Forging a King(Heros of Drean)cpts1-2

Forging A King
By J. James Brooks Jr.



Chapter 1
All into the Inn

The mist crept down from the hills like a hunting beast. Slow and deliberate in it’s chill. It clawed at the old man’s bones. How long had he waited thus? How many hills, over how many shires? So many and so alike, that he no longer kept their count. This time, he had found the right one. Of this, he was certain. Long he had walked the world to find him, and he was here. This he knew by the presence of the boy’s enemies. He could only hope that they did not know the boy’s exact identity. Only by accident, had he learned it. The boy’s own father had unwittingly revealed it to him.

Quin, not the fearsome of names, but it would be feared by too many before long. The boy would be both savior and destroyer, life and death in the same breath. The world would shudder under his feet. On buckled shoulders will he bare the deaths of thousands. Yet, he alone would cut the fabric of life for generations to come. It is truly said, that no great man can feed needs a new world, without first making a fire with the bones of the old one.

The minutes before dawn passed as if waited by the difficulty of what was to come with the rise of the sun. Much must be accomplished, in little time. None of it would be done without resistance. Finding the boy in this tiny village would be the least of the morning’s work. Convincing the boy to embark on this journey without revealing more than he needed to know, would prove tricky and time consuming. Time, the one thing he was rapidly running out of. Well, nothing to do about it now, for go he must, no matter how long it took to convince him to do so. Vaughlen’s ponderings were momentarily interrupted as lights blinked on below, and the smell of tea and cakes reached up to him from the vale. It would soon be time. He smiled.

People stirred now in the houses all around him, as Cauth watched the Singing Willow eagerly, for any sign of the wretched boy. He hoped it would not come before the sun thawed the limb where he sat, and freed his frozen claws. Else he would be forced to reveal himself in his true form, and risk alerting the boy too soon. He shifted his black wings, trying to remove the frost that had formed there. This was the last time, he told himself, that he would choose the form of a crow to spy on his master’s enemies. Next time, maybe a dog or a wolf, hell; even a cat. Something that had fur for warmth, and could move around without leaving the ground. In any case, there was no help for it. It was too risky to make the change now.

Dinner that evening was a droll affair for Quin. His father spoke less and less these days. When he did, it was only to shout orders at him or grumble under his breath about those fools on the village council. His younger half brother Nathan, nine only talked about the bugs and carcasses of the animals he found while playing at the brook that ran behind the Inn. Oh, and of course the small girls he had used them to scare. On the whole, neither were things of any interest to Quin. He longed for tales of other places, and wild adventure. Both were in short supply. This time of year, the shire saw few; if any travelers from further away than the outlaying farmsteads. So it was with sense of relief that he took the dirty crockery to the kitchen to wash. It signaled the near end to yet another day of routine, and a welcome return to the dreams of strange people and stranger lands.

Taking the stairs to the rooms where the guests and he and his brother slept, two at a time, a feeling of foreboding nailed his feet to the floor, upon reaching the landing. Every hair on the back of his neck felt as if it were going to yank itself free of his skin. A coppery taste filled his mouth and Quin realized he was biting the inside of his cheek. He swallowed hard against the sudden fear, and looked nervously around. After seeing nothing or none that threatened, he chided himself for being so jumpy, and headed to his room, sleep, and dreams.

Morning came to Quin Mahlandire like the thunder of some great storm. He bolted upright, instantly aware that all was not as it was when he had gone to sleep. Even his usual dreams had been different. In these, he was not simply an observer, as he had been so many times before.
He was in fact an active participant, and not playing the role he had always wished for himself. The role he did play disturbed him greatly. He could not begin to believe himself capable of such acts of cruelty and malice. Nor could he imagine anyone choosing to follow him after he had done such things. So, it was a troubled young man, that descended the stairs, to a breakfast that would turn to ash in his mouth and snakes in his guts.

As the sun finally began to skulk away behind the mountain ridges, long shadows of the greasy night began to slither toward the hulking form crouched among the pines on a small rise, over looking the King’s Wash River. Phaulthod’s bark-like skin twitched slightly, as the cool shadow touched one massive forearm.

The day had been much hotter than he would have liked of course, he supposed that it was a relatively mild being this far south. He still did not know why it was, that he decided to come here, or even how he knew where to come. He simply woke in the morning with the in ignorable knowledge that he must go to a place far to the south, over the King’s Blade Mountains. Once there, a boy who would be his master and his friend, would need his help and council. That was near a month past, and now he had finally come to the place that one journey would end, and one, that would see the end of his life would begin. Filled with anxiety and anticipation about what must be begun, Phaulthod waited for full dark. It was a sore point for him, and had added more than a week to his travel, but it was safest to travel only at night. Out of the Northlands, a Troll seen alone would be met with much hostility. He had of a few that had been imprisoned and even killed. He could not afford to take that chance. Still, he knew that he had arrived only just in time. He would leave for Haven Shire and the Singing Willow as soon as it was dark enough. Phaulthod still hadn’t figured out how he would get to the boy without getting into trouble first. Nor did he know how he could get the boy to accept his help, or even accept the fact that he needed it. He only knew that he must.

Such an undesirable thing he had made to do, leaving the northern pickets for the human infested Southland. Why had he been chosen to find this boy and escort him to the king, Tallen could not imagine. He was the youngest officer in the Elven armies. He had already commanded troops in battle against the Orcs. This should have been a tracker’s duty, not his. He was more needed on the battle lines of the Northwestern front. Well, all he could hope for now, was to make a quick end of this business and get back to the war, where he belonged. His father always asked such tasks of him. He claimed that Tallen would learn the tolerance of menial things that would make him a good king one day. Mostly, he believed it to be just another way his father used to protect him from the war. Tallen was thankful that it didn’t always work.

The wind found a gap in his forest cloak, causing him to pull it tighter about himself. This night was going to be a brisk one. He estimated that he would reach Haven Shire somewhere between nightfall and sunrise. Three days it had taken him to get here. If no more than a day was spent there, he could still be back home before the end of the week, and back to the war before the middle of the next. Maybe he wouldn’t miss anything, or maybe he would miss the end of the war. He was so frustrated, that he failed to notice the rabbit hole that threw him flat on his face in the muddy road.

The day grew fairly warm, as small children played up and the banks of the tiny stream. There was still no sign of the boy. Shewen was starting to think that he had chosen the wrong village. Of course, the boy may just be too old for play, or more likely, involved in his chores. Human young always had too many of them, and too little time for play. It was no wonder they grew up to be such stone faced adults. An hour passed, and he watched as young men and young women walked along the forest path and kissed. Ah love! The only thing Humans possessed that made them even the slightest bit interesting. All day Shewen watched and waited. Until suddenly, a boy appeared that just might fit the bill. Except that he was maybe six or seven years too young, He fit the description as well as any could. A relation maybe, a brother perhaps? The boy was approaching the pool where he lay hidden. He was holding one finger in his left hand. A cut, or a prick? The boy’s blood would tell Shewen who he was. And, if he knew the boy he sought, it would tell him that as well. The boy plunged his whole finger into the water. The rush of information caused the sprite to lose his wits momentarily. Then the boy was gone and his blood was well downstream. A perfect chance to take form had passed him by. Oh well, maybe it was better that he did not come out of the water looking like this particular human at any rate. He would have to wait for another human to bleed a drop of blood for him. Hopefully it would not come too late. He had to find this Quin before tomorrow’s end.

Bellthore Mahlandire sat wearily in his favorite chair, near to the fireplace at the back of the common room. In his left hand he held an old cob pipe, not yet lit. In his right, the letter he had received a month ago from Vaughlen Alkmier.

Dear Bellthore:

I am glad to have learned that your family is fairing well.
I must come and see you. Expect me in three weeks time.
Your Friend
Vaughlen

The old wizard had something up his sleeves, and the fact that he did not even hint at what it was, scared Bellthore as much as anything ever had. He had a family now, and did not want to be involved in any of the wizard’s foolishness.

Dawn was still more than an hour away. So, Bellthore decided to remain at the fire for a while longer. Maybe it would help him to clear his mind. The wizard was a week late, not unusual, and could arrive at any moment. He would have to be on his wits, if he was going to avoid being talked into some pointless trek with Vaughlen and whatever misfits he managed to drag out of the taverns along the way. Sound from upstairs drew Bellthore’s attention. He sat and listened for a few moments. The boy was dreaming again. What was it, a dozen or more, nights in a row now? This one sounded a little different though. Something had changed, and not for the better. Maybe he should wake Quin up? Just then, an old familiar rapping sounded at the Inn door, and Bellthore’s heart froze.

Truek Ahchmod sat unhappily in the circle of slowly dying scrub brush and listened to his perfectly round stomach rumble. He hated Southland food, and hadn’t been given the time to pack enough of his better Gnome fare. Here, the meat was always over seasoned, and cooked too long. Well, tonight he would hunt some rabbit, and maybe eat it right there on the spot. He was so hungry that he would have even eaten a dog, if thing didn’t eat him first. The human pets were usually very large, and used to guard their property.

About an hour later, as Truek was starting up out of his concealment, he caught a flash of movement on the hill across the river from where he was. He waited. There it was again. Then he saw what had made it. It couldn’t be, but it was. What in all the mud and muck was a Troll doing this far south? Could it be for the same reason he was so far west of his own homeland? A stupid human boy, “Go find `im!” the king had told him. “And `ens you find `im, make sure `at wer`ever `e goes, `e stays a liven! Fer ef`n `e d`na, yer na g`na!” Who was this Quin, that he should forfeit his own life if it saved the boy’s? It was a pointless dilemma. If he did not do as the king wished, he would not live long anyway.

Wiping the ale from his bushy gray beard, Gaulshome Stonefoot sat quietly at a small table, in the opposite corner of the common room from the front door of the Singing Willow. He had arrived there early that morning, before the boy was up and about. The boy had not seen him yet, and he planned to keep it that way. He had been instructed not to show himself in front of the Quin until the wizard arrived. He hoped that Vaughlen would be there soon. Gaulshome knew that the King of the Dwarves could not hide his presence for long, even in this tiny village. He was probably one of the few who truly understood the importance of this particular human boy. That was precisely why he had decided to turn the throne over to his cousin, temporarily, and come here himself. This was too important a business to entrust it to anyone who did not understand it.

The boy’s father was watching Gaulshome intently, as he tended the bar. He would probably become suspicious before another day passed, if he wasn’t already. That would be an awkward encounter, if the wizard was not there to help explain. Maybe it was best that he finish his ale and take his meal to his room. He would not be seen now, with the boy busy doing chores outside the inn. He took his last gulp, and did just that.

Vaughlen shifted restlessly on the old stump he had seated himself on hours earlier. The last hour before dawn, crawled by even more slowly than could be possible, but first light was almost at hand. Pulling out his pipe, and stuffing it with his favorite whisky cured leaf, he slowly pulled it to life. Watching as perfect smoke rings lifted into the cool morning air, and drifted down the hill toward Haven Shire. By the time he finished his smoke it would be time.

Vaughlen sat there, smoking and watching. That is when he saw it. The little black speck, in the almost leafless cottonwood tree, standing directly across from the Singing Willow. Reaching out with a minor spell, he used to identify the usage of magic at a distance; he found what he had suspected. Cauth, that lackey, how near sighted of the black wizard to send that fool to ferret out the boy. A crow where none should be this time of year! How idiotic! A buzzard would have been more befitting that living excrement. Well, if that were the only spy he sent, disposing of him would be a small matter.

Trying hard not to think too much about being covered in warm fur, Cauth almost did not notice that his toe was getting colder. Wait! His toe! Cocking his feathered head, he focused one beady black eye on his three-clawed left foot. Yes three claws not four. What in the goat’s testicles! His big toe was sticking out from a crow’s leg. Someone had spotted him, and that someone had the use of a searching spell of some sort. Orc’s luck! Well he was not going to move. If he did move, where would he move too? It was probably that blasted wizard Vaughlen. Figures he would be sticking his fat nose where it did not belong. Cauth would not let the wizard get the best him. He would show that old bag of bones a thing or three this time. With the sun’s first orange rays setting fire to the few clouds that hung over the Raven’s Hold Mountains to the south east, he would probably have his chance all too soon. He returned to his vigil. What glee he would derive from turning the whelp over to his master.

Three days of traveling through the Southland’s sparsely populated countryside, had left Breahl a little too bereft of sunlight for her liking. She was glad now to be above ground. Even if it meant she had to endure the filthy excuse for an Elf in the form of a crow, sitting on one of her beautiful branches. He was here to do the boy some sort of harm. Well, she would wait until he tried something, and that she would fix him good, unless he took another squat on that limb. Then, he would not get the chance to try anything. She would swat him like a fly. Breahl returned to her previous train of thought. How was she going to get to the boy before Vaughlen dragged him out of town? Unless someone touched this tree while she was in it, and no one had since she arrived late the previous evening, She could not take human form. That was as she deemed it, the only weakness Wood Nymphs possessed.

Dust rose in clouds like tiny explosions, under the ragged soles of Teal’s forest hunting boots. How many miles she had walked, was something she didn’t care to think about. It was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. Teal had realized days too late, that she had not prepared well enough for this journey before leaving her Elven palace home. When she told her father about her vision, she assumed he would send her instead of her older brother. After all, it was she that had been given the vision in the first place. The dust on her face turned to thin streaks of mud, as the pain in her feet caused tears to slide down her prominent cheeks. Grass stuck out of her long moon silver hair at odd angles, from when she had slept in an old haystack earlier that morning. She would probably be sleeping there still had the herder’s dogs not found her and nearly run her to death, before they felt satisfied and turned back for home. Teal had collapsed with exhaustion and slept fitfully for only a couple hours, before the voices of woodsmen aroused her and put her on the move once more.

Now, she was so worn out that she could take no more than a half dozen steps without stumbling. Her forest tunic was already torn by several falls, exposing her creamy white breasts. Their rose colored seemingly tangled in the loose strips of green-gray cloth. Maybe she would be lucky enough to find something to replace it. Perhaps on some abandoned wash line. Hopefully before she arrived in Haven Shire.

Phaulthod stood shouldering his traveling pack. Stretching, he realized that he must have been sitting in that same position for quite a while. Bending to pick up his enormous war ax, a musky scent filled his nostrils. He straightened instantly. He had smelled this odder before, but when and where? Then the movement came. Accustomed to working in the dark underground forges, he spotted the chalky, gray form of a gnome almost without effort. The small stocky creature was standing in a lump of brush on the other side of the river, and it was looking right at him. Of course, a Troll would not be hard to make out even in near pitch black, once he moved.

As the two stood staring at each other, something suddenly occurred to him. What in the five moons was a gnome doing this far west? Not normally known for their association with the other races, it would have taken something desperately important to drag one of them all the way to the King’s Wash River, and so close to a human village; even one as small as Haven Shire. The only reason Plaulthod could think of, was that the creature was there for the same reason that he was. Maybe he should go and introduce himself. He might actually coax a little information from the stubby thing, about why he was here. He hoped it would not run. He was not looking forward to a chase just then. But, chase and catch it he would, if need be. May-as-well bet it over with. Setting the ax in its straps on his back, he strolled down the hill. He headed straight for a point across the river from where the gnome stood wide-eyed and frozen in place.

As Truek watched, the bent to retrieve something from the ground. It looked to be some sort of unbelievably large ax. Oh no! What was it doing now? Of all the festering goat stench! It was lumbering right at him! Just for an instant, he considered making a run for it. Though, with the sense of smell trolls possessed, that would at best serve to prolong the encounter. And, may very well put the beast in not the best of moods when it caught up to him. So, though his legs twitched with the effort, Truek decided to stand his ground and hope for the best.

Good! The gnome was not running away. That would save a lot of time and trouble. The little things could be intolerably hard to run down, if they got into thick enough cover. Upon reaching the river, Phaulthod lifted both massive hands into the air in front of him. A widely known Troll gesture. One that ment no harm was to come to the other. On seeing this, the horror-stricken gnome seemed to sag at the knees. Without lowering his hands, Phaulthod called out.

“Well met. I am called Phaulthod. May I make crossing at this place and converse with you for a time?” Phaulthod’s gruff voice sounded ominously loud in the moonless landscape.

His gnome was a little rusty, but he thought that he had gotten his point across to the little fellow. The other seemed to be understanding him well.

Truek listened intently as the Troll began to speak. Blast it! The lumbering pile of muscles knew his language! Trolls were too smart for his liking. No chance of tricking this one. Well, there may be no need. Trolls would not give their name to those they intended harm, for fear that the Dark Lord would learn it and cause them evil.

“Da’ re`ver be shaller jus na`. Yer cens cruss wh`ers yer teks da’ lek’en, `urp `er dons f`er ner`n a’ m`el. N` ned ta’ be a’ t`elk`en if`fin ya’ gets yer w`ey n’ I gets me `on,” Truek stated nervously. He waited while his words were deciphered. He hoped that this Phaulthod would loose interest and move on.

“I am no simpleton gnome! I can guess well enough, where it is that you go! I too am traveling there this night. So here or there, we will have our conversation. We are both strangers to this land and its people. I would rather have it here, with only the trees to hear, and the river to speak of it. Do you not agree?” He hoped that this thin bit of reasoning would be enough to convince the little rat dropping.

“S`ew, a’ sp`ews ef`en yer a’ ce’men, `en yer ce`men.” Truek shrugged.

“Da’ tek`ens `el hevs ta’ be w`ells w`er wlek`en. I be s`ew er`rngre’ I cen na’ be slep`pen, en tu’ t`erd tu’ be a’ he’nten,” he finished pointedly.
Then Truek backed away from the banks of the river a few more steps. He wasn’t going to take any chances he didn’t have to.

Phaulthod waded slowly across the King’s Wash. The water would have waist high to an average man. It only barely topped his calves. Of course, he was taller than the most other Trolls. At almost forty hands high, he was the tallest in his village, maybe even the tallest in the whole kingdom. He was very proud of that. It meant that he had the best genes possible. That was the whole reason for Troll couplings. The wanted to give birth to children that were taller, stronger and smarter than the generation before them. On reaching the other bank, he stood for a moment looking down at the slightly trembling gnome. He could smell the other’s fear. It almost made him smile. Holding up one empty hand, Phaulthod gave his usual greeting.

“Well met. May I ask as to what you are to be called?” he asked, in his most friendly tone.

“I be Trew’ek `Elk’m`ed ‘ev da’ Mest`ed Pe`eks pe’`eple,” Truek introduced himself.

“Ya’ be met. Da’ we’ g`ew ‘er n`ew? M’end ya’ I`el n’ew be r`ewn’en ta’ ke’ `urp w`id yer l`eweng w`elk’en,” he warned.

“Well then, I suppose we should get started. I shall try to keep my strides a bit shorter, so as not to outdistance you.” Phaulthod gestured in curtsy.

The two turned and headed north up the river toward Haven Shire. They walked for long moments without speaking. Both, trying to choose their words carefully. Slowly, they began to ask each other the usual questions about home and family. Phaulthod doing most of the asking, and Truek doing most of the answering. It turned out that the gnome was quite talkative indeed. In less than an hour, Phaulthod had learned almost all about the Gnome King’s orders, and more about the way Truek felt about them. Still, there was something that the stinker was not telling him. He doubted that he would find out any more at this time, so he turned the conversation back to lighter fare. They were not making the best time, but they would not be late. Not even if he must carry the creature draped across his back.

Picking himself up out of the mud, Tallen cursed himself for not having seen the obstacle in front of him. Moving off the roadway, and into the nearby wood, in no more than a few minutes, he found a small stream. Washing the grime from his hands and face in its clear waters. He was glad to finally be free of the arid asslands of the north end of the broad Elk’s Run Plains. Water was much easier to find here.

Shewen waited patiently as the young girl picked the wild roses that grew near the pools edge. She would eventually prick a finger, and when she came to wash it in the stream he would have what he needed. He didn’t think that a male version of the girl would be completely unappealing. Though, maybe he would add a few years of age to the form. Perhaps even a beard and mustache would help the overall effect. He did not have to wait long. The girl had acquired a short scratch on the back of her right hand. The blood was sparse, but more than enough to suit the intended purpose. Shewen was glad that she did not spend an overdue amount of time tending the wound, but left quickly in the direction of the village.

As he stepped from the pool on somewhat wobbly legs, not yet accustomed to the motionless ground, he looked down to notice something his innate magic didn’t allow for. Fish spit and turtle shite! He could not go walking around in this condition. He would just have to swipe some clothes from somewhere near the stream, before he could go into the village proper.


Gaulshome sat at the edge of his bed smoking his deep-bowled ivory pipe. In two hundred and seventy years; and through many travels he hadn’t passed even one morning without it, and this morning was no exception. After slowly drawing out the last puff, and tapping the bowl against the heel of his boot, he rose and walked to the door of his small room. Just as he was about to reach for the handle, he heard a muffled cry from the room on the other side of the hall. The boy had finally awakened from the obviously bad dream he had been having all night. It might be a good idea to wait a few minutes, and let the boy go downstairs first, then he could follow.

Before he could turn back for his bed, the all-familiar sound of a thick wooden staff sounded on the door downstairs. Well the choice was made for him. He had to be in the common room, and he had to be there right now. He threw open the door, shot down what was left of the hall, and almost leapt completely down the stairs. Few times after, would see him move as fast as he did now.
Gaulshome rounded the short corner into the common room, just in time to see the boy’s father open the door to reveal the cloaked form of Vaughlen, waiting without. It was about blasted time! Boot-falls in the upstairs hallway drew his attention. Dawg shite and chicken squat, this was going to come crashing together all at once!

Phaulthod hoped that he would not develop a cramp taking such small steps. Though it would be a small price to pay, for keeping an eye on the miscreant. Another thought occurred to him just then.

“Truek! Are you at all versed in the human speech?” he inquired, looking down it the gnome.

“A’nl`es fer ‘ens da’ kin’s sez ta’ be’s!” Truek answered heatedly.
“Hav`ens ta’ n`ew tew mer’s syd’s er ew’ens. W`ets et mett`ers?” he grunted, his face a mix of curiosity and anoyance.

“Well, for obvious reasons,” Phaulthod stated belittlingly.

“The boy and his family are human. They live in a human village. The odds that they would understand either Troll or Gnome are slim. So, human would seem the correct choice for communicating with them,” he stated flatly.

“Shi`er yer be ry`et,” Truek admitted.

“I be n`ew d`ewlt eth`er. I be thenk`en ta’ et af’ewr. Ets wa’ tha’ hes ta’ d`ew w`et n`ew, id wh’a I be went`en ta’ e`er?” His tone was one of a man who had just been insulted.

“How often do you speak human?” Phaulthod inquired.

“Probably only when asked to. I propose that we speak it now, as we walk. So we do not sound like idiots when we arrive,” he suggested.

“Et ma’ be da f`ers th`en yer se`en sm`ert da’ h`ewl t`em!” Truek had spoken in human.

The gnome’s human was not great, and his accent was as thick Ogre spit, but Phaulthod could make it out well enough. They talked as they traveled. Keeping the conversation simple. The gnome did not have the largest human vocabulary, and would probably make a fool of him-self. Oh well, at least Phaulthod was getting some practice. He felt he would not embarrass his kin.

They stopped for a spell by a bend in the river, and filled their water skins. Truek was glad for the rest, and did not complain, about the amount of time it took Phaulthod to fill his much larger one. After taking a much-needed drink, and replacing the skins into their packs, they turned northest and continued on through the forest. Avoiding the open trail would save them from any unwanted attention.

Cauth was still fuming about his cold toe, when the cloaked form of Vaughlen came into view. Before he could think of a proper spell to use against the wizard, he was thrown unceremoniously to the frost-covered earth. As he attempted to right himself, a green bolt of magic fire struck him, turning him onto a small cloud of smoke and feathers. As the feathers settled to the ground, the cloud of smoke drifted off to the north against the wind. Vaughlen had not killed the wretch, but when Cauth arrived back at the Tower of bones, the Black Wizard would make him wish he had.

Vaughlen passed the old Cottonwood, and knew what lay within it. Well, that would be a matter soon resolved. He chuckled to himself. The wood nymph was not going to be getting a human form any time soon. Not at least until people started moving about on the village green. Even then, she could not just jump out of the tree in plain sight. Turning back to the matter at hand, he reached out with his walking staff and tapped moderately on the Singing Willow’s front door.

Stopping for a few moments, Tallen bent and scooped a handful of the stream’s cool water into his mouth. Silently, he cursed himself for taking a few hours to sleep. He had bedded down when his leg began to cramp up. He woke more than an hour after midnight. He suddenly became aware that he was being watched. He looked out into the surrounding wood and saw nothing. He felt no ill intent, but he decided to get going anyway. When he started out again, whomever or whatever it was did not follow. So, he let it be for the moment. He did not have the time to waste looking through the darkened woods, in search of what was probably just some sort of curious animal.

An hour or so later, Tallen stood for a moment at the edge of the village green, just inside a stand of fir trees. He wanted to kick himself with the leg that had cramped. Searching the signs on the buildings bordering the broad grassy area, He spotted the Singing Willow, and just caught a glimpse of the cloaked figure entering through the front door. As he was about to step out from amidst the trees, movement caught his attention from his left. Turning, he saw a naked form sprinting for the cover of some low bushes, and it appeared to be carrying a tunic and trousers, under one arm. As strange as he found it, the theft was none of his concern. On the other hand, the sooner he found out who was under that cloak, the better he would feel. With that last thought, he stepped from his concealment and strode briskly across the green toward the Singing Willow.

Shewen was aware that the young Elf had seen him swipe the clothing. It was a minor theft, and he did not think the Elf would want to take the time to report the matter. He looked as if he were in as much of a hurry as Shewen surely was. He wondered if the lad had observed the Troll and Gnome approaching the Inn from the opposite side of the small field. Oh well, the Elf would see them soon enough. They would reach the door before he did. Checking himself over, Shewen decided that the fit was not altogether wrong. It would have to do for now. Times to go see if the others would let him play in the game they seemed to be starting.

Phaulthod had learned nothing more of value as they reached Haven Shire. But, he would watch Truek Alchmod very closely in the days to come. As they moved onto the open grassy area, diagonally across from the village’s only inn, they saw the wiry figure of what could only be an Elf, entering the green from the opposite side. They both hesitated. Then, as one they rushed for the door hoping to make it before he could spot them. Without bothering to knock, they burst through the still closing door. Phaulthod slammed head his into the jamb in the process. Cursing, and rubbing his topknot from the pain, he stooped slightly. As he moved a bit further into the room, he came face to face with the largest human man he had ever seen. The fellow had to be pushing thirty hands tall, and nearly two thirds as wide. All that Phaulthod could do was stare blankly.

“Truek Alchmod!” Bellthore roared.

“Ya slimy string `a snake guts! What `n tha name `a goat dung are ya do`n here, stink`en up ma commen room?” he questioned harshly.

“An jus who is tha manner less uv `a bur humpen Troll vagabon, what fergets ta knock afore entren `n establishmen? Ya, I spect it frum, bu’ I th`ots Trool yung wuz reard better`n `at.” Bellthore was as angry as he could ever remember being.

All these strangers; no doubt called here by Vaughlen, just barging right on in to his inn, like they owned the place. Tallen stayed leaning against the open doorway for a long minute, before starting to speak.

“Inn Keeper!” he called.

“Do ye not suppose it may be the better, if we continued these exciting introductions out of the way of entry, and with it closed. I do not think that any would want the entirety of the village to hear what’s being discussed here,” Tallen soothed, as he stepped fully into the room.

Phaulthod stepped aside to let the elf to the front, grateful to have the innkeeper’s attention on anyone other than himself. He reached back to close the door, but it struck something soft, and he heard a muffled cry come from the other side. Opening it back up, he found a young slightly bearded fellow standing there with four fingers of his right hand stuck in his mouth, and a look of excruciating pain plastered all over his face.

“Ya `autta let `im in too, Phaulthod.” Bellthore shrugged.
“Don ya know, we be hav`en a blast`ud party!” he growled, in obvious disgust.

Vaughlen stepped forward, slamming the heavy end of his walking staff down hard against the oak flooring. This was getting out of control. If he didn’t do something to calm things down right now, the whole village would come running to see what all the commotion was about.

“Enough of this blather!” Vaughlen commanded.
“We are all, I assume, here for similar reasons. And, as seems to be the trend, more are sure to appear,” he reasoned.

“So, I suggest we save the chatter for at least a few moments. Let us seat ourselves, have some ale, and see who dons the stoop next.” With that, he took a mug, a pitcher of ale, and headed for a back table.

Chapter Two
Comings and goings

Ale dripped from care worn face, as Blain stared blankly across the bar. The ale on his face was not his. He’d had yet another of the now too frequent fights with Yeavonna, a local bar maid, who seemed to make it her purpose in life to save himself. This day was getting worse by the minute. After another couple more hours of drinking, and more than a few glasses of ale in his face, he was looking for anything to take his mind off his troubles.

The trouble was there had been no work for a hired soldier in near on two weeks. He had asked at the armory and most of the local inns, as he had done every morning, and found no change. The only reason he had not left this town for another was that this was the only place that he could still run a tab in. That thought distressed him greatly.

Just when he was about to leave for his room to spend the third night in a row alone, two cloaked forms seated themselves on either side of him. He knew they wanted something, but for long moments neither of the two spoke.

“We have inquired about the town, and have found that you are seeking employment for you and your sword. Is this true?” The one on his left finally spoke. His words were less than a whisper.

“That, my friend, would certainly depend upon what type of work it is exactly, that you are offering,” Blain soothed coyly.

“There has been an unauthorized removal of a valuable item of ours. We wish to hire you to re-obtain this item from the place where the thief has hidden it.” This came from the woman, as it seemed, on his right.

She sounded to Blain to be a little spidery. Her voice was beautiful, but at the same time, there was something very sharp-edged about it. Well he did need the money, though he was too drunken to ask how much they would pay, or think more on the strange woman.

“I am not usually the thieving sort,” Blain advised.
“But as you say, the item was actually yours in the first place. You have my sword, such as it is, so long as the money spends. When do we leave?” he asked solemnly. All he needed was a night’s rest, and he would be ready to go.

“We must leave at once!” the woman announced.

“We believe that the thief will be returning tomorrow night with a collector, to buy the object in question.” It was unclear who actually started or finished that last statement.

“We have at least the better part of a day’s journey ahead of us. It has taken us far too long to find someone who met our requirements. Besides, we would not want the thief to catch you stealing what he had stolen from us, would we?” the man reasoned.

Something about that last statement did not sound quite right to Blain, but he supposed he would let it be, for now. In his present state of mind, all he could think about was the fact that this job would get him out of town for a day or two, and away from the barmaid’s wrath.

“Meet me here again at one hour past the mid of night, and we shall depart then.” With that, he arose and went upstairs to his room.

He had given himself three hours. That would be enough to allow him to sober up so that he could ride.

Blain had been in a most foul mood for several days now, and this night was particularly bad. Yeavonna watched with mild interest as the two strangers sat down next to her lover. Maybe they would offer him a job. That might improve his mood. He was always a bit testy when she spoke of settling down together to rise a family. Though she still did not understand why, and he would never explain why he was against the idea. He loved her, she knew without question. So why shouldn’t she ask for marriage. She wasn’t asking him to be some sort of storekeeper, just to give her children and be there for them and her. If he chose to remain a mercenary, she would not interfere. Well, not much anyway. Hopefully she could talk to him again when he returned from whatever it seemed he was about to leave to do. Work, she supposed.

Blain Althieam knew his new employers were already in the common room, even before he had finished descending the stair. Even in his still slightly inebriated state, it only took him and instant longer than usual to notice the four extra cloaked forms seated next to the door. When he questioned the first two about this, they explained that they would be traveling the mountain road, and would need the added security that a larger party would offer. Well, it was not that unreasonable. The mountain road was filled with thieves and bandits. More than once they had attempted to rod him.

“Well then, let’s get on with it. I have accounts to settle and ale to drink. Where are your horses?” he inquired, as he started for the door.

“We do not ride them. Our beliefs do not permit it.” It was the woman who spoke.

“Walking it is then,” Blain conceded.
“Mores the need be on our way. As you say, there is almost a day’s journey ahead of us.” The last part of that saw him passing out into the town circle.