Hello friends,

Like the incomparable Drew_Linky, I too like to write stories. Unfortunately, writing for me is a labouriously slow process as I really only get to do it during slow patches at work. I'm currently about three chapters into this particular story, with much more planned already. I'm looking for some general feedback, constructive criticism, and maybe answers to some specific questions.

1. Is there anything that doesn't make sense? (I have a habit of forgetting that other people don't have access to my imagination, so I sometimes leave out important details).

2. Is there anything you feel needs to be described in greater detail or expanded upon?

I'm only going to post one chapter at a time, and with some time in between so as not to overwhelm anyone who might want to read it. As always, taking the time to read and reply is greatly appreciated.

[SPOILER:0d1909156c]Varen struggled to lift himself off of the floor. Even if his hands weren't tied behind his back with vines, he still might not have been able to use them. After all he had been put through, he didn't know if his arms could support his weight. He pulled each knee up to his chest and slowly, painfully, dragged his face across the blood-slick floor to raise himself to a kneeling position. Flakes of his own charred skin clung to the gore that smeared Varen's face. There was no way to tell how long he had been tortured. No sun rose and set, no season passed from one into another. This was a dungeon outside the flow of time, a courtroom separate from the world which Varen called home.

“Who are you, mortal, that you should murder the Guardian of Beasts!?”

Varen recognized the voice, and tried to brace himself for what he knew was coming. A wave of water rose up from the floor and surged toward him, engulfing his body. Despite possessing what he felt was an excellent lung capacity, it was not long before his lungs were screaming for oxygen. He tried to resist, but his body's survival instincts took hold regardless, causing him to kick frantically, trying to find a water surface that did not exist. His lungs burned as the water filled them, burned with every inhalation his body tried to make. There was no sense of relief when his consciousness finally grew heavy, his eyes closed, and he died.

Varen knew his life would be restored, just as it had every other time, with each previous torture. Whether they left him dead for seconds or centuries, he did not know. He only knew that each time his eyes opened, he would still be lying on the judgment floor, hands bound, surrounded only by the voices of the strange entities that had brought him here. Summoning his strength, he once more lifted himself up to resolutely face his repeated executions.

“Enough.” This was a new voice, one that had not yet spoken. It was strong and echoed in Varen's ears. “We could kill this vile creature over and again for eternity for his crime, but I grow tired of resuscitating it. Stand, mortal, if you can.”

Varen summoned all the will he had left to keep his legs steady. He rose to his feet, determined not to show any sign of weakness, any sign of physical or mental fragility that threatened to burst forth. He would not be reduced to the inferior creature these beings saw him as.

The voice that had brought him back to life spoke again. “How did you kill the Guardian of Beasts?”

Varen looked in the general direction of where the voice seemed to be coming from. He could not see who or what had spoken. He could hardly see the stone slabs beneath his feet, so thick was the fog that surrounded him.

“With an arrow,” Varen replied with just a hint of sardonic flavoring.

“Insolent dog!”

Varen felt his muscles tense. That voice always preceded scorching fire that would burn his flesh to ash, only to have it mended once more. This time however, no flames arose to consume him, only a muttered grumbling.

“We are aware of the method, human.” Another new voice. The very sound of it made Varen's skin crawl. “We seek to know how you were able to assassinate. Mortal weapons do not affect us.”

Varen shrugged, both because he did not know the answer to the question, and also to conceal the cold shiver that the latest voice had induced in his body.

“I never was very good at following the rules.”

This second verbal barb brought on an even stronger wave of aggravated murmurs.

“Why then? Why would you kill?”

Varen was relieved that the torture had apparently finished. That particular shrill, shrieking voice was followed by savage winds that flayed the skin from his body.

“I wanted his power.”

A silence fell over the chamber as heavy as the stones that crushed Varen's bones during another of his torments. He thought he may have said too much with that last statement, even though it was the truth. He didn't know how well he would be able to lie to these beings and didn't yet feel the need to try. The silence quickly became uncomfortable, so he continued.

“I was hunting a small herd of cloven-hooves. When they stopped to drink from a rock spring, I watched as one of them changed from an animal into a man. I wanted . . . I needed to possess that ability as my own.”

Varen waited. Still his accusers did not address him. The slightest hum of whispers drifted past his ears, though try as he might, he could not distinguish any words. He bore the impression that his fate was being deliberated. This was not a conversation to be left out of.

“Make me the Guardian of Beasts!”

Varen spoke with all the confidence he had. He would not let any amount of uncertainty creep into his words, would not let them waver in the least. The fire voice was the first to reply.

“You dare to command us?”

“Not a command. . . , a suggestion.”

Varen's mind was beginning to recover from the stress of torture. The gravity of the deadly game he was playing started sinking in. He needed to maintain his complete self-confidence, without pushing into the realm of arrogance. He needed these entities to believe that he saw himself as almost their equal.

“Think of it as a request, if you like.”

“Do you really believe you have any more right to make requests than you do commands?”

“Well, if this is to be my last request, can I at least know the names of you who judge me?”

A moment of quiet passed. The atmosphere seemed decidedly less hostile after adopting a more humble demeanor.

“Very well, human. I am the Lifegiver.” The strong, echoing voice was quickly followed by its peers.

“I am the Sea Sentinel.”

“Defender of Stone.”

“Curator of the Fields.”

“They call me the Wind Warden.”

A bloated pause preceded the next introduction. The speaker did nothing to hide its disdain.

“Keeper of the Flame.”

“Deathbringer.”

Varen now understood the chill that flowed through his body when the last voice spoke. He began to wonder if these beings merely controlled their namesake elements, or if they were somehow the embodiment of them.

“Now then, give us your name,” the Lifegiver commanded.

“They call me Varen.”

“Hmmm, I know this one,” the Curator's melodic voice chimed. “He sleeps many nights beneath my boughs; crafts bows and arrows from my branches.”

“And spends several nights in caves as well,” the Defender of Stone added.

“He is quite the hunter, as he says. Many an animal has fallen to his arrows.” Varen was relieved to find that the crawling-skin sensation of the Deathbringer's voice was not nearly so prominent when not being spoken to directly.

Again the Lifegiver inquired, “Who are your mother and father?”

“I do not know my parents. They say I was raised by wild animals. So my parents are probably dead. And if they aren't, then they deserve to be for leaving me in the wilderness to die.”

“Who is this 'they' that tell you who are?”

Varen felt his blood rise up through his neck and into his face. Nobody told him who he was. He defined himself, sustained himself, and lived by his own laws, those of survival. Whether or not the question was meant as an insult, Varen knew he had to swallow his indignation.

“Things that happened in my youth, when I was too young to remember, have been told to me by a man named Scrain. He said he found me alone wandering in the forest, feeding myself with berries and wild fruit; took me back to the city to try and take care of me.”

“A city dweller,” the Sea Sentinel scoffed. “Not a sailor or fisherman.”

“No, he was a tutor; tried to teach me along with the other children. I left as soon as I was able.”

“I believe we have heard all that we need to know.” There was a finality to the Lifegiver's voice that made Varen uneasy. “Please Varen, rest while we deliberate your fate.”

To his astonishment, the stone floor beneath Varen's feet began to sprout moss, and flourished until there was enough for him to lay down on. He felt the urge to decline the offer, but thought better of it. They had kept him alive to this point, best not to try their patience now. He lay down as best he could with his hands entwined behind his back, and as he did, the vines encircling his wrists loosened themselves and disappeared into the moss. The freedom was short lived however. New vines rose from the ground and bound each ankle to the floor, albeit much looser than his wrists had been. He stretched his arms across his chest and rolled his wrists to work the blood back into his hands. Then, laying back on the soft bedding, he drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

*** *** ***

“Rise, mortal.”

Though he did not know how long he had been asleep, Varen felt well rested when the voice of the Sea Sentinel roused him from his repose. The other voices remained silent.

“So you wish to become the Guardian of Beasts, do you?”

“I do.”

“Very well then. To see if you are worthy, we propose a challenge.”

“I accept.” Varen felt his confidence renewed after his rest.

The Sentinel laughed derisively. “Your eagerness betrays your simple-mindedness, human. What we have devised is no mere test of strength or courage, and lucky for you, neither is it a test of the mind or riddle.”

Varen felt his anger welling up inside, but was determined to keep it in check. “What would you have me do then?”

“There is a revolution brewing in the lands that you call home. A group of people who feel oppressed seek to unseat those they view as their oppressors. Your task is to ensure that they succeed.”

“That's it?”

“That is all, mortal.”

“Fine. Consider it done.”

And with those words, Varen's consciousness faded once more.[/SPOILER:0d1909156c]

Chapter 2. Comments welcome.

[SPOILER:97fa26746c]Politics.

Varen could think of nothing he despised more than politics: The petty power struggles of people trying to control others. Scrain had tried at length to teach Varen about the workings of the “civilized” society, but the more he learned, the more resolved he became to remove himself from it. Living out his life in the wilderness that birthed him seemed a much more noble prospect.

But now he was being forced to play in their games. It had been several years since he left the city behind, so there was a good chance that things had changed. Varen's life was staked on a game in which the players and pieces were completely unknown to him. For all he knew, the rules of the game might be different as well. Though from what Scrain had taught him about revolutions, they were essentially wars fought to overthrow the rulers and lawmakers, so rules did not always apply. A war between nations trying to capture or keep lands or resources or treasures was something Varen could understand. A war over intangible constructs of the human mind was not.

Regardless of his personal opinions, Varen had an objective. In order to achieve his objective, the most important thing he needed was information.

Looking around, Varen found that he had been deposited in the same place he had been standing when the elemental beings had transported him to their realm. He could still easily see the marks in the ground where the terrified cloven-hooves had fled. His bow and quiver were lying just a short distance away where he had dropped them. Blood still stained the ground where the Guardian of Beasts had died. The body however, was gone.

Varen glanced up at the sky. The afternoon sun still hung where it had been before. Were it not for the missing body, and the terrible memories of his torture, it would almost seem as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He examined the area around the blood soaked ground. There were no marks indicating that some predator had dragged the body away. Even without marks, Varen knew the Guardian could not have walked away of its own accord. Both the leg wound and subsequent loss of blood would have seen to that.

Varen began questioning his own sanity. Could he have imagined the whole ordeal? The shape-shifting man, the trial by torture in an unfamiliar realm, the revolutionary ordination? He needed information, yes. First and foremost, he needed to know if there was indeed a revolt brewing.

Gathering up his bow and arrows, Varen decided to look for the arrow that had undone the Guardian of Beasts. Finding it would at least add some credibility to the story his memory was trying to tell his mind. It wasn't in the quiver with the stone-tipped arrows, so he must have fired it; presuming he had actually crafted it as he remembered. This internal debate was starting to hurt his head, so he decided to just go searching.

The arrow wasn't difficult to find; only a few dozen paces from where he had been standing. The underbrush was scant in this part of the forest, and the black fletching on its tail made the arrow stand out against the brown and green of the forest floor. The wooden tip was only slightly dulled from the rending of flesh and impact with the ground. A thin line of blood was visible, running down the length of the shaft and spotting one of the feathers.

Had he not found the arrow, Varen might have been able to convince himself that it had all been a dream. He might have allowed himself to continue his peaceful life of solitude. Now there was no denying the unavoidable; he would have to return to the city.

Varen left the bloody scene and traveled back to his cache to retrieve his few possessions for the journey. A small outcropping of rock, located beside a natural spring, provided shelter from the rain for himself and his belongings. On particularly bad nights, there was no shortage of caves to bunker down in to weather the storms. He picked up a small satchel that he used for carrying berries and edible nuts and tied it around his waist along with his waterskin. Two animal pelts were also retrieved. The larger of the two served as both a blanket and a cape, sitting wide across his shoulders and just brushing the ground when he walked. The second was much smaller and used primarily as a headrest and to keep the sun off his head and neck. This he let hang across his chest, coming down just to his waist.

The only other item he would take aside from his bow and arrows was his knife. It had been a gift from from Kirt the blacksmith when Varen had still lived in the city. On the days when Varen was disinterested in his studies, he would often visit Kirt at his smithy. The blacksmith was a poor conversationalist, but he was more than happy to let Varen spend the occasional afternoon sharpening blades either at the grindstone or by hand. Truth be told, Varen enjoyed the labor. It offered him solitude and kept him occupied, and the skill he developed proved very useful for his life in the forest. He would also take the opportunity to watch Kirt at work from time to time. These were the only times that the blacksmith spoke with passion and ardor; describing the forging process, the feel of the hammer striking metal, the ringing of the steel and anvil. When Varen told the blacksmith about his plans to leave the city, Kirt had insisted he take a knife with him. No amount of protest would have changed his mind.

As always, picking up the knife brought about mixed feelings. It was a valuable tool for crafting bows and arrows, and useful for cleaning animals to cook. Varen couldn't help feeling that it somehow represented the city though, as if it was a chain that still connected him to the life he had made the decision to leave behind. Perhaps the knife was the reason this ill fate had befallen him. Varen felt the sudden urge to fling the knife away from him, but dismissed it immediately. He was not superstitious.

Securing his belongings, Varen turned away from the clear waters of the spring, and began to retrace the steps he had thought were made with finality so many years ago.

The next four days were spent journeying to the edge of the forest. Varen kept a steady march, stopping only to sleep, eat, hunt, gather and relieve himself. From there, another day and a half of travel across the flat plains would lead to the small farming community of Buntz. After that, only two more days of walking would separate him from the city. He paused briefly at the border between the woods and plains. A mild breeze swept across the shin-high grasses, causing the whole of the vast yellow-green expanse to undulate like some immense body of water. Placing his hand on the trunk of one of the outermost trees, he closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrant scent of the forest one last time. He then draped his pelt over his head, took a long pull from his water, and set out onto the open plains.

*** *** ***

That night, Varen dreamed.

In his mind he was once again kneeling over the Guardian of Beasts as blood surged forth from the sundered thigh. The man's hands were pressed against his wound, futilely trying to staunch the flow of life from his body. Arms and legs trembled, shivering with the onset of internal cold. Lungs drew in shallow, ragged breaths through a mouth that could not form words for the panicked gasping.

The eyes were different. Instead of being wide and full of fear, they now glared at Varen, boring into him with an absolute hatred. The palpable force of loathing caused him to fall backwards in retreat and when his hands struck the ground, water splashed up his arms. Looking around him, he realized that it was not water he had fallen into, but blood. The blood of the Guardian continued to pour out, covering the forest floor in a sea of red. Grasses, rocks, the entire world was bathed in blood. The trees absorbed it through their roots so that it seeped from their trunks like sap and dripped like rainwater from their leaves.

Varen looked back at the Guardian of Beasts. Those angry, accusatory eyes still burned at him, and the chest still heaved irregularly with each labored breath. The panting gasps were gone however. Now a low growl issued forth from the man-beast's throat, deep and menacing. A hot, wet wind blew in spurts across his face.

Varen snapped back to consciousness in an instant, rolling to the side just before the canine jaw closed around his neck. Before the animal had a chance to attack again, he was on his feet with his knife drawn. He swung the blade through the air, trying to ward off the assailant while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A bark and growl from behind, followed by the quick padding of paws on the ground caused him to whirl around and set the knife in front of himself. He did not see, but rather heard the beast leap and leaned back to protect his face. The blacksmith's knife struck home, sinking deep into the heart of the animal. Its momentum carried the carcass fully into Varen's chest, knocking him over and pinning him to the ground. Blood spilled out over his hands, its scent filling the air.

Wild dogs were notorious cowards. Opportunistic predators, they would retreat if their prey decided to put up a fight, especially if said prey managed to kill one of the pack. This fact did not bring Varen any consolation when the teeth sank into his calf.

Bellowing in pain, he shoved the dead animal from off his chest and removed his knife as smoothly as possible. He dared not move his leg, knowing that this would only cause the wild dog to bite deeper and harder, or worse, start thrashing its head back and forth. Tensing his arm back over his shoulder, he drove the blade into the back of the wild dog's neck, severing its spine from the base of its skull.

By this time Varen's eyes had adjusted to the dim light. The pressure on his leg had slacked, but the dead dog's teeth held fast in his flesh. He could not afford the time to free himself from its grip. Thankfully his bow and quiver were within reach. Varen quickly nocked an arrow and scanned his surroundings with eyes and ears. It was not difficult to spot the third wild dog, sprinting toward him from his left. Varen took aim and let fly. His stone-tipped arrow whistled through the air, burying itself neatly between the eyes of the oncoming beast.

Before the third carcass had skidded to a stop on the ground, Varen had another arrow ready to fire. Searching around once more, he found himself finally alone on the open plains. Setting down his weapon, he grit his teeth and set about the task of prying open the jaw still clamped around his leg. Slowly, painfully the fangs came out and away from the flesh with a sickening sound of tearing skin and of sucking saliva and blood. In the pale purple light of the moons, the liquid bubbled up black from the wounds and flowed freely onto the ground. Varen rolled up his smaller pelt and tied it tightly around his leg, just below the knee. Pouring some water from his supply, he tried to clean the wound as best he could, hoping the exiting blood would remove any diseases the dog might have been infected with.

Once he had treated the wound as best he could, Varen gathered up his belongings to resume his trek. Despite only having a few hours of sleep, he wanted to cover as much ground as possible before his leg went numb from the decreased circulation. He took a few cautious steps and found that it did not hurt terribly to put weight on his injured leg. With any luck, this would still be the case when his body calmed down after the fight. Looking up at the stars above, Varen found his bearings and set out toward the farming community. Glancing back, he could see that a trail of blood followed him along the plains, his own mixed with that of the animals, from the point of death. Varen looked up at the spotted sky again and hoped against hope that he would make it to Buntz before anything else happened.

*** *** ***

The sun was well past its zenith when Varen drank the last drop of liquid from his waterskin. It had been very hot and cloudless that day, further impeding his walking. He had stopped several times to remove the pelt from his leg in order to let some feeling return. Each time however, he had to replace it as his wounds began to bleed again. His leg had also cramped badly in the late morning, though it had passed and no ill effects seemed to linger. Despite the dull, continuous pain that gnawed at him like a wild dog on a bone, he had had plenty of time to think. Why had the dogs attacked him? More bizarre still, why had they continued their assault even after one had been killed? Search as he might, he could find no answer besides one, and it was not one that he wanted to accept. The only thing that made any sense was that the strange behavior was fueled by revenge for killing their Guardian. It would make his mission all the more difficult if he had to spend every moment in fear of reprisal from any and every creature that roamed the world.

In the distance, Varen spotted the roof of one of the barns that populated Buntz and his spirits were lifted. He was thankful for this boost, as there were many things weighing him down. The afternoon heat still lingered in the air, drying his mouth as if it were a shirt lying on a dark rock in the sun. He was exhausted from having his sleep interrupted and from walking all day. Cramping and numbness both were returning to his leg and his wounds had begun to ooze. On top of everything there was the jarring impact when his strength finally failed him, sending his body painfully to the ground.[/SPOILER:97fa26746c]

I knew that was going to be an issue giving only one chapter at a time. Not every chapter will have an attention grabbing first paragraph. Fortunately with a completed book, you only need to grab the reader's attention once.

It doesn't take place on Earth, just an Earth-like place. You'll just have to keep reading to see if it will be fiction or fantasy.

I had a busy week last week, and chapter five is becoming longer than I thought it would, but I want to give you something new to read. If it helps, reread the last bit of chapter for a memory refresh.

[SPOILER:cb3c4912f6] Nausea hit Varen like a fist in the stomach, sending him bolt upright. He tried to take inventory of his surroundings but his eyes still swam with remnant visions of his fevered dreaming. Flaming strands of ivy crept along the walls and ceiling, dripping molten globs that seared his flesh but caused no pain. He leaned over and wretched, but nothing came forth from a raw throat that now decided to make its burning agony known.

He searched around for his waterskin without success, but to his confusion discovered that he was sitting on a straw mattress. Stranger still, now that his eyes had cleared, he could see that he was in a small rectangular room built of wood. As he was trying to remember what had happened previously that he might end up in a place like this, a door at the opposite side of the room began to creak open.

Instinctively Varen reached for his knife, but it was not in its usual place. Nor was his bow anywhere to be found. With no other options apparent to his fever-addled mind, he quickly lay back down and tried to look as if he were still asleep.

As the door swung inward, it brought with it a heavy earthen scent; the smell of freshly turned soil. The floorboards creaked as two pairs of feet entered the room.

“See? He's still asleep.” The first voice was female, light, gentle.

“I still don't feel safe, you being in here alone.” Another female, older.

“Poppa won't be back for hours, and his dressing needs to be changed.”

The older woman grunted disapprovingly. “Okay, okay. But I'm not going far, so if you get in trouble, you better holler.”

The door to the room closed quietly and Varen listened as the younger feet lightly crossed the room to where he lay. It was some time before he heard the elder woman's footsteps receding from the the room's entrance. As she knelt beside him and began removing cloth bandages from his leg, Varen ventured to open one eye ever so slightly so as to see who was tending to his wounds. The fact that he hadn't noticed the presence of the bandages on his leg seemed inconsequential. He did not feel any residual pain from the dog bite but could still feel her hands working and that was more relief than anything; At least he knew his leg was still functioning.

It was difficult to distinguish any of his nurse’s features through the blur of his eyelashes, so when she turned her head away from Varen's face, he ventured to open his eyes a little wider. Even in profile, he recognized her immediately.

After he left the city those many years prior, he had spent four months living in Buntz before continuing on to the forest. He had not meant to, and did not truly even want to, but a family spotted him passing through and insisted he join them for dinner. It would have been unmannerly to refuse. Over the meal, the mother had asked where he was heading and he responded, regrettably in retrospect, that he had no true destination; that he was just leaving the city. For once they had his belly full, they plied him with the knowledge that their son was still too young to help out around the farm, and that the father suffered from a temperamental left knee that was acting up that year, and with sowing season just a short time away, it would be ever so helpful to have a strong, strapping young man around to help with the tilling. The forest had yet to work the courtesies of the city out of him, so he agreed to stay and help, accepting nothing more than food and board.

It had been hot that year, and his skin had been red and peeling when he finished his week of guiding the plough as the oxen dragged it through the soil. Before he could scarce wash the upturned dust from his face, another family informed him that it just wouldn’t do for a such a nice young man to wander off into the wilderness. He positively had to stay and try Ms. Maddie’s sweetberry pie once the crop had been harvested. And in the meantime he could help plant that very crop that he was sure to fall in love with once it was baked and served him.

So the months went in Buntz, with Varen passing from one family to the next, lending his strength where it was needed. He never felt like some communal commodity, he never even felt as if he were being taken advantage of. The small community treated him well enough; better than well actually. From the minute he first sat down to eat, everyone treated him like their own kin. By the end of his time there he knew everyone by name. He was a son to all the adults and a big brother to all the children.

Once the harvest was finished, he let his surrogate family know that the time had come for him to move on. He held firm to his decision despite unanimous protestations and pleas for him to stay and help during the repair season. Everyone saw him off on the morning that he departed, smiling, hugging and waving. Only one girl refused to bid him farewell, preferring to fold her arms across her chest with her bottom lip turned down in an sour pout. Tesra was a ruddy tomboy of a girl, with messy, dirt-brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was always trying to play-fight with Varen, jumping on his back, kicking at his shins, and using her distinct height disadvantage to punch him squarely between the legs when he least expected it.

It was Tesra who now tended to his injured leg. In the time that he had been gone, the little weed of a girl had blossomed into a very comely flower. Her hair was a deep chestnut color now, and much longer, tied back in a braid that fell to her shoulder blades. Her face was no longer coated in the layer of dust that she had rarely been seen without. She wore a simple grey, sleeveless cotton dress, cut low in the neck so that it exposed her collarbone. The material hugged the curves of her breasts and hips, loosening at the legs and falling to her knees. Her calves looked lithe and strong. Her feet were bare. That much, at least, had not changed. Varen couldn’t ever remember seeing the girl with shoes on.

She hummed to herself as she went about removing the soiled wrappings from his leg. Even that was a stark contrast to the way he remembered her. She had never seemed particularly inclined to music, and had a grating, imperious voice that as often as not made him want to gag her with a ball of rags. The sounds emanating from her now did not bring on such reactive thoughts. The sound was melodious and soothing.

The gentleness with which her hands removed the dressing was almost mesmerizing. When she dipped some cloth in a bowl of water and wrung it out, even the splashes sounded soft and relaxing. As she washed down his injured leg, an errant corner of the cloth found its way into one of the bite wounds, striking a nerve. Varen inhaled sharply at the sudden pain and swatted at the cloth to remove the painful stimulus.

He had forgotten he was pretending to be asleep.


*** *** ***


It is one thing to be savaged by wild canines. It is quite another to be assaulted by an overweight, middle-aged woman wielding an iron skillet, with no discernible means of defending oneself. There was some minor consolation to be had from the fact that the ringing in his head took some of Varen’s focus away from his torn leg. He found no joy, however, at Tesra’s spirited recounting of the event for her father as the four of them sat around the dinner table.

“I yelped because he startled me. I wasn’t expected a near-dead man to grab my wrist like that. No sooner had the cry escaped my lips when Momma burst in, two hands holding onto the pan over her head.”

Peggy, Tesra’s mother, had been unapologetic about the whole ordeal, but as her daughter spoke, a flush crept into her cheeks. Whether it was embarrassment, pride, or a mixture of the two, was unknown.

“So as she comes in for the strike, he sits up quick as can be, raises his hands and catches her by the wrists. The pan comes loose and Momma drops it, right onto his head.”

Between the pain he was in, Tesra’s animated retelling, her mother’s flustered expression, and her father’s widening grin, Varen had lost his appetite completely.

“Well, his hands went to his head, and that pulled Momma off balance and right down on top of him. I’m trying to get her back to her feet and explain that I wasn’t being attacked. He’s curled up on the floor holding his head and trying to get the wind back into his body.”

By this point, Tesra’s father was laughing so hard that bits and pieces of bread were flying forth from his mouth as he too tried to catch his breath. The ruckus laughter provided a break in the conversation and Varen seized the opportunity to excuse himself for the night. Truth be told, he had no desire to stay, but even if he were completely healthy he knew from his time here that he would have more luck outrunning a wild dog than he would trying to convince his hosts to let him leave after dark.

The room he had awoken in was the sitting room of the modest farm home. It took up one corner of the house, with the kitchen, master bedroom, and children’s bedroom comprising the other three. He had been offered the room to sleep in, but had requested he be allowed to sleep in the barn loft, feigning some trepidation about sleeping in such a small space after so many years in the forest. Given that boisterous dinner conversation seemed likely to continue for some time, he was thankful for his clairvoyant request.

The barn was located just a short distance away. The shadow of the house stretched across the entire span in the setting sun, while the face of the building reflected the bright evening light. All around, the grasses swayed back and forth like some lethargic fire, painted in red and orange as they were. Inside the barn, one of the family horses whickered at the stranger’s intrusion.

Varen walked by the stabled beasts with extra caution. Thankfully they didn’t inflict any further grief upon him aside from loud snort. He climbed the ladder to the loft, gingerly testing his weight on his injured leg at each rung. Both legs ached abominably, but neither turned against him in weakness. At the end of his climb, he found something both familiar and yet forgotten about his time here: the rope swing. A long, thick length of rope was tied to one of the trusses in the ceiling above the barn door. The bottom of the rope was tied in a large knot, and tied to that knot was a longer, thinner length of string. The string was fed through a wooden eye near the edge of the loft so that the swing could be retrieved without having to climb down to get it, or carry the end up the ladder. The far end of the string held a small piece of wood that prevented it from sliding out of the eye.

Only one other barn in Buntz had a similar swing installed, so the two spots were quite popular amongst the children too young to work, and the older children as well when their chores were done for the day. One day, Varen had been goaded into using the swing by several children. He had set one foot on the knot and launched of the platform with the other. The initial descent was quite exhilarating. However, when the middle of the rope hit the top of the open barn doors, the sudden change in trajectory caught him off-guard. He lost his grip on the rope, was thrown into the air, and landed flat on his back, driving the wind from his body. That seemed to be a recurring theme here.

Notwithstanding the ringing is his head and the soreness in his ribs, he could hardly fault his hosts for their hospitality. They had taken care of his belongings, cleaned his hides, and given him a pair of breeches and a tunic to wear. They were a little loose, and patched in places, but still served their purpose. When he had first settled in the forest, he had discarded his clothing, opting instead to live naturally. It had only taken one incident, chasing a wounded prey through some whipping underbrush to convince him that it would be in his best interest to wear a loincloth at the very least. His hosts had insisted that if he was going into the city, he would need to wear more than that, and though he had his reservations, he was inclined to agree. He wanted information, not to draw undue attention to himself.

He must have drifted off, because he did not notice Tesra’s presence until she flopped down beside him. As startled as he was by her sudden appearance, she seemed equally surprised by the quickness with which he had his knife out and pointed at her. The light from her lantern glinted off the weapon and danced along the walls and ceiling of the barn. Her eyes widened and her muscles tensed momentarily, but that was the extent of her reaction.

“It’s just me, Varen. I’m not going to chew your leg off.”

He sheathed his knife. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“With all the noise you were making, it would have been impossible not to.”

“Do your parents know that you are out here?”

“They’re long asleep, just like you were.”

It was darker now, he noted. The light of the setting sun was entirely gone. Tesra had also changed. She was no longer wearing the grey dress from before; she was now garbed in thin, nearly sheer nightgown that hung loosely about her. When she straightened out her legs and leaned back with her palms flat on the floor of the loft, the gown settled against her body. It was clear that she was wearing little else. She let her head loll to the side and her eyes wandered aimlessly to the rafters. Varen cleared his throat.

“Do you know anything about a revolution?”

Her eyes turned toward him and she cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

“A revolution. Overthrowing the government by force.”

Tesra rolled her eyes. “I know what a revolution is. That just seems like a very strange thing to ask.”

“I just heard that it might happen, and wanted confirmation.”

“You heard? I thought you’d been living in the forest all these years. Where the hell would you have heard anything about a revolution? Is there some sort of secret village full of forest people, or have you been lying and spent all this time in another city?” She eyed him suspiciously, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. The absurdness of the whole situation made his head hurt again as he tried to think of something that would make sense.

“No, I . . . , I had a dream.”

There was a brief moment of silence before a laugh burst forth from her mouth. Her face lit up with a broad smile. “You had a dream about an uprising, and now you want to know if your dream is coming true? I think this fever has affected you even worse than we thought.” She placed her hand on his forehead. “Maybe we’ll have to keep you here a while longer, just to make sure you’re healthy.”

He brushed her hand away. “No, I have to go.”

“That’s what you said last time too.”

The smile was suddenly vanished from her lips. Her eyes looked very distant, as if she were in another place, another time. A silence fell over them, stretching on and on for what seemed like an eternity. Finally her eyes came into focus on him once again.

“I’ve never forgotten about you, you know. I think about you sometimes. I . . . , I’ve missed you.” Her eyes moved back and forth, looking into each of his eyes. When he didn’t respond, she continued. “I always knew you’d come back someday. Sometimes I’d just stare out across the fields without knowing why. I was looking for you. When Poppa came running back to the house with you draped over his shoulders, hollering for us to get some hot water ready, I was scared and excited all at the same time.”

“I never forgot about you either.” Varen’s mind and mouth had finally caught up with the conversation. He leaned back against a pile of hay. “When I woke up and watched you caring for my leg, I knew who you were right away.”

A smile played across her face. It almost seemed to make her glow.

“Have you really been living in the forest this whole time?”

Varen nodded.

“Didn’t you get lonely?”

“When every day is a matter of survival, there’s no time to be lonely.”

“I don’t think I could stand it. I like it here in Buntz, where I have people to talk to when I want, and the quiet of the grasses when I don’t.”

“Why are you still living here? You’re an only daughter, and a woman full grown. I would have thought you’d be living in the city by now, winning the heart of some second-son of a butcher or baker, and coming back here to take over the family farm.”

Tesra’s glow darkened slightly. “I can take over the farm myself if I want to.” The hardness in her voice seemed to come from a place outside the current conversation. “I don’t need to go to the city and bring someone back. If he wants me, he can come find me.”

A silence settled between them for a moment. Shaking off the momentary ill-temperament, she continued as if it had never happened.

“So why are you going to the city, Varen? I thought you swore never to return.”

“I have some business that I need to take care of.”

“What kind of business?”

“I need to speak with my old guardian, Scrain.” The statement itself was true enough, even though it wasn’t the full truth.

“What will you do once your business is finished?”

“I shall return to the forest.”

The statement hung in the air. She was sitting on her ankles now, her hands folded and resting in her lap. Her eyes were locked with his, steady and sure.

“Will you come back through Buntz?”

“I don’t have a choice, it will be on my path when I return from the city.”

“But you do have a choice.” She leaned forward now, on her hands and knees. “You can stay here. You don’t have to be alone anymore. You were such a good farmer; the work came so naturally to you.”

“I just did what was needed . . .” Varen started to protest, but her lips were on his before he could finish. He found himself returning her kiss, and felt her breasts pressing against his chest. Her firm nipples pushed into his flesh as fervently as mouth sought out his own. Grasping her by the arms, he rolled her over onto her back, and rose.

“I will return to the forest.”

In an instant she was back, the sour-faced little girl with her arms folded across her chest. Except instead of pouting, she lifted her leg, planted her foot on his thigh, and shoved him over onto his side. She marched heavily to the rope swing, grabbed hold, and yanked on the string to release the knot. Without a word she looked at him once, then leapt onto the swing and dropped out of sight. Varen peered over the edge as she neared the bottom of her flight. Her nightgown billowed and flapped behind her as she flew, like some erratic ghost whipping through the night; then she was gone out the doors. The rope swing came back empty, drifting lazily back into the barn. Each time it swung back out the rope thumped against the top of the open portal, quieter each time until finally it came to rest, hanging lifeless, its string lying on the ground below it and snaking upward to Varen’s feet.[/SPOILER:cb3c4912f6]

Thanks for the feedback Sehksy! Apparently when I write in spurts I have the tendency to repeat idioms in close proximity.

I'm not worried about the pace at this point. I really don't foresee any consecutive chapters staying in the same location, and they've been behaving and keeping at roughly the same length. We'll see how it goes.

Chapter six is finally, finally finished. It took a while as my work schedule has been a bit wonky. But now, rejoice! For you get to read chapter 4. Again, please be as opinionated as you possibly can be. I will love you all the more. Also, I now have a calender of moonphases for personal reference. #The joys of writing.

[SPOILER:846b073565]Before the sun was up the next day, Varen had left the village of Buntz and was on his way to the city. He was not yet fully recovered, he knew, but he did not want to face Tesra’s parents after the events that took place during the night. There was no doubt in his mind that Tesra would avoid him for as long as he remained there, and her parents were smart enough to know from that that something was amiss. He was unsure what would make them more upset, believing that he had lain with their daughter, or knowing that he had rejected her advance.

He had hoped to stay at least a little longer, long enough to try and gather some information and recover his wounds. Maybe it was for the best that he had been forced to leave quickly. His leg was in much better shape than it had been after the attack, and there was no way of knowing if time was for or against him in his mission to bring success to the revolt. As it was, he was not entirely certain how long he had been unconscious. On the night of the attack both moons had been half full. Last night Curian, the blue moon, was a narrow sliver while Ament, the red moon, was still growing toward full. Try as he might, he could not remember whether Curian’s sliver was on the left side or the right; he had been out for either two days or possibly five. He hoped it was the former; any illness that lingered for nearly a week was certain to leave permanent damage, and would not be purged from the body quite as easily.

The sky was overcast that day, so he was able to make good time along the well-beaten road that wound its way from the farming village to the city. Aside from the two times he had to stop to massage a cramp out, his injured right leg gave him no further grief. Well before the sun had touched the top of the horizon, he reached his destination for the night.

Near a junction in the road there had been constructed a crude shelter of sorts for the benefit of travelers. It was a convenient location, being midway between Buntz and the city. Another road branched off from the junction point. Scrain had once shown him where the road led, but Varen did not remember. A small, windowless cabin roughly six feet square sat adjacent to the path, a wooden cube seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Inside were four narrow, wooden bunks built into the walls, two flanking each side of the low door. It provided more than adequate shelter from the winds and rain, though it was rather tight quarters and did nothing to protect from the noise of a good storm. It was also abysmally uncomfortable if you didn’t have some form of bedding with you. Varen had learned that lesson first hand when he had left the city.

Jutting up and out from the small building, pointed away from the road, was another roof that formed a run-in shed for the travelers’ horses. It could fit a single carthorse comfortably, two somewhat less so, and beyond that, whichever horse was more bull-headed would get sole reprieve from the elements. The bunkhouse served as the back wall of the run-in, with two side walls supporting the roof. Both of the latter were in a poor state of disrepair, which struck Varen as odd.

He had learned from one of the farmers that, while the city had provided the original materials to build the shelter, the construction and maintenance of the building fell to those who used it. As the people who used it, more often than not, were travelers from Buntz heading to the city to sell their harvests, it fell to them to assess the damage on their way into the city, and use a portion of their sales to buy the necessary materials to make repairs on the way back home. Given the importance of this point of refuge, they were usually quite diligent in its preservation, or so he had been led to believe.

To his relief, the bunks were still in excellent condition. He spread his hide blanket out on the hard wooden planks and settled down to rest.

It seemed that no sooner had he closed his eyes, the sounds of hooves striking ground, and the creaking of cart wheels awoke him. Varen lay awake and listened as the single horse and cart approached the shelter. He continued to listen as a continuous litany of oaths and curses flowed through the walls as the lone traveler set to tethering his horse and securing his loaded cart. Once the swearing had subsided to muttering and the man began to approach the bunkhouse, Varen called out to make his presence known. Neither of them would sleep well if the floor of the building along with the man’s breeches became as foul as his mouth.

“Well met, friend!”

A silence followed his greeting. A reply finally came shortly thereafter.

“Well met.”

The door to the small shack opened slowly, spilling the light from a lantern across the small confines. The man entered cautiously.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here, Sir, what with no horse tied up outside and all.”

When the lamp was hung from a hook in the ceiling, the two were able to get their first good looks at each other. The traveler stared for moment, recognition quickly registering on his face.

“Varen? I can’t believe you’re still alive! I’d’ve thought you’d’ve been turned to bear shit years ago.”

Varen also recognized the man now sitting on the bunk across from him, Another farmer from Buntz named Murlen Taggart. He had a reputation for his vocabulary that as blue as the sky, and just as vast according to some. Whenever a child came home in the evening with a new word that earned them a slap across the mouth from their mother, there was a good chance that Murlen Taggart was to blame for it. His surprise at finding Varen alive was assurance that only two days had been lost in Buntz. Any longer and the whole village would have heard the news. Unless, of course, if Murlen had been away the entire time.

“I ate some bear once, never the other way around though. Guess I’ve been lucky.”

Varen studied the man as he set up his bedding. He remember Murlen as a scrawny sort of man, though a tireless and strong worker for someone in their late forties. He had rough, calloused hands and a leathery face. The teeth that he hadn’t lost were crooked and comical when he smiled. His wide, flat nose sat between small, narrow-set eyes, and a mop of short-cropped, curly black hair covered his head. Looking at him now, it seemed as if he had aged a good twenty years. His teeth were still crooked, though there were less of them, and his cheeks sagged around his mouth. His hair was still present, but was almost entirely grey now. The life and joy that had been ever-present in eyes was replaced with look of utter fatigue.

“You nearly scared the piss out of me when you called out, you know. Thought you might’ve been someone important, an officer from the city or something, hearing me spraying worse shit than a horny tomcat.”

Varen smirked in spite of the unintended insult. Haggard or not, Murlen maintained his completely disarming personality. It was likely the only reason the good mothers of Buntz hadn’t run his foul mouth out of town years ago.

“I guess that’s what sets us apart from the animals,” he continued, “the ability to not piss ourselves when the need arises.”

“We also get the better sleeping arrangements.”

“Aye, that we do.”

Having finished dressing his bunk, Murlen rose and snuffed out his lantern. Darkness enveloped the bunkhouse once again.

“Even more so seeing as the horse shed looks in bad need of repair.”

“Bah, as if anyone can afford to anymore.”

“Poor harvest this year?”

“The harvest is fine. It’s the trade in the city that’s gone to pigshit. They make us pay a tariff now just to bring our carts into the city. Now we cram our carts as full as we can just to get the most out of our trips. With nearly everyone charging more and trying to pay less, it’s a wonder any of us from the farms come out of the place with anything at all.”

“Why is everyone so tight-fisted now?” Currency was another aspect of the city that Varen did not miss at all.

“The Lord Commander of the city demands more and more money from the district leaders every year. So the districts raise taxes on their members and the extra cost trickles all the way down.”

“So everyone is suffering?” The air of dissatisfaction necessary to provoke a revolt seemed to be well in place.

“Ha, hardly. The Lord Commander and his closest confidants are living high on the hog. The district are doing as good or maybe even a little better than before. It’s the rest of us that are stuck in the sow’s ass hole struggling to make ends meet. Vald the vintner used to give me a bottle of wine every time I brought in a load of grapes for him. Been years since I tasted the sweet flavor of free booze.”

The sounds of Murlen rummaging through his belongings broke through the darkness. “Look, now you went and got me worked up. I need to get to sleep so I can get up early and not be travelling after this time.”

Varen started to form an apology, but the foul-mouthed farmer continued before the apology could come out.

“Lucky for you, bought-and-paid-for booze tastes almost as good.”

Murlen drank long and loudly from whatever container he had brought with him, then rolled into his bed with a grunt, leaving Varen to his thoughts. It wasn’t a confirmation of a building revolt, but it seemed there was definitely tension, or least a reason for dissatisfaction if Haggart could be believed. Even so, it couldn’t hurt to have more information before formulating a plan of action. It seemed that the closer he got to the city, the tighter the knot in Varen’s stomach grew. Tomorrow he would step through the gates once again. The very thought brought a bad taste to the back of his throat. With any luck, it would be a short visit.

The sound of a horse nickering brought him back from his gloomy foreboding to focus on the present. Listening intently, he thought he heard soft whispering coming from outside. He rose as quietly as he could and strode to the door, pressing his ear up against the jamb. A rapid series of thuds came from outside.

He quickly felt around in the dark for his weapons then quietly opened the door and stepped out to survey the scene. The clouds had parted, and the landscape was now bathed in Ament’s red light. The farmer’s cart was just a short distance away. With his knife at the ready, he walked in a wide arc to the back of the cart. There he found the source of the noise; several potatoes littered the ground where a barrel had tipped over, spilling its contents off the back of the cart. He also found the cause of the barrel falling over.

Two people were stealing from the cart.

The thieves saw Varen at the same time that he saw them. Varen ran forward brandishing his knife. The thieves panicked and ran around the other side of the cart. As he came around the back of the cart, a thrown potato smashed Varen in the face. Instincticely clutching his nose with his free hand, he stumbled backward into the scattered spuds. The first one that his foot found caused him to lose his balance and crash to the hard-packed ground. Cursing, he scrambled back to his feet and tried to brush away the water that had flooded his eyes from the pain in his nose. When his vision cleared, he spotted the two thieves running down the road a short ways off. He nocked an arrow to his bow, pulled back on the string and drew a bead on the closest of the two. Before he could fire the stone tip into the criminals spine, a hand grabbed his arm.

“Let them go.”

Murlen was standing at Varen’s side, watching the thieves escape into the night. Varen looked at him with concern and confusion.

“As bad as it is for us, there are some who have it even worse.”

There was a great sadness in the older man’s eyes as he went about gathering his scattered crops, though Varen couldn’t help feeling that it had nothing to do with his loss. As he bent down to help, Varen looked up into the night sky and took solace in the fact that Curian had now finished waning.

*** *** ***

Morning came with agonizing pain. Varen’s leg was severely cramped and completely seized up. He had no choice but accept the offer to ride to the city in the back of Taggart’s cart. The terrain became hillier and rockier as they got closer and closer to the city. Whenever they stopped to eat, Varen decided against inquiring further about the state of affairs in the city and the misfortune most people found themselves in. Nevertheless, he quickly filled any quota of profanity he may have missed during his years in the forest.

Despite the events that had occurred since his leaving, the dog attack, Tesra’s advance, the thieves from overnight, he found being away from the forest a little easier emotionally than he had anticipated. The apprehension he had felt while packing his belongings seemed to have been subdued, though that could very well change come evening.

He looked forward to returning to his wilderness home, to be certain. Even so, perhaps it was the familiarity of the places around him, or the ease with which names and faces came back to him, reminding him of times past. Something was giving him a peace that he had not felt during the first few days of travelling back through the forest.

“There it is.”

Varen looked up to see what Murlen was pointing out. The road they journeyed on was beginning a long series of switchbacks that snaked lazily between and up the hills. At the top of the road, barely poking out above the tops of knolls that lay before them, rose the grey stone walls of the city.

Aereguard.[/SPOILER:846b073565]

Okay, here is chapter 5. If anyone is still reading this, please let me know. Even a response just saying 'Read it' will suffice.

Cheers.

[SPOILER:915c5de285]It smelled. Bad. Even worse than he remembered.

In the forest, the only times you had to worry about unpleasant smells was if you happened to be downwind of an animal in rut, or after a particularly foul bowel movement. The smell of the city was horrendous and utterly pervasive. He could feel it soaking into his borrowed clothes, setting up camp in his nostrils. It wouldn’t be as terrible if the predominant scents were coming from a bakery or the apiary. Unfortunately, the more inviting aromas the city had to offer were entirely lost amongst the smelt of the smithy, the piss from the tannery, and the human filth that seemed to emanate from every single alley.

He had noticed it even before he entered the city walls. The clean, fresh air of the open fields and trees was replaced by thickness that now assailed his olfactory sense. Just as Murlen had said, he had to pay just to enter the city. Even then, the two guards who protected the gates took time to freely sample from the cart and confiscate a few choice crops that “weren’t up to code.”

The older man had passed Varen off as a mercenary of sorts who was paying off a debt by providing protection from bandits. It was the only way to explain why he was carrying weapons. By the time they had reached the city, Varen had managed to massage the cramp out of his leg. It would have been cause for some amusement amongst the guards if the hired protector couldn’t even walk.

Murlen had insisted that Varen stay on as his faux-bodyguard until the next day at least. There was a good chance the guards at the gate could run into him later at the tavern and he did not want to raise any suspicion. The arrangement suited Varen fine. Scrain would likely be occupied with private tutoring like he was most evenings, so it made sense to wait until morning for their reunion. Varen had also not entirely planned out where he would sleep while in Aereguard. There was a chance that he could use the chamber that had been his living space in Scrain’s home, but there was no guarantee that it hadn’t been repurposed since he left. Surely it would be. An evening pretending to be a hired fighter worked well in Varen’s favor; at least he wouldn’t have to spend the night in a vermin-ridden alley.

Making their way from the gates to a city alehouse that also served as an inn, Varen noted that it seemed not much had changed since he last strode these streets. There were a few minor details, a stonemason’s shop where he remembered a cobbler being, but as best his memory served, there were no new buildings, no annexes, no real growth at all. He wasn’t certain exactly what he had expected, he just didn’t think it would all be so familiar.

The sky was starting to turn orange as the sun was descending into the horizon. The work day was winding to and people were bustling from shop to shop, finishing up any last minute errands that needed doing before closing for the night. No one paid any attention to two men riding through town on a farm cart. When they arrived at the inn, Murlen handed the reins over to Varen and told him to bring them around to the stables while the older man got a head start on drinking. Taggart seemed intent on milking this mercenary ruse for all it was worth, but Varen was grateful for the help he had received from the foul-mouth, so he obliged.

The establishment was called the Shield & Summit. Painted on the sign above the door was a crest which featured a single snow-capped mountain peak set on a field of blue. The building itself was two-storied, with two wings at a right angle to one another. The tavern comprised the ground floor of one wing while the upper floor and both floors of the second wing contained guest rooms. The stables were in the back of the building, nestled between the two wings to form a completed square.

As he entered the stables in the back of the building, he couldn’t help but notice how immaculate the horses’ lodgings were, despite the fact that there were a number of stalls already occupied. When the stableboy approached to take the horse and cart, it looked as if he were the dirtiest thing there.

“I can take care of your things, sir, if you want to go inside straight away.”

“I’d like to see which stall the horse will be in.” Varen did not really care where the horse was staying, he just wanted to see the state of the rest of the stable.

“Very good, sir.”

There wasn’t a drop of manure to be found. All the horses were watered, fed, and brushed. It hardly even smelled. Compared to the rest of the city smell, it was almost pleasant.

“You’re very good at what you do.”

“You’re too kind, sir. It’s just nice to have a paying job.”

From a stall at the front of the stable came the distinct sound of a horse voiding its bowels. Without so much as a word, the stableboy grabbed a spade from the wall and hurried over to clean the new mess. Varen took his leave and headed to the tavern.

Inside, he found Murlen already sitting at the bar, stein in hand, with another sitting in front of him, presumably already empty. Business appeared to be very good for the proprietor of the Shield & Summit. The room was very nearly full with people eating and drinking, talking and laughing. The sounds of their voices, combined with the clatter of forks and plates and mugs created an encompassing din of noise that threatened to overwhelm ears that were so used to the tranquility of the forest.

Old man Taggart motioned to Varen to join him at the bar.

“Here, I bought you a drink. Figure if you’re gonna pose as hired help I might as well give you something.”

Varen declined the offer. The farmer just shrugged.

“More for me I guess.”

He felt a headache coming on. Everything about the city up until now seemed to have been minor annoyances. The volume of noise in the enclosed room was having a much more palpable effect. He wanted to ask Murlen if accommodations had been arranged for them yet so he could retire for the evening. Barring that, he could ask to go sit with the horse until that time. Before he could ask anything of the old farmer, a deep, unfamiliar voice called him by name.

“Varen?”

He turned toward the speaker, though not quick enough to see the object that smashed into his face. Lights flashed in front of him, and when his vision cleared he realized he was lying on the floor.

“That’s for Kassy!”

Varen picked himself up onto his hands and knees, and was promptly rewarded with another hard blow, this time to his stomach. He toppled over onto his side.

“And that’s for my sister!”

Instinct took over when Varen rolled back onto his hands and knees. Using the bar for extra push, he propelled himself shoulder-first up into the stomach of his attacker. Wrapping his arms behind the knees, he lifted the other man up into the air. His momentum carried both men several feet before coming down on the edge of a circular table, sending the two bodies and the entire contents of the table crashing to the floor. A meaty thud resounded when the other man’s back struck the floor, softening the impact for Varen while his shoulder drove further into flesh. Spatter from the food and abuse from the dishes struck both men equally. Without hesitation, Varen grabbed his downed assailant by the nape of the neck and pulled himself to a straddling position. From there he scored two solid blows to the face before he was forcibly dragged off and thrown out into the street.

As he lay in back of Murlen’s cart, kept awake by the pain, he had ample time to think about the events that had earned him his sore jaw and bruised side. Will Krennel was the man who had suckerpunched him, son of Tom Krennel, one of the more successful businessmen in the city. Krennel was an apothecary, and though many said that charlatan was a better fitting title, it was always in hushed voices and away from prying ears.

Will was a couple years younger than Varen, and was always small for his age. Apparently he was a late bloomer, judging by the size of the fellow now. Perhaps his father had discovered some type of growth medicine, though seeing as his newfound bulk was just as much fat as it was muscle, it was more likely that Will had just glutted himself to his current size.

Though he was diminutive in stature as a child, Will was quite gifted intellectually, a fact he never failed to lord over Varen. Any topic that Scrain presented to the students seemed to be grasped with ease. He attributed it to his being a ‘boy born of pure civilization’, something that could never be had by a ‘wild mongrel boy’.

Will’s older sister Dala certainly did not possess the same keen mind as her younger brother, but she absolutely loved to talk. For this reason Varen decided to fawn his attentions and affections on her, particularly when she had some wonderfully embarrassing story to tell about Will. The was no salve in Krennel’s store that could soothe the sting of Will’s verbal barbs quite like the laughter of the other children when Varen would tell them how Will was accosted by the family mastiff while in heat.

When Will discovered the source of Varen’s intimate knowledge, he had his father command Dala not to see Varen again. They then took to sneaking around after dark. The sheer scandalousness of the midnight trysts had a pronounced invigorating effect on Dala, which was a blessing and a curse for Varen. It loosened her tongue enough to offer up even more private fodder to use against Will, but also loosened it so that it was constantly trying to probe the back of Varen’s throat.

The rivalry came to a head when Will apparently paid a local baker to bring in and pass out treats to the students one day. The pastry that was to go to Varen had something baked into it from Krennel’s stock of digestive aids. Varen scarcely made it out into the street before violently evacuating his bowels.

It took two full days for Varen to recover, so potent was the poison he was given. By the time he was back on his feet, he knew how he would exact his revenge. Kassy Ilyan was the same age as Varen and with a kind heart and a pretty face. She was the most beautiful girl in the class, and the object of Will’s love. Her father was a friend of Tom Krennel’s, and by all accounts there was pressure to have the two children betrothed. Will was obviously keen on the idea, but Kassy was harder to read. She took no interest in Will and Varen’s continuous pissing contests, opting instead to sit and talk with the younger, more timid of students, especially if they were off by themselves.

The plan had come together perfectly. Varen had spoken with Dala first thing in the morning, asking her to meet him behind Scrain’s house after dinner for one of their secret rendezvous. He then pretended to be sad and distant all day long, and at the end of afternoon lessons, he approached Kassy and asked if she would have dinner with him, saying that he really needed someone to talk to. As they sat and ate together that evening, Varen talked at length about his feelings of inadequacy and how he almost couldn’t bring himself to go to lessons anymore. There was a small amount of truth in his words, there had to be to make it believable, but he exaggerated the hurt as much as could, bringing tears to Kassy’s hazel-colored eyes. He responded in kind, feigning sobs and leaning his head onto her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders protectively and patted the back of his head as gently as a mother. When Dala came around the corner of the house, took in the scene before her, and proceeded to ask what was going on, he lifted his head and pressed his lips against Kassy’s.

That was when Will came around the corner.

Varen knew that the boy would follow his sister. Will knew that Dala was still meeting with Varen and was desperate to catch her in the act in order to bring down their father’s wrath. The timing was perfect. Kassy was so surprised by the kiss that she was too stunned to pull away immediately, giving Will the full scene that Varen had intended. There was a lot of yelling after that, though only from Will and Dala. The ruckus drew out some of the neighbors, though by then Kassy had gone, leaving Varen alone to bask in his victory.

It was not long after that that Varen left the city.

As sleep finally, gradually, came over him, he now wondered where Kassy and Dala were, what they were doing, what they had done in the years since left.

*** *** ***

When morning came, Varen’s only complaint was being shaken awake by Murlen. Apparently he had slept well past sunrise. The extra sleep seemed to have done him good though, the soreness in his face and side had subsided, and even his leg felt normal, though the marks were still plain to see. At Murlen’s insistence, he ate some food from the cart, then bid the older man farewell.

Morning lessons would be in session by this hour of the day, so rather than go directly to Scrain’s house, he decided to re-explore some the places he used to frequent in his younger days. One of the more common haunts was the abandoned storehouse in the old section of the city. Dilapidated, decaying, and long disused, it was the perfect spot for the young boys to gather and plot mischief. Many an evening had been spent there wrestling, hunting vermin, and seeing who could stay there the longest into the night before running home to their mothers.

He would have liked to see the old storehouse again. However, as he walked through the streets of the old city, he found it impossible to tell which building was the one he sought. What was once a singular derelict structure amidst small businesses and happy homes, had now spread its disease throughout the entire area. Everywhere he looked he saw the same sight: doors broken or missing, shutters hanging limply on a single hinge or gone altogether, garbage and filth rotting in the streets.

When he reached the blacksmith, his pity turned to anger. It was devoid of life, just like all the others; Kirt was nowhere to be found. There was a thick layer of dust settled on top of the anvil. The slack tub was bone dry. The forge was cold. Kirt loved his shop. Even if everyone else moved away, he would have still stayed open, delivering his craftsmanship to the various parts of the city by foot if he had to. Whatever had happened to him, it couldn’t have been good. Varen turned heel and stormed out of the shop. He needed to know.

A collective gasp went up when Varen entered Scrain’s home. Luckily the door was in better repair than those in the old city, else it probably would have shattered.

“Lessons are done for the day, go home.”

The children sat in the desks, gaping in wide-eyed terror at the large man who had just burst into their classroom.

“I said, get out!”

They did not have to be told again. As one collective they jumped up from their seats and scurried out, ducking around Varen’s legs. Several bumped into the doorframe in their attempt to avoid the bellowing stranger. He watched them as they ran past, until finally all the students had evacuated. Then he turned his attention on the teacher.

“Had I known you were coming, dear boy, I would have tidied up your room for you.”

To his credit, if he had been startled by Varen’s dramatic entrance, Scrain certainly recovered quickly.

“Still, quite uncalled for to scare the small children so.”

Varen stared the man at the front of the room. It appeared as if he hadn’t aged a day since Varen left, though Varen couldn’t imagine how the man could possibly look any older. His bald pate was smooth, round and devoid of the brown spots that most other men his age were covered in. His bushy eyebrows and bright green eyes belied a youthful vitality of a man half his age. Everything below his eyes however, bespoke the true age of a man with many years of life behind him. His long, flowing white beard stretched far down past his neck and over his white robe so that it was almost impossible to tell where it actually ended. His heavy white robe hung about his body in much the same fashion as it would were it draped over a coat rack instead of a living, breath person. Varen closed the door behind him.

“What’s happened to the city?”

Scrain’s eyes studied his former ward nonchalantly.

“You’ve been gone nearly seven years, Varen. Unless you want me to talk all day and night, you’ll have to be more specific.”

The old man was right, Varen knew, but the inferred condescension did nothing to help Varen’s anger.

“Why is the old city abandoned?”

“Ah, a sad story that. For the most part, the buildings there are so old, each year it seemed that the families and businesses had to invest more and more into repairs and upkeep. As the carpenters and thatchers and whatnot began to struggle with the ever-rising taxes, they had to raise their prices and eventually the people in the old city couldn’t afford to maintain their livelihoods. Those who could, moved away, setting up in a newer area or sneaking out of the city at night. Those less fortunate ended up in the mines, in the militia, or in jail mostly. A very few were executed, mostly those caught trying to flee.”

“What about Kirt? What happened to him?”

“The blacksmith?”

“Yes.”

“The brave fool held out as long as anyone, but with people leaving and merchants not even bothering to go into the old city anymore, he simply had no business. For a long while he made weapons and armor for the city watch and the Lord Commander’s personal guard, but they became dissatisfied with either the quality or quantity or both. One day poor Kirt was found dead in his shop, apparently having thrown himself onto one of his swords.”

Varen couldn’t believe it. Kirt never would have killed himself, he would have gone to the mines. He would have hated living out his days in the darkness, but having those last days would have been better than death.

“If the people are being taxed to death, why isn’t anyone standing up to the Lord Commander?”

“Some have tried, the most destitute who thought they had nothing to lose, but again, many were exposed as thieves and jailed, and those who were clean often disappeared inexplicably. Those who are still doing well don’t want to lose what they have, and the people who are barely surviving are bullied into silence by those who employ them or support their business. The Lord Commander has a powerful army behind him, and they are well paid and provided for. One disgruntled peasant can hardly stand against them.”

“What about several disgruntled peasants, banded together? Has anyone attempted an overthrow by force?”

Scrain’s brow furrowed, his face now suddenly masked by concern.

“What are you getting at? Of course not. Anyone crazy enough to try would be crushed, killed, and made an example of.”

Varen’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Good, I’m not too late.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Where is the Lord Commander now?”

Scrain’s previously collected manner was quickly eroding. He eyed Varen suspiciously.

“He left last week to pay a visit to the people in Wendolen, so by any reckoning he should be on his back to Aereguard now. Why do you ask?”

Varen only grunted, then turned and opened the door.

“Varen, where are you going?”

“To show what one disgruntled peasant is capable of.”[/SPOILER:915c5de285]

Hey kids! It's that time again. Partake.

[SPOILER:68865536a2]The road to Wendolen was the perfect place for an ambush.

It snaked through the high hills between Aereguard and the mining town, keeping to the gentler grades and lower valleys to make the journey easier. While he had never been to the smaller town, Varen had spent some time in the rocky wilderness back during the days when coming and going from the city was not so heavily guarded.

He took his time to select an ideal spot. A cleft between two large boulders kept him hidden from both directions of the road. The slope leading down to the road was moderate enough to afford him a full view of passersby, but steep enough to impede climbers. The terrain behind him was strewn with large rocks that would both confuse pursuers and offer protection if anyone caught up with him. All he had to do now was wait.

Lying down on the hard ground, he glanced up into the sky. The complete and total blueness was almost striking. Curian and Ament were nowhere to be seen, being so close to the opposite ends of their cycles. The sun was just past its zenith and bathed him in its warmth. There was not even a wisp of cloud to be seen. Knowing that it could be hours or even days before the Lord Commander’s entourage came through, he allowed himself to relax and soak in the sun’s heat.

As his skin grew warmer and warmer, hotter and hotter, a cool breeze rose up, fanning the flames that danced along his body. The fire that immolated him grew larger, and with it, the wind rose in a screaming crescendo. A gust of wind lifted him bodily from the ground, tossing him like a rag doll through the air. Upon reaching the peak of his trajectory, a protrusion of rock burst forth from a cliff face, swatting him down out of the sky. The flames about his body trailed behind him as he accelerated downward, making him appear like a falling star. When he struck the stony ground, every bone in his body burst into a fine powder, just as his body burst like an overfull bladder in a cascade of entrails and gore.

Varen awoke with a start. Already he was growing tired of these accursed dreams. With any luck they would cease once he had completed his objective. He looked into the sky again. Still no clouds marred the pristine expanse of blue, and yet, a lingering breeze ruffled and tugged at his shirt. He shivered.

It was then that he noticed sounds coming from the road. The distinctive jingle of bit and bridle, and the creak of wheel axles. Peering over the ledge of his vantage point he could the convoy approaching his position. Four mounted soldiers made up the vanguard of the procession. Lightly armored, they wore no helms or plate, just chainmail vests and leather riding gear. Short swords hung from their hips, bouncing as they rode. Crossbows were slung across each of the riders’ backs. Their coursers looked swift and agile, well suited for scouting and chasing down or hunting a foe. Another four riders made up the rearguard. More heavily armored than their comrades, they struck imposing figures upon their larger destriers. Sunlight glinted off their full helms and breastplates, long swords hung from their waists.

Between the eight horsemen marched six foot soldiers in full plate. These behemoths of men each carried a poleaxe at the ready. Slipped into a metal loop at the waist, each carried a short-handled mace for melee combat as well. These six walked along the well-worn road, three on each side of the vessel that all fourteen warriors were tasked to protect: the Lord Commander’s personal coach.

Drawn by two large horses and driven by a young coachman, the four-wheeled carriage was a stark contrast to the rocky, uneven landscape through which it passed. The dark, polished wood of the roof was shaped to look like a pavilion with two support poles. The edge of the roof was a border of crenulations, accented at the corners with intricately carved posts that were made to look like torches. The side that faced Varen had a door with a rounded top, flanked by two large, shuttered windows. The outer wall had been woodworked to give a pattern of creeping vines growing up its breadth. The shutters were open on the window toward the rear of the coach. Inside that window was the Lord Commander.

Varen knew very little about the man called Jalidor Saih, and recognized him only from the few times he made public proclamations from the balcony of his keep that overlooked the city. He was born in Wendolen, and moved to Aereguard in his early adult years, rising quickly through the political ranks by his charisma, intelligence, and military prowess. He had then used the city as his seat of power while he took authoritative control over Wendolen, Buntz, and a number of other towns and the lands between. None of that mattered right now. All Varen saw was a head, with short black hair, dark blue eyes, and a close cropped beard, on top of a torso covered in a plain red doublet. The window looked no more than two feet wide and two and a half or three feet high, but Varen was confident he could make the mark.

He nocked a stone-tipped arrow to his bow and drew back on the string. The synergy between the bow and arrow and crafter fairly buzzed in Varen’s senses. If one were to take the finest bow in the land, place it in the hands of an expert marksman, and nock it with the work of a master fletcher, it still would not fly as true. It was almost as if the bow were a living thing in his hands. Comparatively, Kirt’s knife, while still a deadly weapon, was like clumsy, dead weight. He had first noticed the strange sensation one day when Kirt had walked him through the process of forging a dagger, letting him perform each step from start to finish. The craftsmanship of the small blade had been terrible at best, embarrassing at worst, and it quickly found its way into a scrap pile to be melted down and reused later. Before throwing it away however, Varen took a few swings and stabs at the air. When he mention the strange, humming sensation to Kirt, the blacksmith just smiled and told him to take pride in the works of his hands.

After years in the woods, Varen considered himself a rather proficient bowyer. He had tried every type of wood available to him in the forest, both for the bow stave and for the arrows, and had also experimented with animal sinew and plant fiber for the bowstrings. What he now held at the ready was the culmination of those trials. He needed only wait for the perfect shot to present itself.

As he stared down the shaft of his arrow, his mind went back to the day, nearly two weeks past, that had set everything into motion. He had been tracking the huge, shapeshifting buck for months, and had finally learned it’s favorite runs, it’s preferred watering hole, and the approximate frequency with which the beast appeared. His torso was covered in scrub brush and branches, lashed to his body for camoflage. His arms were coated with dirt to conceal their movement. He picked a spot downwind from the water and waited. When the animal came through the trees with its does and young bucks in tow, he checked his breathing, steadied his nerves, and drew back on the bowstring with slow precision. When it stopped and put its head down to drink from the pond, he took aim at the massive haunch and loosed.

Breaking from his reverie, Varen noticed that his right hand was trembling. He also noted that his perfect shot was almost upon him, and would soon be gone. He held his breath to still his hand and drew a bead on the Lord Commander. When the moment arrived, he began a measured release of breath to maintain his accuracy. Between his daydream and the intent focus upon the Lord Commander, Varen did not hear anyone sneaking up behind him. The blow to the back of the head took him completely by surprise.

*** *** ***

Varen awoke in Aereguard. He knew he was back in the city even before his eyes came back into focus; the smell was there. He tried to lift himself up to a sitting position, but the effort made his head swim so he lay back down. A light chuckle echoed quietly through the room.

“Took a bump on the head did you?”

Still not feeling ready to open his eyes again, Varen responded from the floor.

“Apparently. Where am I?”

“We are honored guests in the Lord Commander’s finest penitentiary.”

The other man laughed again before continuing.

“I figured you must have taken a blow to the head, the way the guards had to drag you in here, and then they tossed you on the ground like a doll.”

The only response this elicited from Varen was a low groan. Undeterred, the man took a more direct approach to his banter.

“So what are you in for? Drunk and rowdy? Disturbing the peace? Tax evasion? Caught stealing?”

The man seemed ready to name off every possible offence he could think of, so for his own sanity, Varen decided to answer the question.

“Assassination.”

“Oh my, who did you kill?”

“Well, attempted assassination.”

“Ok, who did you try to kill?”

“Jalidor Saih”

It mattered little if Varen admitted to his crime now. If the Lord Commander didn’t get around to having him executed, the elementals beings would certain see to his demise. He had no means to fight, his weapons were gone. All he had left were the clothes he wore, and those were not even really his. A silence followed his confession, so ventured opening his eyes to see if the sensation of dizziness had passed. The world came into focus before him and see saw that he was, indeed, in a small cell. Slowly he raised himself up to sit against one of the walls and glanced over at the person with whom he had been speaking.

A middle-aged man sat in the cell adjacent to Varen’s. His brown hair was long and unkempt, as was his beard. His mouth and jaw were mostly lost in the tangled jungle that covered his face. What could be been seen of them however, looked broad and strong. His eyes spoke a different story. Sunken and wrinkled beyond their years, they gave the man an altogether tired and distant quality. Through his tattered rags, Varen could see that the skin of the man’s arms and chest sagged limply about him, as if he were wearing clothing that once fit perfectly but had been stretched out over time.

The silence felt suddenly uncomfortable.

“What about you? Why are you here?”

The slightest suggestion of smirk tugged at the corner of the man’s mouth.

“Being born. Being born into the wrong family.”

Varen did not reply, but looked at the man quizzically. He was not aware of any laws against being born.

“Things used to be different I guess. When my father was a young man, he had been able to go out into the world, spread his wings, discover himself and learn what kind of person he wanted to be before returning to his childhood home and taking up the family business. Oh, to wander the world unburdened, to travel to a faraway town, taste their foods, their women. Coming home to start a new life, a new family, would be all the sweeter.

“I, at least, was able to have a full and mostly carefree youth in Wendolen before having to take on full apprenticeship with my father, learning his trade and doing the work that his hands no longer could. Sure, there were times when I would look out the window at the setting sun and wonder what far off stranger was looking at the same sun, wishing I could trade places with them for a day. But a pretty young wife and a healthy baby gave me all the joy and distraction I needed.

“My own poor son didn’t get even the privileges of childhood that I had. He had scarce started to sprout hair on his lips before I had him doing errands for me to help us get by. I even had my baby girl help where she could, but eventually even that wasn’t enough. I fear my grandchildren’s generation will have to start working in the womb. They’ll be born with tools in their hands and sweat on their brows and whips at their backs, pressing them to go faster down the birth canal.”

Varen was unsure if he should offer condolences, encouragement, insight; social graces had never been a strength, and certain not a skill that had used in the forest. If nothing else, he knew better than to point out that the man hadn’t really answered the question. Instead he decided to lead on from where the man had left off.

“Where are your children now?”

The man sighed heavily.

“Who knows. The first year that I couldn’t pay in full, the Lord Commander’s men came and took my boy away to serve in the militia as a means of restitution. Sure it was one less mouth to feed, but after he left my ability and motivation to work were very much hampered. When the next year came around, they took my daughter.”

“They conscripted a girl to fight in the militia?”

The man chuckled at Varen’s stunned reaction.

“She should only be so lucky. The girls became property of the Lord Commander himself, the pretty ones anyway, to do with as he pleased.”

Varen felt a hollow nausea growing in the pit of his stomach.

“Your wife?”

A smile touched the man’s lips as his eyes looked up, remembering.

“She could have been one of his concubines too, had the two years prior not aged her so dramatically. When the guards took her, one said that she’d make a fine gift for one of the wealthy merchants in the city.”

“Is that why you came to Aereguard?”

“Yes and no. I mean, there was always the hope that I could find her here, though I have no idea what I would have done if I had found her. I left Wendolen because I knew they’d be back again the next year, and I had nothing left to take, nothing left to lose. So I came to the city, thinking I could live as a beggar or, if I was lucky, find some work to do and keep a low profile. It worked great for that first year here, but I guess once they came to collect and I wasn’t there in Wendolen, they went about looking for me. So, here I am.”

Twilight was settling over the city. The first stars of evening were beginning to appear in the darkening sky.

“Do you think your family is still out there somewhere?”

The man reflected for a moment.

“I wish I knew. I hope they are, of course, as long as they aren’t suffering. I would love to be able to see their faces once more, tell them how much I love them, wrap my arms around them and give them some encouragement that things will get better. But who knows, maybe things never will get better. Maybe things will get worse and worse until society collapses entirely. Then what kind of a world will there be to grow up in?”

Varen did not sleep that night. He stayed awake, listening to the man talk. There was no shortage of stories to be told. Varen heard about the misadventures the man had during his youth, the tales passed down from his father that he in turn had passed down to his own children. Varen learned of the work that the family did, how what was once a source of pride and recognition had become so difficult to maintain, a wellspring of sadness and despair. Varen listened as the man went into expansive detail about where and when he had first met his future wife, the things he did to gain her attention and win her love, their courtship, their wedding, and their first years together.

The man also talked about his children. For hours and hours he relived every moment of their lives. Two pregnancies had been stillborn, before finally a strong healthy boy came into the couple’s lives and turned the quiet house into a home bursting with chaotic joy. There were first steps, first words, first teeth, then a second baby, adding to the blissful bedlam.

By the time the sun started to peek over the horizon that morning, Varen felt almost as if he were a part of the family, so much did he know about them. The man looked deflated, like a bladder filled to capacity, then stuffed a little more, before being allowed to expel its contents. The exhaustion of having been awake and talking for hours was clear to see on his face, but there was also a profound peacefulness about him.

It was not long after sunrise that the guards came for Varen. When the armed men entered his cell, his instinct was to fight back, to try and escape. Instead, he went peacefully. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, or the sombre mood that hung over him after listening to the tale of woe. His resignation to the fate that awaited him also contributed to his lethargy.

He was bound at the wrists, marched out of the jailhouse, and loaded into a caged cart along with three other prisoners. He took the time to look up and watch the sunrise. For all he knew it might be the last one he ever saw. The morning sky was aflame, the dark clouds glowing red and orange like so many smouldering coals. A storm was coming. Perhaps the Wind Warden would weep for him after he was dead. That however, seemed rather unlikely. The driveman whipped his horse into motion and the wheeled-prison lurched forward.

The caged men rode along in silence, and with nothing but the creak of the axles and the bumps in the road to distract him, Varen found himself thinking about the man from the night before. Even though he had not learned the man’s name, he had not asked and the man had not offered, he felt a very strong kinship with him that must have been the result of being so immersed in the oral narrative that was a life marred with tragedy. Varen had never been much given to pity, but he found himself filled with an overwhelming sadness as the cart rumbled through the town square. He watched the man sway back and forth as the wind blew through the gallows, and found himself wondering if the man’s family was still alive, and where they might be. They deserved to know.

Varen kept his eyes locked on the man’s face, burning it into his memory, until the wagon rounded a building on its way out of the city.[/SPOILER:68865536a2]

For those keeping track, it's time for chapter seven. If I were to break this book into parts, this would mark the end of part 1.

[SPOILER:159c94ae9f]The roof of the mobile prison did little to protect them from the rain. Strong winds lashed at the deluge, driving it through the iron bars and into the clothing of the four men inside. When they had begun their journey, each man had kept to his own corner. Once the storm swept in however, they quickly realized that huddling together offered the best way to stay warm and at least partially dry. In the close quarters, under the muffling sound of the rain, Varen’s curiosity finally got the better of him.

“Where are they taking us?”

“Same place as they takes all o’ us thieves. Down into the mines t’ be starved o’ light and food til some cave in or fallin’ rock mercifully puts us out o’ our misery.”

Varen was no thief. He couldn’t imagine that an attempted assassination would warrant the same punishment as common pickpocketing. He decided to hold his tongue on the matter.

“I heard that the miners who work the hardest get a day above ground once a week, you know, to keep them motivated to keep working hard and make the others want to work harder too.”

The young optimist was seated to Varen’s right. Red-headed, buck toothed, and freckled, he did not even look old enough to shave. If there were any whiskers under his chin, they had to have been so pale as to be invisible in the gloomy light.

“Bah, you be foolin’ yourself. There’ll be no rest for us. They’ll whip us to work until our backs are broken, and then they’ll draw out a sword and run us through so they have t’ hear us wailin’ like hurt animals.”

The man with the drawl sat across from Varen. Older, grizzled, and missing several teeth, he spoke with the casual pessimism of someone well accustomed to living on the street. His left eye was clouded over with cataract and the twist of his mouth left his right eye almost swollen shut. A rough beard of stubble covered his face, all the way up to his cheekbones, and continued down his neck and onto his chest.

One of the two mounted escorts banged the flat of his sword against the cage bars.

“Quiet in there, you criminals.”

The guard sheathed his sword again and quickly pulled his cloak up around his face. He seemed more intent on keeping out of the rain than enforcing his command for silence.

The fourth man in the cell had not spoken a word the entire time, and rarely even looked up from his feet. Most times his eyes were closed, though he never appeared to be sleeping. He was well groomed, at least compared to the other two prisoners. His sandy blonde hair hung short on the back of his head and the stubble on his chin was three or four days growth at the most.

It was not long before the guard began muttering to himself within the folds of his cloak. The young redhead took it as an opportunity to continue talking.

“I guess we’ll all probably be chained together in the mines, right? Might as well get to know each other. My name’s Adams, what’s yours?”

Adams turned to the other thief and extended his hand. The older man took it and shook.

“Elston they call me. Nice to meet you.”

“And yours?”

Adams turned toward the blonde man and offered his hand again. The man looked up from the floor and fixed Adams with a stare as cold as the rain that beat against them. The young man recoiled his hand, then opened his mouth as if to protest, but closed it again without saying anything. The guard’s command was obeyed after that, as silence fell over the group.

Varen closed his eyes and listened to the steady drumming of the rain and the melody of the howling wind. He was no longer certain of the imminency of his own death, so some of his will to survive had returned. The current circumstances left him too confused to take action however. Whoever had attacked him from behind must not have revealed what Varen was obviously doing on the overlook. But why prevent the Lord Commander’s death, only to leave the would-be murderer alive? It made no sense, and the more scenarios and variables he tried to puzzle through, the more his head hurt.

He was ready to give his head a good shape and start the thought process again from the beginning when he heard a familiar noise through the battering rain. It sounded like the thrum of a bowstring being fired. He lifted his head and looked around. There wasn’t much to be seen with the dark clouds blocking out the sun, but his instincts were quickly verified when the sound of an arrow whizzing overhead followed.

The two escorts had their swords out and shields up immediately.

“Archer in the road ahead! Stay here!”

The wagon came to a halt and the four prisoners scrambled to the front to watch the guards spur their steeds into a gallop down the road. Squinting through the rain, Varen could just barely make out another rider farther down the path. He watched as the rogue archer turned his horse and retreated, the guards in pursuit. The sound of the hooves digging into the muddy road receded, becoming quieter until all that was left was the sound of rain once more.

Varen noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked over just as someone was coming around to the front of the cart. Before he or anyone else could react, the stranger swung a long, narrow stick through the air, striking the driver in the back of the skull. A grunt escaped the driver’s lips as he slumped forward in the saddle, unconscious. The stranger whistled once, sharply, then began searching the driver’s prone body.

The blonde man addressed the newcomer.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re here now aren’t we?”

No sooner had he said the words, two more people on horseback came up from behind them, taking up positions on either side of the wagon.

“Don’t worry, we’ll have you out of there in no time.”

The rider had a deep, strong voice and kept his eyes on the prisoners in the cage. The other rider kept glancing up the road in the direction the guards had travelled.

“Shit! They’re not here!”

“What isn’t?”

The rider rode to the front of the cart where the man with the staff was frantically checking pockets and patting down the debilitated driver.

“The keys to the fucking cell. He doesn’t have them!”

The rider looked back to the blonde man.

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know. After he locked us in, he put the keys in his right pocket. But he went back into the jailhouse before we left. He must have left them inside.”

“What are we going to do? We won’t have much time before the guards give up and come back.”

Varen was surprised to discover that the second rider was female. It was difficult to determine gender due to the sodden riding clothes and the cloth covering her face, but the voice was distinctly feminine.

The male rider roared through clenched teeth and began scanning the area around them. Looking back the way they had come, his eyes narrowed, the frown on his face deepened. He dismounted and addressed the other man.

“Help me with the harness.”

Together, the two free men released the horse from the shafts and singletree. The male rider then turned the horse back toward Aereguard and slapped its hindquarters with a loud crack. The beast took off down the road, carrying its unconscious driver along with it.

“Now, help me push.”

Without any questioning whatsoever, both men put their shoulders to the front of the cart and began to slowly move the wagon back along the path. The footing was slippery and they each fell down more than once, landing with splash on the muddy ground.

Adams was the one curious enough to ask what Varen was thinking.

“What are you planning to do?”

“You’re probably better off not knowing.”

The male rider continued to push, glancing up and off to the side of the road every so often. Once they had moved the cart back two dozen yards or so, they stopped. The rider moved around to the side of the cart to talk to the blonde man again.

“Hang on to the bars. Hang on for dear life and whatever you do, don’t let go.”

The two men then ran off the side of the road and began scrambling up the rocky slope.

“No. . . .”

Varen looked back at the female rider. She was holding the reins of both horses and watching the men as they climbed the embankment. Varen turned and followed her gaze. Some fifty feet up the slope, a huge boulder lay nestled in amongst the other rocks. The two men were dislodging and tossing away any smaller stones they could remove from below the boulder as well as using the quarterstaff as a lever to wiggle the boulder back and forth.

Varen had a very bad feeling about this.

“What’s going on? What are they doing?”

Adams came over beside Varen and tried to see what was happening. When he spotted the men working away at the stony embankment, he must not have understood, as he began to repeat his previous question. Before he could finish asking, the slope gave way, and the boulder dropped.

It moved slowly at first as it rolled forward, its front face striking the rocks with a loud boom. Then it slid briefly before falling over a steeper part of the slope, spinning and gaining speed as it descended. Varen did not stay to watch the rest of the show. He grabbed the stunned Adams by the arm and pulled the young redhead to the opposite side of the cart.

Boom.

The two other men had already braced themselves against the iron bars in either corner. Elston was in a squatting position with both hands wrapped around the bars before him. The blonde man was sitting sideways, with one arm around a bar and both hands clenched onto the opposite wrist. Adams sat as well, wrapping his arms and legs around two bars in a full-bodied grip. Varen knelt down nearer to the blonde man and put both arms through the gaps, crossing them on the outside and locking his hands onto two of the bars.

Boom.

Varen wished that he could brace himself in a standing position, but the roof of the wagon was too low to do so. The ground rumbled and shook and Varen found himself silently beseeching the Defender of Stone to be merciful to the pitiful party of criminals.

The world turned into chaos.

Every muscle in his being contracted, but even so he felt his legs shoot out behind him, his whole body tearing against his arms. There were sounds of cracking, scraping, and shattering, a cacophony of noises almost entirely drowned out by a piercingly loud grinding that filled Varen’s head to the point that he wished he was holding his ears instead of the bars.

Then it was over. A moment of numbness hung about Varen’s body, an unawareness of anything aside from the lingering ringing in his ears. Slowly his senses returned to him. His face and body were pressed up the bars which were still firmly in his grasp. He could feel and smell the wet ground very close to his face. Apparently the cart had rolled onto its side. The buzzing noise subsided, and was soon replaced with agonized screaming. Forcing his fingers open, Varen dragged his arms through the mud to disentangle himself before rolling over and taking stock of the aftermath. The boulder had struck the far side of the wagon, judging by the shattered wheel and the gaping hole in the wooden roof.

The blonde man had been furthest from the impact and looked generally unscathed; Elston had not been so lucky. The rock had hit the cart directly behind him and his grip had failed, effectively propelling him backward into the iron bars. He lay unmoving, in a mangled heap against the side of the cell. His skull was cracked almost completely into two pieces, blood and brain spattered everywhere and mingling with the rainwater.

The screaming was coming from Adams. The immense force of the stone had buckled the metal plate which connected the bars, pushing two of them together and crushing the young man’s thigh. His leg above the knee was bent at an unnatural angle.

Varen pulled himself across the wagon and began climbing out through the hole in the roof, trying his hardest not to touch any of Elston. Once free, he saw the male rider running toward the cart and the female rider a short ways away, leading the two horses toward the wreckage. The man with the quarterstaff was already gone.

“Hey! Are you alright?”

The male rider pushed past Varen reach the broken wagon.

“Yes. I’m alive.”

“Then hurry, we need to get out of here.”

There was some grunting and pained cries as the blonde man worked his arm free of the ground and the bar. The male rider reached through the breach to help his friend. Adams, whose screaming had quieted to whimpering, grabbed at the man’s leg as he climbed over.

“Please, don’t leave me!”

The male rider was without sympathy.

“We don’t have time for this. Come on!”

“Oz, we can’t just leave him here!”

Oz turned to the female rider, resolved in his course.

“Even if we had time, none of us can bend iron. Look! There’s nothing we can do.”

The blonde man looked back at Adams briefly, then released his hold on Oz’s hand.

“You two go. Leave a horse.”

“But you can’t. . . .”

“Go!”

Oz set his jaw, then whirled on his heel and strode over to the female rider. He took the reins from her hand and thrust them into Varen’s.

“Hold this.”

Then, placing his foot in the stirrup, he hoisted himself up onto the saddle behind his partner. She kicked her heels into the horse’s flank and within moments the pair were lost to the rain, headed back toward Aereguard.

When Varen looked back inside the wagon, the blonde man was sitting beside Adams, their left hands clasped together.

“You said your name was Adams, right? My name is Anquist.”

“N-nice to meet you, Anquist. P-please help me.”

The young man was likely delirious from the pain. Both his jaw and his arms trembled.

“It’s going to be okay, Adams. Can you do something for me? I just need you to relax, alright?”

Adams nodded, then untwisted his torso and let his chest rest against the iron. Anquist gripped the bars just above the younger man’s head.

“I’m sorry.”

The blonde man put his knee to the back of the mop of red hair and, bracing with his hands, pressed down.

Adams struggled, struggled for what seemed like an eternity. Finally the thrashing stopped. Anquist hung his head, looking both physically and emotionally exhausted. After several more moments he climbed out of the shattered cell and into the saddle of the remaining horse.

“Well, are you coming, or do you plan on waiting for the guards to return?”

Varen felt as if he were in a dream. The events did not feel real, as if hours had passed in the few minutes since the arrow whistled overhead. Without any response, Varen numbly lifted himself onto the saddle behind Anquist and together they rode away from the devastation.[/SPOILER:159c94ae9f]

Thanks Woodzy, your check is in the mail.

Part 2: Chapter 8: Begin!

[SPOILER:887426f63e]Despite no longer being held in a cage, Varen was no freer now than he had been in the morning. He and Anquist had caught up with Oz fairly quickly, and the four of them made a mad dash back to Aereguard. As they had approached the Old City gates, the guards on duty had seen them coming through the driving rain. Oddly, they opened the heavy wooden barriers on sight and let the two double-mounted horses pass inside without even breaking pace. Once the gates were closed behind them, Oz had called the group to halt and demanded that Varen’s head be bound and tied inside his cloak.

Varen had resisted, of course, and the other two companions initially felt it unnecessary, but Oz was adamant and the two soon relented. Their gentle coaxing was far more effective in convincing Varen to accept being blindfolded then the brash commands given by Oz.

They rode a little further after that, then dismounted, handed over the horses to an unfamiliar voice, and entered a building. When Varen was finally allowed to see again, he found himself in a small room, being watched over by the man with the quarterstaff. In the adjoining room, Oz, Anquist, and the female were having two very heated arguments. Oz was angry that Anquist had decided to take a stranger back to the city with them, a valid argument seeing as they knew nothing about him. The female was yelling at the blonde man for leaving Adams behind. Eventually Anquist grew frustrated trying to fight two battles at once and told the female to see to the stranger while he and Oz took a walk to cool their heads.

The door to the room opened, and the guard stepped aside to let the lady in. She still wore her thick riding clothes, but had removed the wrapping that had covered her face. Her hair, dripping wet, had been tossed back in a matted, golden cascade down her back. When her eyes locked with Varen’s, she smiled wide and unabashed, her face filled with kindness and compassion. Her green eyes complemented the warmth of her expression, but there was a certain hardness behind them as well. Varen couldn’t quite find the right word for he saw in her eyes, the closest he could get to what he sensed was wary.

“Are you injured?”

She walked forward and knelt down in front of him.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Do you mind if I take a look?”

Varen shrugged, and the woman took his right hand into hers. She began squeezing and prodding his fingers and palm, bending, twisting and examining his skin for any wounds. When she was satisfied that both hands were healthy, she began rolling and pressing on his arms.

“My name is Redeinia, by the way.”

“Varen.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you, Varen.”

She gestured back at the man standing watch over them.

“This is Hart, and the other two are Anquist and Osmerandenth. We just call him Oz. I hope you aren’t too mad about being blindfolded; he’s a nice guy, it just takes him awhile to warm up to new people. He doesn’t really like strangers.”

“It’s fine.”

At first Varen had been tensed and on guard while she was checking him for injuries, but as she worked her hands down his back he could not help relaxing and enjoying the sensation. When she began to examine his chest for bruised or broken ribs, she let out the smallest involuntary gasp as she pressed and found no give in the flesh beneath the shirt. Varen did his best to conceal the smirk that came to his mouth, and while Redeinia did not see it, a chuckle from the door that was quickly turned into a cough told him that Hart certainly had.

When Redeinia pressed against the side of his abdomen, Varen winced.

“I got into a fight a couple nights ago. A guy jumped me from behind and kicked me when I was down. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Well, if you’re still feeling it after a couple days, I would hate to see how the other guy looks.”

She gasped suddenly and backed away.

“You killed him, didn’t you? That’s why you were being sent to the mines.”

“No! I didn’t kill him. I barely got my first punch in before a crowd dragged me off.”

Varen did not want her to fear him, he wanted her hands on his body again. Cautiously she leaned forward once again and returned to her work checking him over. When she pressed her thumbs into his right knee, his jaw clenched, restricting his cry of pain to a grunt.

“That one is from the cart.”

“I’m going to check for bruising, alright?”

She rolled up his pant leg. After checking his knee for bruises, she noticed the wounds he had received from the wild dogs. She began to gingerly run her fingers over the pink scars where he had been bitten.

“You seem to get into a lot of fights.”

“Not exactly. I’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”

“Hmmm, I see.”

Redeinia drew out a knife.

Her hand went into her shirt and came back out with the metal blade following it. Varen recoiled and tensed, ready to run her over, slam Hart back into the wall and escape through the door. The sudden shift in mood struck the young woman and she realized her error.

“No, no! I’m not going to hurt you!”

She smiled and forced a small laugh.

“We need to shave off that wild nest you have growing on your face. You’re a fugitive now, and anyone who sees that thing is going to recognize you.”

Varen ran his fingers through his beard. He had not shaved in many years. When he first arrived in the forest, he had tried staying clean shaven for a couple months, but soon realized that he had more important uses for his knife. The thought of accidentally cutting himself and bleeding to death also played a part in his decision.

“Come, let us sit by the fire.”

She led Varen out into the main room of the building and Hart followed behind them. A fire burned in the hearth, providing light and heat to the trio. The rest of the room was very sparsely furnished. A large table, some chairs, and a number of mattresses were all that was to be seen.

“Aren’t you worried about someone spotting the smoke from the fire, Redeinia?”

“Oz said the exact same thing the first we lit the hearth. Nothing to worry about though, this isn’t the only fire burning in Old City. There are a lot of vagrants who shelter in the abandoned buildings, and there aren’t enough guards on duty at night to search every house with a fire burning.”

“And you know this because the guards at the gate are friends of yours as well.”

She studied him playfully, a soft smile on her lips.

“You’re pretty clever for a wild man.”

Varen furrowed his brow, not certain if she was being earnest or condescending or both.

“Thank you, Redeinia.”

“Oh, call me Red. Everyone else does.”

She motioned for him to sit near the hearth and proceeded to remove a pot of steaming water from above the fire, laying it on the floor. She unclasped her cloak and hung it on one of several wooden pegs inlaid on the wall. Her thick woolen outer shirt she took off as well and hung near the fire. Red was a very petite female. The extra padding that had been on her shoulders had given the illusion of height. Now, even from his seated vantage, she seemed quite short to Varen. If not for her face, and the maturity of her mannerisms, she might have been able to pass for a older child.

With a studied grace, she laid out a small cloth to dispose of the trimmings, dipped the knife in the heated water, and began cutting the coarse hair away from Varen’s face.

“So what’s your story, Varen? What strange series of events led up to you being locked in a prison cart with three other men on your way to the mines?”

Varen was still not willing to reveal his failed assassination attempt. Even more so as he did not want the woman holding a knife at his throat to view him as a murderer.

“I took exception to the Lord Commander’s methods of ruling, and apparently he took exception to me.”

Redeinia sat back on her heels and let her knife hand hang limp.

“Look, we’ve got a lot of beard to shave off here, so we’re going to need to have a little more detail than that. If the silence stretches out too long, Hart will start telling his old sparring stories again, and let me tell you, I do not want to hear about how he made a man throw up by causing him to strike himself in the groin with a staff any more.”

Varen thought he ought to feel offended at being chided so, but he did not feel offended. There was a certain disarming coyness to her banter that made him feel at ease considering the circumstances.

“Tell me about yourself, Varen. Where did you grow up, what were your parents like?”

“I never knew my parents. I was taken in and raised in Aereguard by a scholar named Scrain. I spent many days working with a blacksmith named Kirt. As a young man I left the city and lived on my own for a time in the forest on the far side of Buntz. I recently returned to the city to find that Kirt is dead and I blame the Lord Commander for his demise. I tried to. . . express my dissatisfaction to Jalidor Saih and ended up in jail. I think you know what happens after that.”

She smiled at him sweetly.

“Well, I can see this is going to take a little more effort. Let’s look at the future then. Now that you are a free man, what do you want to do?”

“I want to join your revolution.”

Varen studied her face closely to gauge her reaction. It was a bold and possibly reckless gambit, to assert that she and her fellows were involved in a movement to bring the Lord Commander down. To her credit, she did not react at all, not even a flinch of the hand that continued its work, scraping away at his face. Her lack of reaction however, and the silence that followed, were all the affirmation that he needed.

She was nearing the completion of her work when Anquist and Oz returned.

“He knows.”

She did not look away from Varen’s face when she spoke. The tone of her voice put fear into Anquist’s eyes.

“Knows what?”

“He knows about us, about our goal.”

“How?”

Redeinia finished scraping the final few pieces of hair from Varen’s neck and dropped the knife into the pot with a scrape and a clang.

“I don’t know, you’ll have to ask him.”

In three long strides, Oz crossed the room from the door to where Varen sat by the hearth. His sword had cleared its scabbard before his first footfall landed.

“Who sent you!? Tell us and I may give you a quick death!”

Varen stared down at the blade pointed at his chest. He had no answer to give, and did not believe there was an answer that would call off the swordsman. Fortunately he did not need to respond.

“Oz! Stand down.”

Oz backed up slightly, and let the sword tip drop down to the floor. Anquist then turned to Redeinia.

“What did he say?”

“He said he wants to join us.”

“I see.”

Anquist stood for a moment, staring at Varen without speaking. Varen met his gaze without wavering, in spite of the swordsman beside him who likely sought any reason to split his chest open.

“Leave. Everyone. Leave me alone with him.”

Not surprisingly, Oz did not like the idea.

“Are you certain that is wise, Anquist?”

“Yes. You need not go far, a few minutes at most.”

Oz sheathed his sword and walked out without another word. Hart and Redeinia followed behind him. Anquist sat on the floor across from Varen, where Redeinia had been sitting, and pulled the knife from the pot.

“So you know about us, know what we represent.”

He turned the knife over and gripped it by the blade, presenting the handle to Varen.

“If you’re intent is to put an end to it, do it and be quick about it.”

Varen stared down at the knife, unmoving.

“I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to help you.”

“Why?”

“I want the same thing you want. I wasn’t arrested for robbery. I was arrested for trying to kill the Lord Commander.”

It was very telling that Anquist had not mentioned to anyone what had become of Adams. Perhaps that was why he was offering his life into Varen’s hands, as an offer of mutual trust. Revealing his assassination attempt could be the quickest passage into their ranks.

“Okay, let’s say I believe you. How did you plan on getting near him?”

“I didn’t need to. One arrow is all I need.”

“You must fancy yourself a good shot then.”

“An excellent shot.”

They sat in silence for a moment then. Anquist’s eyes were narrowed, he appeared to be thinking things through.

“It is true that none of us here thinks very highly of Jalidor Saih. We are are united in our desire to see him unseated, and it is our common goal to abolish what he represents. However you must understand that the Lord Commander is not a one-sided man. Each of us has our own reason for fighting against his rule, some facet of his regime that has struck a chord that has echoed through our entire beings. My reasons are different from Oz’s reasons, different from Red’s, and different from Hart’s. For as many people as would rejoice to Jalidor Saih brought low, there may be just as many reasons, just as many sources of dissatisfaction, of anger, of hatred. I tell you this, all reasons are not equal. If an evil man kills another evil, he is not vindicated in his actions; it does not make him good. We fight for noble reasons. We will not sully our cause by associating with anyone who fights for ignoble reasons. So tell me now, who you are, and why you fight. If you lie to me, it will be the last thing that you ever do.”

At some point Anquist had spun the knife around in his hand. It was now pointed directly at Varen’s chest. He could not hesitate in answering lest it be thought he was trying to think of some lie.

“My name is Varen. I was told that if I killed the Lord Commander I would be granted great power.”

“By who?”

“I cannot say.”

“I think you can.”

Even though he was on the wrong end of the knife, Varen was not going to let himself be strong-armed. Especially when telling the truth would make him look like a man with half his wits gone.

“I can inasmuch as you can explain to Red how you forced a crippled man’s face into the mud and held it there until he drowned.”

Anger flashed across the blonde man’s eyes. It starkly reminded Varen of the dream he had on the night the wild dogs attacked him. The same look had been in the eyes of the Guardian of Beasts before the world turned to blood. Anquist checked his rage and stood.

“So you seek personal gain. You are sorely mistaken if you think for one moment that we would consider joining rank with you.”

“That is why I came back to Aereguard, yes. Once here, I learned that a friend of mine had died because of Saih’s rule.”

“Did the Lord Commander kill your friend?”

The question caught Varen off guard.

“No, I. . . . I don’t know. I was told he killed himself.”

“So you fight for personal gain and for some self-convinced sense of revenge. You loathsome piece of shit.”

“No!”

Varen shot to his feet, standing face to face with Anquist.

“You wanted the truth, those are the reasons that drew me into all this. But that’s not why I fight. After I was arrested I met a man. He lost everything, everything, because of Jalidor Saih. He lost his livelihood, he lost his son, his daughter, his wife, and when he had nothing else to lose, they took his life. He went to the gallows a broken man. I don’t even know his name, but I know he didn’t deserve any of what he got. So now I fight, I fight, to ensure that no one else suffers the way he, his family, suffered.”

The two men stood, staring at each other for a time. The crackling of the fire seemed subdued after the heated exchange. Varen heard the others reenter the room, but did not take his eyes from Anquist’s.
“Very well. Tomorrow night we will test your dedication to this cause. And we’ll see if you’re half as good with a bow as you say you are.”[/SPOILER:887426f63e]

It's like a TV show that airs a little less than once a week! Now if only someone else were watching, so you could discuss it.

Then I could steal your predictions and speculations.

Chapter 9: It's pretty short, so you could probably read it while you poop.

[SPOILER:9419f2166e]Varen slept deeply that evening and all through the night. The events of the day, coupled with the sleepless night before made so that not even the nightmares could disturb him. The storm had dissipated during the night and the morning that greeted him was sodden but sunny.

After the group had eaten, Varen was informed that Hart would be taking him to another building in Old City so he could find a bow to use. Naturally, Oz insisted that he be blindfolded so that the location would not be compromised by someone who could not yet be trusted. Hart retorted that if anyone saw them leading around a man with a sack on his head, it would raise an unacceptable level of suspicion. The two argued back and forth until Anquist put an end to the matter by siding with Hart.

“I gave him the opportunity to put a knife in my chest, Oz. For now, I trust him, so you should too.”

“The only trustworthy man is a dead man. You are making a mistake Anquist, mark my words.”

Oz turned on his heel, threw the door open, and left without waiting for a response. Anquist looked to the door where the swordsman had exited and sighed. He then addressed Varen.

“Hart is our resident master-at-arms. I’m sure he’ll be able to find something for you to use. I will be briefing everyone just before dusk, be prepared.”

As the pair walked through the streets of the abandoned district, Hart asked several questions about Varen’s preference in bows. No detail was too minute, he wanted to know what types of wood and string were prefered, and even asked about degree of curvature and the style of knot used to secure the bowstring. They talked at length about the merits and drawbacks of various materials to the point where Varen actually found himself enjoying the conversation.

Upon reaching their destination, Hart led Varen into a small building that appeared to be comprised of four corner rooms, much like the houses in Buntz. I the middle of the building, however, there was a narrow hidden closet with a ladder that led straight down into a cellar. Hart lit a lantern, flooding the tiny den with a soft glow.

The weapons cache was not expansive by any means, although considering it was essentially a private collection, it was quite diverse. There were several swords of varying size, some assorted bows, a dozen or so slipshod spears and a few pieces of mismatched armor.

“Where did you get all of these?”

“A lot of the swords came from Oz; his family collected them. These are the ones he managed to sneak out. Most of the rest were bought from people whose luck had just about run out and they decided they need a few coins for food more than they needed a weapon. You can’t fight off starvation with a spear.”

You could hunt with one though.

Varen kept his thought to himself.

“Why did Oz have to steal his own swords?”

“Sorry, Oz’s story is not mine to tell.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to hear it from him.”

Hart laughed.

“Give him time. I’m sure he’ll warm up to you eventually.”

The weapons master began searching through a line of bows that were leaned against one of the earthen walls. He selected two of them, retrieved a quiver of arrows, and returned to the ladder.

“I think these will be the best choices to start with. This bow is most similar to what you said you liked from your own bows.”

Hart gave the first bow over to Varen. It did indeed look to be made of the same materials he was familiar with, but compared to his own craft, the bow just felt lifeless in his hands. Hart held out the second bow to Varen.

“If you don’t like that one, this one is the finest piece in our collection if you ask me.”

The quality of the weapon could not be denied, at least not judging by its appearance. The wood was smooth and polished, and was lacquered with some sort of resin. The bowstring was also coated and felt soft to the touch. When Varen pulled back on it, the strength and tension were very noticeable. Though in spite of its beauty, it was still just an ordinary tool.

“Will I get to have a few practice shots before tonight?”

“Oh, of course. We have an ideal shooting range not too far from here.”

They left the storage building and continued through the streets. It was still odd for Varen to see the streets so deserted. When they reached their second stop of the day, they still had not seen another person.

What Hart described as his shooting range was a long, narrow one-room structure with a high ceiling. He claimed that it had once been a gathering spot for group functions such as meetings and dances, and was almost as old Aereguard itself. Now however, target practice for a group of renegades was as much attention as the longhall would ever see. Gaping holes in the roof, along with water damage and rot in the walls made it undesirable even for squatters.

Hart walked to the far end of the hall and withdrew a jar from the bottom of the quiver. He then painted a white circle about two hand-widths wide in the middle of the wall, followed by three more circles going outward, each about the same distance apart. He came back the length of the room and handed the quiver over to Varen.

“Alright, show me what you can do.”

Varen nocked an arrow to the simpler bow for his first attempt. He thought maybe the familiarity of the materials would provide some benefit to his shot, but his doubts far exceeded his hopes. His greatest advantage was the distance to the target. The hall was long, as long as three houses at least, but this was closer than he ever would have been able to get to an animal in the wild. He aimed for the center circle and loosed. The arrow flew lazily through the air, embedding itself low and to the left, just inside the outermost ring. Hart seemed thoroughly unimpressed, but was courteous enough to hold his tongue.

“Let me try the other bow.”

“Good choice.”

Varen reloaded, took aim, and fired his second shot. This time he struck to the right and a little high of center, burying the arrow in the white line of the second-smallest circle.

“Better. A little bit of overcompensation, but still a respectable shot. Again.”

Varen slung the quiver over his shoulder, took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. Drawing from the quiver, nocking the arrow, pulling and releasing all in one fluid motion, he fired off three shots in quick succession. The first struck just outside the center circle. The second and third landed nestled together on the inside.

“Not bad, not bad at all.”

It had been a long time since Varen had received praise for his archery skills. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Let’s try something a little different then, Varen.”

Taking out the jar again, Hart painted a human outline on the wall behind them. They walked to the other end of the hall and retrieved the fired arrows.

“Okay, let’s pretend that that’s a person running toward you. I’ll tell you what you see, you take aim and fire. See if you can exercise judgment and accuracy at the same time.”

Varen nodded and set an arrow to the bowstring. He lined the shaft of the arrow toward the figure on the wall.

“Civilian!”

Varen turned his head toward Hart and raised an eyebrow. The master-at-arms smiled and laughed.

“Just testing your nerves. Congratulations on not killing the civilian. Peasant militia!”

Varen suspected that Hart would try to catch him off guard and was ready. He drew back and fired, landing the arrow squarely in the figure’s right knee.

“Well, you incapacitated him non-lethally, that’s good. Awful cruel of you to cripple the poor bastard though.”

“Sorry, I was aiming for the thigh.”

Varen shared the humor in the verbal barb, but was disappointed in himself.

“Armed soldier, chain shirt!”

Without delay, Varen reloaded and fired. He put a little more strength into his draw, the bow seemed more than capable of handling the stress. The arrow whistled across the room, finding its mark in the target’s upper left arm.

“Disarmed, but still alive. Very nice. The more unnecessary deaths we can avoid, the better. Jalidor Saih!”

Before the echo from Hart’s voice had faded, the arrow was in the air. It sped across the room with a keening whistle, striking directly in the middle of the false man’s head. The rotten wood offered up no resistance whatsoever and the arrow, shaft and fletching, disappeared. The two men stood frozen, staring at the tiny hole of light leading outside, and waiting. No scream came, no startled cry, and finally the pair released their held breaths in unison.

“I think that’s enough for today, Varen. Good work.”

“Agreed.”

They gathered up their gear and headed out of the longhall.
“Now, tell me about the time you made someone hit themselves in the groin so hard that they threw up.”[/SPOILER:9419f2166e]

[SPOILER:86e2592f15]When evening came, it brought with it ill tidings. Varen and Hart arrived back at the groups’ base of operations and discovered that Anquist was gone and would not be returning that night. In his absence, Oz was in command.

“Anquist gave me the details of tonight’s mission. Varen, you are to accompany Redeinia and myself. Hart, you are to remain here.”

Varen did not like that Hart was being left behind. Even though he knew that the man-at-arms had been with him all day as a safety precaution, Hart did an excellent job of making Varen feel like they were comrades, rather than a prisoner and his warden.

“So fill me in, what’s the plan for tonight?”

“I will tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it. Frankly, we do not even need you on this mission, but Anquist has insisted that we take you.”

Varen looked to Hart for support, but he only turned his palms up and shrugged.

“Those are the orders.”

“Good, now make certain you have your bow, Varen. That is all you need. Redeinia and I have the remaining items necessary for tonight. I trust you are capable of fulfilling this task, that it is not too much for you to undertake.”

There was a time when Varen would have simply punched Oz in the face, then stood over him and laughed as he fought to retain consciousness. Unfortunately there was more than just his pride on the line, so he stoically maintained his composure.

“If you’re worried I might trip over my own feet, maybe you’d like to carry me as well.”

“A reasonable concern, to be certain, but I’m afraid that task will also fall to you.”

“Probably for the best. You seem to have far more experience being carried anyway.”

Oz’s eyes narrowed menacingly.

“And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if you were any higher born, your wet nurse would have been wiping bloody noses along with your powdered ass.”

Oz took a step forward but Red intercepted his advance.

“Enough! Both of you! If you want to flex your egos, you do it on your own time. We have a job to do tonight and I will not have it fail because you two can’t get along. So let’s get this done, report back to Anquist and then you can go outside and beat each other bloody for all I care.”

After a moment of cold staring, Oz turned and grabbed a large pack from the floor.

“The day’s light has faded. It is time to take action.”

With that he exited into the cool evening air. Red grabbed her own pack, giving Varen a look that spoke both anger and sympathy. Varen slung his bow over his shoulder and together they followed Oz outside.

They moved quickly through back alleys and along side buildings, making their way out of the old city and toward the populated areas of Aereguard. The night was bathed bright crimson in Ament’s full light. Varen tried to get an idea of where they were headed, but between the speed with which Oz navigated their path, and the time he had spent away from the city, he was very much lost. Only twice during the run did Oz bring the trio to a sudden stop, motioning for them to stay low while he waited for a group of citizens to pass by. When they reached their destination, all three were breathing heavily.

Varen found himself in a narrow alley with a very tall building on one side, and a one-storey structure on the other. There were no windows on the lowest level, but the larger building had three on each of its upper floors. No light came from any of the windows. Not even waiting to catch his breath, Oz wasted no time putting the plan into motion.

“Help me hoist Redeinia onto the roof.”

Varen nodded and each man locked his fingers in front of him. Red braced herself on their shoulders and placed a foot into each of her partners’ hands. The two men easily lifted the spry female into the air and she quickly disappeared over the edge. Ever so faintly, Varen could hear the sound of Red retrieving something from her pack. A single arrow, tied to a rope, dipped over the ledge and slowly descended toward the waiting men. The end of the thin rope had been unwound, then rewound and tied around the end of the shaft, intertwining with the fletching of the arrow. The head of the arrow was metallic, but instead of being flat, it resembled two flat arrowheads merged together, forming a four-pointed star. Oz grabbed the projectile and held it out toward Varen.

“When Redeinia throws the coil of rope into the air, you are to fire and hit that outcropping beam.”

Varen looked up to where Oz was pointing. Some four storeys up, a large wooden beam protruded from beneath the peak of the roof. It was difficult to tell from the ground, but it looked no wider than his hand, and no longer than his forearm.

“Do you understand?”

Varen had hit smaller targets before, much smaller. However he was using an unfamiliar bow and arrow, and was not exactly accustomed to firing straight up into the air. He did not come to make excuses however, he came to perform.

“Yes.”

He set the arrow to the bowstring, took aim, and waited for his cue. From above, he heard Red’s whispered voice count down.

“Three. . . , two. . . , one. . . .”

Then the rope was in the air, arcing out over the open space between the two buildings. Varen drew back with all the force he could and loosed the arrow skyward. As the arrow rose, the rope unwound, appearing like some red serpent striking at its prey. For a moment Varen thought that the weight of the rope would cause too much drag for the arrow to reach its mark, but with a quiet thud it struck, and held. A whisper came from above.

“Nice shot.”

Redeinia was still on the roof, giving the rope a few firm jerks to ensure its stability. She then leapt up, wrapped her feet around the hanging cord, and began to ascend with a speed that astonished Varen. In a matter of minutes she was at the top, pulling herself gracefully into a sitting position on the beam. She pulled something out of her pack once she was situated, and soon a second rope dropped down to meet the two men on the ground. This second rope was thicker than the first, with knots tied into it at regular intervals. Apparently Oz was not as accomplished a climber as Red.

“Start climbing, and be quick about it. I have to wait until you are on the roof before I may begin my own ascent.”

Varen reached up and took hold of the rope. He lifted his feet onto the bottommost knot and began to climb. Even with the added footholds, his pace was not nearly as quick as Red’s. She had less weight to carry, to be certain, but even so there was a hidden strength in her diminutive frame. He was no stranger to heights; he had used trees on a number of occasions for hunting and scouting. However, there was something fundamentally different about climbing a solid, anchored-to-the-ground hardwood and going hand over hand on a cord that swayed back and forth with each movement.

Higher and higher he rose, never daring to look down at the ground. If Oz was down there, berating him to go faster, he could not hear it. Finally he reached the beam, and with Redeinia’s help, pulled himself onto the roof.

Aereguard looked very different from this height. In all directions Varen could see the wall surrounding the city. The Lord Commander’s keep stood tall and imposing near the middle of the still-populated areas. In the highest levels of the keep, the light from fireplaces could be seen spilling through many of the windows. From this vantage, the old city looked no different from the rest of Aereguard; clusters of houses forming an irregular field of wooden bumps, all bowing low before the might of Jalidor Saih.

Beyond the walls, the roads north to Buntz and to Wendolen in the south were dimly visible in the moonlight. The Aereth mountains rose mightily in the south and west. A stillness rested over everything that he saw, blending with the crimson wash to remind him again of his dream the night he was attacked.

He was still gazing out over the landscape when Oz came grunting onto the roof.

“You. . . stay low. . . you’ll be spotted.”

“Oz, let him enjoy the view, would you? It wouldn’t hurt for you to spend a minute and take it in too.”

Rather than heed her advice, he motioned for them to follow as he moved to the other side of the long roof and took cover against a large chimney. Oz reached into his own pack and produced another roped arrow, this one having its rope tied to the middle of the shaft instead of the end. It was also longer than the previous arrow had been.

“Your target this time is that window.”

Across the street from them stood a large stone tower. The window that Oz indicated was at least another storey above them. It was narrower than most windows, but wider than the beam that Varen had been required to hit, and roughly the same distance away, albeit horizontally instead of vertically.

“Just get the arrow inside.”

To compensate for the weight of the rope, he aimed higher than he normally would have. His instinct did not fail him as he drew and fired, sending the arrow just over the bottom ledge of the opening.

“Wow, two for two. You need to enter some archery tournaments, Varen. Maybe then I’ll win a wager for once.”

Red gave Varen an affirming pat on the shoulder while Oz began to slowly reel in the rope that now hung over the empty street. He only had to pull three times hand-over-hand before the rope went taut.

“Good, the arrow is holding. Looks like luck is on our side tonight, guys.”

Red seemed ready to celebrate every success along the course of their mission. Oz remained silent and began securing the rope around the chimney. When he was satisfied with his work he gave a signal, and without hesitation, Red climbed out and began to shimmy across the underside of the rope. The two men watched as she made her way to the tower.

“She’s pretty fearless, isn’t she?”

Varen glanced sidelong at the swordsman, waiting for a reply. The silence stretched on. He was about to give up on the possibility of a conversation when Oz spoke, softly, with a tone Varen had not heard him use until that time.

“Her bravery surpasses that of any other person I know, man or woman.”

Varen turned his head and studied Oz in profile. He continued to monitor Red’s progress, the same stoic mask drawn firmly on his features. If Varen didn’t know better, he would swear that the response had come from someone, anyone, else.

“How long have you two known each other?”

There was another pause, though shorter than the first.

“A very long time. Since childhood.”

“So you two must be pretty close then.”

Oz did not respond.

“I mean, you must know basically everything there is to know about each other, right?”

The silence of the night absorbed Varen’s words, reclaiming its dominion. Oz stared straight ahead. By this time, Red had disappeared through the tower window. Varen decided to abandon the personal questions.

“What’s in the tower that’s so important?”

“If I thought you needed to know, I would have told you by now.”

The familiar tone had returned. Varen knew well enough that he would get nothing more out of the dour young man. The ensuing uncomfortable silence was quickly interrupted as Red returned to the window. She pushed two medium-sized sacks out through the opening which were tethered together by a cord. This she draped over the long rope, adjusted, then released. The package began racing down the rope toward the two waiting men with a high pitched whirring noise.

“Ensure that they do not strike the chimney when they reach the bottom.”

Varen and Oz braced themselves on either side of the chimney, extended their arms, and caught the two bags as they reached the end of the line. The contents of the two packs rattled loudly as they came to a sudden stop. At least it seemed loud compared to the quiet that had preceded its descent. Once the delivery was complete, Oz pulled apart a mechanism that was attached to the rope and draped the two sacks over the peak of the roof. Inspecting the disassembled device, Varen saw how the bags had been able to slide down the rope so quickly. A grooved, wooden wheel with its center removed, sat on a hollow wooden axle. The axle was attached to one end of a rectangular piece of wood about the size of Varen’s hand. The other end of the rectangle had a second hole cut into it. Two such constructs were locked together, head-to-tail, around the rope so that everything rolled down smoothly. The cord that connected the two packs had been threaded through one axle and the tail of the second piece of wood before being tied to the packs.

“Ready yourself, another drop is coming!”

Varen turned from the mechanism and saw that a second, identical pair of bundles was on its way down the rope. He reached out to catch the new arrival, and when it rolled into his hand, he grabbed the wooden blocks and disengaged them before Oz had a chance to. Whatever the swordsman was thinking, he did not say anything as Varen draped the second set of bags over the peak of the roof. When he turned around again, Red was already out of the tower and making her way back down the rope. She moved slower on the descent, lowering herself hand over hand as opposed to pulling herself forward.

As the two men watched her make her way back toward the roof, they were interrupted by a scuffing sound behind them. When they turned around, they found that one of the bags come loose from its tether and was sliding down the pitch of the roof. Released from its counterweight, the partner bag was also beginning to roll down the opposite side.

Cursing, Oz rushed down the incline to catch the runaway cargo. Likewise, Varen quickly made his way to catch the second. It didn’t take him long to stop the bag, as it still had the tether attached which he was able to grab before the bundle gained very much speed. As he was reeling in the cord, he heard Red’s frightened voice.

“Uh, Oz? Varen?”

Varen turned and saw her still holding onto the rope out in the middle of the span. As he watched, the rope jerked downward.

It was coming undone from the chimney.

Varen dropped his recaptured bounty and scrambled back up the roof using all four limbs for leverage.The coil of rope that remained on the roof grew smaller and smaller. Varen threw himself forward just as the end of the rope was about to disappear, slamming sideways into the chimney. He managed to get a hand on the line, but his own momentum and the pull of the falling woman quickly dragged him around the far side of the smokeshaft and out into the open air. Flailing desperately, his free hand found the corner of chimney and held fast, stretching him open with such force it felt as if his arms would be torn off. In an instant, Oz was at the edge of the roof.

“Quickly! Give me the rope!”

“Pull me up!”

“The rope! Now!”

Varen had a disturbing vision of Oz taking the rope and then planting a boot in his face for extra leverage in saving Red.

“I’ve got it, pull me up!”

Oz cursed again.

“I cannot lift you both with nothing to brace myself on. I can hold the rope while you pull yourself up and then we both save Redeinia.”

It made sense. At least, Varen hoped it made sense. He began straining to pull the end of the rope back toward the building. Oz wrapped his hands around Varen’s bicep to take some of the strain off of the fingers that were being cut into by the edge of the chimney. Once the rope was securely in the swordsman’s hands, Varen released his grip on it and pulled himself up onto the roof. Both men then braced themselves and gently reeled in Red who, though shaken and in tears, was thankfully unharmed.[/SPOILER:86e2592f15]