He hefted the quivers and was visibly doing some consideration. 

Thad asked, “What’s the matter?”

Chewing his jaw in thought and not liking his mental conclusion René replied, “I’m gonna have to do this light.  What I put on my back is all I can carry.”

Yank whistled softly as they all watched René put down two of the quivers, and regretfully take his long sword off.  Whatever he was about to do, he was going armed with only boot daggers, hatchet, 18” short blade and one quiver.  René was known far and wide as a fellow who liked to go well armed, and he really liked his arrows.  He took his time and pulled the Mythril tipped arrows he carried from each quiver and put them all into the one.

Bernard remarked, “René, you have the look of someone about to go out and do something really dangerous.  You should let me go with you as back-up.  I’ve got a feelin’ you’re goin’ to need it.”

René looked up and breathed deep, then said, “Nothin’ personal, but can’t no-one do what I’m fetchin’ to do but me, and I ain’t plumb sure I can.  But I’m a’goin’ for it.

“Yank, Sormiske’s gonna need a driver, what with Letcher and Dugan dead.  I know these town folks and they don’t cotton up to Sormiske, won’t nobody drive for him.  And someone needs to stay here, just in case I don’t make it, so they can tell Hoscoe when he gets back.” 

René didn’t waste any more time, “Daylights a’burnin’ boys.”  With a quick forearm clasp to each man, he hurried out of the door.  As he stepped out he heard Thad ask, “Just where are you a goin’?”

Over his shoulder René made a quick answer, “I’m ridin’ the Cody Buck and visitating the haunts.”

He heard Yank stomp the floor and exclaim, “Dammit to Hades …”

Bernard exclaimed in surprise, “The C-o-o-o-d-y Bu-u-ucks?!  You’re goin’ to try Banshee Canyon Trail.  Son, there ain’t no way through.  It’s a dead road …”

But there was no stopping René, he was down the path and on his way, his mind resolute even as his friends were caught off guard. 

René went straight to the home of a man named Foxill, a prominent citizen and owner of three businesses including Gertrude’s Diner.  It also happened that Foxill was the owner of Madigan’s Pride, who just happened to be named for the buxom young lady in Gertrude’s Diner, Foxill’s youngest daughter.

Knocking on the back door, it was a matter of short order until René explained quickly his need for a fast horse.  Foxill had taken a moment before asking, “You aren’t involved with this Sormiske character, are you?”

“Actually, he’s the problem,” René explained quickly and added, “I need to find Hoscoe.”

Foxill lead the way to his private stable and asked, “Is it true Hoscoe is General Hoscoe Val’Ihrus?”

“I’m afraid so, I didn’t know it neither.  You just wouldn’t know, the easy way he is around the fellers.  He’s just a down to ground guy.”

“There is a story here; I would like to hear it one of these days.”  Foxill remarked while glancing at René.  Opening the stable door he indicated down the corridor, “Take Sir Kowan.  He’s the flea bitten grey on the right.  His trot will beat your buffer and he doesn’t have finish line speed, but he’s a stayer with lots of heart and plenty quick on the long distance. 

“He was a chance breeding, fellow stopped at Turn Key with one of those Arab stallions about four years ago.  That stallion must have been feeling frisky, because he broke loose and covered a carthorse.  I was down there and heard the story, so I found the vendor and tried to buy the mare.  He wouldn’t sell, and when this fellow was old enough the vendor tried to run him.  Anyway, when I heard the vendor died a couple of months ago, I made the seventy-five mile trip south, myself, to get him. 

“His feet are in excellent condition and he’s just been shod.  He can jump a five pole fence as well.”

René was impressed, “How much for …?”

“He’s yours,” Foxill said as he looked at René with a grin on his face,

Stunned, René faltered and asked, “But, why?  You have plans, you obviously want to …”

“Changed my mind,” Foxill said with a shrug.  Continuing he said, “You’re a solid young man.  You work hard and never whine, and you jump up to take responsibility.  You’re going to make big tracks on the land.  Besides, he’s already covered three of my mares including the Pride.”

Pointing down the breezeway he added, “Take the third saddle on the left.  It’s an experimental saddle which has seen little use.”  Foxill began to turn to leave the stable, “I’ll get a bag of supplies for you.  Madigan was looking forward to your dancing with her at the social next week, you know?”

René hesitated for only a moment, “Tell her I’ll make it up to her.”  He added humorously, “If I live I’ll bring her a present.”

“If you don’t live, she will hold me accountable.  So you better live,” Foxill replied with a pointed finger, and then walked into his house grinning.

Within fifteen minutes René had quickly made preparations and was in saddle.  Madigan had just stepped out the back door of the house when René settled into the leather.  Not knowing what to say, he just looked at her for a moment.  With an impish grin he touched his finger to his head and reared Sir Kowan on hind legs, holding him there for an instant in a dramatic fashion.  Then he left the stable yard at a canter.  The sun was just rising as he was leaving town, riding fast.

Chapter   25

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THERE IS TALK that a horse can’t go more than twenty or thirty miles in one day with a rider.  But the properly conditioned mount of the right configuration, ridden by someone who understands endurance riding, can go much farther. 

René knew where Hoscoe had gone, to an independent keep off of the Charlamae Road heading north.  The beaten path avoided the worst hills and it was about one hundred and forty-five miles from Kynear to Wadsworth Keep. 

Hoscoe had hoped to make the trip in three days, with switching horses along the way.  René was aware of another route which was two-thirds the distance but infinitely more dangerous.  With Sir Kowan, he planned to make the ride in one day.

While Sormiske was practically begging people to drive his wagon, René had already crested his first rise.  Taking time to learn his horse, he was thoroughly pleased.  Checking out his lines and feeling the action, René figured Sir Kowan’s dam must have been a Pamberdine, a solid animal which easily adapted to harness or saddle and known for their characteristic smooth temperament.  They were also intelligent and sure-footed with great endurance. 

René had the feeling his horse might not have the speed to close a tight, one mile flat race, but over a long distance could run down anything with a hoof.  Standing about fifteen and a half hands he had inherited the best of both bloodlines, was beautifully muscled and extremely well conditioned.  René found himself wondering how his grand-pap would like this stallion to cover his mares.

Sir Kowan’s gate was tireless and he seemed to really enjoy running.  With uncanny skill, René altered the pace to save his mount and maximize their time.  René’s plan was to take breathers, drink water when needed and be prepared to run all out at a moment’s notice. 

Three times René planned to make what he called pit stops.  During these stops he planned to strip tack, rub his mount down, and do what for years his ancestors had been calling vet checks.  While Sir Kowan was eating a small amount of specially prepared feed, René would carefully go over his entire body and apply an herbal liniment to the legs.  He had been carrying this liniment with him in a carry pouch for as long as had been old enough to ride.

An old saying René knew went: “With eight hours to cut wood, spend six of those hours sharpening your axe.  A sharp blade will cut ten times that of a dull one.”  He had been raised to believe that in taking care of your mount, in the long run your mount will take care of you.  René was depending on this horse, and he owed him the best care possible.

Occasional flurries were just starting in this area, so thankfully there would be no large drifts to fight.  René had been on the trail as far as Tercel Lake five or six times, but the rest of the trail he knew only from talking with an old trapper he had known as a boy.  It was little more than a game trail, and in two places so narrow a rider’s foot would hang over the edge of a long drop. 

Kynear was nestled amongst the foothills where they became mountains, and the region this old trail wound through was called the Cody Buck Hills.  Nothing human had lived there for as long as anyone knew, although there were some ancient ruins of cliff dwellers, and was said to be frequented by all manner of undead. 

The only flat place for miles around was Jabberdine Mesa.  Otherwise everything was saddlebacks, ridges, dips, hollows, ravines and sharp cliffs.

René’s trapper friend thought the trail could have been part of the Ghost Road.  Sure enough, the northwestern most part would skirt Banshee Canyon, which was mentioned in old tales of the Ghost Road.  Just the name puts the sammies in most folk. 

René had been to Banshee Canyon four years before on the western side, and he heard the moaning sounds in the wind.  It was the squealing pitch sounding like a woman crying mournfully that made his blood feel like it had turned to ice; and it had been daytime.

The stories of Banshee Canyon carried into the lore of the Cody Buck Hills.  Added to the mysterious presence of the cliff dweller’s ruins, the whole region was considered haunted and the savage denizens who now lived there made it all the more dangerous.

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The first leg of the journey was an easy go.  Here and there a tree had blown into the trail, but Sir Kowan made ease of such simple jumps.  Twice they were able to ride around obstacles, but nothing as yet posed a real challenge.  Finding a huge stand of mountain laurel with a stream close by, a place where René had camped before, they came to rest for their first pit stop.

Chancing a small fire to heat some water, René removed the saddle briefly and mixed a small snack for his mount. Carefully, all feet were checked and Sir Kowan got a thorough rub down.

Finished, René ate some jerked meat and gazed out to Tercel Lake.  Those fish were big and he started a craving for a 28” trout, cooked over a fire with roasted tubers, onions and … okay, enough of that.  With attentive eyes he scanned all about for any sign of what could bring trouble.

Tacking back up, the fire was carefully killed and wood placed where it would be easy to find next time someone needed it.  Mounting up, René lingered his view on a winter flower and thought a moment of Madigan.  Then they began the second leg of their journey.

The laurel was growing incredibly thick, much more than René remembered.  Eventually he had to dismount and lead Sir Kowan for a quarter mile, both with their heads low as they forced their way through the hearty vines.  Once in the clear, René was back in the saddle and both were in the mood to run.

Winding through a series of hills, the trail took the pair out of sight of Tercel Lake for several miles.  Riding low into a depression and skirting a huge uprooted tree, René caught sight of unusual activity before his mount did. 

Downwind, only a few rods away, he saw what appeared to be the carcass of a large boar entangled in a thicket.  Gathering the reins and preparing for a surge of speed he saw one, two, and then three faces of large rabbits raise their heads from the opposite side of the boar.  Each face was covered in blood.

Inhaling through clenched teeth, René drew his mount in to a cautious halt.  Wayma Hares weighed an average of 30-35 lbs, are incredibly fast over short distances, and carnivorous.  Vicious pack hunters, these predators had-hook shaped fangs and teeth which ground into their meat, holding it in place as they made fast work of their prey.  René was hoping desperately this pack was satisfied and not angry.  Gluttons, they had been known to eat, regurgitate, and eat again.

A larger, fourth hare raised its head, opened its mouth, placed a foot on top of the boars head, bared its fangs and hissed.  Keeping a now nervous mount under control, René eased on around the tree’s upended roots.  While watching the hares closely, they continued onward. 

Reassuring Sir Kowan and keeping a nervous watch, René put forty rods between them when one of the hares made a break from the boar in their direction.  Clapping the heels to Sir Kowan, they lunged up the trail with a burst of speed.  The trail made a sharp right hand turn and they took it fast.  René saw out of the corner of his eye, two of the hares moving through the forest at blistering speeds with a third trailing a little way behind. 

The hares forked their trajectory and René pulled up into a sudden, haunch-sliding stop as one hare hurtled across the trail in front of them, the second took the full swing of René’s blade.  Whirling Sir Kowan quickly around, René caught the first hare as it recovered its missed attack and leaped at the horse’s belly with a low, under-swinging arc of the same blade. 

René whirled his mount again and faced the forest with anticipation.  The third hare came to an abrupt stop, cautiously observed its two dead chums, and then hissed at René.  Turning, the hare ran back into the woods toward the remains of the boar.  René took the next two miles at a steady run.

Slowing to a walk and then stopping for a respite, René breathed a sigh of relief.  Scratching the horse behind the ears, he remarked, “Cherron’s Beard, you’ve a heart of iron.  My grand-pap will want to meet you.”

Three miles further on, they came to an ancient bridge crossing a 60’ wide stretch of water.  It was the outlet for Tercel Lake, now within view once more.  Drawing his bow and loosening his arrows, René studied the bridge carefully.  His second time traveling across this bridge had drawn an attack from a troglodyte living underneath.  He hadn’t seen one since, but it didn’t pay to take things for granted. 

Once across the bridge, they continued another mile to where the trail seemed to fork off to the left, in the direction of the lake.  Pausing in the trail, René commented to his partner, “Well, Sir Kowan, sir, from here on is further than I’ve set foot thus far.  Yonder that way,” motioning to the more faint trail off to the left, “is some of the best fishin’ I’ve done in my lifetime.  On that-a-way,” motioning toward their destination, “well now, it’s all new to me.  What do you say partner?  Ready?”

Slapping Sir Kowan on the neck with affection he added, “You know?  Sir Kowan is a nice name.  But when it’s just you and me, how ‘bout I just call you Kowi?”

The flea bitten gray flickered his ears as if in agreement, and tossed his head.

“Oky-doke,” René said with a laugh, “let’s be on with it.”  And forward up the trail they rode.

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Perhaps ten miles after their second pit stop, they came up to the first narrow ledge portion of the trail.  For quite some time they had been steadily climbing into the hills.  Often René would stop and look back in the direction they had come. 

Checking your back-trail was important in the wilderness, especially in unfamiliar country.  Greenhorns assumed everything looked the same, coming or going.  But when traveling the opposite direction of your original route, things tend to take a different perspective.  Shadows are different, landmarks take on a different character, and contours seem to change.

If something went really wrong, René had no intention of getting lost trying to come back.  Twice, he saw indications of little used game trails he had not noticed until looking back.  More than once, he thought how beautiful this country was, and how he wanted to return to explore it.  Why, he wondered, did the cliff dwellers leave?  Did the haunts drive ‘em out, or had they become the haunts, themselves.

He looked all around and couldn’t shake the eerie feeling he was being watched, studied, by someone … but who.  It made the hairs on René’s neck stand up at attention.

At the edge of a brook, and within easy bowshot, they saw a cluster of deer grazing.  One, a magnificent buck with a huge rack, raised his head and looked right at them.  Then the group went bounding through the woods.

The trail began to narrow considerably as the two began a steady climb on the right side of a steep hillside.  Looking up, René wondered if this was a big hill or a small mountain.  To the right, a sheer drop into a dark ravine grew more intimidating with each step.  It wasn’t long before his right foot was literally hanging over the deep expanse.  Some gravel broke loose from Kowi’s hoof and fell, but René never heard the rock hit bottom.  Whew!  “More to make the hair stand up,” he told Kowi.

For four miles the narrow ledge continued, all the while René holding his breath that they wouldn’t meet someone, or something, undesirable.  This was not a place where a horse could turn around, and surely was a bad place to try a fight. 

A whistle in the rocks, then a barrage of wind hit them, forcing Kowi to adjust his feet and even lean into the one wall to the side of the trail.  But the wind settled and they continued their way.

At one point, René could have almost sworn they were riding around and around the same cone in repetition.  Then they stepped up onto a small rise with an open clearing in front of them, a deep and dark forest beyond.  Taking a moment to think, he was trying to remember the mention of such a forest by his trapper friend.  There had been no mention of a wood at this point in the trail, and the trapper had been very thorough. 

There was no way such a forest could have grown in the time since the trapper’s one journey through here.  Not naturally, in any case.

So, had they gone the wrong way?  René had been meticulous in his observation to detail. 

There was something just not quite right about the way the needles of the pines were moving.  An illusion?  But why?  He didn’t like it, but the only other choice was to turn and go back. 

‘Not happening,’ René thought with resolution.

Skirting the clearing and loosening his weapons, René focused his mind and prepared for the worst.  With satisfaction, he noticed Kowi also seemed to understand and was anticipating a burst of action.  The question was: ready his bow, or leave it slung?  Just in case he might be able to slick talk his way out of possible trouble, he decided it would be rather provoking if he entered an unsuspecting camp with his weapon drawn.

A camp?  Absurd.  Not here.  And if so, who? 

René shook his head, he was letting his imagination run away with him.

Stepping into the tree line was like moving through a veil.  Some scrub trees and scattered deadfalls were there, yes, but no forest.  Instead there were several boulders and rock formations all about.  This was more akin to the old trapper’s description.  A human, which must have been a lookout, was leaning against one of the formations and sound asleep.

René had stumbled upon an ensemble of bandits, and someone had the money to afford a wizard powerful enough to set up a large illusion. 

There was nothing in René’s mind but to go forward and keep himself in play.

Easy stepping around another formation, he saw a few tents and a lean-to.  René’s first thought was, ‘How did they get here and from which direction?  He had seen virtually no sign of any travel, and he was good.  Someone needed to know.’  But that was no matter for now. 

Several bandits were huddled up around a fire discussing some issue or the other.  One bandit saw the lone rider and shouted while running for a crossbow; so much for René talking his way out of trouble.

The others scurried for weapons as René clapped down on Kowi and leaned low, scooping a long dead branch from the ground with his left hand, straightening and switching the branch to his right hand, he charged directly at the first bandit like a knight with a jousting lance and ran him through. 

Drawing his hatchet with his left hand, he laid another bandit’s head open as he made a desperate grab for Kowi’s bridle.  Whirling around, René saw the camp erupt in chaos and what must have been a wizard ran out of a tent and began to wave his hands.

Whipping out his right boot knife, René threw the blade true into the wizard’s throat and looked quickly for signs of the trail.  Seeing a boulder which fit a description given by the trapper, they made a quick run for it, hoping it was here the trail continued its winding course through the mountains.

A mounted bandit rode from across the camp in an attempt to cut René off.  But René charged the bandit’s horse and jumped Kowi up and over, knocking the bandit off his mount in the process. 

Continuing the trail on the other side, René let his horse have his head in full flight.  Looking behind he saw at least four mounted bandits trying to catch up.  Knowing there was no deviation from the trail for quite some time, René tied his reins and swinging his right leg forward and around, he dropped his feet to touch the fast moving ground below and swung his body up and around behind the saddle to the other side, throwing his right leg over the horse’s neck and straddled the saddle backwards.

Locking his legs securely, René grabbed his bow and waited the right moment.  At the next turn he sighted the first bandit and put an arrow through his throat, then speared the chest of a second.  As their horses ran off the side of the trail, the next bandit saw René taking aim and ducked, allowing the next one back to take the fatal missile.  The trail widened, and two bandits were spreading out side by side, each with a crossbow in hand. 

Trying a stunt he had only thought about, René leveled his own bow crossways and fitted two arrows.  ‘Won’t know until you try,’ he thought.  Waiting for just the right moment, he let fly and both bandits left their horses.  Up the center, one last bandit thought to try his own crossbow and fired, but missed. 

René’s put one into the man’s chest, but the fellow stayed in the saddle and was trying to reload his crossbow.  René put another arrow into the man’s chest a half inch from the first.  The outlaw warrior was definitely game and tough enough, but he was on the wrong side.  He was leveling his weapon to fire when René’s next shot caught him through the left eye.

Still running at top speed, Kowi had not missed a stride and his gate had been smooth all the way.  Reversing his saddle switch-up, René let out a whoop and said, “You go, Kowi horse.  You and me, we make a team!”

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René wanted to put distance between them and the bandits, but also needed to conserve Kowi’s strength for the journey through Banshee Canyon.  The plan was to make the final pit stop about two miles beyond where they would reach safe ground.  There was a place called Sweetwater Springs where they would leave the trail and cross country for Wadsworth Keep.  Just a little more luck was all they needed.

From off in the distance they heard the wails of what sounded like a woman crying in anguish in the night, and chills went up René’s spine.  Kowi’s ears perked up, too, and he faltered in his stride. 

They drew up and René talked reassuringly to the gray, patting him on the withers and rubbing his neck.  Kowi didn’t fight, but it was clear he didn’t like the upcoming stretch of trail any more than his rider.

Just a few minutes, René thought.  They would rest for just a few minutes and gather themselves for what was to come.  Of course, Kowi had no idea what was ahead.  But René knew the trail would wind around on the side of a sheer cliff, their left side would be exposed to the expanse.

On the off-chance combat was necessary; their position against the cliff would be even more against them, as René’s right arm would be limited in range of motion.  And the old trapper said rockslides looked to be common.

Aside from the trapper’s information and tales of superstition, René had no other knowledge about this area.  He was in many ways headed into the unknown.

Erie rock formations, shadows that seemed to enter your soul, boulders balanced on slender stone columns, and hard packed ground was all about them; no one place looked much better than another.  Looking carefully about, René dismounted, and using the small cooking dish gave Kowi some water.

As much for his own benefit as for his mount, René held Kowi’s head close and said, “You’ve done me proud, old dad.  We make a pair, you and me.  You seen Madigan?  What do you think of her?  She’s a looker, ain’t she?”

Walking slowly around and leading his horse by the bridle, René kept a steady vigil as he tried to acclimate his team to the sounds of the canyon.  He wanted Kowi, okay, himself too, to be as used to the squalls and moans as possible before getting on that ledge.  As a precaution, he had tied the reins together and draped them on Kowi’s neck, just in case he would need to vault into the seat and take off.

“You think I should court her proper?  My grand-pap says when a woman sets her cap for a feller its all over.  You think she has her cap set for …”

‘What was that?!’

A shimmering blur seemed to grow out of the air in the direction they needed to go.  René tried to focus his vision, but the blur enveloped them like a misty cloud of heat.  His head began to spin and he thought he saw human sized shapes forming in the blurry haze.

Stumbling once, he tried to get to Kowi’s side and into the saddle, but Kowi was afraid and sidestepping frantically.  René missed his first try to get his foot into the stirrup.  Then he felt icy fingers grab the inside of his left arm as the threads of terror worked their way into his mind.

Chapter   26

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WHIRLING ABOUT WHILE simultaneously drawing his short blade, for a frozen moment René saw into the eyes of the fiend which had seized him.  Seemingly without skin, the body was that of a grotesquely misshapen humanoid.  The muscles were gnarled, fingers long and spidery, with quill-like fingernails the color of green slime.  A huge, cruel mouth was filled with jagged brown teeth, and the breath in René’s face sent waves of weakness through his body.

But it was the eyes which held him captivated, if only for an instant.  As big as René’s fists, the eyes were yellowish, bloodshot and filled with a hideous lust.  Gruesome fear clutched at his vitals as the sweat of horror drenched René from head to toe.

Courage has been described as an absence of fear and often attributed to the big and strong.  This, however, is not the truth.  Courage is being afraid, yet moving forward in spite of that fear.  Many a well muscled man has turned and run in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.

With certain death looking him quite literally in the eye, it was instinct alone which made René exhale forcefully and swing his blade in a wide, upward arc and then down hard against the arm holding him.  The creature, apparently relishing the anticipation of a kill, widened its own eyes in surprise as the blade severed its arm.

Keeping his lungs closed, René followed the circling motion to strike the neck and spinning around struck again to the torso.  Drawing his hatchet he fended off a second creature, ducking fast as it blew a purplish cloud at him.

‘Kowi!’  He had to save his horse.

But Kowi was fighting a battle of his own.  The moment René had been grabbed, one of these creatures had tried to jump upon the stallion as another tried to grab him by the head.

Kowi was a well trained mount, but he was first and foremost a stallion.  Within his veins ran the hot blood of his desert born sire.  Where he had once been frightened, Kowi was now enraged and white hot with fury. 

These creatures must have never seen a horse before, and if so, surely not one such as this.  The creature which leaped upon Kowi’s back did not have time to grab a hold before he had been bucked high into the air.  Hitting the ground hard, Kowi then leaped upward into a sunfish and mid-air corkscrew, landing to catch his second would-be attacker full in the chest with both rear hoofs.

Snaking his head and charging with barred teeth, Kowi attacked the creatures and caused them to scatter in their own confusion.  René, however, was still having his challenges. 

Apparently, he was now considered the easier prey.  Yet his blade and hatchet did not cease to strike and hew, all the time trying for a chance to close with Kowi in a bid to leap up and escape.

All sound was distorted in the unnatural and ghostly haze; suddenly René noticed he was stepping in sand.  There was no sand anywhere around Banshee Canyon, where was he?  What was going on?

Turning from one downed opponent, he was just in time to see one of the creatures in mid leap toward his torso.  With no time to evade, René ran his blade forward into the creature’s body.  Carried backward from the collision, René tried to roll sideways so as not to get caught under the carcass.  In rolling out, the blade was wrenched from his hand.

‘No!’  He thought in desperation.  Trying to get to the still writhing form, yet another creature attempted to breathe its vapor upon him.  Ducking away while sucking in his breath, René performed a border shift and tossed his hatchet to the right hand while drawing his left boot knife.  Catching his new assailant in the midriff with the hatchet, he reversed direction and with a backhand motion caught another in the midriff as well.  Then he followed with a spearing motion to the side of the neck with his dagger.

‘Too many …’ he thought, ‘… can’t keep this up.’  He had to get to Kowi.  Where was Kowi?  He could not hear the stallion anywhere.  Was he down? 

René felt himself get tackled from behind and was sure it was all over.  Those infectious looking claws raked his body as he felt the force take him forward.  René refused to give in, however, and as he fell he tried to twist so as to carry the creature over into the drop.  But instead of hitting the ground, they continued to fall, and fall, and fall.

‘The edge,’ René thought, they had somehow fallen over the edge of the canyon.  ‘I’ve failed,’ was the only thing in his mind and he gnashed his teeth at the idea.  Roaring his rage, he waited for the smashing of his body against the cliff side and rocks below – but it didn’t come. 

The creature released his hold on René’s body and scrambled while screaming a crackled cry of its own in terror.  Somewhere, René thought he heard the sounds of Banshee Canyon, but so far away.  All seemed hot, humid, yet the rich smell of vegetation crossed his nostrils. 

‘What …?’

René’s impact with the heavy foliage of high up trees was completely unexpected.  Smashing against up-stretched limbs, breaking through and crashing into more limbs below blunted the speed of his fall, but he was still coming down dangerously fast. 

He couldn’t count the number of times he hit and broke through branches, and once he felt as if he had been torn in half when he draped over a thick vine.  The force of the snag caused the vine to give tremendously, swing in a large arc, and before René could catch his breath and hang on he fell again.

Wishing he had grabbed his dagger with a reverse grip, René tried anxiously to hook his hatchet on something, anything.  Somehow he grabbed a bite on a solid limb, and was sure he separated his right shoulder when he stopped with a jolt.  Feeling himself losing grip on the hatchet handle, he swung the other hand up to grab hold of the limb before falling again.

Before he was able to secure himself, his right armed failed and he lost hold of the dagger as well in a frantic effort to clutch the branch.  The fingernails of his left hand tore as he dangled for a moment, trying to get his right arm to respond, when he slipped and fell again.

Hitting the side of a tree, he bounced and rolled onto a large brush, which in turn refused to support his weight and collapsed sideways to deposit him into a pool of crystal clear water.

Almost unconscious, and now with his shoulder wracked with pain, the sudden emersion revived René enough to splash his way to finding he could stand above the water line.  Looking about, he found himself in what seemed to be a tropical paradise.  His first thought was for his horse, but how could he find Kowi here; more importantly, where was here?

All around was a dense jungle, at one end of this immense pool was a sixty to seventy feet high water-fall.  Into the water, a brilliant sun reflected the light of a rainbow.  Where he stood, the water was above waist deep and something on the pool floor glittered.

Confounded, René looked up to see no mountains close by.  Nor did he see any sign of the fiendish creatures.  The sparkle under the water took his curiosity for a moment.  Ducking down, he picked up a piece of the glittering rock and came up with it.  His breath caught as he gazed at what must be a nugget of purest gold, a gold which had a touch of the rainbow in it. 

Taking a sip of the water, it was sweet; not to cold, but refreshing.  Still, René decided to get out of the water.  There was no telling what might be alive in there.  And again, where was here? 

Crawling out upon what seemed to be the end of a game trail, he looked about and tried to get a fix on his dilemma.  He could fret later, first he had to determine his assets.  Survival would not be a problem; he had a small knife, some arrows and his bow, and he always carried a possible pouch slung around his shoulder.  So named because you never knew what you might possibly need when you least expect it.

Then from far away, he heard the wailing sounds of Banshee Canyon.  ‘Where?’ he thought.  ‘Am I hallucinatin’, am I really bein’ eaten alive and just don’t know it?’  But the pain in his shoulder convinced him he wasn’t.

Following the sound with his ear, René found the game trail went in that direction, at least part way.  Cautiously, he began to go at a slow run.  Sure, he was about washed out and his whole body was wracked with pain, but he still had a job to do and he refused to quit. 

Rounding a bend he looked into a clearing which met with what seemed to be the same blurry, heat waving mist.  And it was moving slowly his way. 

‘Shael’s!’

In the forest several rods away, René caught a glimpse of an over grown ruin, a stone house of some sort, long unused.  He was about to turn and run away from the advancing mist when he thought he saw a figure moving through the murk, a familiar figure, Kowi!

Carefully, he made his way up to the stallion, which seemed to already recognize him.

René took the bridle and caressed Kowi’s head, rubbed his ears and pressed their foreheads together.

Caution was in René’s mind, but he also needed to make sure his horse was alright.

“Are you alright, old dad?  How did you get here, of all places?” he asked as he quickly ran his hands over Kowi’s body.

Excitement at finding his mount merged into curiosity, which turned to confusion and puzzlement.  René found several scratches, two bite marks and an indistinguishable claw mark on Kowi’s body.  None which matched wounds possibly gained from the fiends they had just encountered, and all of varying degrees of healing. 

The worst, the claw mark, looked to be several days old and healing nicely.  Kowi also seemed to be well fed, watered, rested and in overall good condition.  What was going on here? 

All of this was done in a matter of seconds.  Having observed Kowi’s walk was fine, a fast check of his legs revealed no damage there.  Thankfully, René had not secured the reins to the saddle; also the reins had not fallen over Kowi’s head when he must have watered and fed, this in itself had René perplexed.  It was something he would have to wonder about at another time.  René would have to check under the hooves later.  First they had to get out of here.

A breeze moved their way and Kowi caught it just a moment before René, the smell of a big cat.  Kowi became immediately agitated and René quickly vaulted into the saddle.  He could take time to hurt later, but where to go?

Once more, from somewhere inside the blurry mist the sounds of Banshee Canyon could be heard.

At that moment, a snarl came from the brush and Kowi made their mind up for them.  The stallion bolted into the mist in full flight and for a moment everything was once more disorienting.  The ground was jungle floor at first, then became sand.  René was sure he heard the sound of water crashing on a shoreline and he smelled salt air.  Something splashed beside them and he tasted what had to be ocean water.  Off in the mist he could have sworn he saw some kind of tower with a light shining at the top, and what was that far off to the right … a large brick house in the mist with white columns?  Again, from their front, the sounds of Banshee Canyon …

The ground turned to a sloppy mud, and then rock; they were lost in the mist and Kowi reared up, bugling his own alarm.

“Focus on those sounds, René; follow the Banshee Wail,” he told himself; but where were they, which way to turn?  From behind them he could sense they were being chased.

Over there!  Through the blur René thought he could see a rock formation amidst a spot of clarity.  Hard and fast they rode for the rapidly closing hole leading into what he hoped was their own reality. 

From the dry, mind numbing mist they found themselves running headlong onto the trail around Banshee Canyon.  Out from one existence and into another, they were straightway met with a numbing wind and the screams of the canyon’s soul.

Still wet, the cold took René’s breath away and he shivered violently. 

They had re-entered the trail at a dead run where it was no more than six feet across, and the drop off to the left side was perhaps hundreds of feet down into death.  This speed was not a good idea, but a quick look behind showed they were not alone. 

René saw the biggest cat he had ever seen.  It had long fangs perhaps eight or nine inches long, and it was slowly gaining.

There was nothing more or less of it.  They were in a race for their lives.  It was now up to Kowi as René settled in like a jockey and rode for the finish. 

Having no idea how far along the trail they were, René did not know how far they would have to run before, and if even he could, get to a position where he could use his bow. 

Relentlessly, the Saber Tooth Tiger closed the distance inch by inch as Kowi ran his heart out around the deadly canyon trail.  The winds howled, thunder rolled and it seemed for a moment the ground itself was about to shudder.

René had never heard of a cat to run so far at such a speed, and although anxious for himself and his partner, he couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the beast pursuing them.  A quick glance behind, then around a right hand turn and René’s heart seemed to drop from his chest. 

In front of them the trail was gone, completely broken away from a past slide.  Behind them was certain death, to the side a drop into nothing.  The only chance they had was to try jumping the chasm in front of them.  There was no hesitation as René knew Kowi saw it too.  Leaning in to the stallion’s ear René called out, “Let’s go dad!”

The hungry beast was within leaping distance as Kowi charged the trail’s edge and leaped as the horse made his fateful jump.  Into the expanse and seeing the drop below, René swore the jump took forever to travel the distance.  Just barely hitting the edge and scrambling over, the rock broke as the cat touched down not ten feet behind them.  A few rods around a turn and again Kowi had to jump a gap in the broken trail.  A quick look back showed the tiger closer still.

Kowi stumbled and slid, the cat tried to lunge and rake at the fleeing horse and just barely left claw marks on it’s hindquarters.  Once more Kowi jumped an expanse, an expanse the cat almost missed.  Kowi managed to land with sure footing, but as the cat’s front paws touched the edge of the broken trail, the mountain rumbled as the rocky lip began to collapse; the cat’s screams could be heard as it fell to its death far below as with each step the rock beneath Kowi’s feet gave way. 

Harder and harder the stallion worked to stay ahead of the disintegrating ledge until a whole section cracked, tilting back at a dangerous cant.  Horse and rider both began sliding slowly toward the expanse.  René felt Kowi losing groundd and vaulted over his head keeping hold of the reins.

“No … You … DON’T!”  He yelled in agony, as he tried with all desperation to gain a brace for his feet among the jagged rock.  Both slid more until the slab broke again, and René’s feet found purchase.  How much he could help, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t letting Kowi go.

René cried against the pain in his shoulder, the frozen state of his body and a fever he now was feeling in the scratches of his torso, “You can do it.  C’mon, Kowi.  You an’ me …”

Not knowing how much more he could take, René leaned into his hold on the reins when the rock broke again.  Kowi somehow found a step hold and clambered up and over, but in the process stepping accidentally on René. 

René felt the ribs go the moment Kowi’s weight landed on him, but it was the leg that scared him most.  When the back hoof came down on René’s thigh he heard a loud popping sound that sent a shock-wave through his body and sickened him instantly.

As Kowi stepped off of him, the rock broke again and René felt himself slide, the top of his bow catching on a jagged outcropping.  Sliding downward, René fought hard against panic and grabbed the bow with his good, left hand and felt most of the rock beneath him fall. 

‘The bow,’ he reflected, ‘unbreakable string.  This definitely was the time for that wizard to be right.’

For what seemed an eternity René hung there.  Feeling his left hand starting to slip, he focused on one thought and one thought alone, ‘the mission.’

‘I must complete my mission.’

With Herculean effort, he found the strength to slowly climb up and grab hold on seemingly stable rock.  Praying there would be no more breakage, he edged himself up.  Using the bow as a crutch he tried to stand and became sick.  The left leg wasn’t working and he could feel bone move where it shouldn’t.  And the pain in his chest, it was so hard to breathe.  He coughed and spat up blood.  ‘Don’t look at it,’ he thought.

‘The mission …’

Kowi had only gone a few feet beyond the edge and was waiting for him.

How to get on?  René saw a small outcropping.  If he could only climb that little bit and get up.  Twice he tried to make the small climb, almost blacking out. 

‘The mission …’

How he got onto Kowi’s back, he couldn’t remember.  But he did and René let the stallion have his head, holding his bow in his right hand. 

His blade, he would really miss that short blade.  René had hand carved the grip himself.  On each side was the caricature of a Ponshiu, and he had taken pride in keeping it razor sharp.

A half mile along, they rounded a turn and in the path before them, a scant twenty rods away, was a skinny, hairy looking creature looking right at them.  Its eyes were large, and the face reminded René of what he had heard a baboon looks like. 

This had to be a Cautra Beast, said to be an undead with a voice that could turn your heart to stone.

René coughed up more blood and felt the bones grating in his chest.  Looking through hawkish eyes he muttered to himself and Kowi, “You’ve got to be kiddin’?”

The creature crouched low and widened its eyes, then drew back its head and inhaled deeply as it prepared to scream.

Chapter   27

________________________

 

 

NINETEEN YEAR OLD Corporal Whitney had been elated when Major Wadsworth invited him to join his settlement team.  The Battle at Hatchapeik had just been won, ending the Camphry War and solidifying Colonel Hoscoe Val’Ihrus’s rise to general.

Rather than accept a definite promotion to Lt. Colonel, Wadsworth opted to take early retirement and venture south to tame a piece of land.  Talk and plans had been going on for a hundred years to develop a more direct trade route from Dahruban to N’Ville, but it looked like work would actually be getting started in the Tremount Region.

Much of the bordering country was still dangerous at best, and city-states were few and far between.  Wadsworth designed to plant his own pole into the ground and build a solid outpost to support travelers and new settlements.  That had been more than twenty-five years ago.

Not once had Whitney regretted his decision to go.  The work had been hard and fighting often bloody, but they now had the only secure location between Charlamae and Kynear, a good stretch of country indeed.  And Kynear wasn’t exactly the best fortified location one would hope for, at least that was Whitney’s opinion.

Wadsworth Keep had been well built, surrounded by a curtain wall of stone, fortified by towers and they maintained the most state of the art weaponry in existence.  Within the walls was a draw well, a piece of ground where the cook grew vegetables and they even kept a fulltime cleric.  Not just a religious sort, but one of those Priests of Ehl’Rohlahn who can actually heal you.

Whitney had raised his eight children here, buried two of them here, and had made a career he could be proud of.

Scouting had been Whitney’s position in the Dahruban Army, now he was chief of the guard.  And he took pride in taking regular watches himself. 

At his age, a lot of men were complaining about their eyes going bad, but not Whitney.  He held the keep’s heavy crossbow shooting record and still beat them all at every match.  The word was he could recognize any face he knew from a distance, when others would have to use a spyglass.

It was for this reason he made it a point to regularly assign himself watches on the night roster.  The missus didn’t like it, but times were looking bad.  More than just the brigands and mountain races causing trouble, there was talk of something else, something potentially much more dangerous.

For a long time there had been talk of the Great Alignment coming in the next few years.  And if you were a temple goer, some religions were talking about the end of the world.  Cults of Set, Isis, Chogiu, Phalquas and Loki were gaining footholds and growing again, some of these after having been nearly dead for centuries.  The Eayahnite religion was even claiming there was to be a great war of conquest.

Some of those Eayahnite priests were swearing that spirits of fire and acid would bathe the world, and anyone who stood against Eayah would burn like so much smoldering flesh.  The word was, however, that members of their own hierarchy were turning on each other like hungry jackals. 

Supposedly, when Eayah descended upon Orucean he would evaluate the best of his priests.  The most worthy would be allowed to merge with his excellence, while the next thirteen most worthy would be ascended into lesser godhood to reign with Eayah forever.  As a result, much backstabbing and politics was now going on.

Then there were the reports of strange goings on up in the mountains and wild lands.  Creatures never seen or heard of before had been encountered, and some said a colony of were-wolves was up there somewhere.

Whitney was a simple man, who had been a simple soldier and had simple pleasures.  Among these were his wife’s beef dumplings, whittling an old piece of wood, bouncing any of his six grandchildren on his knee, and the visit of an old friend.  When General Val’Ihrus showed up for a surprise visit, just hours ago, it had been a great pleasure to be the man to bid him entrance into the keep.

With a beaming smile on his face, Whitney had exclaimed with a salute, “It is good to see you again, sir.”

Reflecting a pleasant radiance, Hoscoe had returned the salute and replied, “As it is to see you again, Whitney.”  Turning to speak as he rode in, Hoscoe asked, “And how is little Cindy?  She would be six now, I believe?”

“Absolutely, sir.  She is doing well, sir, and she has two younger brothers for you to meet.”

The major had been delighted and a festive time filled the evening.  It was disappointing to learn the general would have to leave by the next noon, but such was life and the moment savored.

Whitney had been proud to introduce not two, but a total of four more grandchildren for Hoscoe to admire and learn their names.  When time came for the watch to change, Whitney regretted having to leave the great hall, but he had a duty to perform.

___________________________

 

It was something past midnight and the keep settled in, when to the north Whitney sighted a lone rider.  It was a bad time to be traveling and there was nothing up that way, nothing but an ancient trail nobody used anymore.  Using a spyglass to enhance his naturally uncanny vision, Whitney studied the rider carefully.

The air was clear; moons and starlight made visibility almost easy.  As the rider got closer, it became evident he was either wounded or feigning injury.  As the rider came closer still, Whitney could see he was holding a bow in his right hand. 

Whitney took no chances.  Something similar had happened just two weeks ago in a tent camp over on Ucette Ridge, and the whole camp destroyed.  Only one survivor made it as far as the keep to tell the tale.  An apparently wounded rider advanced the evening camp, and while attention was on helping the man off of his horse, the camp had been attacked and wiped out.  Whitney pulled one of two horns in place at the north wall and blew a long, piercing note into the night air.

The signal was one of cautionary alarm, and in scant moments two dozen crossbowmen were on wall at the ready.

Not surprisingly, Wadsworth was by his side only moments later. 

Intently scrutinizing the rider through the glass, Whitney knew others would be scouring the perimeter of the keep.  The ground was always kept free of any obstructions, and small rocks measuring roddage were strategically placed to aid marksmanship.

“What do you make of it, Whitney?” Wadsworth asked.

“Not sure, sir.  I’m thinking he may be the real deal.  He’s leaned to far forward to make his face.  But his one leg isn’t in stirrup and it’s hanging wrong.  Sir, I don’t think this is a ploy.

“Zaeghun’s Lair!  Sir!  That’s that kid who rode Madigan’s Pride to win the Henley Cup last year.  What’s his name?  René!  Sir, they call him René. He’s been hunting for the Road Building Crew up near the Sahnuck these days, I believe.”

“René?!”  Hoscoe’s voice carried in the air with alarm, “What is René doing here, coming from the north of all places?  I left him in Kynear.” 

It wasn’t a question he could expect an answer to, and several faces just turned his way with futile expressions.

“He come down from Banshee Canyon,” An old voice suddenly remarked.  “I told him ‘bout it when he was a youngun.”  Hoscoe looked to the grizzled man with snow white hair, rancid smelling buckskin clothing, wicked scar down the left side of his face and a heavy crossbow in his hand.  Hoscoe had heard of the man called Trap.  No one knew his real name or how old he was, but he was a legendary figure in the Wilderlands.

Someone else let out a low whistle and exclaimed, “From Kynear through Banshee Canyon?!  Cherron’s Beard!”

“I didn’t know it could be done,” another remarked.

“Ain’t that the place where all those devils and haunts live?” someone asked.

“Haunts don’t live anywhere, they’re dead,” the first voice answered.  “That man’s either crazy or he’s got balls of steel.”

“I’d say both, runs in the family.  Boy’s got more sand than any three men I gone out with,” that was Trap, and when he spoke everyone listened.  Partly because he spoke very little, and when he did it carried weight.

Quickly Wadsworth yelled below, “Open the gate.  Go get him, double-time.”  To the main house of the keep he yelled, “Get Arles to the barracks, man down.”

“Banshee Canyon?” Hoscoe muttered as he followed Wadsworth quickly down the staircase to ground level.  His blood quickened with anxious anticipation and worry for René.

Hoscoe was waiting when the riders brought Kowi around and when he looked up into René’s face, Hoscoe was scared.  His left leg was swollen to the full allowance of his leggings and was hanging in an awkward position.  In his left hand he held a Mythril tipped arrow, his right shoulder looked odd and his right hand clutched his bow with a death like grip.  He had tied a cord around his waist to the saddle and the reins were tied loosely to the pommel.

René was shaking violently and his eyes weren’t focused.  He kept muttering “Gotcha … gotcha … gotcha …”

Without thinking, Hoscoe muscled two men away to get to René and try helping him from the saddle.

“René!” Hoscoe yelled at him, “It is Hoscoe, René, I have you boy!”  From the other side someone cut the cord around René’s waist.  René was burning up with fever and he yelled a blood-curdling scream when they tried moving him from the saddle.  The arrow had to be broken from his left hand but he held the bow with a death grip.

Another voice, Arles the cleric, had his hands up in the air and was giving commands, “Hold the man tightly from each side, and we’ll get the horse out from under.  You, get this stretcher ready to put under him.  You, stand by with blankets and you, get this under his head as we lay him down, then everyone clear away ... rapido!”

Kowi was agitated and sidestepping as someone grabbed his bridle.  Hoscoe and three more, a total of two men on each side, took purchase of René as another slapped the stallion on the rump.

René screamed again as he fell backward, the men catching him but his leg twisting where the bone had shattered.  The stretcher was placed under him and pillow under his head as René went into convulsions.

Hoscoe grabbed René by the hand and was about to speak when the cleric ordered, “Stand back, sir.  Let me save this man.”  Hoscoe looked almost pleading at the cleric for a moment, feeling helpless.

Firmly, and with an air of confident authority, the cleric ordered again, “Sir, stand back … Now!  Let me work.”

Hoscoe let go of René’s hand, wanting to do something to help his still screaming friend.  Wadsworth gripped Hoscoe by the arm and said, “He’s good, I swear it.  If the lad can be saved he will do it.  Come on, stand down!”

Used to being in control, it was against his nature to step back, but Hoscoe knew his friend was probably right.  Listening to René scream was almost more than he could bear, and his mind went back to another time.  A time not so long ago, where he wasn’t able to save someone, someone he cared about deeply.

Arles knew his craft.  As René was led close to him on horseback he could smell the scent of impending death.  How René had stayed alive was a miracle in itself, an amazing feat of unsurpassed intestinal fortitude and determination.  The thought came across his mind that stories would be told and songs written about this man.

Arles cut the buckskin jacket and shirt open and was in consternation at the damage from claw wounds.  Some kind of infection had set in which wasn’t natural.  And there was the leg and shoulder.  This young man’s body was swollen so as not to resemble a human, and pneumonia had already manifested itself. 

The leg was the most painful, and when the buckskin leggings were cut open the swelling immediately began to expand.  Someone behind let out a sickened expression, but as bad as the leg was it was nowhere nearly as dangerous as the claw wounds. 

There was much to do and this man should have long been dead.  Carefully placing his hands on the correct acu-points of René’s body, Arles focused inward to touch on the power.  First objective was to neutralize the poison, then address the gangrene which had already set in.

Hoscoe had never actually seen a cleric heal, and this was completely new for him to witness.  He was beginning to wonder if Arles was going to do anything more than just touch his agonized friend, and was about to step forward when Wadsworth held him back, “Wait.  Look …”

René began to writhe like a serpent, then suddenly the bulge in his leg began to change shape and René’s screams became worse.  Wadsworth and Whitney both held Hoscoe as he started to lunge at the cleric. 

Whitney hissed, “General, stand fast, sir!”

Several loud popping sounds could be heard, and several groans in the background could be heard in sympathy.  Then the leg suddenly took on several different shapes as it straightened.  Arles’s face was steady and almost content as he breathed incredibly deep, slow, and full, and then the shoulder also started to move.

Arles called out, “Quickly, douse us both with hot water and keep it coming.  At once!”

René choked and coughed as several gouts of mingled blood and puss-like fluid projected out of his mouth; then the water came and was steadily poured over the two. Hoscoe watched as green, purple, and yellow puss started to flow out of René’s chest and sides.  Arles’s face seemed to contort as he pushed his power deep into the writhing man before him.

Suddenly, needle-like objects emerged from the wounds, two of these shot out of his body as projectiles, one which became imbedded in the barracks wall.  More of the puss came out; followed by black and then clean red blood; then a clear fluid after which the wounds began to close.

More of the water washed the excrement away and then Arles staggered up.  He almost fell as one of the men caught him.  Arles looked weakly at René and said, “Get him into the barracks, quickly, and keep him covered.  Treat him as if he was recovering from the Tomriu Plague.”  Weakly he glanced about and added, “Don’t worry, that isn’t what he has, so everyone is safe.

“Feed him lots …” he wavered as he tried to speak and stand, “… lots of Ahstrum Berry … juice, berries, pie, whatever.”  He looked at Hoscoe without animosity and said in a weak voice, “He’ll be sick for a few days, but he’ll be fine.”

Hoscoe nodded his head in speechless appreciation, and then went to take René’s hand and help carry his stretcher into the barracks.

They got René cleaned and into some fresh clothing, then into a warm cot.  Hoscoe pulled a chair to sit by his side when Wadsworth stepped in and asked, “Good friend?”

“Yes.”  Hoscoe replied, “He is one to fight a battle with.”

René then turned his head and weakly said, “Hoscoe …”

“Not now, René, you need to rest.  It can wait.”

Shaking his head and closing his eyes for the effort to talk, René weakly took Hoscoe’s arm and tried to speak, “This morning, I heard … Sormiske … taking Wolf … left early … today … for Teamon.”  He breathed a ragged breath and said, “Got here … quick … as could …”

Wadsworth was stunned.  Glancing from Hoscoe to René he remarked with awe, “By the Hounds of Hades, man, through the Cody Buck and around Banshee Canyon would be at least one hundred miles.  And you did this in one day?!”

“Mon’Gouchett!” Hoscoe exclaimed, and ground his teeth while clenching his fist.  “I should have run that mongrel through on the spot.”  Running his hand through his hair, he respected and appreciated René’s urgency and sense of honor. 

Hesitantly, yet realizing the necessity, Hoscoe asked, “What can you tell me, René?  What happened?”

As best as he could, René explained the situation at Kynear, the fight at the tavern and plans for Yank to seek post on the wagon box.  He hesitated, then with a weak smile said, “Got me … a Cautra Beast … took him … in … the mouth …” coughing, he added, “Got here … quick … as I … could …”

“Mon’Gouchett!” Hoscoe exclaimed again.

Wadsworth asked, “This Wolf person?  Does he have something to do with why you came here?”

Hoscoe nodded at Wadsworth, then gripped René’s hand and smiled.  “Well done, René, well done indeed.  You have done your job.  Now it is my part to play.” 

Gripping René on the shoulder, Hoscoe stood up and said, “You get well.”  With a wink at him, he added, “Be wary the soup of these young lasses who shall seek to tend you.  I wager you shall have your choice of flowers within a day or two.”

He turned to Wadsworth and asked if they could go outside to talk.

___________________________

 

Within the hour, an exhausted Hoscoe rode out of the keep bound for Teamon.  With him rode a squad of some of the finest fighting men in southern Aeshea.  His original purpose for riding to Wadsworth Keep was now moot, but he nonetheless wrote a letter and handed it to his friend before taking time to pack his things.  Briefly Hoscoe explained.

Wadsworth just looked at his longtime friend before holding the letter up and asking, “And you’re sure about this?”

“Yes,” Replied Hoscoe.  And the two clasped forearms, followed by a solid embrace.  Such an embrace as can only be understood by those who have shared engagements of blood and death, and emerged victorious together.  And embrace which speaks without words the sentiment, “We may never see each other again; be well my brother or sister of the blade.”

“Travel Strong, old friend,” Wadsworth remarked with his hand on Hoscoe’s shoulder.

“And you.”  Hoscoe set about preparing to depart.  There was no time to waste, and he would not sully the effort made by René to get him the news straightway.  A hundred miles in one day, Hoscoe mused shaking his head.  Now that was a feat in itself, let alone what René rode through and had to overcome.  Hoscoe would like to hear the whole story over an ale or two, some day.

Once he completed gathering his things, Hoscoe spent a few moments talking with Arles.  Hoscoe felt an apology was in order, and he wasn’t a man who let things drift on.

When Wadsworth asked for volunteers to ride with the general, there was no shortage of men to step forward.  Among the team chosen was Whitney, his eldest son, and Trap.  No one asked if the ragged looking old man could stand the journey.  If anyone had a doubt of any kind, it was whether the team could keep up with him.  And Trap knew this country better than any man alive.

Two hours after René had been spotted, six seasoned and conditioned fighting men left to make quick time for the port of Teamon. 

Trap knew several short cuts which cut down the time, and he knew the best places to camp with shelter, water and fuel for fire. 

Twice they encountered sign of possible brigands, and for a while they were sure they were being followed.

During one camp, Trap had faded into the night like a ghost.  After an hour and a half the sound of a far off scream could be heard, but nobody moved.  They just stayed in place waiting and ready.  Trap ambled into camp about an hour later, tossed what turned out to be a scalp off to one side, and casually poured himself a cup of tea and helped himself to some stew.  No one asked questions.  An attack never occurred.

As men will do when traveling a distance, they often exchanged stories between them.  On this journey, Whitney’s choice subject was sharing tales of the general.

“That there is a man who forgets nothing.  I’d bet you my last shill he can tell you the name of everyone he’s ever worked with, their favorite color and how they carried their weapon.  And he has the respect of everyone who ever fought beside him or against.

“When Bantlrog the Bloody was cornered up at Yazeir, he said he would surrender only if it could be to General Val’Ihrus.  So they hold a cease fight until they can find the general and bring him in.  It took over a week, but it was the smartest move ever made.  That Bantlrog knew fighting and his people usually took eleven men for every one he lost.

“The general rode out to meet him one on one, and Bantlrog came out to meet him likewise, then they rode in together.  Bantlrog was tried and lost his head, but he said he knew he and his men would get the fairest shake if the general was involved.

“I was at the Battle of Hatchapeik, when he was still a colonel.  It was one of the worst I had ever seen and lasted for days.  The tide had clearly started going our way when it got quiet one night.  I was one of the scouts who went over and found they had run slap out of food.

“We all thought that would be the beginning of a slaughter.  But Val’Ihrus thought about it and chewed his jaw, then he ordered us put a wagon of food together and take it to them under a white flag.

“That made us all scratch heads, but orders are orders.  A couple hours later, the opposing general rode over under the white with some of his men.  He wanted to know just why Val’Ihrus would do such a thing, especially since he was about to win.

“The general, colonel then, walked up to the man and said, ‘Sir, you are too honorable a warrior to defeat in such a demeaning fashion.  I wish to allow your company the courtesy of a good meal.’

“That general turned around and rode back.  Next morning on the battlefield he rode up under a white flag and surrendered his sword.

“At his trial, Val’Ihrus himself testified in favor of the general and his honor on the battlefield.  The man was allowed to live and became governor of his people for as long as he lived.”

Whitney’s son, Nigel, asked, “Has he ever lost?”

“When he was just a captain and was given his first command, he was sent to investigate a band of highwaymen and ran right into an ambush.  He and his troops were soundly whipped and had to run for the mountain.  Well those highwaymen just followed them for two days.  The young captain got mad and said that Gentleman’s Line Fighting was useless and switched tactics. 

“Those highwaymen found him flatfooted and laying down on his face.  He barely got on his feet and started running, and they chased him into a cul-de-sac.  Val’Ihrus did a swan dive and yelled ‘Now!’ and his troops opened fire, killing all but four of those bandits.  All four were taken in and hung.

“Guerilla warfare, he called it.  It’s what you do when you are serious about winning.”

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The men made fast time of their journey, hoping for some delay which might allow them to make Teamon ahead of Sormiske.  As it was, they entered the city gates even as the Gracious Lady was leaving dock. 

Riding toward the waterfront to get information, Hoscoe saw the wagon as Yank and Thad were preparing to paint their business name on the sides. 

After exchanging information and a bit of catching up, a frustrated Hoscoe went about trying to charter a vessel.  No one, however, was preparing a journey toward Malone within the next couple of days, let alone immediately.  One vessel, the Glory of Greta, was to leave out four days hence.  Not good enough, however.

Hoscoe was leaving inquiry with one captain when Thad led a worn, wizened sailor up to talk.  Hoscoe gave the man courtesy and the sailor just blurted out, “Ahr ya lookin’ fer passage because of that Sormiske feller, that jimmy what runs with that Wahyene devil?”

“Yes sir, I believe I am.”

“Then ya don’t gotta look no further.  I kin get’cha there, scat.”

It was Thad who added, “Hoscoe, this man knows Wahyene, personally.  He knows where he’s from and where they went.”

Hoscoe looked to the sailor with new interest, “Oh, really?”

“Yup.  He’s frum Keoghnariu.  That witch queen of theirs wants to breed up for a new kind of demon she can control to kill Eayah.  And they need elf-blood to do it.  They been settin’ up a new temple in Kiubejhan”

Hoscoe’s face went from blank, to angry, to calculated.  Then he affirmed, “Keoghnariu …” Closing his eyes he slowly shook his head, “Mon’Gouchett, damn!”

Chapter   28

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AFTER HOSCOE HAD negotiated a charter with the sailor, he entered a tavern and wrote three letters, each of which he sealed with a signet ring.  One of these he gave to Yank and Thad, telling them to present their letter to Magnate Copius dan’Shalleen of Dahruban. 

To Thad he grasped forearms and said, “Thaddeus, may your hammer never miss a beat.  Be well and may fortune be with you.” 

Turning to Yank he grinned and grasping forearms said, “Sergeant Royerson, take time to ask if the lady is married, and to whom.”  Glancing at both of them he added, “It has been my pleasure, gentlemen.  I expect you should do well together.”

Hoscoe was a man with a purpose and there was no time to waste.  Thad and Yank were speechless as they watched him head out to the dock for immediate departure.

Whitney was carrying his bundle toward the ship when Hoscoe stopped him.  “You are not going with me, good sir.”

Startled, Whitney turned to Hoscoe and said, “But, general, you might well need me.”

“Yes,” Hoscoe replied, “and there are going to be many times I will wish I had brought you along, and more of you as well.  But for what I am going to attempt, I must go alone.  The wind is changing, and you will be needed by your commander.  This, however,” he held up the second letter, “is of utmost importance to me.  You and your squad must get this to Bernard at Kynear at all costs, and this one to René.”

Seeing the disappointment in Whitney’s posture, Hoscoe put his hand on his shoulder and making clear eye contact reiterated, “Really, this is most important.  And you have those wonderful grandchildren who will need your presence.  Relish them, please.”

Reluctantly, but nodding his head and accepting the letters, Whitney said, “Yes sir.  I will see to it.”  There was a long moment’s hesitation, then he asked, “We aren’t going to see you again, are we, sir?”

Throwing his duffle over his shoulder, Hoscoe smiled with good humor and replied with a tilt of his head, “One never knows what the weather may bring.”  He paused, and then added, “I am proud to have known you, Whitney.  Keep an eye on Wadsworth, will you.  The land needs him.”

Whitney sniffed and tried to casually rub his nose with his finger, made a clicking sound with his tongue against his cheek, and his eyes seemed to be red.  Then with a firm set of his jaw, he snapped to with a salute.

Returning the gesture, Hoscoe snapped a salute of his own, and then boarded the Orson Ida.  Looking back as the ship sailed out, Hoscoe could see Whitney standing there until the dock became a line in the horizon.

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The Orson Ida was a small, single-masted vessel with a crew of the captain plus one.  The mast looked to have been repaired more than once and was held together with a splint.  A tarp over the aft end made for a cabin, and she looked to be more ready for scuttling rather than a refit, but she sailed.

During the journey, Hoscoe learned everything he could about Kiubejhan and the region about.  The sailor called himself Captain Mullet and he had grown up in Biunang, the little village just south of the Pehnaché River Canyon Bridge.  Once he was old enough, he left what seemed to be a meager existence and took to a life of fishing on the sea.

Growing up in the small farm community with Captain Mullet was the son of a harlot and would-be witch; an effeminate little boy whose name was Wahyene.  The witch-woman eventually took her son and joined a caravan headed north.  Wahyene eventually became a prominent power within the Meidran Cult. 

The Meidran Cult, Hoscoe knew, was centered in the northern Kohntia Mountains in a valley called Ziulnoch.  The place was over a thousand miles north of Malone.  The thought of Keoghnariu and the cult becoming involved there never even crossed Hoscoe’s mind.  Why a drastic move so far south from a place no one bothered?  It was a dead country … or was it?

About a hundred years before, an exploration party from Shudoquar ventured into Jho’Menquita Territory.  The country was said to be a forbidden land to humans, although there was a culture of somewhat barbaric clansmen living all throughout the mountainous southern borders.  This party, however, was hunting for a legendary diamond mine.  There were a few humans living along the river paths, but venturing too far into the interior was usually fatal.  It had been said remnants of a serpent race still lived there and resented humans trying to inhabit the region.

The legend was that long ago the god of death, Xiahstoi, slew Set and claimed the land for his minions, the Minotaurs.  The Minotaurs had claimed the land long before, and been overthrown by Set’s followers, the survivors who now were called Tiskites. 

Xiahstoi was reportedly rising again with a new force, a demonic goblinoid race from underground called the Cognobin.  These creatures were somewhat intelligent, grayish purple in coloration, about seven feet or more tall and favored javelins, maces and morning stars.

Cognobins were not thought to have a large population, at least not yet, which was the only good thing to say about them.  Centered deep in the old Minotaur ruins, they were starting to come out and make attacks more and more often against the humans.  So far, though, an attack had not yet been made on Kiubejhan.

The exploration party from Shudoquar did not report finding the diamond mines, but was absorbed into the scant human culture and manifested themselves as leaders.  In time, the city-state of Kiubejhan was born and recently a human named Chitivias had become established as their first king.  They were calling their young country Keoghnariu.

Hoscoe already knew much of this.  What he hadn’t known, was the high priestess of Meidra had made an arrangement with Chitivias for residence.  This was in exchange for divination guidance to find the lost mines.  Captain Mullet believed the mines had been found.  And there were those who believed Meidra herself embodied the form of her high priestess.

Captain Mullet’s personal interest in the matter was that he had returned home about two years ago, only to find his family’s small holdings, as well as children, had been taken for the cause of Meidra.  The children, he was sure, had been taken to the diamond mines to work.  The Captain was a fisherman and trader, not a warrior, and he was up in years.  What could he do?

While working his circuit around the sea coastlines, the Captain happen chanced upon a roguish friend and one time fishing partner who called himself Teaberry.  Over several mugs of ale he told his story.  Teaberry, it seemed, knew someone who might be interested in such information.  At least someone knew, the captain told Hoscoe.  The rest would be in playing of the tiles.

The captain discussed the area, the old highway and where Kiubejhan was located.  He talked of customs, the law, Chitivias’s vanity and strengths and the military structure.  When Hoscoe wasn’t talking and learning, he ate and slept.

By the time the Orson Ida landed at Malone, Hoscoe had learned everything Captain Mullet had to say.  And Mullet really liked to talk.

Walking the docks of Malone, Hoscoe learned the Gracious Lady had put in two days earlier, and had left just yesterday.  A dockhand was laughing about a sight he had seen from the deck of the Lady.  Hoscoe bought the mate a tankard and learned the entire incident, complete with embellishments. 

The mate had driven the wagon taking the crew of seven to the edge of Malone, and told of the sorry lot of horses the man with the bloody nose picked out. 

The mate said laughing, “If the jimmy had only asked, I knew where there was a dozen fine mounts … right there in the hamlet.”

Laying a gold coin on the counter, Hoscoe told the bar tender to take good care of his friend, the mate, and he left in search of horses and an outfit.  There was riding to be done.

Taking a cab to the hamlet, Hoscoe did a bit of listening around and managed to buy a round for a fellow just out of Keoghnariu.  The man was a trader who tied up his business in Biunang two weeks prior and headed for his winter business in Malone. 

“Nice enough folks,” the trader said, “Except those damned Meidranites.  I think they’re all insane, and that high priestess is the worst.”

At Hoscoe’s coaxing the trader suggested the best tavern, diner and place to stay in Biunang.  Within thirty minutes Hoscoe pretty much had the feel of the area where he was headed.  Save for bandit activity, he shouldn’t have much trouble getting into the country.  And he believed he could reason with the king to arrange for my release.

Hoscoe was an even six feet tall, and although he was on the backside of middle age, he was the epitome of the physically well-conditioned human man.  There was age in his face and he did not move as he once had, but he had never taken to what is often called Old Age Syndrome, common among humans.  I had seen him spar the wooden sword with other guards, and the youngest ones couldn’t make him break a sweat.

His personal sword was forged of meteorite steel.  The blade was always kept razor sharp on both edges, and could slice an apple cleanly in half in mid air.  This sword had been custom made to Hoscoe’s specifications and was forty-five inches from point to butt.  The blade had a blood groove down the center and the point was a tapered leaf design.  The grip had an extended length, so as to easily accommodate both hands should he chose to do so.  Yet the balance was perfectly centered at the guard, so as to provide ease of one-handed combat.  The guard was also of meteorite steel and the grip was wrapped with braided cord.

Unlike most humans, Hoscoe carried his blade on his back.  To his left side he carried a matching dagger with a nine-inch blade.  Throwing daggers were placed all around his body, and there were other subtle weapons as well. 

You sometimes hear stories about magic weapons, but these are few and far between.  A wizard must imbue a part of their own essence, their life force, into each magical weapon made.  They just don’t stand by and manufacture magic weapons like an assembly line in Malone.  Hoscoe did bring with him an experimental weapon, a crossbow which could fire from top and bottom.  It was a tricky mechanism, but his worked.

Hoscoe outfitted lightly and chose three solid looking horses.  He would be switching often and planned to sleep little.  Wearing his studded leather armor, equipped with several crossbow bolts and supplied with food, plenty of water and a bedroll, he took to the road for Kiubejhan.

At noon on the second day, Hoscoe was humming a tune when he encountered two riders sitting side by side in the middle of the road.  One showed Hoscoe a big, toothy smile and held his hand on the grip of a large scimitar.  As Hoscoe kept riding and humming his tune, they looked at each other, amused.

When Hoscoe got to within ten rods, the second rider whipped his hand behind his neck as if to grab something, but he never got to complete his motion.  Hoscoe tilted his crossbow and took back-scratcher in the chest.  Before toothless could draw his weapon, he caught one in the center of his throat.

Hoscoe casually rode on and reloaded his crossbow as if nothing had happened, still humming his tune.

At one point in his journey, he had stopped to make for a short camp when he heard riders coming upon his position.  He had rigged the crossbow so it would hang from a sling off of his shoulder, but he held it casually in his right hand.  It would require a tilt of his hand to quickly bring the weapon to bear.  A voice called out in the Fhathern tongue, “Hail the camp.  Can we come in?”

“Enter, and be courteous,” Hoscoe called back.  Three riders walked tired horses into camp, but Hoscoe had chosen his site well.  His own back was against a wall, and nothing was likely to scale the slick rock behind him.

“Where’s the fourth?” Hoscoe asked cordially, a steaming cup of drink in his left hand.

“Well now, this gent’s a little on the smart side.”  Ignoring Hoscoe’s question, the spokesman asked with a cruel glint in his eye, “What’s that you’re cooking?”

“It is called coffee.  It is supped upon by individuals of intellect to enhance contemplation.”  Hoscoe was very casual as he poured steaming, black liquid into an old ivory colored ceramic mug.

The speaker’s countenance fell, “What are you saying, old man?  You saying I ain’t smart?”

Again casually, “I do not believe I must imply anything of the kind.  I am about to engage in drink and a bit of something to eat.  Are you hungry?”  Hoscoe stood in a relaxed manner, sipping from the mug he held in his left hand.

The speaker looked at his buddies and laughed contemptuously, “I think we’ll just take what you got and …”

Hoscoe shot the speaker through the throat, then shifted aim to the gentleman riding on the left and placed one center through his heart.  Without breaking his motion, Hoscoe dropped the crossbow, reached across his belt and drew a throwing blade, whipped it into the belly of the bandit lurking off in the shadows to his right side, and reaching up and back drew his sword without spilling a drop from his mug. 

The lurking bandit could be heard groaning in his death throws just outside of the camp perimeter.  The other two were stone dead, lying where they had fallen from their horses. 

Pointing his sword at the awestruck remaining rider, Hoscoe asked cordially, “You now have four horses plus gear.  Would you like to try a cup of coffee?  It could be very enlightening.”  The man slowly nodded and got down from his horse.

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When Hoscoe found the sight of our campfire skirmish, he advanced cautiously.  Desert rats were tugging at the bodies, and he saw Parnell.  He also found the still smoldering remains of the Eayahnite Bible.  Hoscoe knew he had been closing in, but had not realized just how close.

He couldn’t be more than a few hours behind, and it was still a ways further to Kiubejhan, if that was indeed where we were ultimately headed.  He did not believe catching us would be a problem. 

The mate in Malone had told him about Parnell leaving the party, and in a matter of time Hoscoe was able to sort out the conflict and those who were friends of Parnell.  For someone who know what to look for, much can be learned in tracks upon the ground, the position of a broken crust of wood, how a body has fallen, and even the absence of various articles.

Inspecting Evan’s remains, Hoscoe was able to determine the man had lived several hours after the wagon had left.  Evan had tried to fight off the first of the rats with a small knife he had kept in his boot.  Hoscoe could see where he had pulled up his pants leg to get to the sheath underneath.

Hoscoe was sure no more than three bandits had survived, and they badly wounded.  They must have retreated far away, because no further sign of them was evident. 

Had a proper search been performed on Jinx and Evan, a platinum cross, a couple of gems and several gold coins were within their clothing.  Hoscoe knew Evan had sewn the gems into the underside of his jerkin.

After studying the fight scene around the camp, Hoscoe concluded Wahyene must have been exasperated by the defiance of the other power wielder.  It would have been interesting to have seen exactly what happened.

Making note of the time of day, Hoscoe decided to take the time to bury Parnell, his two friends, and speak words over them.  There was no telling when, or if, he might be back this way and Hoscoe wanted Parnell treated decently.  As to the rest, they should have chosen better paths to follow. 

Once respects had been paid to the three men, Hoscoe mounted up and continued on.  For a moment he paused and looked down at Evan’s body and muttered, “You were warned about living the life of a dingo.  This is your reward.”

As he traveled, Hoscoe one by one found the remains of the two dead horses.  Disgusted, he continued on.

Drawing near to nightfall, Hoscoe saw the sky suddenly turn an ugly black as he reached the Pehnaché River Canyon Bridge.  Bizarre cracks of red and white lightning coursed the heavens in the direction of Biunang Village.  Whatever was happening there, it was definitely not natural.  His gut feeling was that Wahyene was in some way involved with the phenomenon. 

Wizards of any kind were uncommon to very few in number, while wizards with any significant level of power were downright rare.  Although mentioned with varied measures of awe and respect, wizards were over all feared by the general public.  More often than not, they were typecast as an egotistical, self-serving, arrogant and sub-standard version of any intelligent species.

Hoscoe viewed wizards as simply an alternate class of combatant.  They had a different type of weapon, different ammunition and usually not enough of it.  Like any conventional warrior, they had their own nuances and psychological patterns.

Wahyene had shown a penchant for effects of convection, flamboyance and visual force.  The Meidran Wizard was used to being in control and seemed to enjoy having others be intimidated by his presence.  Hoscoe mused that his effeminacy contributed largely to this. 

Finding our canyon campsite, Hoscoe spent little time looking it over, and then began descent into the canyon trail.  Making cautious way across the bridge, Hoscoe continued toward the village.  Nightfall was looming, and rather than ride through an unknown sight of possibly recent magical combat, he chose to make a dry camp.

Hoscoe warily eased up on the ruins of the village the next morning.  From a distance he stopped and with his spyglass, an expensive and uncommon commodity, surveyed what he could.  The tornadoes had destroyed most of the buildings, leaving little intact.  He thought he saw a body here and there, but, aside from scavengers, could not detect any signs of life.  In a tree not far from the entrance of the village, he saw a body impaled.

Focusing the glass, he could detect a purplish hue in the skin and he noticed the creature was wearing no footgear.  This, Hoscoe thought, must be a cognobin.

Surveying the ruins from a purely militaristic perspective, Hoscoe became quite intrigued.  From his vantage point, he had been able to conclude at least eight of the bodies he saw were cognobin, and was relatively sure the others were as well.  Where were the people, the livestock, even the sound of a dog barking?

The tragedy was severe.  Only a couple of weeks ago these ruins included homes, families and businesses which took years to develop.  Now, there was only desolation.

Throughout Hoscoe’s long career in Dahruban’s military service, it had always been a matter of personal pride to take a hands-on attitude with any investigation he was involved with.  As he climbed higher in rank, this attitude rankled with many of his peers, as they claimed it made them look bad. 

“Delegate down,” they would say, “that’s what Lieutenants and Captains are for.”  But Hoscoe would have none of it; the delegation of general assignments, construction details and patrols, absolutely.  But if a matter were considered important enough to be placed in his hands, then it was his opinion he could not make correct decisions based upon second hand information. 

As a result, there was little he hadn’t seen, and his savvy helped him rise to the highest military position in the land.  It was under his watch that Dahruban became the most powerful member of the Associated Kingdoms.

Traversing through the village, or even around it, was paramount to Hoscoe’s journey.  But there was something here he did not understand, and his tactical military mind was already at work.

His horses were not happy at the smell of death, and the remains of the cognobins were extremely rank.  Patiently, Hoscoe studied the remains of the village and surrounding area.  Much had been destroyed and most signs of conflict had been wiped away by the tornadoes.  But for the trained eye there was still much to see.

That the wagon had been driven straight into town was clear, and in time Bost’s javelin impaled, mangled body was found.  Partly covered by the ruin of a building, Hoscoe found the horse Sormiske had been riding.  It was evident by the sword scabbard tied to the saddle.  Sormiske had seen an actor in a play sling his sword in such a manner and insisted this was a mark of nobility.

Hoscoe concluded that as of noon the day before, this village was alive and well with no clue of impending doom.  So, what had happened and how did the cognobins get in so quickly; magic?  Hoscoe knew ancient stories of sorcerers who were able to transport from one place to another, but not in mass.  And he had a hunch these creatures had no such ability.

Eventually, Hoscoe did find signs of two wounded cognobins.  He also found signs of a small scout party of three humans.  Apparently they had ridden up to the village late the evening before, and then stopped to survey the desolation.  Choosing to split up, these scouts started riding through the dead village. 

These two cognobins had each chosen a target and attacked.  The third scout tried to escape, but from what Hoscoe could tell, one of the attackers had thrown a javelin close to one hundred rods to run the human through, but the horse got away.

To Hoscoe’s curiosity, however, the cognobins drug the humans and two horses in the direction of the village well, and then seemed to throw the carcasses inside.  Then the cognobins appeared to climb into the well, also.  Examining the well itself, it was a large opening which had been dug out to a diameter of thirteen feet.

To keep livestock and children from wandering into it, a neatly placed rock wall about two and a half feet high had been built around it.  A gate allowed an individual to step inside and walk around a three feet wide ledge, therefore having easy access to dropping buckets to hoist the water up from below.

Curiously, Hoscoe found no evidence of hide, hair or blood on the inner surface of the well stones. 

Looking down, Hoscoe was certain he could see the water rippling below among the shadows.

No, it didn’t add up. 

He looked long upon the well, the destruction of the village, and then around the countryside.  Deep in thought, Hoscoe collected his horses and mounting up, turned toward Kiubejhan

Chapter   29

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THE GUARDS LET the bodies of my Meidra appointed playmates lay in my cell for the whole night, and most of the next day.  None of the other prisoners in adjoining cells said a word.  They were all looking at me to see what I was going to do. 

What they were waiting for, I had no idea.  If I could have escaped I would have already done so.  It’s not like I was going to say “Drop down walls!” and watch it happen.  Of course, if I had thought it at the time, I might have tried.  You know, just to see what might happen.

Looking back, I imagine many of the prisoners were wondering if anymore snakes were going to come in and stand guard over me.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten and my stomach was thinking my throat had been cut.  Weakness washed all through my system and several of my wounds had become infected.  Desperately I wanted to be clean and sit down to a good meal.

Eventually, some guards came to remove the corpses from my cell.  At what must have been close to evening someone came around and brought me a dish of food, but the stuff was only so much swill.  Just the appearance of it made my stomach turn.  They say if you are hungry enough you will eat most anything.  But I hadn’t gone that long without food, not yet. 

I watched as the others were scrambling for their bowls, then turned my head away and tried to think of anything to take my thoughts away from the sounds of slurping.

As to clothes, I could forget it.  I noticed half the people in here were naked and probably had been for a long time.  The prisoners in here were literally being treated like animals.

I focused on trying to heal myself up, and as I did so the infection pushed its way out of my body.  The process took most of what energy I had.  I was clawed up pretty bad and it took me two tries to do it.

Somewhere along the line I fell asleep. 

___________________________

 

The sounds of violence woke me with a start.  The ground itself was shaking and something in the ground groaned and the prisoners all began screaming for someone to come and release them.  Several were aggressively shaking the bars, as if doing so would actually help their situation.

Two guards ran past the cells down the corridor to my left, looking behind them with panic as they fled.  Then I saw Wahyene down the cell lined corridor on my right.  This master wizard whom I had seen demolish enemies, hurl balls of fire and levy multiple bolts of lightning, was walking backward in retreat from an enemy I could not yet see. 

Through the bars, I could see Wahyene was almost even with the door two cells down.  He spoke words and waved his hands, then a bolt of bluish energy from far down the corridor struck what seemed to be an invisible, concave shaped barrier directly in front of Wahyene.

For a long moment, it looked as if he was holding a large warrior’s shield in front of him.  The force of the energy bolt was actually causing Wahyene to slide back fifteen feet on the floor until he was in front of my right hand adjoining cell.

All around me the prisoners were screaming in terror.  Some were trying to force themselves in between bars to squeeze out, others were trying to climb upward, and others still were cowering against the farthest walls.  But I was feeling the presence of the energy pulse through me like ripples from a rock thrown into a big pond; it took my breath, but it felt good at the same time.

Stepping a couple paces back while uttering more words, Wahyene flourished his hands and a wave within the floor rolled toward his adversary.  Bars bent, pieces of the ceiling broke and fell to the floor, and then some kind of vortex caught the debris and hurled it full force right back at the Meidran Wizard.

Immediately Wahyene spoke again while stepping back, his voice rising and reverberating in a ghostly and unnatural tone, as it seemed a giant vacuum sucked the air in from the left end of the corridor.  Then with a harsh thrust forward with both of his hands, an immense volume of solid fire exploded forward and filled the prison chambers all down the right side.  If the screams had been bad before, they were horrific now.  I watched the flesh burn completely off of at least four prisoners in less than a second.

Yet a lone figure stood strong against the fiery onslaught, hands forward and head bent as if leaning in against a strong gale of wind.

I had never seen anything like this, and though I was scared as well, I was fascinated even more.  The pulsing of energy coursed through my inner being.  I could feel the Eldoritch Power all about me, I could almost taste it.

Another step back and Wahyene was almost in front of my cell bars.

I could now see what appeared to be a dark haired elf, tendrils of smoke wisping from his body as he stepped unharmed from the dissipating flame.  His face was resolute, and his hair flowed back with resonance of his power. 

“You will not catch her; she is to powerful for you, Mahrufael!”  Wahyene yelled as he stepped back even more.  I wanted to do something, help the elvin wizard in some way, but what?

Mahrufael’s response was to brace his feet and wave his own hands, as a blue aura flowed about him.  He then whirled his body and swung his arms, not unlike one might throw a discus.  A circlet of energy, perhaps two feet in diameter, flew at Wahyene, who again seemed to brace himself with the invisible shield. 

The circlet of energy struck the barrier and broke apart, unraveling like a spring come awry in colors of blue, purple, orange, and yellow.  I saw the prisoners in my right hand cell caught in the flashing of light and they fell in pieces, as if sliced into multiple sections with a cauterizing blade; there was no blood at all, only wisps of smoke from the severed body parts.

Stepping until he was now center of my own cell, Wahyene began to circle his hands and speak yet again …

I had noticed long ago, that for every effect Wahyene conjured, each effect had its own pattern of hand weaving.  I had seen this hand pattern before, the multiple lightning bolts.

His mouth was moving, but I felt a rush of heat in my own body and could not hear him.  I had no weapon, but words were necessary for all of his magic.  If only I had more time, or something … the world seemed to *Slow* down and I could hear my own hear heart beat, ever so slowly … ba-Bum … ba-Bum … ba-Bum … my breath almost seemed to cease … and I had to force my body to move faster than a snail’s pace … it was as if I were moving in room completely full of thick honey …

What was happening?

With my eyes I glanced and it was as if everything in my immediate presence had come to a near stop, but nobody except I appeared to notice.  Directly in front of me Wahyene was caught in the middle of his spell … If only I could …

I had no weapon.

I could throw, how many times had I thrown rocks at the pinecones?  But there were no … wait, there was something.  Forcing myself to move, I dove for a clod of dried dung.  The dive felt like it took forever and I pushed with my mind for speed.  Coming up on my feet I focused.  Would this even work?

Wahyene was still speaking his spell.

The timing had to be right.

Wahyene was still moving backward.

He moved so that I had a clear throw between the bars and I snapped my hand hard as I could ... in impossibly slow motion I watched the clod sail between the bars and right in front of Wahyene’s teeth as the world sped up again.  Wahyene was opening his mouth wide for his final syllable when that clod hit him full force in the back of his throat. 

Wahyene’s sound was cut short as he choked, his spell foiled.  A bolt of mingled blue, purple, red, and green energy hit Wahyene, and he exploded into so many pieces of raw flesh as the force knocked me down.

Mahrufael ran up next to my cell looking for signs of Wahyene.  He gave me a glance and was about to say something when a human in the garb of a rogue, mace in hand and a bow with quiver on his back, ran down the corridor quickly and stood beside him. 

In the human’s other hand he was holding a small orb which was glowing softly white, with traces of amber within the center.  I could hear something that sounded like singing from the orb and the human quickly said, “She’s here.  We have her.  Tell Teaberry to be ready to trigger the seal, I’m going in!” 

With that, the human gave me a cursory glance, turned into smoke and went through a crack in the floor right in the front section of my cell. 

Mahrufael hesitated a moment and looked at me.  He glanced at my cell door, winked at it, and the lock opened.  With a wordless gesture of his hand at me, he disappeared with an imploding flash of blue light.

___________________________

 

When Hoscoe entered the gates of Kiubejhan, he had little trouble convincing the gatekeepers he was there to spend a season hunting for the region’s wilderbeasts.  He stabled his horses, and then began roving the streets, checking this tavern and that. 

He had kept his crossbow in its sling and a quiver of bolts to his side, not to mention his sword.  As a new arrival identified as a hunter, it would not be incorrect, the trader had informed him.  This city was not exactly metropolitan, as it were, but in the heart of still dangerous country.

Hoscoe was moving into the sector where Meidra’s so-called temple was located, when several explosions occurred at once, all from the general area of the temple.  Chaos set forth and the screams of some great beast erupted from below.  Some kind of creature tore itself out of the ground and went on a rampage, against who, Hoscoe didn’t know or care. 

Something was going on and it involved magic, heavy magic.  Pandemonium spread through the area.  Animals were going insane and began attacking people; magically induced, Hoscoe thought.  A horse broke itself free from its hitch pole and attacked Hoscoe.  Evading the crazed animal, he made way to an overhang.

Looking about for a better position, Hoscoe caught a glance of an acolyte, shaved smooth from top to bottom and wearing only a loincloth.  The traumatized acolyte was running with hands over his head for an old dugout door only twenty feet from Hoscoe’s position. 

The face, Sormiske!  Hoscoe quickly made for the door and tackled the panicked Meidranite.  Sormiske looked up at his capturer and almost squealed, trying to escape. 

Hoscoe smacked Sormiske, and then grabbing him by the throat he slammed the sobbing wretch against the wall.  Putting the point of his dagger against Sormiske’s throat, Hoscoe demanded, “Where are they keeping him?”

“W-who?” Sormiske stammered.

Hoscoe put the razor sharp blade down, against where Sormiske’s genitals should have been.  Momentarily startled, Hoscoe pricked the cord holding Sormiske’s loincloth in place.  Falling to the floor, it became clear Sormiske had been relieved of all appearance of masculinity.  There was nothing to be seen but a large, cauterized wound.  Sormiske’s shame was clearly apparent; he had not been made a student of wizardry, but had been punished for his ineptness by being made a eunuch slave of the Meidran Cult.

With a calm but cruel edge to his voice, Hoscoe said, “Now your anatomy matches your courage.”  Pricking the skin beneath the shapeless chest, Hoscoe leaned closer and harshly whispered, “Tell me what I want to know, or I will shave the skin from your living body.”

___________________________

 

When Mahrufael disappeared, I stared at the opened cell door for a moment, wondering what had just happened.  And then of a sudden I heard Hoscoe’s voice yelling from down the corridor, “Wolf, Wolf, are you alright?”

Coming up to my cell, he glanced at my naked form.  How he could find humor at such moments was beyond me as he asked, “Cherron’s Beard, my boy!  Are you planning to entertain the ladies?” 

Noticing my already open cell door, he took no time for discernment.  He opened the door and said, “Let us be on our way then.”

“How did you …” I tried to ask.

“No time for questions, we need to withdraw, quickly.”

Suddenly a weird, haunting scream seemed to come from the walls themselves and everything shuttered.  The ceiling cracked and pieces began to fall. 

To the left I heard yells from prisoners apparently begging for us to let them out.  A section of the ceiling fell in on some prisoners and Hoscoe ordered me firmly, “Now, Wolf!  Make HASTE!”

I felt a wave of nausea and stumbled on my feet.  Hoscoe hooked his left arm under my right shoulder and helped me get started.

As we turned to leave the way he had come, two guards came around the corner and were running our way yelling and wielding swords.  Hoscoe asked no questions, he simply raised his crossbow and fired off both shots as fast as he could pull the trigger.  Each guard took a bolt solidly in the chest. 

Hurrying down the corridor and stepping over the bodies, we paused for a moment.  Seeing a narrow door which was ajar, he noticed a bunch of clothing.  Opening the door he grabbed some garments and thrust them at me saying, “Hurry, we won’t be able to explain a naked elf walking down the street,” as he reloaded his weapon.

Tying a pair of leggings on, I pulled a tunic over my head as we made a turn and climbed a series of steps.  Three armed humans got in our way and made as if to attack.  Hoscoe shot two of them, and pulling his dagger he parried the last while taking the human’s sword and running him though at the same time. 

Handing me the sword, he reloaded his crossbow on the run.  I had seen men Hoscoe’s age hobble around on canes while waiting for death.  But he made easy work of those stairs.  Me?  I was struggling the whole way.  One foot in front of the other was all I could think.  Hoscoe was yelling at me, encouraging me, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying.

My breath was coming in sheets of pain and my head started spinning again.  Hoscoe grabbed me and said, “We are almost there!  Hold tight, soldier!  Only a little further …”

We got to the top, walked through a room of some sort and I almost fell.  It was hard trying to determine where I was.  Then I smelled the air, fresh air.  I realized I had been smelling it for a while, and was moving toward the aroma of flowers and trees. 

Hoscoe and I were making our way out of the dugout entrance when Sormiske fell, or I should say was thrown, across our path just in front of the doorway.  Once more I saw about two dozen warriors with readied crossbows drawn.  Only this time, Hoscoe was beside me.

Chapter   30

________________________

 

 

HOSCOE LOWERED HIS crossbow and raised his hands as one of the soldiers pointed at him and said, “Sire, he it is who before attacked we were, the gate entered.” 

Another soldier indicated Sormiske, “Sire, he it is who put to shame was the Meidranites by.”

The speech thing was driving me nuts.  A different language, okay, but the butchering of one … I thought for a moment.  If the Keoghnariu tongue could be interpreted as Shudoic spoken badly, would it be possible to invert the translation, at least in my own mind?  Was this not a part of Bardism?  If so, how much Bardic training did I really have, without ever realizing it?  As the second soldier continued to speak, I tried to see if I could listen from the possibility of Keoghnariu as being badly spoken Shudoic.

Soldier number two pointed at me and said, “This one, the elvin-blood, was identified as property of the Witch Queen, and to be reserved for her purposes.”

‘Mon’Gouchett,’ I thought, ‘it works.’

The king, a lean man of about sixty, well set up and fully armed, walked to the forefront of our little gathering and gave us each a silent inspection.  Nodding his head he declared, “Chain them, neuter them, then send them to the mine with the rest of their acolytes.  They have been trouble enough.  I want rid of all these pests.”

A soldier came running up to the king from behind some destroyed and smoking buildings.  The king gave him notice, and while listening I saw the king nodding his head in approval.  The soldier returned in the direction he had come from, and the king walked to the soldier apparently in charge of us captives, giving him some kind of instructions.

Apparently influenced by the soldier’s report, the king turned to and surveyed the dugout, then said, “Find a means of closing this entrance.  Then search the interior and close it all down.  Anything living you find inside, kill it.  No questions.  I’ll not have anymore of her dungeon secrets breathing our air.”  He then turned to walk away.

The guards were about to close around us when suddenly Hoscoe asked, “If it should please my lord, the Honorable King Chitivias of Keoghnariu, may I have permission to speak?”

I had never heard Hoscoe talk like that, and he had bent into a partial bow, but with his eyes up and looking at the king.

Chitivias turned and gave Hoscoe an appraising glare, then walking forward a step looked at him more closely.  After thoughtful scrutiny the king replied, “Speak, old man.”

“I am Hoscoe of Tremount, here to offer my indentured services to his highness, as a warrior with knowledge of the cognobin species of which you are about to engage in territorial warfare.”

Suddenly it dawned on me, Hoscoe seemed to have no trouble with the dialect.

“A warrior, you say?”  The king studied Hoscoe thoroughly now.  He then added, “And for how long of an indenturement?”

“For as long as it takes, my lord.”

The king looked skeptical, “So why were you in this hole, emerging with this slave?”

“This slave,” Hoscoe explained, “is Timber Wolf of the Ahnagohr Mountain Range, and he is my apprentice.  An apprentice who was wrongfully taken by the wizard, Wahyene, for purposes which were intended to cause distress to your highness, and your kingdom.”

“So, you came here to save me from Wahyene?”

“In all honesty, my lord, no.  My first intent was to rescue my apprentice.”

The king studied what had been said, and then with a hint of appreciation declared, “I like someone who can answer honestly while looking certain death in the face.  And your apprentice, you are offering him for indenturement as well?”

“I would think, my lord, an apprentice would stay with his master until serving his tenure.  Another five years would complete our arrangement.”

The king looked toward Sormiske who was still sitting on the ground, trying in vain to go unnoticed in his near nakedness, “And this one?”

Sormiske looked up to Hoscoe, a shadow of hope on his face.  Hoscoe did not even look down and simply shrugged his shoulders, “He is what he appears to be.  A servant for whomever is most convenient to pay his meal, no longer a threat to prey on young and innocent girls or women.”  This drew glances of disgust from each soldier looking at the cowering human shell before them.

Stepping around and giving Hoscoe honest consideration, the king decided, “A warrior, eh?”  He looked over to the soldier he had just talked with, “Commander, let’s see how his blood flows, this warrior with skills to lend.”

As the group stepped back into a circle, the commander handed his crossbow to a comrade, and then drew his sword and cautiously stepped around.  Hoscoe handed me his crossbow and bolts, whereupon he stepped to the center and drew his own sword.  I’ll give this to say, there was no arrogance in the commander. 

According to the universal code of warriors, Hoscoe had made his claim, now he had an opportunity to prove it.  Should he fail, then would come the time for belittlement and/or death.  Should he prove his mettle, so be it.  From the commander’s perspective, Hoscoe could always be filled with bolts immediately after the fight.

The two saluted each other and touched swords.  The commander moved warily then made several tentative movements of offense, trying to feel out his unknown adversary.  Hoscoe took his time and easily parried each attempt.  The commander suddenly launched an onslaught which was spectacular to behold, but Hoscoe almost casually thwarted each strike and passed each feint.  Watching both warriors wield their weapons was a theater of combat art in motion.

With a sidestepping movement, Hoscoe made a counter offense which seemed to lack any authority, but as the commander stepped back a portion of his hair fell to the ground.  A simultaneous assault by both drew much sound of metal on metal, but no blood.  Again the commander stepped back agilely, but it became clear that his right sleeve was cleanly sliced. 

The surrounding soldiers were caught up in watching the fight, and the king was showing signs of being highly impressed.  Once more the commander launched an assault, but this time Hoscoe let fly with a series of counters, strikes and weaving patterns. 

The next thirty seconds seemed to last an eternity as the commander’s uniform began to separate and fall off in places, and then with a deft movement Hoscoe disarmed his opponent, flipping the sword into the air and catching it with his left hand; following through in one fluid movement, Hoscoe gracefully stepped behind and swept the commander off of his feet, sheathed his own sword behind his back, tossed the captured sword to his right hand, lightly stepped on the chest of his opponent, and pointed the tip of the blade a scant hair from the commander’s throat.

The king held his up hand quickly to hold the soldiers from shooting the obvious victor, and waited to see Hoscoe’s action.  A hail of crossbow bolts would not save the commander at this point, if Hoscoe truly intended to slay the now vulnerable warrior.

Looking down at the white faced and sweating commander, Hoscoe smiled cordially and with a nod toward the king said, “This man fights with honor, and is much too good of a warrior to kill in such manner.  I wager he will be invaluable during the upcoming storms.”

Lifting the sword tip up and offering his left wrist down, the commander hesitated only a moment and grabbed Hoscoe by the forearm, whereupon Hoscoe easily assisted him to his feet.  With a flourish, Hoscoe offered the commander the return of his own sword to admiring exclamations of the soldiers around.  Both men looked to the king.

Nodding his head, the king looked to Sormiske and said to one of the soldiers, “Do something with this.”  To the Commander he said, “Bring Master Hoscoe and his apprentice to the General Hall at eventide.  We will discuss terms of their indenturement.  In the meantime, get them some food,” he looked at me in particular, “and a bath with fresh clothing.”

___________________________

 

I awakened as the twilight of morning peeked its way through the darkness of my room. 

‘My room?’ I thought.  Where was I?  With sleepy eyes I looked in the direction of the light’s origin, a barred window was set center of one wall.  A barred window … another cell?  No, not a cell. 

My mind was still hazy from my experience with Meidra, and my head felt like a hammer was beating inside my skull. But things were slowly coming into place.  Taking my time, I brushed my eyes across the ten by twelve feet room.  The walls were fashioned from some sort of brick and a wooden door hung opposite of the window.  My bed was a well made wooden box about seven feet long, two and a half feet wide, with the top about a foot and a half up from the floor.  Underneath were two drawers, each a little over three feet wide, which pulled out to store clothing and gear.  A canvas mattress, stuffed thick with some kind of feathers, made for a comfortable sleeping surface.

In one corner was a chair with a canvas seat and back, and the sword Hoscoe had given me to carry was in another corner.  There were wall pegs to hang garments and what have you, and a two level table about four feet long and three feet high made up the rest of the furnishings.

Brushing my covers off and swinging my feet to the floor, I steadied my head as I felt a wave of dizziness come upon me.  With my hands beside me, I marveled at the clean muslin sheets, top and bottom, and the blanket.  My feet rested upon a full rug and I scrunched my toes feeling the comforting knap.  Could I be dreaming?  Never had I slept in a room so nice or so plushly adorned.

Focusing on the brick of the walls, I realized somehow they had been glazed so as to slow their deterioration.  Blinking for a moment, I heard a horn blowing a tune outside.  Then there was a knock at my door.  ‘A knock,’ I thought, ‘now that was a first.’

“Wolf?” it was Hoscoe’s voice, “are you awake?”

Looking down, I realized I was clean and wearing new cotton long handles.  ‘Decent,’ I thought, ‘I was decent.’  Trying to get up, the world seemed to spin again.  ‘Okay, this isn’t going to work,’ I thought.

I replied, “Yeah, I’m here.”

“May I come in?”

Glancing to the door I asked, “Can you make the room stop spinning?”

Entering the room, I saw a clean and refreshed Hoscoe.  His face was smooth down to his trimmed goatee and mustache, hair neatly cut and his clothes were spanking new.  As he moved to the chair he asked, “And how are you this morning?”

The room was easing down in its spin, and I blinked slowly a couple of times, “I’m not sure yet,” I replied.  Glancing up at him I asked, “So, how did it go last night with the king?”

Hoscoe gave me a long look, chewed his lip a moment, and tilting his head he remarked from under his eyebrow, “Well, at least you are remembering something.”

“Huh?”

Stroking his goatee he said, “You have not been altogether with it for quite some time.”  With a warm smile he added, “When they were leading us to the bath you collapsed.  They had to catch you before you cracked your head against the floor.”

I was just looking at Hoscoe, “I don’t remember that.”

“Oh, I am sure.  For the first two days you were either unconscious or screaming about Meidra, Cielizabeg, T’Kiemmer and the fall of Eayah.  Sometimes you would yell a warning that ‘Wihlabahk was coming!’  T’Kiemmer, I have actually met.  He is one of the High Priests of Eayah, the one who most usually presides north of the Alburin Sea.” He shrugged his shoulders and opened his hands, as if inviting clarity, “Wihlabahk, however, is a name with which I am unfamiliar.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind I could remember making that warning, but only in shadowy figments of memory, nothing clear.  I had no idea who he was, either.

He paused a bit, and then added, “You relived some incidents of your past.” He resumed chewing his lip.

Worried about what I might have said, and who had heard, I sat there silent.

Delicately he said, “I was the only one to hear those portions of your life.  We do not have to discuss them.”

He had stayed with me then, why was I not surprised?

Hoscoe was watching me carefully as he continued, “The king, himself, sent for a regional shaman to check you out.  A rather interesting woman, I must say.  I think the king was more interested in your mentions of Meidra, than anything else.

As he continued, he was soundlessly tapping his elbow where he had folded his arms, “The Shaman was adamant in that she believed your dilemma was less magical,” he paused, “and more a matter of the internal mind.  The Shaman was also intrigued by some form of warding effect you were conjuring on your own.  It seems you kept humming some tune with powerful manifestations, powerful enough so Meidra could not complete whatever she was attempting to do with you.”

Sighing deeply Hoscoe surmised out loud, “I have heard of such things, and have seen one person with cultivated powers of the mind.  An order of practitioners called the Pyntahku deal with the mind, rather than what is often called magic.”

‘Pyntahku,’ I thought, then said, “Parnell had a friend who was a student of the Pyntahku.  They were killed before we reached the bridge.”

Nodding his head he said, “I know, I found and buried them.”  Gently smiling he added, “We have discussed bits and pieces of your journey several times.”

Looking down at my toes and wrinkling my own brow, I exclaimed in something just above a whisper, “Mon’Gouchett!”

Hoscoe laughed good naturedly, “You have the sound of that down quite well.  You have been listening to me perhaps a bit too often.”

“Several times you say?”

“Yes,” he nodded, “for days you have awakened to stomach sickness, headaches, and often not sure who you are.  Sometimes you remember, and sometimes … but, you have been getting better.  The Shaman assured us it would only be a matter of time.  Your mind had been trained, she said, to resist mental domination.  Elves are stronger than most, but you seem to be extraordinarily strong.  She was rather intrigued by you, and therefore, the king is also intrigued.”

Slowly shaking my head, it seemed I could vaguely remember an old woman with beads in her gray, braided hair.  She muttered in a tongue I did not know and sprinkled dust over me.  Her smell was different, but not unpleasant, a combination of smoke and herbs.  I mentioned as much.

“Yes, it was she,” Hoscoe said, nodding in approval.

“How long,” I asked, “have I been here?”

“I kept you in my quarters for four days, until you stopped screaming, and then for two days more.  You have been in this room for seventeen days.”

My eyes widened, seventeen and … twenty-one days?!  Three weeks were gone.  I asked, “What did she do to me?!”

Tilting his head and breathing in, Hoscoe answered, “I … do not rightly know.” He looked me strong in the eye, “But whatever it was, you survived.  I would wager this makes you most uncommon.  The Shaman believed your mind should have been subjugated, perhaps utterly destroyed and reconfigured for her control.  She said she knew of such practices, and the subjects never survived.

“It seemed important to her that only you, she and I know you had direct contact with Meidra herself, and Cielizabeg.  Anyone else with information of the incident believes the, spirit, of Meidra possessed the Witch Queen and assaulted you.  She suggested that was the way it should stay.  This is the story she gave to even the king.  He knows no other version.”

“Did she have a name?”

“We addressed her only as the Shaman.”

My head was feeling more steady, and my thoughts were becoming more clear.  There were so many questions coming to mind.

Hoscoe held up a hand, “What say we wait to discuss things further, until we know you are going to remember.  Then I promise I will tell you everything I can.  For now, let us get you something to eat.  Do you feel up to going to the mess hall?”

Easing my weight onto my feet, the room started to spin again.  Holding steady, I waited and the sensation passed.  Moving slowly, I examined the table and found neatly folded clothing.  Nodding at Hoscoe I said, “Alright.  Let me get dressed.”

Standing up, Hoscoe walked to the door and replied, “I will be waiting outside.”

“Hoscoe?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“How is it you had no trouble talking their language?”

He smiled at me for a moment, and then responded, “I used to spend time with someone from this area.  We often spoke his dialect.”

He gave me a pleasant nod, and then left the room.

___________________________

 

King Chitivias was a shrewd and intelligent man.  He was also an accomplished warrior.  As a young man he went out on his own and explored the Jho’Menquita Territory, Di’Yamohn Desert and Kohntia mountains.  He traveled to the east coast and served two years in the Vedoan army, pulled a stint as a sailor, then returned and fought with the Malone militia in several battles against the Banupodai Bandits.

Upon returning to his home, Chitivias was almost thirty and he had ideas of what he wanted to do.  The commander’s name was Lahrcus, and he was a paternal younger cousin.  The two became traveling and exploration companions, and in time Lahrcus developed his own notoriety with the blade.  In fact, he was regarded as the best swordsman south of Malone.

By the time Chitivias was forty-six, he had rallied most of the human clans in the territory to unite into a kingdom.  A chief here and there rebelled and was defeated in single combat with Chitivias.  Overall, though, he was rather charismatic and the people tended to like him and his ideas, especially the ideas of becoming rich through diamond mining.

The denizens of the Jho’Menquita Territory were fierce, and the city development was sound.  Drawing from ideas he had learned in Vedoa and countries of the east, King Chitivias personally engineered the city development.  According to Hoscoe, the barracks were the best designs he had ever seen, and the city was well planned for defense.  There were four barracks clusters located in different parts of the city, which should make for fast response in times of sudden attack.

Wahyene appeared three years previous to discuss the possibility of a Meidran Priestess arriving.  She would lend magical assistance in locating the ancient mines, he suggested, in exchange for the location of a temple within the new city. 

While the king believed he knew where the lost mines may be, he agreed to consultation and eventually an agreement was reached.  Sure enough, the Meidran Priestess arrived with a sizable entourage.  After a month of conjuring and incantations, she located a mine through divination magic, but the location was several days away.

It hadn’t taken long for rifts to come between the king and the newly arrived Witch Queen, as she preferred to be called.  First of all, the Witch Queen turned out to be the Meidran Cult’s High Priestess, which was not part of the deal.  Then word began spreading the Witch Queen was going to make this area the new center for the Meidran Cult. 

Later animals began disappearing, unexplained things and eerie sounds began to happen in the night, and talk began to arise that the Witch Queen was controlling the mind of Chitivias.  Ultimately, the Meidran Cult was relegated to an old prospect mine on the outskirts of the city, where I had been taken.

The day Hoscoe walked into the city, apparently the Eayahnite High Priest, Logan, and a religious special strike force, declared war on the young temple and caused all kinds of chaos.  Nobody knew for sure what had happened, but that a couple of demons appeared, an elemental was conjured up from the ground, lots of magical fire power, and that sort of thing all around the area occupied by the Cult.  You know, the kind of stuff you would hear about in fantasy horror stories and really bad dreams, not something you would see in every day real life.

As if there wasn’t already a bad enough taste in everyone’s mouth regarding the Cult, this made it worse.  The Witch Queen, Wahyene, and all of the leader types of the Cult were gone, no trace to be found.

I was the only one who had a story linking Meidra herself, to the situation, as well as the fate of Wahyene.  In some ways I was something of a celebrity, or an anomaly, or both.

So now, here we were.  Hoscoe had been made Master of the Blade, a fancy name for chief instructor of armed combat.  Me, I was his apprentice, and had the privileges of most any other warrior.  More, actually, I had my own room.  Most soldiers shared a room with three fellow warriors. 

We were placed in the North Tower Barracks.  Hoscoe’s quarters had two rooms, and I was placed right beside him in standard warrior’s quarters but with one bed.  All he had to do was prove his worth as a teacher, and we were set.  And I had no worry he would do that.  Now, I was wondering exactly how I would fit into things.

Our barracks had three levels, two above ground and one below.  Hoscoe and I were located in the center on the top level.  Hoscoe commented, “This is in part an honor, as me being the chief teacher, and in part because they will be keeping an eye on us.  Do not misconstrue our standing, Wolf, we are not free men … but, at least we are not slaves.  Well, not in the conventional sense, in any case.”

At chow that morning, it was nice to be in a real mess hall.  As we walked in, Hoscoe received several shows of respect and was referred to as Master.  Some of them looked at me as if wondering what to expect.  I could vaguely remember being in here once, and falling against the wall.  If memory was serving me correctly, three or four soldiers jumped up to help.

The food this morning smelled great.  There was plenty of meat, fruits I am sure I had been eating but couldn’t recall, some kind of drink that resembled coffee, honey, a type of bread made from rice, freshly churned butter, and eggs fixed any way you want as long as you wanted them scrambled. 

As usual, all of the faces I saw were human, but the looks I got were different.  For the first time I didn’t feel like something which should be chained up outside.  It was a feeling that took me a really long time to get used to.  I had no idea what it felt like, not being a slave … at least, not in the conventional sense.

Most of the day was spent watching Hoscoe work while dizziness came and went.  There were no signs of nausea, but my head, though, I wished there was a way to make my head quit hurting.  Every once in a while I would remember some little thing I had done in the last couple of days.  A soldier came up to me to ask how I was, and after a moment, I remembered his name was Ander.

He sat down on the bench next to me and asked, “Is it true you defeated the dark goddess in mental combat?”

Now I just turned and looked at the guy and thought, ‘Where in Zaeghun’s Lair did he get that?’  Having a total stranger walk up and start asking me questions about my health was a little unnerving.  My first impulse was to get up and wait for instructions to do some task or another.  I then wondered if anyone here knew I was really a slave, I mean, that I had grown up a slave and had been one until just now?

Politely, I managed to exaggerate a painful smile and replied, “If you call having the feathers beaten out of you, getting clawed by what felt like a mad bear, thrown against the wall like a rag doll, and having your brains boiled like butter … then I guess you could say I barely survived.”

He nodded and smiled in return.  Then a flash of memory went through my mind; Ander had been one of the soldiers who jumped up when I fell against the wall.  I said, “You got up to help me that day, thank you.”

His face beamed and you would have thought my comment had made his day.

“No problem,” he answered.  Then he added, “Maybe we can sit down with a mug or three and you can get to know some of the boys.” He motioned to some of the soldiers getting ready to take swordsmanship class.

“I would like that,” I said.

Ander got up and wished me a good day, and then went to take his own place in the class.

Why did I say that, I mused?  Would I really like drinking a mug with these humans?  But it turned out I had a few good friends who just happened to be human.  Then there was Hoscoe, we really did need to talk.  Why was he so concerned with me?  And how would I act in a tavern, or whatever they called it here among the soldiers? 

For now, it was better to just focus on watching the class.  I was sure I would learn something, just by watching.  Now, if only I could remember to the next day.

Hoscoe had been teaching regularly for over two weeks and had already gotten his system down.  He had classes for young soldiers, as young as fourteen and fifteen, which is young for a human to be in an army.  And then he had classes for established soldiers.  The commander even stopped and watched for a while.  From time to time he would glance at me, but he said nothing.

That evening Hoscoe and I talked some about the course of the day, how my head felt, what I thought of his classes, but nothing heavy in the way of discussion.  When I lay down I worried if I would remember anything at all the next morning.  But I was thankful, thankful for secure walls, for the first time in my life I had my own real bed, and in the corner stood a sword; not just any sword, it was my sword.  It was with the thought of that blade in mind that I fell asleep smiling.

Chapter   31

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THE NEXT MORNING began well.  I was able to remember everything from the day before and the room didn’t spin quite as much.  My head still hurt, though, and it was a hurt I couldn’t just heal away.  After pausing for only a few moments, my feet kneading the carpet knap, I was able to dress before the morning horn sounded.  When Hoscoe knocked at my door, I was able to open it and greet him, ready for breakfast.

“Well now,” He commented with humor, “Clear eyed and bushy tailed, it seems.  And how do you feel this morning?”

Standing in the doorway I slowly nodded my head, “Good, but my head still hurts.  And you?”

“Hungry,” he said, “let us get some chow.”

And that’s the way the next few mornings went.  We spoke casually about the difference in food from what we were used to, some about the culture, a little about what I was seeing in the classes, how well I was remembering things in general, and my headaches. 

The days were for the most part uneventful and filled with watching Hoscoe teach, taking meals, walking about the barracks area enjoying not wearing chains, and my trying to get a feel for living in a military type environment.  It was very different, but also similar to the organized structure of the road camp.  Of course, I liked it much better, but every moment of your day had to be accounted for.  And I picked up that many of the younger soldiers were being forced to serve.

Every other day I would see Ander at class, and he would always take a minute to chat.  He introduced me to some of his buddies and from time to time we would see each other at chow.

Commander Lahrcus stopped by to watch classes, sometimes two or three times a day.  Once he happened over to stand next to me.  I had been balancing on the balls of my feet, shifting my weight slowly from one side to the other, imagining myself moving with the exercises of the current class.

Lahrcus casually offered comment, “He is good, isn’t he?”

The commander was without a doubt a pure soldier.  A human in his prime at about forty-five to fifty years of age, between eight and nine inches over five feet tall, clean limbed and agile. His skin was dark with some gray mingled in his curly, black hair.  His bearing was very upright, crisp, confident and totally squared away, but at the same time there was something else. 

Where soldiers of the day were more often than not conditioned to blindly follow orders, not rarely to the soldier’s detriment, Commander Lahrcus was no common soldier.  It was obvious in the way he studied the classes.  He wasn’t just watching Hoscoe, as if planning a rematch, he was studying the soldiers in general.  And he seemed to like what he saw.

Not sure how to reply to his implied question, I answered simply, “Yes sir.”

“Have you ever seen him fight in battle?”

Not taking my eyes of the class I responded, “Yes sir.”

He paused and looked me over, then asked, “Have you ever been in battle?”

I looked down for a moment, not sure how to answer his question.  Would fighting Stagus, or shooting crossbows on the top of a wagon count as battle?  “Yes sir,” I said.

Pleasantly he chuckled and asked, “You don’t talk much do you?”

Glancing at the commander, I couldn’t help but smile sheepishly, “No sir.”

After a few minutes of silently watching the class he asked, “What is your favored weapon?”

‘Favored weapon,’ I thought, I had no idea.  Most of what fighting I had done had been bare knuckle.  “My fists, I guess,” was my response.

Startled, he looked at me and seemed to size me up.  I was thinking I had said something wrong when he good naturedly asked, “Are you going to fight cognobins with your fists?”

There was no intimidation in his voice, and he didn’t seem to be acting obnoxious, somehow I couldn’t help but like Commander Lahrcus.  I answered, “I hope not.”

His quiet laughter was infectious, and I laughed myself.  He bid me good day and walked his way. 

___________________________

 

The twenty-seventh morning, since our confrontation with the king, was the first day of the week, Ohnday.  The headaches still came and went, but otherwise I felt fine.  It was with a great feeling of accomplishment that I knocked on Hoscoe’s door and asked if he was ready for breakfast.

Within the instant he opened the door, fully dressed, and with a tilt of his head implored from me, “And if I am not, kind sir, would you roll me out of the sack and force me to mark time to the sound of Revelry?”

“Huh?” He caught me off guard and had me at a loss of speech.  ‘What in kahdjit did he just say?’

Laughing, he slapped me on the shoulder and said, “Let us go break our fast, Wolf.  I think it is time to start your formal training.”

As a rule, the last day of the week, Sabboday, was a general rest day.  Certain military procedures still went on, and guard was not diminished in any way.  But where ever possible people were allowed time for personal recuperation, and some of the soldiers had families. 

The Combat Arms and Strategy classes were held Munday, Tuesday, Thursday and Ehnday.  Humday, the middle of the week, usually consisted of a variety of other classes for the young warriors.  During the five day week, sometimes called the short week, all kinds of drills may go on through the day.  And patrols, either training or actual, could be launched at any given time.

As for the rest of Kiubejhan, the capitol city, indeed the only city of Keoghnariu, everything was centered around its military.

After breakfast, Hoscoe and I walked up to the block building which served as his training hall.  It wasn’t huge, but big enough on the inside to practice weaponry in bad weather.  On the outside was where most of his classes had been held.  The hall was pretty much one large room, which apparently had been a barn.  The center was an open place of about forty by sixty feet, with two posts evenly spaced in the center to help support the open ceiling.  Cross-timbers above were twelve feet up from the hard packed dirt floor.

In back, converted tack rooms were used as storage areas for various pieces of equipment, one became Hoscoe’s office of sorts.  Along the walls were some benches, and it was to one of these Hoscoe led me and we sat down.  There was no way anyone could hear our conversation without magical means, and apparently the Shaman was now the only magical person left for miles around.

“You seem to have made some friends,” he began, and waited to see if I would comment.

“A couple,” I responded, “sort of.”

Hoscoe passed me a glance and gave a small chuckle, “You are most reserved, but this can be a good thing.  I think some of these fellows like you.  You survived the assaults of a goddess, you know?”

I looked at him and saw he was making a light joke.  Not sure what to say I just kept silent.

After a few moments of chewing on his lip, and then crossing his arms, he said, “The time has come, Wolf, for us to lay our paths down clearly.” He looked me in the eye, “We must needs have an understanding.”

Hoscoe looked down to his feet and scuffed the floor a bit with his toe, and then seemed to look afar, as if through the walls and into another time. “I have made a commitment to serve as an indentured retainer, for the sake of teaching the young soldiers proper skills at arms, and to act as council with specific regard to the problem of these cognobins.  You, have been cleared as my apprentice, for however long it takes.

“This could be a while.  The road to the canyon bridge has been closed due to cognobin occupation now in the north, and travel to the east and into the desert is just as hazardous.”

Hoscoe paused to let that information sink in. 

Then he continued, “No one here knows of your former status as a slave, and all they know is that you spent your early years in the Ahnagohr Mountain Range.  They have assumed you were born there, and for now, it is my advisement they need know nothing to the contrary.”

Sensing my question before I could ask he said, “Sormiske has been sent to the mines, where the word has been passed around that he liked to abuse women.  I understand he has become rather popular among the ruffians there.”

Leaving that subject closed, Hoscoe said, “I will be teaching these new soldiers, and some of those more experienced, the conventional skills of military combat.  You will be training with them, and occasionally going out on patrols with them.”

Then he looked at me with a very serious undertone, seemed to chew his jaw a moment or two, then continued, “But in our off time, I will be teaching you the arts of elvin combat, lore, and Dsh’Tharr Guerilla Tactics.”

‘Dsh’Tharr?’ I was stunned.  ‘Did he know my own lineage was …?’

His hesitation was only long enough to register the expression on my face.

“You must needs listen before making any comments.” He watched to make sure he had my compliance.  I felt hot and it was almost hard to breath, the room almost seemed to want to spin.  Mysteries I had wondered about were about to become known, or were they?  Did I really want to know?

And then he began with his story, a condensed part of it, anyway.

“I was orphaned at the age of six, when a small band of Jokhliynes attacked our home in the Woods of Stohrkoff, up in northwest Nahjiua.” Seeing my lack of comprehension he added, “The Jokhliynes are a large type of wood sprite, maybe four to four and a half feet tall, can walk through anything of pure wood, and not very nice.  They hate almost everything, and although they consider themselves guardians of the woodlands, the druids even regarded them as somewhat evil.

“In the home they slew my mother, older brother and sister, my infant sister, and then my father and uncle as they came in from putting up stock.  It was horrible, and I saw all of it.  My father and uncle had built well from stone, but the door was itself made of wood.  I escaped into the cellar and through a tunnel to the nearby creek, but it was of no use.  Jokhliynes can smell out prey like a bloodhound and they found me straightway.

“One had grabbed me by the calf and pulled me to, lifting me by the tunic it was about to swipe me dead when a shrill musical note filled the air.  This dark sprite took a look of horror and dropped me like a rotten twig, and then skittered into the woods.  I lay there frightened to death, when a figure in a hooded cloak and walking on a cane seemed to emerge right out of a tree.

“He called himself Th’Khai, and from that day forward he raised me as his own.” Hoscoe hesitated, clearly feeling emotions not often released as he remembered so far back.  He glanced at me as he continued, “He was an elf, an elf from the old world. 

“Th’Khai soothed me, but in the beginning when he spoke I heard his voice in my head, not my ears.  He waited several days before letting me see him without his hood.  He wanted to make me comfortable with him, first, because when he removed the hood his features were more frightening than the Jokhliynes. 

“Much of his face, all of his right side, and his torso was one ugly scar of burned flesh.  His left leg was mangled where it had been broken and twisted, and the only part of his body of which he had full use was his left arm.  Even his voice had a harsh, rasping sound, making some words very difficult to understand.  In time, I learned his entire family had been slain by a rogue dragon, and his own skills had been fruitless.  Ashamed and disgraced, even shunned by his own kind, he left his land and spent his life wandering alone. 

“He had been part of a tribe of elves led by Kn’Yang, last chief of the Sh’Nika tribe of Dsh’Tharr Elves, but that had been long past.  He had become a lone wanderer in the northeastern Hoshael woodlands, reciting poetry to the creatures of the forest and playing his flute.  The Fey Folk knew him well, and they either revered or feared him. 

“At times he would descend toward the human settlements in the night, just to do some small deed of benevolence.  It was a way to at least be near people.  Th’Khai is a Nahjiuese word, not Elvish, meaning Night Man.  The people near the mountains knew there was a guardian of sorts out there, but they were afraid as well. 

“His exile and loneliness had finally become too much to bear and was contemplating Setdyruhp, the forbidden act of self death, when he came across me. 

“Knowledge was of no merit without someone to share, he explained.  The elves had disavowed his standing within their community, and humans looked upon him as a monster, as they could not see past their own eyes.  From time to time, humans would leave gifts of appeasement in the trees, but they did not want him dwelling among them.

“The fey folk had no need of his learning, and d’warvec do not look kindly upon elves in any regard.  Th’Khai had yet to pass on his Gymitsachi, which had long been a tradition within his family.  And so it was that he offered to teach me, a human child, in the elvin way.

“My only charge; to preserve the teaching and in time play my part in passing of the Gymitsachi.”

Hoscoe was speaking as if I wasn’t even there, now.  He was relieving memories, powerful memories.  And he continued speaking, “I accepted the bargain and for eighteen years he taught me continuously.  His knowledge spanned far more than the world we know; I learned tactics of Abraham, Alexander, Attila, Cochise, Oshang, Kn’Yang, Dahrbus Yuban and even the D’Warvec Warrior Vienwerbalt. 

“Th’Khai drilled me in the thoughts of Solomon, Sun Tzu, Tatanka Iyotaka, L’Amour, Almadin and the Tao of Diustahn.  By the time I was twenty-four, I knew how to forge weapons, design a stone archway and recite over four hundred poems.  Although he could not swing a sword, he understood the principles well enough so he could talk me through in-depth training, far beyond the imagining of the common soldier.

“Finally he said to me, ‘Hoscoe, your time has come to sojourn into the word of men,’ and with that he prepared me to journey abroad.” Hoscoe looked at me with wonderment in his eyes, “I could not fathom what might lie before me.” He chuckled at the thought, and then continued his tale, “With thoughts of grandeur and heroism, I ventured into the lands of Nahjiua. 

“Oh, there were maidens aplenty to rescue, rogues to overcome and scoundrels to outwit, but within a year I found myself in the employ of a weaver.  Now, you might not think an association with a cloth maker to be worthy of a warrior, but Th’Khai had instructed me well in that before one undertakes one’s true life mission, they should take time to learn from three mentors of integrity.  Th’Khai had been my first.

“‘Learn life, if not profession, from three strong teachers, and you will gain perspective from different directions,’ Th’Khai said.  And it is true.  I spent four good years with Lahrunce, and while my weaving skills never developed to a strong level, I learned much in the art of doing business and how to interact with the common person.  He was fair, but a firm dealer of goods and we traveled much.  I acted as his personal armsman.

“Five years I had been among the land, and Nahjiua covers much territory.  The time came when I wished to pay Th’Khai a visit, but when I arrived at the old dwelling it had long been deserted.  I found a note engraved on a piece of wood,” I saw Hoscoe’s lips tremble just a bit as he hesitated.  I thought there was moisture in his eyes and I looked away out of respect. 

He recovered himself, and staring at the wall he kept on, “On it was written, Beloved Hoscoe, When you were lonely I was there for you, when you were hungry I fed you, when you were cold I gave you warmth, and when you were sick I cared for you.  I have raised you as my own son, schooled you, and trained you in the best way I know how.  Never forget your Honor, Integrity and your Promise.  As long as you remember your teaching, I shall always be with you, for I taught you all that I am.

“And he signed it … well … he signed it.  I knew … I knew it was he.”  Hoscoe got up and walked around the floor a bit, absently brushing his nose and stroked his goatee.  Then, almost as if he were performing a lecture, he gave me a glance and continued, “I rode on, then.  Here and there an adventure presented itself, but eventually Dahruban made its way upon my horizon. 

“Stopping at the Wooly Shoe Tavern, a popular place for soldiers at the time, I took a mug and observed a rascal acting rough with a mop boy.  It was only a matter of course for me to impose a bit of courtesy, and before long the rascal had been deposited into the street.  The owner of the Wooly Shoe, a woman named Vorla, hired me to act a bartender and house guard.  She became my third mentor.”

I was just looking at Hoscoe, and he returned my gaze and hesitated, “What?  She was very good in the way of business, and I learned much about dealing with rough men without using force.”

Was I wrong, or was Hoscoe flushing just a little?  I had a hard time suppressing the hint of a smile.  He titled his head, glanced at me, then away, and back at me again, I saw an eyebrow rise and I thought the shadows of interesting memories were coming to his mind.

“In any case,” He went on, “I maintained employment there for about five or six years …” I was still just looking at him, but again he hesitated.  Not a word did I say, but it had become just a bit amusing.  Hoscoe was trying not to become flustered, “I can still toss the bottles with the best of them, and have forgotten not one mixture for any drink …” He stopped pacing and looked at me with a partially open mouth and raised eyebrows.

Apparently deciding to leave the tavern subject alone, Hoscoe bent forward as if to dive into some great exposition, “It was from the tavern I was invited to join the militia.  Many of the city’s soldiers frequented the establishment, and so it was I presented myself to the quarter’s commandant.  I quickly progressed into soldier’s position, became a footman, and within one year had earned rank as a sergeant. 

“There were many battles, and on one occasion I found myself in command of thirty-seven soldiers with no officer.  We completed our mission and I received a battlefield commission.”  He began pacing again as he absently muttered, “… fifty years, over fifty years of soldiering.”

There was a long pause, “I … I married late in life, and had one son.  He was a good boy, and his mother was dear to my heart.”

There was a lot of hesitation, and I knew he was having a hard time as he slowly paced.  I wondered how long it had been since he had talked about his family.  He began again, “She had the blackest of hair, and she always had a smile.  She never cared about the … about the blood, always so warm and supporting.  She was there when …”

He looked at me hard, “There are many women out there, Wolf, many are only concerned with taking control of a man’s life, or with what wealth she can get from him.  But there are good ones out there, take care to be particular.  And should you be fortunate enough to find a good one, treat her as if she is worth more than all of the jewels of any lair … for she is.”

Hoscoe breathed in deeply and seemed to contemplate what next to say, “Jonathon was a good boy.  He was strong, a good student, and very much wanted to be like his father.  He went through the military academy, which I helped found, and graduated at the top of his class.  He had … he had reached the rank of Captain … by the time he was only twenty-three years of age. 

“He was twenty-six and in charge of his own command at Fort Culver, far into the northern wild-lands.  The fort was small and was to lend support to prospective miners in the region.  I was to have been there, but was detoured to investigate another matter.  Denizens from the region descended on the fort with a midnight assault, it was a near absolute massacre.  Sormiske was the officer of the watch, and one of only four survivors.”  Hoscoe paced, I could not see his face. 

He continued, “Two little granddaughters, one newborn and I had not seen,” he breathed hard, “and my beloved wif-fe …”

I saw tears on Hoscoe’s face.

Slowly walking the length of the room, I saw him try to casually wipe his face.  I was seeing this fearsome warrior in a new light.

Regaining his composure, he paced his way back while still talking, “I was still not ready to be put to pasture, but I had lost my will to live.  I should, I should have been there … so, I retired.”

There was another long pause, “I ambled my way into the Sahrjiun Mountains, in the direction of Mount Bn’Chella, an old elvin place of solitude Th’Khai had talked to me about.

With a hint of a smile he said, “For a time, I actually thought I could hear something calling to me in my heart, leading me.  I found a beautiful lake, and above it was the mountain.  It was as if I were compelled to climb, but there were the Yeti.” He breathed deep, and exhaled slowly, “It wasn’t easy.  But I made it. 

“At the top was this big cave, and inside I met what many people called an oracle.  He knew who I was and called me by name.  He asked me, ‘Did you not, Hoscoe, make a bargain as a child?  Is there not yet a duty for you to complete?’  I was astounded, and I tried to think what duty.  And then I remembered.”

He sat back down next to me and folded his hands; I realized he was waiting for me to figure it out.  Then it hit me, I said, “The Gymitsachi?”

Hoscoe nodded in approval, and said, “My own son was gone, but I still had knowledge to pass on.  For as much as my heart was in mourning, life had not yet ceased, there was yet a purpose for my existence.  This … oracle … informed me there was a youngling north of Tremount, should I choose to go there.”

I was feeling that hot, dizzy feeling again.

“When I hired on with Stagus, he did not know me, but I knew of him.  At first I was not sure who I was looking for, until I saw you, Wolf.” He brushed imaginary dust from his clothing, “I offered to purchase you, and then I could have set you free, but he would have no part of it.  So it was I had to wait my time.  A skill, not a virtue, taught me by Th’Khai.”

There were a few minutes of quiet as he waited for it all to sink in.

“So, there it is in a brief nutshell.” Turning to face me in a more direct manner, he solemnly and profoundly asked, “Will you, Timber Wolf, son of an unknown human man and a captured Elvin Tell Singer, accept me, Hoscoe Val’Ihrus of Nahjiua, human born but raised by an elf, as your mentor of the elvin ways, for as long as time doth provide?”

For months, now, I had been wondering what Hoscoe’s true interest was in me, and how much he actually knew of my background.  There were still questions to be asked, but here it was laid out before me.  For three years he had bided his time, waiting for a chance to do what?  Rescue me?  Whatever, he had been there with me in mind, to be my friend and bring things into a situation where he could pass on what he knew.  All based on his own code of honor and the suggestion of a forgotten oracle no one believed in anymore.

Dumbfounded, I searched his face and then his eyes.  Sincerity radiated all through his essence.  What can you say to something like this?  It was nothing you could just make up, this was real and it was happening to me.  How could I ever make myself worthy of what Hoscoe had done, of what he was offering to do?

Swallowing what seemed to be a huge lump in my throat, I offered a shaky hand, and in a voice that barely would find its way upward, I said, “Yes.”

Hoscoe’s smile was beaming, as he shook my hand in a firm forearm grasp.

And that’s how my formal training in military tactics and warfare began.

Chapter   32

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PARRY-PARRY-FEINT, slash, counter and lunge thrust, whack … the flat of Hoscoe’s sword smacked my hand numb making me release my grip on the sword, and then a humiliating slap of his blade on my rump.  Damn! 

Irritated, I massaged my hand and looked over at Hoscoe, who was drinking his cursed coffee from that old white mug with his left hand, his right hand pointing his sword tip into the air.  Thankfully, we were inside the training barn and alone.  No one had seen.  Not that anyone ever fared better, but I had my pride.

“Too fast, not enough technique,” he casually said, not having the grace to at least act like I posed him even a minor challenge.

Shaking out my hand, I bent over to retrieve my blade … but making sure to keep Hoscoe within clear sight and to the front of me.  Once, only once, I bent over to pick up my sword with my back to him and he kicked me hard in the tail, spilling me hard into the floor and onto my face.  That had been well over two years ago.

The Winter Solstice had been nearly upon us when Hoscoe and I had emerged from that old dugout entrance, and we were about to begin our third spring in Keoghnariu.  Life wasn’t necessarily easy, but it was good.

Every day, six days a week, I got up to do something called a power walk for one mile, jog for two miles, power walk another mile, flat out run for two miles, then walk one last mile.  Then it was either abdominal exercises of standing on my toes to make my calves burn.  After that I stretched, then went to the water pit for a bath.  I had never before heard of indoor plumbing, but this place had it and it was nice.  While bathing I would heal myself from the heavy exertion.  Then it was time for breakfast. 

Six afternoons a week I pursued extreme strength training, designed by Hoscoe, followed by another session of stretching and healing.  Hoscoe explained that a normal person would collapse from over-training like I was doing, but he wanted to see just where I could go physically.  At thirty-seven years of age, he figured I had most of my height at 5’9”, although I might get a little taller, and I was starting to fill out into young adulthood. 

I currently weighed around one hundred and thirty-five to forty pounds and could just put twice my weight over my head.  He understood, though, that I was still a few years from physical maturity and was more equal to a human teenager.  I wouldn’t be a true adult until I was in my fifties.

There was always a period of punching and kicking a six feet long canvas sack.  Hoscoe had this sack specially made from an old duffle bag.  It was about one foot in diameter, filled and hard packed with old clothing and blankets, and he hung it from the ceiling so the bottom was two feet up from the floor.  He taught me twelve specific striking techniques he called Tohrnacios Dorcé, an Elvish term meaning Deadly Dozen.  They came from a thousand year old fighting style called Tohrna-Te Sao; a combination of Wild Elf empty-hand and knife fighting tactics, and quarter-staff, spear, and rough-wrestling techniques of the Nahjiuese Hillmen. 

Anyone who understands the dynamics of Elvish would recognize the name Tohrna-Te Sao as having been taken from various elvish words, apparently by a human in honor of the elf or elves who shared their art with said human.  No elf would have bastardized the language to construct such a word; it just isn’t grammatically correct.  The resultant fighting system, however, is incredibly efficient.

“There are many fancy patterns and would-be techniques out there,” he said, “but do you master these and the rest are just pretty exercises. Master these, and their suitable variations will make themselves known to you.”

Another bag he had made for me was to practice a plethora of throws on; I had no idea there were so many ways to throw a person.

He had me do endless exercises with various lengths of sticks, ranging from two to eight feet long.  I threw bola and learned to effectively use a teamster’s whip up to twenty-two feet long.  And of course I did drills with blades, both long and short. 

Swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat were only a part of my education, however.  Hoscoe was going to bring me up as if I were being privately tutored in the Dahruban Military Academy.  He wanted to train me as he would train an officer cadet.  For Hoscoe, this was the highest honor he could bestow upon me as his student.

We had no books, so after breakfast he would lecture me as we prepared for his classes.  Why need a book, after all, when you were being trained by the master who wrote most of the training manuals in Dahruban’s Military Academy? 

He would grade me according to discussions we had, the answers I gave to his questions and the quality of questions I asked.  During lunch and the evening meal we did more of the same.

In the swordsmanship classes I would act as Hoscoe’s demonstration partner, all through which I got thrown around a lot, at the same time probably learning more than the other students.  He called my function in these demonstrations being his uke, which he said meant training partner.  Sometimes I wondered where he got some of his words.

From the beginning, Hoscoe made it clear to me my function as an uke was a disguised means of securing me lots of training time.  He would have me attack him in a multitude of ways, and then he instructed the classes in the best methods of countering.  Much time was vested in explaining what was good, what was better and what was best.

After my first six months, he had me mingle with the others in training exercises.  Always, it appeared he was ignoring me and focusing on the others.  But at the end of the day he would grill me over the day’s classes, and I had better have been paying attention.

One of the hardest working of all the students was Ander.  He wasn’t a natural, but he stayed at it and wouldn’t be swayed.  He would try to seek me out as a sparring partner and as time went on he started to get the knack of technical swordsmanship.  His strength, however, was his ingenuity and a natural gift of anticipation.

“That one,” Hoscoe told me one afternoon as they were leaving class, “that Ander has the making of a leader of men.  What he lacks in talent, he makes up for in diligence and unflappable attitude.  Notice, he does not let himself become agitated and maintains his calm.  I wager he will take the prize while the double dashers are foundering from lack of courage.

“Take note, Wolf, he will become a force to be reckoned with one of these days.”

By the end of the first year, Hoscoe said I had more quality swordsmanship education than an officer cadet with four years training at the academy.  Hoscoe was always quoting one anecdote or another, one of his favorites being, “Skill at arms is comprised of 10% talent and 100% hard work.”

Years of harsh labor had made me uncommonly strong, and with my training regimen I had become stronger.  But Hoscoe said my speed and hand to eye coordination was unnatural, even for an elf.  The speed and dexterity drills he put me through, jumping, flipping, rolling and sprinting across this line and that … whew … it would make a rabbit step back and wonder.

Sometimes he would make me stand against the wall and start throwing things at me.  No joke.  He told me if I didn’t want to get hit, then don’t be where the object was going.  Nor did he stop for me to breathe when I got hit.  “Just because an arrow hits you, the adversary will not quit shooting,” he would say.

The sticks, stones and wooden balls were bad enough, but when he broke out the throwing daggers I started to fret.  He calmly remarked, “You can practice one of two things … your healing, or dodging …” I looked up just as the first blade came hurtling my way and he started throwing the second, “… or both.”

Eee-yow-w-w!

Hoscoe reminded me many times, “I push you hard, Wolf, because I do not know how much time we are going to have together.  But there is more … you have a great purpose in life, I think, and I would be cheating you if I did not push you to the brink of your ability, and beyond.”

Me, I didn’t care about my purpose in life, if there was such a thing.  I could hear others complain at having to work so hard, but I was so thankful … all I wanted was to make Hoscoe proud.  He gave me something to live up to.  When I did well, he commended me, and he accepted nothing less than my absolute best.

Everything wasn’t just military style training, though.  He also taught me the way of gentlemanly recreation; it was called, chess.  Almost every evening we would play a game in his sitting room, and then I would turn in to my quarters for the night.  Once I got the hang of it, he also insisted on enhancing my memory skills in an interesting fashion.

“I do not know how Tell Singer’s are trained, but I know it is memory related.  We are going to continue to build upon that foundation,” he said.  There were times I wished he didn’t know so much about elvin lifestyle.

Eventually we began playing chess by memory, or I thought that was what we were doing.  One day he would verbally inform me of a move, and the next day I would inform him of a move in return.  I wasn’t allowed to write any of these moves down, or trace pieces on a board in my quarters.  I asked him how he could remember such a game so well.

He replied, “Who says I do?”

Stunned, I looked at him incredulously and answered, “You mean you aren’t playing from memory?”

He laughed, raised and tilted his head in that manner of his and replied, “I am not the one with such a gift,”  then he pointed at me, “but you are.”

“But …”

“I record each move in my quarters.”  As he saw my exasperated expression he added, “It is my job to push you to your potential.  Do you not remember?”  With a wicked smile he added, “Queen’s knight takes King’s Bishop, check.”  Then he winked at me and walked off.

That had been at the end of our first summer, and signaled the beginning of many things to come.

Here and there he began asking me all manner of questions about the little extra things I could do.  How and what did I feel, did it weaken or strengthen me, was any of it a strain on my mind, how long did it take me to recuperate so I could do more?

Late one evening in between sparring sets he suddenly said, “From now on,” he raised a hand in the air as if to embellish his words, “anytime, you feel the urge to try something new with your gifts, you should proceed.”

“Huh?” I responded.

“You have no idea the scope of ability you may have, Wolf.  The ancient druids began with a semblance of power,” he was making motions with his hands and exaggerating his facial expressions, “and they would diligently train and practice to develop sometimes tremendous capabilities.”

I thought about that, and imagined myself as a druid.  Never in a millennia could I see myself in such a way.

He looked at me with understanding and added, “You have spent a lifetime being subjugated and pressed into a mold someone else has chosen for you.  Everything your momma endeavored to teach you was certainly done in private, and you had to contain it.”

Not for the first time I wondered how much he knew about me.  How much had he learned from Stagus, what had I said when he had kept me in his quarters?  I had yet to ask him about any of it, and wasn’t yet sure I was ready to know.

“Wolf?” 

I looked at him, clearly having just been lost in thought.  Gently, but firmly he made a solid point, “This is the time, here and now, to learn what you might be capable of.  Now … while I am here and can help you.”

I nodded my understanding.  But to be honest, I was scared.  I was afraid of what I might learn about myself.  I was also afraid to fail.

“Mehio?”

Looking up from my feet, I saw he was pondering something which had long been on his mind.

“Let us go have a seat.”

My stomach suddenly felt like I had been punched, hard.  What was wrong with me?  I followed him to a bench inside the training hall.  I sat down and he grabbed a stool, so he could sit in front of me.

“I … have delayed this for as long as I could.  But I believe we need to discuss a few things, to get them out in the open.  Some things you keep repressed, for what I believe are the wrong reasons.”

Hoscoe made sure we had strong eye contact, and I felt hot and sweaty, afraid.

Slowly he said, “You can say no, and we will wait for another time.  But I am going to ask you some questions.  The answers to these questions I do not expect to come easily.  Do you understand?”

Just as slowly, I nodded my head, and then said, “Yes.”  The room seemed to be spinning and I felt like my head had grown to the size of the room.

“Your mother was a Tell Singer.  You mentioned it in your delirium.  And Stagus mentioned it as well.  Would you care to tell me her name?”

Stunned, I looked at him, “You don’t know?”

The honesty shown through his eyes as he gently shook his head and replied, “No, I do not.”

“My m-momma, she was …” I felt like I was choking, and tears started to well up inside as I saw a vision of her dancing under the apple trees, mixed with her dying eyes looking up at me on the refuse heap.  “Her name was …” I couldn’t breathe.  Hoscoe didn’t push, nor did he say stop and leave it alone.  He sat right there and let me reach in and fight it out.

On his face I saw only concern and support.  I felt so weak.  Her name hadn’t crossed my lips since before that day, so long ago.  I felt as if I were suffocating.  How long I sat there like that I couldn’t tell.

I felt myself lowering her into the hole I had dug beneath that apple tree.  I could remember each shovel of dirt I put back into that hole.  And then suddenly, as if from across time I heard her voice singing, it was as if she were singing to me.  It was her favorite song, one of many she had written when she lived in another place. 

Without realizing it, I found myself humming the tune, and then the words came.  It was all in the original Elvish and was beautiful. 

Closing my eyes I felt myself go back; it was if I was right there with her, holding each other’s hands.  Together we sang the song in harmony, the squirrels and birds singing with us in chorus.  The song was long and told the story of a wanderer who had been lost, then found their way home.  Home …

After letting the final notes fade into the air, I opened my eyes and looked up to see tears on Hoscoe’s face, he had been mouthing the words with me.  How did he … “Kelshinua,” I said, “my momma’s name is Kelshinua.”

You could have knocked him over with a feather.  Hoscoe sat on his stool and shock registered on his face, “Your mother is Kelshinua, the daughter of Ml’Shain?”  At a momentary loss for words, he paused a long moment and then added, “I understood she was slain, a hundred years ago.  Her name is reverenced by all of the Western Elves.”

“She was captured and brought back as a slave.  We belonged to the House of Fel’Caden, where we tended the gardens and she played music,” I said as I wiped my face.  Somehow, I felt a kind of release that I didn’t understand.  And what Hoscoe just said, the elves all thought she had died.  Is that why they never came to get her?

“I am sorry, Wolf, I had no idea.  I was under the impression your mother was one of the remnants of those who migrated to the Shudoquar Plains.”

We both sat there in silence, and he kept chewing his lip in thoughts.

“I didn’t even know any had migrated down,” I said, “but why are you sorry?  There’s nothing you could have done.  It isn’t your fault.”

Hoscoe clenched his teeth and winced his eye in personal remorse, “Wolf,” he paused and deliberated his words, “to the elves, where I come from, you would be considered something akin to a prince.  I could have journeyed there and brought a contingent of warriors to reclaim you, and they would have come.  There would not have been many, but more than enough to get you away from Stagus.”

A prince?  Me?  It was the farthest thing from my imagination.

“But I’m a half-breed.”

At that, Hoscoe paused, “That you are.”  He thought and rubbed his hand across his forehead, down his face, and paused around his goatee, “This will sound harsh, but do you know who your father is, or might have been.”

It was a fair question, “Honestly, no.  But Herrol said Fel’Caden blood ran through my veins.  He had hoped to use me for stud, he told me.”

“So, Lord Herrol Fel’Caden is your kinsman,” I could detect an irritation in Hoscoe’s voice, “he who it is said is trying to develop a master race?”

And with that we talked.  It seemed Hoscoe knew Herrol had a youngster he was raising up as a warrior, his name was L’Sol.  We agreed L’Sol would have to be my younger brother.

Then he asked, “Have you talked to anyone about your bloodlines, your heritage?”

“Never,” I said, and then added, “I never even talked about it with Jared.”

So it was that Hoscoe suggested, “I would not make it common knowledge to anyone that you are descended from the family Fel’Caden.”  Seeing my expression he hastily added, “I am privy to knowledge most do not have, and the Fel’Cadens are direct descendants of a long lived group of humans, humans who themselves possessed strong powers of the mind.  Some could manipulate thoughts, others could move things by thought, and others still could manipulate fire. 

“Do you recall stories your mother may have told you about the Children of the Stars?  The Kl’Duryq were a people from far beyond,” he waved his hand toward the sky, “who ultimately tried to overthrow the peoples of this world.  Most perished, but a few survived.  A man named Falcohn was one of the first settlers of Gevard.  He was one of the Kl’Duryq remnants and his family became known as Fel’Caden.”

His face took a bit of humor, then, and added, “You know, combining the blood of Oshang’s lineage with Fel’Caden, you might have some unique gifts for sure.”

We just sat there a few moments. Finally I smiled a little, “Maybe.”

He ran his hand through his white hair and said, “What say we call it a day?  Go get you some rest.”

“Hoscoe?” 

“Yes?”

I fought for the words, afraid to ask because of what I might learn, but afraid not to ask, as well.  “I have an older sister, one who got away, was taken away, actually.  A slave escaped with her.”

He was all attention.

“She was a cleric or druid type, up in Kohnarahs Bay.  Her name was U’Lahna.”

I saw a slow smile cross his face, “U’Lahna?  She is your sister?”  He studied my face, then slowly he shook his head, “Yes.  Now I see it.”  He seemed suddenly irritated with himself at missing something he felt should have been obvious.  “Your jaw lines and eyebrows do favor.  But her complexion is so different, and her eyes are green.”

I felt a shred of hope, “Then she is alive?”

“The last I knew, yes.  Alive and well!  U’Lahna is very prominent in the North Country.  She is neither druid nor cleric, but something different.  She has founded what she calls the Order of Nahlohra and leads a small, yet strong following.  Her interest lies within nature and the weather.  She rid her homeland of an oppressing vampire cult; single handedly slew the patron vampire who had once been a druid.”

“So you know her?”

“I would not say I know her, but I have eaten at her table.”

Hoscoe then outlined in detail how he had been part of an envoy traveling into the Kohnarahs Bay country.  She had been an advisor for the regent there.  The evenings had been pleasant, food and wine excellent, and the meetings most productive.  Hoscoe had found U’Lahna to be very intelligent and attentive.

My sister, I thought with a smile, she’s alive.  I have a living sister and she’s out there somewhere. 

I nodded and said, “Thanks Mehio.”

Hoscoe smiled and nodded, then leaned forward and slapped me on the knee and asked, “What say we turn in for the night?”

“I thought I’d just hang around and think a little.”

He understood, then he got up and walked to the door.  Turning he said, “You have a beautiful voice.  You should keep singing.”  Then he walked outside.

For a long time I just sat there.  I don’t know why, but I hadn’t brought up my twin.

___________________________

 

After that evening talk about my momma and sister, I began to let go and try all kinds of things. 

My imagination runs to the wild and extreme.  I tried making seeds sprout in my hand, making my sheets rise up in the air, turning water into ice, reading other people’s thoughts and converting the everyday scrambled eggs into an omelet.  A couple of things worked, but most didn’t.

Hoscoe entered the training hall one day when it would just be us in there working out.  I was up against the roof hanging on to the top beams.  Have I mentioned the roof is about two levels high?  Scared as I was regarding heights, there was something I felt I needed to try.  ‘Besides,’ I thought, I hoped, ‘two stories isn’t enough to actually kill me, is it?’  He was just opening the door when I jumped outward with my hands outstretched.