother and our home whilst I am away…” 

Hesitant to depart her father’s warm glance, she looked to her mother whom batted her eyes to soften this difficult moment.  Wiping her tear’s she sniffed as putting on a brave face.  “Yes, I think you are right father, she would not be able by herself.”  Wiping her tears, she looked to her father fearless in aim.  “We shall await your return daddy.”

Riveted in a glance, compelled him in reply.  “I shall return before you know it,” Banion said to his wife with a quick certainty. 

She drew long on his face, tucking each detail in her pocket.  “I know fate has offered your hand, my love – but be sure to return to us…” 

As of distant meadows, to a world all his own shifted his glare.  “Neither a thousand swords nor the sting of death could blight my return!” he drove, grabbing Mevanwyn in embrace.

With consent of his family accepted this youthful farmer burden of hardship as his own.  In haste prepared him for leave taking.  Parting his warm, comfortable home approached a trail pointing east; saddled upon endeared equine of childhood, Brac.  The naïve guard of Greenwood would greet Mandivor with fervid ache of cherished family nestled within his core and leave Gnadolin behind.  Anguish spread over his spirit as distance grew.

The ranger set free of wooden gates that bordered the township and cast to the great unknown.  Inviting trees, where played he as a child, within the safe grasp of the village of Gnadolin, the very stead where dreamt he of such adventure surely would echo in his mind.  His heart he would leave with his family – his courage, he would take with him.  The heart of truth made claim on his devout soul and brought forth a dutiful subject. 

Perched upon the next hill in plain view arose a saturated silhouette of grey and steed.  Shadowed sky of grey and dark blue of night surrounded the figure and drew closer.  Bathed in moonlight pointed the ghostly figure with his staff in aim of the young man whilst the jewel encrusted in top of this gnarly wooden post began to glow like a star! 

His long coat and dusky cloak waved behind his raising bay stallion.  The wizard proclaimed, “Banion, guardian of Gnadolin, through this peregrination will be delivered fate of immigrants and descendants of Irean and Isabelle!  Thou art their hope – and with you flee ambitions of reconciliation of a kingdom!  Fail and they shall fail also.  I will lead you as far as the grasslands and from there you shall flee…”

A nudging heel into his charger the magus cried, “YAH – Spartan!” 

Steed Spartan vanished on the path opposing his route.  On the road to the northern bend succeeded Brac into the dark of night.  Burned his staff bright on the bow and shone subtle moonlight their way.  More rapid than eagles through rolling trails of Greenwood strode their coursers.  Thumping hooves awakened still night with rhythmic snorts and grunts disturbed tranquil forest. 

After a spell opened the trail wide and outward rambled the Great Plains of Gildred.  Eastern horizon commenced to burn in brilliant arrays as the hope of humanity, and faithful sage emerged from the woods.  Commencing from the Wood of Ages to the foot of the mighty twin kingdoms spanned these lengthy fields.  Far off to the left jutted snowy peaks of the Alps of Humbidid atop distant woodlands. 

Slowing to Banion’s side gave Mandivor a brief summation of the quest, and with a concise depiction of the path.  A last fleeting thought he surmised, “At edge of the green fields I shall leave you and from these plains you must go alone.  We shall meet whence time has allowed you to near the edge of dwarf dale.” 

He looked at Mandivor with a slight nod.  “I shall not waver.”

Eastward thundered Brac and Spartan broke his side.  Around facing angle of grassy meadow disappeared the mage south into morning haze.  The Gnadolinian yet coursed familiar pathways.

“Watch for the green ripple – for it brings forth a sharp death,” echoed brief words of the abandoning wizard.  A charging liegeman dwelled on such a perception as striding amid the long, waving grass. 

A grim doom lurked along banks and shoals of the brackish Ganzameer.  The stalking crocodim hunted the lengthy waterway and lingered amid other regions of Marlsbeth.  The long, toothy hunters would remain chief hindrance in reaching the opposite bank, even in such a narrow stretch as his heading. 

“Never have I coursed beyond these perilous banks,” thought Banion.

Hard he rode and carried the weight of many, for hinged possibility on this journey like a worm dangling on a hook.  Brac resounded with trodden hoof and hot breath, making quick transition from green grass to deep trails of the sprawling Wood of Ages.  Pith would not merit surrender prior to murky stream.  The dismal run troubled his mind.  Old bridges no longer endured nor one bridge crossed within reasonable distance. 

One eye followed trail whilst one hung on the waterway in all its mystery.  “The hours of daylight shall see us safe!” he exclaimed aiming to convince himself. 

Lore grasped peril of the murky waters yet here existed no other route.  Oh, the horrors that abound in recalling of stories and how he wondered if in truth revealed these tales or for children stretched their happenstance.  However, a distraction none-the-less they did make. 

Banion tested the edge of his sword and dagger with edge of his thumb.  Perceiving the rivers approach, he readjusted his cloak and scabbard.  Steel armor did not safeguard his person.  Few of the Gnadolinian guards afforded such a luxury.  A slight measure of aged, second-hand leather spattered his dusty attire.  The remaining of his garb was of his wife’s making. 

“If my approach is hasty, quick we shall cross!” he said aloud to bolster his aim. 

Straight away, ran the heedful drift and cautioned this first obstacle vague on a long and winding road.  Wiping sweat from his forehead pulled back his mane anxious in his hands and caught a cool draft.  There seemed no disturbance from gloomy depths or steep sand and stone banks.  A small ripple surfaced downstream but might have just as well been a fish.   

Courage severed clean any notion or prudence.  Leaned his head to old, a friend and whispered, “Okay boy… let us leave this creek in our shadow!” 

More deliberate discerned Brac from the river’s edge.  Chewing his bit believed his rider sure.  Leapt the destrier and parted grassy hill!  Over steep bank and into deep water they plunged.  Their entrance troubled the silence – stirred the still.  Not the admittance they hoped, yet in haste they crossed.  Across this narrow river seemed not a worry lest the russet wake. 

Trembled deep a grunt and slipped a splatter to the left bank.  From corner of his gleam appeared an enormous, sharp head, and long, swishing, plated tail veering straight in their direction!  The bank approached at what seemed an eternity.  Brac dug the embankment toward what seemed an assured landing.  Swift burst a giant, daggered mouth from the cold soup!  Brac bucked his rear legs.  Forceful the beast collided with Brac and threw Banion over-end!  Into the mouth of their hunter snatched Brac ensnared in a sharp vice.  The impact tossed the ranger on top of the grassy bank to the flat of his back!  An abrupt nay and the horse disappeared into boiling depths. 

Stillness drew its cover and outcome tragic.  Silence deafened.  This hare-footed moment seeped into recesses of his soul.  Gone was his longstanding companion at the price of a rash decision.  Standing to his feet turned Banion toward the river.  Nothing more than ringlets of water that danced from the setting of their wake discernible. 

“BRAC!” he shouted mournful into the gloom. 

Not another churn, swish or swirl disturbed the bitter stew.  To course this trek unaided, and without his childhood companion, would bear a prolonged affect. 

Amassing a clear head for a moment, Banion found his supplies, by some means, arrived upon the grassy knoll to one side.  Snatching up the vital provisions distressed him bitter toward the Valley of Handenmire.  Thoughts swirling with astonishment and grief, he struggled to comprehend the event that transpired this sunny day.

Angry stomped his feet whilst walking.  “So foolish!” derided Banion.  “Had I surveyed only a few more moments I would have known…” 

Like a sibling cared he for the horse.  Vivid images darted through his mind.  This charger carried his bride to their home – escorted picnics with his family – whisked his daughter about.  Brac possessed a steady stride in combat maneuvers alongside the dutiful sentries of Gnadolin, whilst ensuring his safe course.  Present, a long stillness was the grim reminder.  Over one shoulder begged mercy his spirit in direction of the river until it was out of distance. 

Unheeded to his emotions, perhaps in spite of them, into the southeastern corner of bountiful forest of old he strode.  Banion took heart.  “This trial shall offer merit… such a sacrifice shall not be in vain!” he burned.  “A few more days and my eyes shall set upon the Valley of Handenmire…” 

Certainty gauged his pace and answered an account of tree-shadowed trails.  Dripping with the sweet nectar of his will flared nostrils with quick breaths.  His brow curled with focus and charged trails at a steady cadence to keep good time.

At current position posed stocky danberry trees and scattered the landscape.  Toward deep woods grew dark and dense the terrain.  Not exceeding in tallness were these arbors, but a very large base and semi-smooth surface.  Their boughs stretched horizontal to the ground, thick and narrowing at the end, and yielded a small nutty berry, eatable when in season.  Akin to the land of Greenwood that enfolded Gnadolin seemed familiar course of sparse long grass, and uneven hilly ground.  Dead leaves and roots ran in trails across the forest floor. 

The guardian of Greenwood halted for a moment.  Chest heaving, bent over the ranger, and leaned on his knees.  His ears perked to a peculiar and deep chant reverberating from the distance.  Louder it grew, rising ever closer. 

“What is this haunting melody?” he said startled. 

The low murmur beheld a paralyzing canton, as if chanting demons.  With the watchfulness of a squirrel, he leapt up to a branch of the nearest tree and climbed within a grasp of foliage.  This would be a better vantage point from leafy boughs.  The bottomless chant drew nearer.  Closer and closer loomed deep the resonant song until shadows emerged from the distant center of the forest.  A loathsome pack of grumbling grimble slogged direct in his line! 

Primitive forest trolls these savages known as grimble.  Since times of yore stalked these predators over the sons of man.  Their deeds chronicled whence the Knights of Oslot first crossed into these very woods.  Massive – standing a broad nine feet with thick, powerful arms and a large muscular torso, they might tear a man in half with ease.  Short, stocky legs, and ample clawed feet carried these brutes.  Long pointy ears protruded from the sides of square heads.  A large muscular bottom jaw protruded with huge canine teeth of which the underside jutted outward like yellowed tusks.  Their tough, leathery hide varied in hue, ranging from a pale green to a brownish-grey with spots.  Drool-laden, stinking, and ravenous, these trolls begged fear.  The savage grimble sometimes mingled in small factions of three or four, and if prompted, were capable of decimating an entire village. 

“I was under the impression the Knights of Irean banished them from this stead?” mumbled Banion.  Tales spawned legend of the troll’s ravenous hunger. 

Five lumbered on this woody path with a seeming destination.  One headed as the large hideous creatures peregrinated by two.  Betwixt them seemed something carried.  Between two poles hoisted on their shoulders sat a large box of some kind. 

“Perhaps they are wiser than lore suggests?  What use would ghoulish rovers behold of possessions?” he whispered to himself.

One lifted its long nose into the dry air and took a sniff beneath the tree Banion hid.  The troll thrust his head into the air and stopped walking.  “Smell man flesh,” said the massive grimble sonorous as swine and strident like a bear. 

Eager lifted the heads of his companions and sniffed air for the familiar scent. 

“Yes, me smell flesh!” said another. 

“Me too!” replied a third. 

Like famished grizzlies rumbled the dingy brutes and skulked about.  They scratched and clawed at the ground.  Sniffed and snuffled as though someone might pop out of a rabbit hole.  Eager were the plodding marauders on the hunt. 

As silent as a mouse retreated Banion into dense canopy, his sight remaining focused on the looming threat below.  The ghouls stalked about the perimeter, sniffing and shifting with a hunting gaze about the landscape. 

“What position have I found myself into?” despaired Banion in a quiet voice.

High above forest floor spread his cloak like wings and reached desperate his grasp.  To the skirting limbs of the next tree glided the ranger!  His leather-clad hands secured fleeting branches and down swung Banion into safety of interior limbs.  Awkward his flight though slight rustled limbs. 

The wind varied course and lost his scent.  One troll lifted his head and let out a fierce bark.  Quick assembled the others to the spot where laid their haul. 

“Mog – Ack – Fij – Ka!” bellowed the apparent leader.  “No more time to waste!” Gok relented with a savage facade. 

Ack replied, “Yes Gok, the master won’t be pleased…  GO!” he shouted.  Lifting their cargo, the grimble took up and moved on. 

Well-off in distant woods faded the trolls and dropped Banion from the arbor.  The guardian of Gnadolin pondered.  “I can’t believe they gave up so quickly?  What master might yield such beasts?  These dregs did not appear soldiers of the Dark Armies?” he said, “Grimble never intruded upon Greenwood…” 

Undaunted focus and again took up his ramble without hesitation.  Many miles waited between him and the Valley of Handenmire.  Several days ahead smiled his admission to the entrance of Zandengard.  Wind in his hair sprinted Banion across worn trails lest his aim readied. 

The radiant faces of his wife and daughter flooded his mind and though he had been gone a short while, he missed them fully.  The very recall of his family drove him to press on against odds of an insurmountable task.  The long golden reeds of open meadows shone as Mevanwyn’s hair.  The glistening pools of water, streams were as blue as Dawn’s eyes.  His faith was true, no surrender but by sting of death. 

“I shall be a bit more elusive,” he wisely thought. 

For a time avoided regular trails and paths, hurdling bush and brush, across ageless forest.  The steward of man maintained his gait both day and night sustaining course through fecund woodlands.  He deferred rest to the threshold of humanity.  Finally, weariness had the best of him and so he climbed in shelter of thick canopy.  Like a groundhog popped his head from lush, leafy boughs, and eyed on his whereabouts.  The Alps of Humbidid endured to his right as intended and the white peak of Mount Galimohr well behind. 

Nestled within thick limbs of danberry trees need apply little effort to find comfort.  The disparate between branches made a nice chair to lie, like a cradled baby amid the thick plumage of leaves and branches he gathered.   

He uttered under his breath.  “By this time tomorrow I shall cross unto realm of the dwarf!”  Huddled tired bones into the large cradling tree branch, high in the awning, he took one last look about the faint forest and dozed off. 

A cool draft danced across the ground and rustled through the trees.  Indigo moonlight penetrated tranquil night, shadowed in black veils.  Howling wolves beckoned across the sprawl.  The slight rustling underbrush nourished apprehension as night progressed, but he attempted to muster reprieve. 

Though he knew vigilance, Banion was not likely to back down from any adversary.  This, unlike any other challenge he faced, met the same unfailing will. 

Washed amid stirring leaves, morning light awoke him with bands of sunlight across his face.  Tired, sweaty, dirty and soar he struggled to his feet and looked across lush forest for any possible signs of movement from his leafy perch.  He noticed some birds in flight and heard their nourishing song.  A large bull grazen passed below, fairing a wide rack, foraging dewy grass of dawn. 

“A fine breakfast this buck might supply!” he said, looking on the brown, furred beast.  “If this were a voyage of leisure…” 

Down climbed Banion from the brief resting spot.  He drew a long drink of his dwindling water source, and took a few bites of plankloaf his wife prepared for his voyage.  The rest of mornings trek went without incident and the forest ascended to an emerald peak.  The sun shone bright and sky sprawled a clear blue.  The weather cooled en route to higher ground on course of the day. 

A crescent moon mirrored faint atop land and with it the distant grumble of beasts.  The hollow bay of wolves pursued shadows of evening.  From drab forest snuck the Gnadolinian upon a green meadow and followed to a thin patch of trees where he would search for a spot to rest in quiet.  At the base of a thriving danberry tree slept the ranger light, covered by his cloak in cold of night.

As morn crested east across glades swept the rover.  Through brush and over fertile grounds traveled eager to make the valley of the dwarf.  Up long, inclining earth, ensued Banion knowing the Valley of Handenmire was imminent.