A Land of Trees : Chapter 3 : The Pit - 2005

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Chapter 3 : The Pit

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‘Stay on my left hand side Horace and keep them off with your spear.’, muttered Bandrax to his companion as they stood side by side in the crowded arena.

‘Just keep them off, don’t try a lunge, you will expose yourself. I will kill them with Beefeater. You just defend us, yes?’

The tall young lads teeth were chattering with fear.

The crowd were shouting and cheering as the two young men took the position that Bandrax had described earlier in the day; a little bit back from the centre, facing the goblin gate.

The arena had totally changed from the morning. Instead of a serene, snow blanketed ruin, it was now a crowded fiery pit. It was so late now, that the sky was completely dark. The stars were out and a full moon hung over the north stand. In the crowd, torches and braziers burned to give light and warmth. Great bronze ferronmen shone their light down onto the arena. These lamps were as tall as men and gave out shafts of light that lit up the whole arena. The stone steps of the original building rose up in staggered tears and this was where the general populace sat or stood. It could hold ten thousand but generally didn’t get that full. Tonight there were about four thousand spectators Bandrax estimated. He had gotten good at estimating the size of crowds.

As the crowd grew more excited, Bandrax took the time to turn around in a complete circle to take in everything. At his back was the covered seating area where the people with a bit more money sat. This included rich merchants and local nobleman. Bandrax noted that Baron Kauffman, the commissioner of the city watch, and Lord Commander Wren of the Kings Garrison were both here tonight, with pretty young ladies on their arms. The men despised each other and sat as far apart as possible. Russon Cutler, the black hearted squire of Lord Herrias Herrasos was also here, as he always was, sat in his usual spot. He was the arena's manager.

Just then he noticed that the young lady sitting next to the Lord Commander was signalling him. Bandrax glanced at Cutler who gave him a curt nod of permission.

Removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm, Bandrax approached the lady who leaned down over the edge of the wooden palisade and dropped a green silk scarf down to him. The crowd loved this and gave a loud roar of bawdy approval. The lady giggled and hid her face behind her hands. She looked very pretty to the young fighter, if a little on the plump side.

Bandrax heard Lord Wren laugh and say,

‘This isn’t a tourney, Bernice! You think this young criminal wants your favour?’

But Bandrax held the scarf aloft much to the happiness of the crowd and then tied it around his neck.

The Lord Commander called over to Squire Cutler,

‘Your man thinks it’s a tourney!’ and laughed again.

Cutler returned a nod and a forced smile. Bandrax reflected that if Cutler could be anywhere it would not be running an arena, but he was Lord Herrasos’ man and had to do as he had been bid.

Returning to his place beside Horace' he stood and awaited his fate. The snow on the arena floor was marked with hoof prints, scruff and claw mark. There had already been a fight and the ground was in places stained red where blood had spilled.

Suddenly there was a fan fair of trumpets and several drums took up a quick beat. The drums beat faster and faster, until with a flourish, they abruptly stopped and the goblin gate swung open, its great iron hinges groaning and its chains rattling as it moved.

A gang of fimpin rushed out into the arena floor making the crowd roar with excitement. Taking a step forward Bandrax quickly estimated their strength. There were six of them, all armed with rusty swords. They were gaunt with hunger, but still quite fit. They still wore the black torn rags that fimpin favoured, and their long yellow snouts sniffed at the air from under their shaggy manes of hair. They did not seem to have a leader but they edged towards the pit fighters slowly. None of them seemed to want to be the one in front.

Bandrax reached up to his helmet with his left hand and tugged at the fox's tail on his helmet for luck. This drew a cheer from his supporters in the crowd. Many of the fighters that had been in the arena became favourites with the people of Korismalle. They became personalities in the way only sportsmen could, and their various merits in the arena were often a source of endless conversation in the taverns and rum shops. There had once been a fighter called Coal-black Charlie, another of King Woads guardsmen who had disgraced himself. He had been a well trained warrior and had beaten everything that Cutler could find to throw at him. His crowning glory being when he had killed three white bears, which had been shipped down all the way from Vegas. He had eventually won his freedom back, when his king had sat in the arena on one occasion and watched him fight.

King Woad had been heard to remark,

‘Black Charlie is a terrible murderer, but he makes good use of a sword.’

And with that the fighter was freed and went back to Woad Hall with the King and was not seen in Korismalle again.

Since then there had been many contenders, in the minds of the populace of Korismalle for the crown of ‘the next Coal-black Charlie’. It was said that if he earned glory with one daring fight then ‘the Red Fox’ might be that man.

Archers from above the goblin gate fired a few arrows into the ground at the back of the fimpins feet to spur them on a little and warily they moved towards the pit fighters. Fimpin were by their nature cunning creatures and disliked open combat, preferring to ambush their enemies under the cover of the magical mists that their shaman could summon.

Suddenly one of them let loose a shrill , ululating battle cry and charged the two men, and the other five fell in behind.

‘Remember, you defend, I attack, right Horace?’

A steaming stream of piss flowed down the terrified lads leg.

Bandrax began to swing his flail in wide circles, up high and behind his head. This was a favoured tactic of warriors who used such weapons as it disguised its length.

‘Meet his charge Horace!’

Horace held up his shield more in reflexive terror than in tactics but it slowed down the first fimpin whose sword slash thumped down on the wooden shield.

In a sudden swoop, Bandrax took a step forward and brought the flail down on the exposed fimpin. The flail caught it full in the chest and physically lifted the creature from the ground and flung it off to the side. Blood splattered everywhere and rained down on both the men. Horace let out a startled yelp as a gobbet of bloody flesh hit him square in the face. The ragged remains of the first fimpin flopped over in one last spasm, then lay still. But the lads had no time to take this in as the other five were now upon them. The crowd were cheering and shouting, but Bandrax was now turning everything off but the fight. This would be a dangerous melee, fimpin made nasty opponents and it remained to be seen if Horace would be of any use.

The fimpin started to circle the men, trying to get behind them. Bandrax had stopped swinging his flail and stood with it in his right hand ready to swing.

‘Back to back Horace!’

They circled one another for a while, looking for openings. The lads stood back to back, their cold breath blowing out in clouds.

A fimpin lunged in at Horace making him yelp and stumble back. Bandrax stumbled forward making two of the fimpin lunge in with stabs. He caught one with the haft of his flail but the other was aimed at his breadbox. Bandrax turned and caught the blow on his breastplate, which made a metallic screech as the blade scored the metal. As quick as a cat though, he saw the advantage and swept his fail down on the head of one of his attackers as they tripped over each other trying to get out of his way. Its head disappeared in red ruin and the decapitated corpse slumped to the ground. The remaining four fimpin attacked all at once. Bandrax got in behind Horace’s shield and kept them at bay with the swooping of his flail.

The four charged the two men and one of them inexplicably impaled itself on Horace’s spear, the head sinking deep into its chest. But the dying creature grabbed the haft and wrenched it out of the startled lads grasp. One of the others leapt on him. As this happened Bandrax felled one of the others with a terrible downward swoop, driving the creature into the ground in a bloody heap. But the other leapt over the haft of his weapon and with its sword forgotten grabbed at his throat, sending them both to the ground.

Now both men wrestled the remaining two fimpin on the ground. Bandrax tried to get the snarling creature off him, but his hands were slick with blood. Everything was soaked in blood. The fimpin opened its long snout to reveal long rows of black needle-like teeth, dripping with saliva. It had every intention of sinking its teeth into his throat. Bandrax had his arm up to its neck in protection and pushing its left arm away he put his hand up in a push. The fimpin's grip on him was too strong though. He then realised, in a silly detail that it made no sense to realise at this time, that the creature he was fighting was female. He could feel its breasts as he tried to push it off him. In an even more bizarre realisation he admitted that they felt quite nice, and as unpleasant as the beast was, he had to face up to the fact that youthful as he was, this was the first time he had been so close to a pair of breasts.

But he wasn’t going to let this fimpin wench kiss him, it would take away half his face. It was snarling and drooling on him, moving so quickly he could hardly keep it off. Its snout was so long, he had to defend himself against that as well as its two hands. They rolled over in the snow, back and forth several times, neither gaining the advantage. In desperation he realised that he would have to let it nibble on him so that he could use the hand on its chest to hold down its free arm. He would likely lose his nose, but it seemed the only way to get it off.

He couldn’t build up the courage, but soon it would be able to bite him anyway, the thing was frenzied and it was only a matter of time before its maddened strength bested him.

Just then a shadow passed over them and the beast was suddenly transfixed and let out a gasp of pain. Bandrax rolled it off him to see Horace standing over them both with the spear in his hand. He had driven it into the fimpins back.

Standing up he gave the lad a pat on the shoulder and gasping for breath he said ‘You saved me!’

Horace had throttled the other fimpin but had been badly bitten, his face was a mask of blood and he was almost gibbering in shock. A flap of skin hung from his cheek revealing the muscle and bone beneath. That will leave a scar when it’s sewn up thought Bandrax, still strangely rational.

‘I..I.. this is a nightmare..’, Horace stuttered.

‘Well, it isn’t over yet.’

Horace hadn’t noticed, but Bandrax heard the drums rolling again, which meant that they had a moment or so before the goblin gate would open once more.

Looking round he took in the work they had done here. Six bloody corpses lay around them, one still with a spear in its back. Bandrax tugged it out and handed it to his companion.

‘You’ll need this again.’

The melee had moved them to the front and to the side of the arena so taking Horace by the shoulder he lead them back to the favoured position at the back and tugging once again on the fox tail he awaited the gates.

Snow had started to fall heavily now. It must have started during the fight and he had not noticed. The crowd in the parts of the arena that was not covered pulled their cloaks above their heads or drew nearer to the ferronmen. The great bronze lamps sizzled and steamed as the snow hit them. There was little wind, and already the corpses were being covered in a frosting of snow.

The drum roll ended and with a roar the crowd heralded the next arrival with glee.

‘Great, a bear.’, muttered Bandrax, wiping snow from his eyes, ‘A kodiak.’

‘Look at the size of it!’, gasped Horace in terror.

The huge shaggy creature lumbered forward then reached the centre of the arena and started snuffling the corpses. It then took a big bite out of one with a bone breaking crunch. But fimpin meat appeared not to be very appetising as it spat it out in disgust then rose up on it hind legs to let loose a dissatisfied bellow. This made the crowd laugh, but Squire Cutler was not in the mood for laughter and waved a signal to the archers.

Three arrows zipped down into the arena and one of them bit into the kodiaks hairy rump. With a roar the bear leapt round to lash out at its unseen attacker with its huge claws, but all it saw were the two men a short distance away from it.

Snarling, it lumbered into a charge at the men. Every man's instinct is to run at the sight of a charging bear, which is exactly what they both did, each in the opposite direction. Boos and hisses came from the crowd and a few laughs.

The bear didn’t hesitate for a moment, it gave chase after Horace. His long legs gave him a good turn of speed, but he could not out run a bear and in only a few moments, barely enough time for Horace to cross half the arena, the bear was upon him. It lashed out and sent him flying to the ground, and then rearing up it roared in anger before plunging down on its victim.

But Bandrax was back and with a running leaping swing he brought his flail down on the beasts back. It moved as the blow came in so only one of the flails spiked heads caught it, but it was enough to make the bear back off in a snarling and spitting series of back peddling lunges. It left a trail of blood behind it.

Bandrax looked down at Horace. The poor boys hauberk had offered some protection from the kodiaks claws but a big gash was gaping open on his right side. He was very pale and muttering incoherently. Bandrax dropped his flail and picked up the spear, it was a better weapon against bears.

He stood before his fallen friend as the bear charged once again. This time however he didn’t flee but stood side on and braced the spear against his right foot, the spear pointing up in the air.

The beast was at full speed when it reached him, and had no time to stop as the spear was suddenly pointed at it and in the next moment the creature's weight drove the spear's point deep into its neck. But its weight also kept it coming and with his hands raised in terror Bandrax was suddenly engulfed in a great mountain of hairy, bloody flesh.

The crowd went silent. The bear was dead, and all they could see of the last fighter was his boots. But then the whole heap seemed to twitch and then move, and at first to scattered, confused applause, and then to ecstatic cheers, Bandrax dragged himself out from under the dead bear.

He looked around the arena for a moment, a stunned expression on his face.

But then he heard the cheers of ‘Fox! Fox! Fox!’, and he raised his fists in triumph.

Shaking his head as if remembering something he went over to where Horace lay. The lad was alive, but he didn’t look very good. Bandrax picked him up and took him over to the Spital Gate.

Mary had watched the whole fight from the smaller portal into the arena known as the Spital Gate. Tears had been running down her face for most of the fight but now it was over. She had been in the arena since the beginning of the evenings events. She was dressed in a stout simple frock, with a heavy apron worn over the front. Under the apron she wore a child’s smock, with the sleeves rolled up. As always she wore her wizard’s hat. She had already patched up a stunned and bruised bull fighter, so her black bag was already open.

‘Open the gate please!, she begged the guard that stood here, ‘Please!’

The guard laughed and unbarred the portal, then swung it open.

As Bandrax carried in his fallen comrade, the guard called to him over the noise of the crowd,

‘Good brave work lad, you brought the house down.’

The spital gate guard was an old man called Jilly, and was one of the more friendly ones. He wore a mail shirt, helmet and a short sword at his belt. He had a long grey beard which he wore tucked into his shirt, much to the amusement of the other guards.

Bandrax said nothing, but put Horace down on a low bench, then sat down on its end himself. He ripped off his helmet and threw it on the floor then put his head in his hands.

Mary examined Horace’s wounds, tutting over his bloody face, but seeing that the more serious wound was in the lad’s side.

She unlaced the side of his hauberk and flipped it over. Taking her sharpest sheers she cut away his jerkin and undershirt, the blood pouring from the whole messy wound onto the sawdust on the floor.

‘Oh no’, sighed Mary, ‘There is nothing I can do here.’

His whole side, under the ribs was open. His entrails were in shreds, his intestines ruptured.

She took his hand, and looked at his face. She knew his next few breaths would be his last, but his eyes were still wide open.

‘I am sorry’ she said as she stood over him, ‘You are going to die.’

Bandrax gave a shudder from his end of the bench but didn’t move his head from his hands.

‘Priest.’, murmured the poor lad.

‘There is no priest here, I’m very sorry, but I can say whatever words you want. What God do you follow?’

‘Etruna.’

‘Oh, I don’t know her words...’, said the little torm. Horace tried to move his other hand but barely managed to raise it.

Bandrax came over and knelt by them and said,

‘I know them.’, then clearing his throat and trying to take the tremble from his throat he began.

‘Yeh, though here I die, I fear not the soil,

and the earth, for you will be with me.

With thy leaf and thy blade, you will

Protect me from those that mean harm.

Return me to thy embrace, and with thy

Gentle kiss lay me to sleep in greener halls

And sweeter .. and sweeter..’

Bandrax let out a sob, then said,

‘He’s dead. He would want to be buried if he followed Etruna.’

‘Fat chance of that,’ said the gate guard who had come over to witness the lad’s death, ‘He will get the pyre as you all do.’

He did not say this unkindly, Jilly the spital gate guard saw a lot of death.

Just then, at the other end of the low stone chamber the iron bound door opened and three figures walked it. The first was the lady called Beatrice. Mary turned to look at her. Beatrice must have been no older than sixteen and was very well dressed in a pale green gown, with an ermine cloak on her shoulder for warmth. She wore an expensive looking gold and sapphire necklace and her hair was held up in a delicate net. The hood of her cloak was thrown back. She was pretty enough, in the way that all young girls were pretty, but somewhat on the plump side and on one of her rosy red cheeks she had a large black mole.

The next person that came in was Lord Commander Wren. He was a young man by the standards of his rank, not yet forty, his long hair was still black although his thick black beard had one or two hints of grey in it. He had a somewhat exasperated expression on his face at the moment, probably due to being dragged down into the bowels of the arena. By reputation he was a competent commander and kept the Kings Garrison under control well enough. But he was not shy of punishing offenders and it was said that any criminal or ne’er-do-well took up by the garrison would have a worse time than if they had fallen into the hands of the watch. The watch, by legal decree, had to give everyone a trial, fair or otherwise, and the magistrate Lord Herrasos, did not see the value of having any man executed. He preferred to get some use out of them either in the galleys or in the arena. Wren was in the pay of the king however and his men were all salaried. They had also been given the power to execute anyone for many and varied crimes and often exercised the right.

The watch saw the garrison as a bunch of cut-throats, out to have a good time and to make the most of their stay in Korismalle until they were moved elsewhere.

They treated the citizens of the town with complete contempt and many of them were terribly cruel.

The garrison saw the watch as a group of petty young noblemen who cared more about extorting money from the thieves’ guilds and the dockside whore-houses and occasionally going on enthusiastic, but amateurish night time patrols of the Tomsk Quarter.

As it happened, they were both right, thought Mary to herself, she would not give a bucket of piss for either one of them.

The final person to enter was Russon Cutler, a man that Mary despised. She saw him as a lick-spittle jobs-worth with all the grace of a weasel. All he ever thought of was how to further himself, and how to please his master, Lord Herrasos. He was short and as thin as a blade. He was well presented in warm winter clothes, with a black doublet and grey Bellavian cloak he was certainly dressed the part. But his gaunt unsmiling face and high forehead topped in a razor edge widow’s peak gave a different impression.

Bernice seemed to be initially full of enthusiasm but was suddenly star struck in front of Bandrax who merely watched the procession blankly.

‘Oh! The blood! You are covered in blood!’, she gasped and rushed to the young man, seeming to ignore Mary and the corpse of Horace.

Squire Cutler stepped up and slightly awkwardly said,

‘Ah, .. Lady Bernice, may I present Bandrax.’

Bandrax performed a somewhat painful bow due to his injuries.

Lady Bernice seemed to be having difficulty finding anything to say. She must have wanted to come and see her champion but was now overcome with passion and probably confused by the stink of blood down here. She held a scented kerchief to her face to hide her blushing cheeks and fend off the butcher shop smell.

‘Do they have someone to attend to your injuries?’

When that was met with silence, Cutler snapped,

‘Speak up lad.’

This was enough to bring Bandrax back from whatever realm he had drifted off to.

‘So sorry my lady, I have only a few scratches and cuts, but Mary here is of great service as a healer.’, and he gestured down at Mary who was standing nearby. Mary selfconsciously wiped the blood from her hands on her apron and curtsied.

‘But such a young girl here?’, replied the young lady in confusion.

‘I am a torm, if it please you, your ladyship, and a woman grown.’ said Mary and curtsied again.

‘Oh but this is terrible, Squire Cutler, this is awful!’ gasped the maid, then she blurted,

‘You have a lovely accent Bandrax where are you from?’

‘Laval, your ladyship.’

‘A poor boy from Laval? You can’t let him die in the arena Squire Cutler, you can’t!’

‘But it is the law my lady. They are all dreadful murderers and rapists.’

Beatrice looked up at Bandrax for a moment.

‘Really?’, she stuttered, ‘Would he rape me?’

‘If there was no men of a higher quality here, in a heart beat your ladyship, don’t doubt it for a second.’ replied Squire Cutler.

Lady Beatrice nearly swooned and held her kerchief up to her nose and mouth to gasp into.

I think she quite likes the idea of Bandrax raping her, thought Mary wickedly.

At this point Lord Commander Wren stepped forward and addressed Bandrax,

‘Well he doesn’t look like a rapist to me Cutler. What crime did you commit lad?’

‘I stole, your lordship.’

‘What did you steel?’

‘Apples’

Wren guffawed in a burst of laughter.

‘You mean to tell me, Cutler’, he said the name ‘Cutler’ the same way he might have said the word ‘snake’.

‘You mean to tell me,’ he repeated, ‘that your lord is sentencing good strong lads like this to death for stealing apples? And what of this poor soul?’, he gestured at Horace’s remains, ‘What did he do? Steal a handful of berries I suppose?’

‘He stole twenty otters your lordship.’, said Bandrax with a hint of defiance in his voice.

‘Good lad, I can see you are not scared of me. After what I saw you do to that bear I should think you are not scared of anything. Kauffman is a fool if he is putting lads like this in the arena to die. Give him a sword and a toad on his tunic and he would make a fine soldier, Gods know we have need of them.’

‘Can we take him? Yes make him a soldier! Please Bertie!’, said young lady Beatrice and clapped her hands together, her kerchief still in them.

‘Would that I could, my dear, but Herrasos would not give him up for all the wine in Ferron I am sure. The lad must be quite a crowd puller.’

‘Come my dear, I have seen enough of this nonsense,’, and with that he pulled her away.

‘Say you will wear my scarf always Bandrax!’, she gasped as she was lead away through the door which the guard opened for them.

Mary heard Wren laugh, ‘He will have to wash the bear blood out of it first!’

Squire Cutler gave them both a scowl and turned to leave as well.

But suddenly Mary piped up,

‘Excuse me my lord!’

Cutler turned and looked down at her, as if he had just heard a squirrel squeak at him.

‘I’m no lord. What do you want?’

‘It has been nearly two years now! Will you let Bandrax go?’

Cutler looked from her to the lad,

‘Let him go? After that little performance with that oaf Bertie Wren, you are lucky I don’t have his head. But Wren is right, he is a crowd pleaser, so here he stays.’

And with a flick of his cloak he turned and left the room. As he left, Jilly, who had stood at the back of the room during all this, no more noticed than one of the benches said,

‘Cheer up Mary, maybe the King will free him if he ever comes to the arena again.’

Mary was about to reply when she noticed that the crowd was roaring again, another fight was underway. She took a roll of canvas from the floor by the bench and covered Horace’s body, then went over to the portal.

Looking through the bars of the gate she saw three men fighting a gang of goblins. She would have more work soon enough. The gate guard also came over to watch the fight.

Without looking over his shoulder he said,

‘You had better get yourself over to the tea shack lad.’, addressing Bandrax, ‘Go and get something hot in you, if you feel up to it?’

Bandrax unbuckled his breastplate, then the rest of his armour and left it on the bench. As he was about to leave Mary tugged at his sleeve then quickly handed something to him. It was a tiny vial of green liquid with a note wrapped round it. He gave her a puzzled look, but she hissed at him and shoed him away. He quickly tucked the vial into his shirt and opening the door left the room.

As he made his way to the tea shack, through one of the many tunnels under the arena, he passed the guard called Nurl. He gave him a nod and Nurl replied to this by punching him in the stomach as hard as he could. Bandrax dropped to his knees and gasped for breath.

‘Don’t ever cheek me again lad.’ snarled the guard who then went on his way.

After he had his breath back Bandrax checked himself over. He would have a bruise after that blow, but the vial was still intact.

Dawn was breaking when Mary finally got home to her tiny rented cottage in the Tomsk Quarter. Today was her day off, she always had a day off after an evening at the arena. She had cooked enough food to keep the Lost Goose going for a day or two and Gertrude would fill in for her if required.

Her stomach was tied in a knot though and she wondered if she would get any sleep at all. She opened the door to her cottage and took off her boots in the hall. She put a big kettle of water on the stove and lit it. When the water had boiled she would have a bath. The cottage had been made for torms, there was a whole row of them in this street, terraced all the way down a back alley by the docks. It was half the size of a normal house, but the rent wasn’t half the price, Mary often grumbled. Even the furniture was rented, but with two jobs Mary’s pantry was well stocked. She pealed off a few layers of clothing and sat by the stove with her feet on a stool. She took off her red and black striped stockings and wiggled her naked toes by the stove. With the fire banked up it was very snug in the little kitchen and she even took off her pointed hat and put it on the table. She took the pins from the bun of hair on her head, and let her long blonde curls fall down over her shoulders.

But even then she couldn’t relax fully and she bit at her nails nervously. Well, the deed was done, something that she had planned for months was about to happen. If Bandrax followed the instructions in the note, then.. well, the dice would be cast, and whatever happened, both their lives would be very different.

A little later she had her bath, then changed into a nightgown and got into her tiny bed in the only other room in the cottage. Her eyes were still wide open though. The only person that knew she lived here was Hanz, and he would never betray her. All her belongings were packed up, ready for a sudden departure. All the furniture was rented with the cottage, and the landlord would be happy enough for her to leave mysteriously as it meant he could keep the deposit.

The bedroom had no windows so it was perfectly dark when the door was shut, but she knew it would now be morning outside.

Still she could not sleep and she reflected on her friendship with Bandrax. They had both arrived at the arena at much the same time. Mary had just come in on the coach from Tormwood and Bandrax had just arrived from the jail in Homderi.

As is often the case when two new people arrive at a long established institution they were drawn to each other. In between Mary’s various jobs in the arena and Bandraxs training they spent their free time together in the refractory or sat on some ruined steps in the training yard if the weather was good. The tea shack was only for pit fighters and so Mary never went in there, and the guards would send them packing if they saw them, the nasty ones would anyway, but they always had time together. They were both also very young, the youngest ones in the whole place by far. Bandrax was only sixteen when he arrived at the arena, but already a strapping young man, and Mary was only a year older. They would spend many hours together talking about their lives and families and they had become the firmest of friends.

She knew that Bandrax was often teased about his friendship with the tiny fressle and often the jests could be very lewd. But initially Bandraxs affable nature and friendliness had countered the jibes, and then as his fame as a warrior on the arena grew the other fighters showed him much more respect and the jests went from being nasty to being the kind of ribbing expected between friends.

They also made great plans for what they wanted to do when Bandrax had finished his two years at the arena. Mary had never planned to stay in Korismalle so long. She had wanted to go to Millwood to meet her mentor, Jendix L’Noir, but her friendship with Bandrax had kept her around so she had rented a cottage and got another job at the Lost Goose.

They wanted to go to Millwood together so that Mary could continue her studies and Bandrax could find his sister.

Well, it looked like they would never let Bandrax out, he had already beaten the odds by surviving so long. But the bear last night had nearly killed him, as well as poor Horace, and this had galvanised Mary into action. The plan she had been formulating for months, for an escape, had been put into motion and now it was too late to stop it.

Just when she thought she would never get to sleep, she did.

Rostov felt a thousand times better after a bath in a hot tub and a change of clothes. He was now dressed in a simple white robe, his mail and travel clothes being hung up in a wardrobe in his room.

The coven was one of perhaps hundreds, certainly dozens of such abodes that hid within the confines of the Great Forest. The forest itself covered the whole of Nillamandor, from Ertia and Ferron to the south and Tomsk and Lodz in the north. To the north east it became a darker and more haunted place, the Norob Forest, although it was all the same forest. It was possible to travel from Port Mohoa in Ferron to Kolopa in Vegas and never see the light of the sun. The hands of man had cut down large areas and brought civilisation to the western coast of Nillamandor, but the interior was still wild. There was a single bastion of men, a town called Che, that dwelt in the heart of the forest, which was also a halfway point on the highway between the northern kingdoms and those of the south. Other than that the land was a wilderness. A deep forest inhabited by goblins, fimpin, witches, undead and trolls. Here also, the fair forest folk had their home. There was said to be half a hundred pocket-kingdoms in the forest. Most no more than a few hundred acres of woods that were stoutly defended by the folk. Often they would trade and swap gossip with nearby human lands, but they would rarely divulge the location of their cities.

And finally you had the habitats of those that had no desire to be ruled by any kingdom, be it man, the fair folk, or the naxeme. Free folk who valued their privacy. Of these you would find various forts, lodges and covens. Shaman, priests and druids.

Druids perhaps, although any census was impossible, were the most common of coven makers in the forest, as by their nature they were drawn to remote wild places.

Rostov doubted he could even point to the spot where his coven was on a map. No one ever came here by any mundane means. It was a secluded forest valley, somewhere in the central highlands. The valley was locked in snow and the lodge itself was covered in a ten foot drift. When he had arrived in the thaumaugercella he had created quite a stir. Luckily there were a few people around. Sometimes there was no one here with the ablity to rouse him and he would have lain there unconscious for hours.

He was now ready to answer questions so he went to the warm-room, where the rest of them would be. In the summer, meetings were held in a small glade by the stream, but in the winter they preferred to meet by the fire.

‘Get out my chair you.’ Rostov said to a small black bear, a pigmy-kodiak that was sat in a comfy but very ragged arm chair.

The bear grumbled and plopped down onto the floor and then tried to settle down at the hearth where a brace of wolves and three more bears already lay.

With a sigh of pleasure Rostov sank into his chair. It had been a while, but it was as comfortable as he remembered, if somewhat covered in animal hairs. That was one of the drawbacks of being a druid he reflected, you are constantly picking hairs off your clothes from moulting animals.

There were four other people in the room, some of the other members of his coven. Some of them were even in the fellowship as Rostov was, the Heroes of Kaladorn, but not all of them were.

Wherever their allegiance lay however, they were druids first and foremost.

The first of the people in the room was Xomano, a fraskan from Tormwood, barely three feet high and dressed in a purple tunic and hose. Her brown hair was tied back in a bun. She was about forty years old, but looked younger. She was a little plump, but a lot of out door living had stopped her running to fat as so many of the females of her race did. There were a few lines on her face, but they were mainly from laughter, and the amusing little frown she sometimes made when she was vexed. She gave Rostov a friendly smile as he sat down, they were the oldest and closest of friends. They had joined the coven at much the same time and were of much the same rank. Druids never bore any official titles, but it was always clear in each of their minds who were the more senior.

Xomano came down from her chair and poured Rostov a cup of brown-leaf tea from the kettle by the fire which he took with thanks.

The next person present, sat by the window although he could see nothing out of it for the snowdrift outside was Jalavan, another of Rostov's close friends and an elf from some far flung pocket-kingdom to the east. Young by elven standards and the most junior of the druids here, he preferred to spend his time almost exclusively in the wilderness and rarely ventured back to the coven so it was a delight to see him here. He had short dark-gingery hair and a good crop of freckles across his nose. He was handsome in a boyish sort of way although he was a lot older then he looked. Rostov looked forward to chatting with him about old times when they had a moment, Jalavan had missed the whole western campaign and the journeys they had made on the Windrider. He would be most anxious to swap news. He would have undoubtedly heard much from Xomano and Hfestos, but he would want to here Rostov’s tales as well.

The two remaining people in the room also sat by the fire. They were male and female elves from the south who spoke with strange accents. Hfestos, the male could almost be called human now, he spent so much time in the kingdoms of men. He too was a member of the same company as Rostov and was a great adventurer in his own right. He owned a splendid suit of green mail which he wore in battle, with a helmet crowned with antlers on his head. Currently however he wore a simple woollen shirt and leather britches. He too had dark-red hair but lacked the freckles of Jalavan. His skin was a lot darker as the members of his race from the south often were. He had a very strong jaw line and although he was possessed of a sense of humour, did not often smile.

Finally there was Lildariel, the female southron, and the most senior of the coven. The Druids did not recognise leaders as such, but if they were to have one, it would be her. She was said to be over four hundred years old, although as with all of her race she did not look it. She did have white hair but this gave her a look of ethereal beauty rather than age. Like all the women of her kin she had delicate features and slight points on the tips of her ears.

So there they were, one man, one torm and three elves. Half of the coven were present, the others would be away either in the wilderness or attending to other affairs. Shalomi had not been seen in years although he had been heard of recently. He was helping raise the second generation of his family in his home land. The ancient elf was older still than Lildariel although not as senior in rank. It was said that he was so in touch with Etruna that he was already half tree. The other four were most likely on errands or missions from Lildariel thought Rostov. They were all elves from her kingdom and the most loyal to her.

The coven’s entire Heroes of Kaladorn contingent was represented here by Rostov, Xomano and Hfestos. All three of them had been on the Waverider and had adventured together in the west for the last year. Lildariel disapproved of outside allegiances but she could do nothing, druids obeyed no rules other than those of Etruna.

Rostov took a sip of his tea. No one was in any rush to break the silence, but Jalavan came over to the fire to warm himself and addressing Rostov said,

‘So, you must have had a real adventure judging by the state of you, Uncle.’

Rostov was certainly not kin to any elves and the jest of calling him Uncle was so old they had both forgotten how it had originated.

‘Aye, I was on my way to Stonebridge, you know, where the Heroes have set up after we got back from the west.’

‘Hmm, and you decided to call in on Soora.’, said Xomano knowingly.

‘Well yes, it’s been a year since I saw her.’

Jalavan laughed compassionately, ‘Poor Uncle Rostov, his heart has never left Stonebridge!’

‘Yes well, ‘, continued the human, ‘She had trouble with her apple tree so I took a look.’

Jalavan was not the sort of person to pass up a jest about such a strange statement but Xomano waved a hand at the mischievous elf by the fire to be silent while Rostov talked.

‘And that lead me eastwards. There seems to be a sickness in the forest around Gnarlwold. I was attacked by wolves.’

‘Attacked by volves. Zay ver not vargs?’, asked Lildariel in her heavy accent.

‘Wolves yes, they were not very friendly. They treed me. But I improvised a gate and escaped.’

Rostov described the events in the forest a little more, and his imaginative arrival in the thaumaugercella. Jalavan was laughing by this time.

‘I think you should write that one up Rostov. It was certainly a very different interpretation of how the spell should be cast!’

‘It worked though.’ replied the man with a smile.

Rostov settled a little more into his seat and balanced his cup on his stomach.

Just then, Hfestos made his fingers into a steeple and leant forward as if he might say something and everyone looked at him in expectation.

But then it became apparent he meant to say nothing. They were speaking Bellavian, or at least a pidgin version of it, which was the lingua-franka used throughout the continent. Hfestos’ native tongue was so different from anything even Lildariel knew though that he had great difficulty speaking anything else although he understood Bellavian well enough. Jalavan often joked that Hfestos spoke barely ten words a year and he was probably right.

‘Gnarlvold is a problem.’ said Lildariel, ‘The kingdom does not treat the forest well.’

‘Never mind the trees, they don’t treat their people well.’ came Rostov’s reply. This was not the first time they had had this conversation. Elves tended to be much more conservative druids than humans.

‘The kingdoms ov men come and go. The forest endures.’

‘Well, I think Gnarlwold is going the same way as Norob,’ said Xomano, ‘I think we should involve the Heroes.’

Lildariel gave the little torm an arch look, although she did not deem to give her opinion on what she saw as little more than a band of outlaws.

‘We should look to Etruna, she will give us an answer.’ said the elven druidess.

‘Why aren’t you in Styke anyway Xommy? I thought you meant only to stay here a short while before going to the tower in Stonebridge?’ asked Rostov of the torm.

When the ship carrying them had arrived at Millwood, and the band had gone their separate ways, the last Rostov had seen of Xomano and Hfestos was when they had returned to the coven by means of a magical portal. Rostov had at that point no intention of coming back himself.

‘As was my intent. But I have found too much to do here’, she replied, but Rostov took her meaning well enough. What Xomano meant was that Lildariel was here and was finding them things to do.

‘It doesn’t really matter anyway, nothing will be happening for a while. I think everyone will want to get a breather and spend some of their ill gotten gains.

And I’m sure Necellia will be just as happy without me interfering, you know what I’m like. I would only be there five minutes before I wanted to run the place.

And Brond said we should all rest up, no one will have anything to do for a while’

‘Well, maybe I have found something to do.’, said Rostov.

‘There is no need to involve the Naxeme.’ said Lildariel curtly.

At this point Hfestos said something in an elven tongue and Lildariel replied. After a brief exchange they both went silent.

Not even Jalavan had understood the southern tongue they had spoken.

‘Well, what did Hef have to say?’

‘He says we should talk to Brond, but then, he would say that.’ grumbled the druidess, ‘Hfestos spends too much time with those people.’

Whatever Lildariel might think, whenever there was a battle and glory to be won, Hfestos was usually the first to answer the call. He never missed a campaign and was a great warrior in battle. He was no tactician however, most of the planning was done by Brond, Rostov, Xomano and the other captains.

Rostov let out a deep sigh, with the different factions at the coven always at war, it was no wonder he rarely came back here. Lildariel was much more of the old guard and did not see the need for contact with the civilised nations and had no desire even to hear about things north of Lunaria. Although he had never heard it expressed Rostov even sometimes wondered if she approved of non-elven races joining the faith. Still, she could not argue with Etruna, if She chose a human or a torm then that was Her will.

Xomano broke the silence and said,

‘We can’t single handedly overrun Gnarlwold though, we are not an army, but I definitely think I should go and have a word with Brond. I know where he is as well. He’ll have gone home.’

Rostov nodded at Xomano, and replied, ‘He won’t be there yet though, nobody can move around as fast as us. Last I heard he had only just settled the purchase of the tower. The local council dragged it out for ages.’

‘I don’t care about rotting trees in Gnarlwold in the slightest little bit, ‘ said Jalavan, ‘But I would be happy to come with you Uncle, just so I can see that suicidal naxeme again.’

‘Jalavan,’ interrupted Lildariel, ‘You are as bad as these others, you have not been here in the last six months. You must attend to your duties first before you go anywhere. Xomano and Hfestos have a years worth of prayers to our lady to attend to and the forests around here must be looked to first before those in some far off place.’

Rostov gave them a wan smile and said, ‘Well, it looks like you chaps are stuck in school for a while, but I don’t intend to hang around.’

This caused a very pregnant silence. Of all the druids in the coven, if Lildariel was the most senior, then second was Rostov, although he never acted like it.

‘You are lucky that Etruna does not turn her back on you completely, Rostov Ravenwing.’, said Lildariel finally, and then rising she left the room.

Xomano and the two other elves all tried to find something else to look at as she left.

‘Don’t antagonise her Rostov, she is the best of all of us.’ hissed Xomano at the man. The little torm idolised Lildariel.

‘And she has been making a great deal of progress here while we have been away,’ she continued.

‘Yes, well, not all to my liking though.’ returned Jalavan.

‘How so?’, asked Rostov.

Xomano sighed and said, ‘She has been talking to the Burners once more. It’s the whole re-unification of the kingdoms thing again. She’s been very busy while we’ve been away. I love Lildariel with all my heart, and I too wish that the Great Forest was once a whole nation again as it was hundreds of years ago, but sometimes I think..’

‘That she’s living in the past?’, said Jalavan as the torm left her sentence dangling, ‘May as well say it, it’s what we are all thinking.’

Hfestos, who had been silent throughout this, stood up, making all the animals in the room bounce up as well. They knew that the elf was going to go outside to hunt. With wolves and bears milling around his legs as he left, the taciturn elf said to them,

‘Joo ar right, Jalavan. Talk to huh-er before joo leave Roz-tov.’

He then opened the hall door and went outside, taking all the excited animals with him.

‘Well.’, that’s the last of him we’ll see today. He will be hunting until night fall.’

As the day wore on, the three friends swapped tales of their recent adventures and Jalavan told them of the things he had been up to and what had been happening to the east. In turn Rostov told of his adventures on the Windrider, and gave more details about how things had gone with Soora.

Later though, he threw on some warm clothes and a great grey cloak and went to pray at the old moss covered stone circle which was the coven’s temple.

He was deep in reflection when Lildariel arrived, so he didn’t notice her at first. She knelt down beside him and started to recite some ancient prayers.

Rostov regarded the elven druidess from the corner of his eye. Lildariel was a great heroine and an incredibly powerful druid. She was well worthy of his respect. When she had been a girl, the Great Forest was still home to a single large elven empire. But Old Bones, the eastern lich-dragon, had laid waste to much of the west before his eventual defeat by the grey dragon in the Serpent War. The elven kingdom had fractured into a hundred besieged pockets, and three hundred years later, the once proud nation was just a distant memory. During the Great Forest Kingdoms golden age, the main priest class had been the druids of Etruna, and each elven city had a temple to the goddess within its walls. Now most of them were just ruins or no longer existed at all.

Lildariel had been a druidess even then, and had fought in the Serpent War, and had witnessed dragons fight in the skies above Nillamandor. She had even been present when Old Bones had been defeated by the Grey Dragon, and sent home to the east to lick his wounds and dream of revenge on the west.

What was left of the Kingdom had fractured but there were still those in the pocket kingdoms and covens that dreamed of re-unification, so ambassadors often moved between them, making alliances and forming bonds of marriage. But year after year another of those who remembered the golden age would die, or disappear into the forest never to be heard of again and the younger ones never remembered a time when things were different.

That Lildariel was treating with the followers of Ignettor, called the Burners, Rostov saw as an ill omen. Ignettor was a nature god, and the followers of Etruna would sometimes argue he was a facet of the true nature goddess if it suited them. But, Ignettor was a god of destruction and renewal, his followers would be just as likely to burn down a forest as attempt to nurture it, something that went against every fibre in Rostov’s being.

The whole thing was borderline heresy, and besides, the Burners covens were mainly in the north east, a shade to close to Norob Forest for his liking, den of evil wizards and necromancers as it was.

Once they had finished they sat on the alter stone together and talked. Lildariel looked out across the snow covered glade and said,

‘Xomano will be a great asset now that she is here, she is a wonderful diplomat. I already can think of five different places where I can send her. Perhaps she could reconcile Gravent and Vellorous. It is insanity for two elven, Etruna-worshiping kingdoms to be at war with each other.’

Lildariels heavy accent turned ‘will’ into ‘vill’ and ‘think’ into ‘sink’.

She continued,

‘Jalavan can occasionally have his uses, but it is good that Hfestos is here also, as he is unmarried. Princess Hyellcia of Clovercup has come of age, and that would be a great match. Clovercup would do much better with a druid as it’s king. And it’s surely providence that has sent you, we need someone in Che, and who better than a man to send to a man's city?’

‘Lil..’, began Rostov.

He paused, not knowing what to say. He looked at her, swinging her legs on the alter stone just as a young maid would. How did he explain to her that what she once had, the world that she once knew was long gone, was long gone in fact when Rostov’s ancestors walked the land. She was making all these plans for what, perhaps trying to fix something that could never be fixed.

When the Serpent War was fought, mankind was still chopping at each other with axes. Now they shot at each other with flintlock rifles and cannons. It was all a dozen life times ago.

‘Lil, I agree Xomano is a great diplomat, and Hfestos is unmarried, but I doubt he will marry some fat buttercup princess. And although I agree Che could use help rebuilding after the war, I think that I would be serving Etruna better in Gnarlwold.’

Lildariel sighed,

‘Rostov, I wish you saw Etruna’s will as clearly as I do. But how could you, with your meagre thirty years in the world? You keep on dragging half the coven off on adventurers with that band of naxeme brigands of yours.’

Rostov felt himself getting a little angry,

‘Perhaps you have forgotten that it was Xomano that first met Brond in the Hook Vale. I didn’t join that ‘band of naxeme brigands’ for another year.’

Without warning Lildariel moved closer to Rostov and snuggled up to him. She was very different alone than in company, much more friendly and girlish. In front of the rest of the coven she was often very austere.

‘Don’t get cross Rostov, we are all doing Her work. Listen then, go to Gnarlwold in Etruna’s name. It is a wood after all, and was also part of the Great Forest Kingdom. I remember I spent a summer on its coast once, in a beautiful resort called .. hmm ..’

Lildariel sat up again with a perplexed look on her face,

‘Now what was it called? Del-something? Anyway. And while you are there, look for covens, I can’t think of any in Gnarlvold at all, but there must be some! Make contact and bring back word here. Maybe we can help them with the blight you saw.’

Rostov gave Lildariel a friendly squeeze, knowing he was being manipulated, but liking it anyway.

‘Yes, mistress!’

‘If you don’t mind too much I will keep Xomano here for the time being. You have no idea what Princess Buttercup looks like, I assure you she is very beautiful. If She wills it, then Hfestos will marry.’

Rostov laughed,

‘I can’t really picture it! King Hfestos?’

‘He is from a very noble line.’

‘And what about Jal? What use will you put him to?’

‘He wants to go north to see his son. I can’t really stop him if he hasn’t seen him in a year. I just wish he could be held a bit more to account.’

‘Well, if he goes north, why not send him through Vant? If he’s going to see Mu, then stopping off to see one or two of the covens there won’t add much to an already very long journey.’

‘That’s a good idea!’, exclaimed the elf, and with that she stood up and turned to look Rostov in the eye.

‘Now give me a kiss and a hug young human, I am glad we are friends again.’

Rostov was surprised at this, he couldn’t remember when he had been last invited to kiss her, but dutifully hugged her as one might hug an aunt, and planted a kiss on her cheek and received one in return. She smelt of petouli-oil as always, powerful, but he always liked it as it reminded him of her.

As they walked back to the lodge they continued their conversation,

‘I will try and send word from Gnarlwold as soon as I can.’

‘Yes’, the druidess replied, ‘You were always very good with the ravens, I will keep the top bedroom window open for them. When will you set off?’

‘Not for a day or two I think. I want to catch up with everyone first and let my fingers heal.’

When they arrived at the lodge it had begun to snow a little again and Rostov rammed open the door to let them enter. They had come in through the back door at the kitchen, and Xomano was in here preparing some food. The kitchen was small and dimly lit from the tiny window. Snow came nearly all the way up the glass and Xomano had had to light a lamp in here even though it was the middle of the day and bright outside. There were work surface all round the sink and a small table in the middle of the room with two chairs. A set of stairs lead up to the druids chambers.

Lildariel kicked the snow from her boots at the door then smiling at Rostov went upstairs to her room to change for dinner.

‘All smiles then?’ said the torm looking up at him.

Rostov helped himself to a carrot from the chopping board and munching on it said,

‘Yeah, you know me and her. We fight and then make up. She’s and angel really.’

‘Of course!’, said Xomano a big smile on her face.

Rostov sat down at the table.

‘Here since you like them so much you can chop the rest of them.’

The little torm handed him a chopping board and a knife and the basket of carrots.

‘And these.’ she said handing him some parsnips.

He began to chop away, and they worked in silence for a while. He thought about how he was actually glad to be back at the lodge, and would be really sad to leave it again. They would all sit down to eat together tonight, and talk about old times and swap stories, then drink beer and mulled wine in the warm room, and then he and Xomano would smoke their pipes until the elves complained and sent them back into the kitchen.

They would then talk the night away, all of them the best of friends of many years.

It was actually a week before he left the coven. Each of them, somewhere in them, knew that this was valuable time they were spending together. After they all went their separate ways, life might well be very different and not as pleasant. This time spent together would be good to think back on.