EQ 11 - Roztov's Family - 2013

Roztov's Family

Roztov had been time travelling a lot lately. He felt old, but not ready to give up the adventuring
life just yet.

He'd given up living on Norrath though. The old tower in Butcherblock was a very distant memory
and the house in Neriak was sold.

In the end he'd settled down, renting a plot of land in one of the endless valleys that seemed
to have magically turned up outside of New Tanaan, the city in the centre of the Plain of Knowledge.

He still went back to Norrath from time to time on some minor quest or errand but it felt like a
foreign land to him now and the places that he remembered had all changed.

People around Butcherblock still remembered him, and the innkeepers of Qeynos would still give
him a friendly greeting, but he went less and less now, having no reason to do so.
The only link he had with the old lands was his frequent visits to Surefall Glade. He was still
a druid after all and they still ran their affairs from there.

No, the three room house 103 Market Heights in Maple Bridge Point was his home now and had been
for some time. He was married now too, to a woman from the jungles of Kunark and they had three
children.

She didn't seem to mind the time travelling, she saw it as druid business and in a way she was
right. It was through the druids that he had learned the teleport spells that allowed him to
go back into the past. He supposed it was the fact that he was an old man now that meant he enjoyed
the past so much, but he didn't think about it much.

There was much to do in the village of Oceangreen, the village that would one day turn into
the city of Qeynos. The gods had been playing around again, he didn't really understand it,
and things needed to be fixed. He did his little bit by helping these ancestral people fight
of the forces of Bertoxxulous. It was a good job for a druid, who could heal the diseased animals
and cure the forest of the evil work of the Plague God.

Most of his time was spent at the house though. As the children grew up he adventured less and
less. He had a feeling though that when they were old enough they would get a restless spirit
of their own and want to see Norrath and everything that it had to offer.

He looked forward to that day. He wondered if his new wife would allow it. She certainly would
not come with them, she was a homemaker first and foremost and her place was in the Heights.

She was a big member of the community around the suburbs of New Tanaan and had quiet enough
to be going on with thank you very much!

He liked to take the children in his arms and fly across the hills around the house. They were
delighted at how high up they could get when he set off from the highest ridges. It wasn't really
flying, just levitation, but they were impressed enough.

Wid, his wife, would caution him about it, but no one listened. It was one of the many magical
things that their father could do and he took great pleasure in their adoration.

He could teleport into the garden, he could go invisible, turn into wolves and trees and summon
all kinds of magical play mates.

He eldest son, Feargus, was getting curious about the world now, but had not expressed any interest
in druidism. If Roztov had to guess he would say Feargus was destined to be a Rogue! He was always
in mischief. Haydar was a Warrior, there was no doubt about that and little Roztova was just a baby
so it was too soon to tell with her.

With a busy home, food and supplies to be brought in, purchased with the vast wealth of his earlier
adventures and his Loyalty pension from New Tanaan he was kept very active.

He didn't tell them much about what he was doing when he disappeared for a while. His wife knew he
was time travelling. He could tell she was worried that he would lead all her children into a life
of wild adventure. When he told them bed time stories he told them about all the people he used to
know in the Heroes of Kaladim and all the enemies they had faced. Most of all though it was the places
they liked to hear about the most. The jungles of Kunark, where there mother was from, the icy wastes
of Velious, the moon of Luclin, the other continents of Norrath and the chaos ravaged lands of Kua.

One day they would want to see that world for themselves and Roztov planned to be the one that was
there to guide them safely though it. It made him nervous to think of the dangers they would one
day face but he could hardly stop them. That would be hypocrisy. As he reassured his wife, he would
be there to look out for them, even if it was flying invisibly above them like a guardian angel.

That was a long way away though. In the mean time he had a hole in the roof to patch, some shopping
to pick up from town and three children to help bath and put to bed. After that, who knows? Maybe he
would pay a visit to Oceangreen...

A land of Trees : Chapter 2 : There is no such thing as a fressle wizard.

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Chapter 2 : There is no such thing as a fressle wizard.

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Mary was busy in the kitchen, preparing meals for the customers as they came in for food and drink. The butcher’s boy had been earlier on, so she had five chickens, a side of pork and an assortment of river fish to prepare. The meat had been extortionately expensive. Each chicken had cost an extra penny on the usual blackbird she normally spent. A black bird was a silver six penny piece, and now it appeared that chickens were being sold for up to eight or nine pence in the market. Inflation was something that most people in Styke could not understand, but there it was.

As she gutted a trout (three pence it had cost!) she heard a commotion from the tap room. A sound like something breaking then a series of shouts. Then the guard dog started barking, great throaty outbursts.

Gingerly she walked down the narrow corridor between the kitchen and the tap room and looked round the corner.

A man in a purple cloak, the cloak of a coachman, had his dagger drawn and was wrestling with a garrison man. Both were shouting and spitting at each other, no recognisable words however, just snarls and grunts.

The other patrons, a man who had been eating some of yesterdays pheasant, and a couple of poor beggars Hanz had let in to get warmed up but who had ordered nothing, were backed up against the other side of the room.

‘Hanz!’, cried Mary at the top of her lungs.

She needn’t have bothered though, the northman had heard the shouts and she could hear his heavy tread as he came down the stairs from the guest rooms above.

‘Great gods!’, he bellowed as he entered, ‘I was only gone five minutes!’

Reaching behind the bar he took out a heavy axe handle and approached the antagonists.

A coachman would never be a match for one of King Turku's bezerkers and a garrison man little better. With a deft swing of his axe handle Hanz swept the knife from the coachman’s hands who yelled in pain and clutched his fingers to his chest. The soldier made to draw his sword, but suddenly he too was crying in agony and sucking at bruised fingers.

‘Not in here you don’t!’

‘You dirty sheepshagger!’, moaned the soldier, ‘I could have your head for that!’

The soldier was an ugly, gap toothed man in his late forties. He had lank dark hair and had not shaved in days. He wore a tabard which heralded him as one of King Woads men, a dark green toad on a red background.

‘Get back to your barracks before I break your head open.’, snarled Hanz as he reached down to grab the collar of the guard dog, a great shaggy brute of an elk hound.

Seeing he was out numbered the soldier headed for the door. Spying Mary at the other end of the room he snarled,

‘What are you fucking looking at?’

Mary said nothing, and mumbling to himself the soldier left.

The coachman went to reach for his fallen dagger with his bloody hand, but suddenly found Hanz's booted foot upon it.

‘That stays right here.’, said the northman.

Mary took a look at the man. He had the surly hardened look of a coachman alright. The roads in all of Styke, and especially the wooded area were full of bandits, fimpin, goblins and outlawed nogs. The coaches between Korismalle and Blaine, and even as far as Millwood were under constant danger of attack.

The men that wore the purple cloak of a coach driver were usually little more than bandits themselves. Hired thugs who didn’t shirk at a bit of killing.

This man was old and hardened, his grey hair fell across his shoulders in long dirty clumps.

‘But he started it, innkeeper. He said he would rather be back at the Hall, than garrisoned at this shit heap. He said he wouldn’t have to be here at all if the roads were clear.’

Complaining about the roads, that was the best way to start a fight with a coachman, Mary knew that.

‘Be that as it may driver,’ replied Hanz, ‘A dagger is no weapon for a coachman. Stick to your blunderbuss.’

‘Like I would have smeared him all over the room, ‘laughed the driver as he stood up. Quaffing back the last of the beer in his tankard he reached for his other weapon and swung it over his shoulder.

‘You would not have thanked me if I had used Bessie here on him!’

Mary eyed the long sleek weapon now on his shoulder. The gun had a dark wooden haft and a flintlock trigger that lay along the side of the gun on the firing plate. The black metal barrel ended in a sort of trumpet. It was about four feet long, not a very good weapon in a brawl, but an excellent weapon for blasting a goblin bandit to kingdom come.

‘And then you would have had my Jenny to contend with before you could reload.’, came the calm reply and Hanz weighted the axe handle in his hand, her name burned into the stained and many notched business end.

‘Aye, very well, came from a nog outlaw anyway, you can keep it.’

And with that the coachman pulled his cap down over his eyes and headed out into the evening snow.

Hanz gave Mary a disgruntled look and returned upstairs. The other patrons settled back down and the little fressle went back to her kitchen.

Korismalle has gone to the dogs a bit, she thought, as she started to clear up the work tops, dragging her stool from table to table. It was a lot rougher now that all the noggish soldiers had started to arrive, begging for jobs.

A garrison of two hundred men from Toad Hall had arrived and the town was virtually under martial law. Most of them were barracked at the citadel, but some others were billeted at the gate towers or in houses all over the town.

The arrival of the soldiers had stabilised the area a little, but incidents between the town guards and the coachmen were frequent.

Lord Herrias Herrasos, the towns magistrate, a bloodthirsty tyrant if ever there was one, did not take kindly at all to the arrival of a battalion of kings men, but he had no choice in the matter.

His arena catered to the violent desires of all the martial men in the town, and although she hated to admit it, Mary thought that the words of Lord Herrasos,

‘One fight in the arena prevents ten in the streets’, were probably true.

The kitchen clean, the larder full, and the cauldrons full of soup and stew, Mary’s work was done.

She went into the bar and greeted the barmaid, Gertrude, who had arrived a while earlier.

‘Give me a brandy Gerty, please’, sighed Mary as she gave into her tiredness a little. She put her stool down and sat by the fire to warm her cold feet. As she eased off her boots the barmaid came over and handed her a glass of brandy.

‘Here you go Mary.’ , said the simple girl and gave her a smile.

‘Thanks Gert,’, smiled Mary in turn and wiggled her striped stocking feet in front of the flames.

The tavern was a little busier now, but it would not get really busy until after ten, when the last of the dockers got off shift.

A burly figure tried to enter the room, from the street outside, and the dog looked up from the fire and let out a low growl.

It was a huge shaggy nog, wearing a long black cloak and big leather boots. His tabard was tattered and worn, but still bearing the gold thread work of a marine. He held his stovepipe hat in his hands, its gold piping still attached, with a tassel dangling from it. The nog had once been an officer.

‘You can’t come in here love,’, called Gertrude from the bar, ‘This place ent for your kind.’

The bestial face of the nog looked at her blankly.

Mary, along with every other person in the bar had turned to look at him. Poor thing, he looks gaunt with hunger. Still, many of the men were placing hands upon sword hilts or dagger handles.

‘Go down to the docks and turn left. Look for the sign of the Drowned Man, you will find friends there.’, said the fressle in a quiet voice.

The nog turned to her. She still found their tusked, hairy faces terrifying, but the nog simply rumbled,

‘Thank you, young one,’ and turning on his heel, left.

Two more barmaids arrived and Hanz came down stairs, from serving people in the private rooms, to talk with Mary for a moment or two by the fire.

Heating his large rear end by the flames he looked down on tiny Mary and said,

‘You will be off to the arena tonight then.’

‘Yes,’, replied the fressle.

In times of such hardship, it may be thought a little greedy to have two jobs, but Mary did also work at the arena as a healer.

‘Well, and how is your .. ah .. friend.’, smiled the northman.

‘Her boyfriend!’, came the gleeful cry from Gertrude across the room.

‘He fights tonight,’ said Mary sorrowfully.

‘He is a big tall lad, I’m sure he will do ok.’. said Hanz, realising he had maybe picked the wrong subject to make small talk on.

Mary took a sip of her brandy and nodded. She didn’t like to think about it though.

Just then another man entered and approached the fire. He wore a purple cloak, a coachman, but a different one from the afternoon. Calling for a drink, he took his blunderbuss from his shoulder and placing it beside the fireplace came to warm himself by the flames.

‘Lordy lord, what’s this?’ he said as he looked down at Mary.

‘Have we been playing dressing up games child?’

Mary turned up to look at him blankly, her big round eyes gazing up at the man.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon little miss, I mistook you for a child!’, said the coachman, but he didn’t appear to be too upset by his mistake.

Mary looked up at the man. He was young, a short well kept beard grew on his face. He had the sallow look of someone who was slightly under nourished but he seemed cheerful enough as he took a swig from his tankard.

‘Tell me then, why are you wearing a wizards hat?’

This brought a chuckle from Hanz who still stood across the fire from the driver.

‘Why because she is a wizard of course!’, he replied for her.

The man laughed, ‘Well of course! And what spells does a fressle know? Summon Soup perhaps? Or Magical Carrots?’

‘I am a wizard.’, she said meekly.

‘Nonsense little miss,’ came the reply ,’All know that torms know no magic. Only humans and forest-dwellers know wizardry. Nogs and goblins know necromancy and the naxeme know the magic of rocks. There is no such thing as a fressle wizard.’, he said finally with great authority.

Mary’s cheeks were glowing red. She was furious, but all fressles tended to behave meekly before humans they didn’t know. When you are three feet tall, it is a survival trait.

‘Well, you are obviously wise in the ways of the arcane, ‘ came her tart reply’ ‘But I can assure you, I was apprenticed to Jendix L’Noir for two years.’

‘Oh really,’ laughed the coachman rocking on his heels by the fire and gazing off across the smokey room.

‘I can’t say I have heard of the gentleman.’

Hanz stepped in again to reply on Mary’s behalf.

‘It’s all true. L’Noir is a forth bach wizard from Tomsk.’

The coachman let loose a great guffaw of laughter then said,

‘A forth bach, take a fressle as an apprentice? You are joking with me now!’

‘Not a word of a lie,’ fumed Mary, ‘He passed through Tormwood once, and took me as his apprentice. Torms can be wizards as much as anyone.’

‘Very well then, show me a spell little wizard!’

Mary muttered something that he didn’t here.

‘What was that?’

‘I said,’ she replied tersely , ‘I can’t I am saving my spells for the arena tonight.’

The man was in utter confusion.

She went on to explain,

‘One spell I do know is how to staunch the flow of blood, a little anyway. And they pay me to use it at the arena.’

The man laughed again.

‘You jest surely! Well, I will be at the arena tonight. I will look for you there.’

‘You won’t see me.’

The man looked at Hanz for confirmation.

‘I don’t know what she does at the arena, but she does work there.’, Hanz said honestly.

The coachman shrugged his shoulders and raising his tankard said,

‘Here’s to fressle wizards then!’, and quaffing his beer in one large draught he then muttered, ‘And fressle wizard wenches at that.’

It was his birthday today, Bandrax thought glumly to himself. It was five days after the Feast of Yuric, five days after the new year, and he knew that was his day of birth. He was eighteen today.

And what a way to spend it. He currently sat in a small dark cell that had two doors in it, one at each end. The door he and Horace had come through led into the wooden rooms of the annex where the armoury was. The other door led directly to the arena.

He could hear the hubbub of a large crowd already. Nothing had started yet, but it could not be far away.

They sat on a low bench together. Bandrax had his legs stretched out before him and was looking up at the ceiling. Horace had his head hunched down low between his hands and was trembling.

They had both been outfitted in armour. Bandrax wore the breastplate, greaves, vambraces and bracers that he always wore. They were made from rusted metal, but the steel underneath was still good. The metal had been dyed various colours of orange and red. His helmet sat on the bench beside him, and a fox's tail served as decoration.

Horace was dressed in a mail hauberk over which he wore a plain black coat of brigandine. It was so heavy he complained he could hardly walk. The tall youth was armed with a long spear and a wooden shield. Bandrax was armed with a huge five foot long footman’s morning-star. The haft alone was three feet. It had three spiked steel heads, each held on to the end of the haft by three strong links of chain. It was a heavy weapon, but he was a strong young man, and with two hands he could wield it as if it was a willow switch.

Its name was Beefeater and Bandrax had taken to it after finding it in a pile of unused weapons in the armoury. Unlike a sword, it was very hard to block. A half starved goblin could not hope to have the strength to hold it off. Any weapon held up to it would be knocked aside by the flail's sheer weight.

Many times Bandrax had fought a desperate bandit or goblin in the arena who would be armed with a sword and shield. Raising his shield to block the haft his adversary would find the three heads looping right over it to bash him in his face. It was a messy, unpredictable weapon, but Bandrax had trained with it night and day for months. Many times he had injured himself with it, but now was considered a master with the weapon and there were not many people more deadly in the arena, except for perhaps Yorri.

Yorri had his own way of fighting, and a knack for getting out of the way of incoming blows. He was a very hard man to land a blow on.

Horace had had a week of training with a spear, but Bandrax had given him the best advice he could and reminded him of it now,

‘Just stick the pointy end in your enemy.’

Horace looked up.

‘What will my enemy be?’

‘I don’t know, ‘, admitted Bandrax , ‘Yirrloy would have given us an idea, but with him gone.. All the other guards are surly brutes who are happy to see us dead.’

Suddenly there was a clamour outside and a great round of clapping and cheers.

‘Already?’, gasped Horace in terror.

‘No, there will be a bull fight first.’

Horace shuddered and replaced his head between his legs.

Cheers and cries called out from the arena now. One of the bull fighters would be riding around on a barded horse doing his best to kill a bull with his lance.

‘I think we will be fighting together. Against something I mean, not fighting each other. I have fought with other men against bands of goblins or fimpin before. Never a bear or cats, but there is a first time for anything.’

Horace shuddered but said,

‘How did you end up here Bandrax?’

‘Hum, the same as most I imagine, I stole something and got caught.’

‘How did you know you would be any good at this? I mean, you seem so calm.’ There was a shudder in Horace’s voice now, ‘I didn’t think it would be like this. I should have gone to the galleys, but twenty years! All I did was steal another man,s purse!’

‘No one can survive five years in the galley let alone twenty, so you made the right choice.’

Horace looked up again, tears flowing down his face,

‘I won’t last a year here!’

‘Try and relax. If we are together then just do what I tell you. I will keep you right.’

‘Thanks Bandrax. Twenty years, one for each silver otter I stole. Gods have mercy!’

‘Hah!’, laughed the other man, ‘I stole apples. Ten years, one for each apple. Commuted to two in the arena.’

‘Yuric have mercy. Ten years? For apples? The kingdom has gone crazy.’

There was suddenly a single terrible piercing cry, then a collective gasp from the crowd, then silence.

‘Oh dear.’, said Bandrax.

‘What happened?’

‘I think the bull won.’

They were both still sat on the bench. From outside there rang the sounds of trumpets and scattered applause from the crowd.

‘Is this it?’, gasped Horace and he stood up and grasped his spear.

‘No, the trumpets mean its time for the tumblers and jugglers.’

Horace began to pace up and down the cell.

‘The waiting is killing me. I would rather it was over.’, he complained.

‘It will be an hour or so yet. Calm down. Try getting some sleep.’

‘Sleep?’, cried Horace, ‘You joking?’

No, thought Bandrax, you don’t look ready for a short nap about now.

‘How many fights have you had Bandrax?’

‘Thirty-two.’

And he remembered every single one of them. Goblins, fimpin, bears, even a snarling black tiger from Ertia.

‘Yuric have mercy.’, the young man sobbed , ‘What will we face?’

With a sigh Bandrax stood up and strode to the inner door and banged Beefeaters haft on it.

‘Hey! Guard!’

A voice from the other side growled,

‘What?’

‘What’s on for us?’

‘Shut up in there or I’ll come in and..’ then silence.

‘Or you’ll what?’, laughed Bandrax, ‘The door is keeping who safe from who now exactly?’

He gave Beefeater a swing, the three heads making swooping noises through the air.

The only answer from beyond the door was silence.

‘Come on Nurl, do us favour, for the newbie. He’s shitting himself.’

‘All right! Its fimpin, happy?’, came Nurl’s shouted reply.

‘How many?’

‘Fuck off!’

Bandrax smiled at Horace and went back to the bench and sat down.

‘Nurl and his cronies will beat us for that later, but there’s your answer. Fimpin.’

‘What are they like?’ shuddered Horace.

‘Tricky. You have to watch them. Difficult to catch as well, so I am surprised. Have only fought them twice before.’

‘All I know is what .. ‘, then Horace let out a bray of laughter ,’Is what my mother told me. Evil, nasty creatures that live in the swamps by the sea. They live on an island that can sink beneath the waves, she said. And every so often it will surface and a thick fog will come. Then they come. They eat babes, or so my mother said. I have never seen one.’

‘Well’, said Bandrax slapping Horace on the shoulder as he came to sit down once again, ‘You will be seeing a whole bushel of them tonight.’

Rostov had planned to meet some of his companions in the old tower at Stonebridge. As he had told Soora, he and some others had been far across the sea to the west, in search of adventure. Bands of like minded individuals would often form into such fellowships in Nillamandor, not quite mercenary bands, but not quite guilds. Many of them were little more than bloodythirsty groups of sellswords who were only interested in plunder and rape. They would sell their services to the lord who would give them the most gold. Their names would often be very far from the truth of their real purpose. ‘The Brave Brotherhood’, were a vicious pack of thugs from Lunaria, who dedicated every kill to their dark gods. ‘The Hands of Doom’ were a regiment of cavalry mercenaries from Lysander who were infamous for butchering the city of Gwent during the noggish invasion and turning traitor no less than four times. ‘The Tranquil Wind’, were supposedly a religious order from a land beyond the Norob Forest who followed the teachings of a peaceful god. But they were lead by a terrible savage of a red monk who was said to drink the blood of virgins. There were literally hundreds of such fellowships in Nillamandor, but not all of them were bad. There was one such band called ‘The Jesters’ who used the tankard more than the sword, and whose leaders had very altruistic tendencies. They were lead by noble twin brothers, and would only fight if the cause was just, and wherever they went they took twenty barrels of Ferrian wine and ten carts of grain and pork to give to any poor peasants who may have been displaced by the battle. Then there was a band called ‘The Wardens’, once the most powerful fellowship in the whole land, and had fought the noggish invaders fiercely in Lodz and had won great renown. But where they were now, no one knew, east, west, south or north no one knew where they had gone and now they were referred to as ‘The Shadows’. Some said they had tired of easy victories in Nillamandor and had gone to heaven to fight the gods themselves.

Rostov was counted as on officer in one such band, ‘The Heroes of Kaladorn’. Kaladorn had been an ancient naxeme king who had founded an order to go forth from his kingdom in search of allies. The kingdom of Kaladorn no longer existed, it was now not much more than an area of wild mountains that bordered Gnarlwold and Styke known as the Hook Vale, but the fellowship still remained. Its members were no longer just naxeme either, but men, wood-dwellers and even torms.

The fellowship has just returned from a long campaign in the lands across the Diamond Sea, and had returned home to spend the winter. They had disembarked from the Waverider at Millwood and had agreed to meet again in the spring. Most of the band had simply elected to stay in Millwood as they had no other place to go, and would be busily getting drunk and spending their money all winter. Some had homes to go to that were close enough to enable them to get back to Millwood by spring. Some would leave the company and never come back.

Just recently, the leader of the fellowship, a naxeme from the Hook Vale named Brond, had spent some of the profits of the western venture on a tower in Stonebridge, a village in the Hook Vale, and those that had decided not to spend the winter in the busy, smoky city of Millwood had elected to move into it and make it habitable.

Well, Rostov had decided he could stand Millwood for a while and had been there for about a month. He had drunk to their victories and had spent a great deal of money enjoying himself with his friends. But as they gradually drifted off he too had decided to join the more sensible ones at the tower. Besides, Necellia, who had elected herself as custodian would, be glad of the help.

At first he had been reluctant to come, it was, after all, so close to Soora that her presence nearby would nag away at him like a toothache. So he had decided to travel beyond the tower before presenting himself there to see her first, to get it over and done with.

But now he had seen her, he was too intrigued by what he had seen in the woods by her house to go down to the tower.

So instead of following the path to the north that led round the lake and eventually to the village, he turned himself west, and plunged straight into the virgin forest.

After a few hours travel he remembered that his friends might be wondering where he was. He had already sent word that he would be arriving that morning. So for a while he walked, looking up into the branches of the trees until he saw what he wanted.

Raising his arm he tilted his head and made a croaking sound. From the branches above, a large raven flapped down and landed on the druids outstretched wrist.

‘Take my apologies to Necellia. I don’t think I will see them tonight, but I am sure she will understand.’

The raven nodded and croaked. (Ravens are meat eaters!)

‘Thank you, black wing.’, the druid took some corn from his pocket and fed it to the hungry bird. After it had eaten its fill it flapped up to a branch. Then with a final croak it took wing again and was soon lost to sight above the trees.

Of all the beasts of the forest Rostov had particular affinity with ravens and wolves and rats. With luck the raven would pass on his message to the black skinned but beautiful necromancer Necellia. Rostov was sure she would understand - he was always missing meetings.

Walking onwards Rostov found a narrow game trail and began to follow it east, up hill and deeper into the woods. Stopping occasionally he would put his hands on a nearby tree and shut his eyes for a while. For a druid he was hopeless with trees, and he wished one of the other members of his coven was here. Xomano would be much better at this he reflected. It all evened out he supposed, as Xomano could no more command a raven than she could command a rock.

Sighing he started to walk onwards again, and decided to use the power of sight, a more mundane method, but his only option. He could certainly see that there was something wrong with the trees around here. The further east he walked, the more twisted the tree trunks became and the gloomier their aspect.

He passed through a wide, snow choked, clearing and looking up at the sun, and gauged that he had only a few more hours of daylight remaining.

Pulling his cloak around his shoulders against the gusts of wind that now had free access to him, he continued across the clearing to the tree line opposite.

Finding the path again he followed it until it led down to a river, which he crossed easily on a fallen tree trunk. Darkness began to descend in earnest on the old forest, but druids had ways of seeing in the dark. They also had ways of moving swiftly, especially in open wild places and he had already covered more ground than any other man could have walked in three days.

He found a place in the forest that opened up just enough to see the sky. The moon and stars looked down on him. Walking onwards, he felt like he was just getting into his stride. Travelling swiftly through a moon lit forest, this was what druids were born to. As he continued on his way, he almost forgot why he was out here in the forest. This was where druids such as himself would spend weeks sometimes, communing with their goddess. His mind began to wander and he hummed and whistled bars and snippets of songs he had learned on the long sea journeys he had had on the Waverider. His thoughts drifted into images of the past, when he and Soora had met, and had been lovers, of a time long ago. He remembered when they met. She was getting over the death of her son, and it took her a long time to accept Rostov into her life. He had fallen in love with her the moment his eyes had met hers. She was a single dark skinned tall woman in a land of short stocky pale maidens. She was so adverse to talking to anyone though, so devastated was she by the loss of her son; but his kindness won her over. Her pain and loss opened a hole in Rostov’s heart and he did everything he could think of to try and help her. He moved his thoughts away from those memories and thought of the good times they had spent together, in Stonebridge, and the time they took a trip to Millwood. They had hired a boat and sailed around the Gulf of Pallenos, holding each other tightly as they sat on the small deck, watching the sea birds on the cliffs. That had been before the war, back in seventy-one. Those memories were so bitter sweet to him, he found it hard holding back the tears. The war had changed everything, sometimes he wished that they had just sailed away and had never came back.

A distant wolf howl made him stop in his tracks, instantly bringing him back to reality. It was answered by another off to his left. A few seconds later he heard one from much closer, right behind him. Rostov smiled, he liked wolves, perhaps they could tell him something about what was happening here.

But, he knew wolves and he knew they would be wary at first. They would like to track him for a bit and get to know his scent.

The path he was following led down into a deep dell. For a while now he had been following the snaking turns of a valley, it was very mountainous around here although they were impossible to see through the trees. It was morning now, although still as black as inside a barrel and would be for several more hours.

He had been moving so swiftly, many times at a gentle trot, that he was sure he must have crossed the border into Gnarlwold. The track led further into the small sided valley and eventually terminated at a tumbledown woodsman’s hut. There was hardly a tree that he could see around here that didn’t have the same sick and twisted look to it that Soora’s apple tree had had.

He approached the hut fearlessly. All druids had great confidence in the wilderness, not always founded, but it was always said between them, that when in the forest, you are the most dangerous thing in it.

Seeing no light on, he approached the door and knocked on it. Getting no answer he pushed the door a little and finding it unlatched he entered the single roomed abode.

This dwelling had little to recommend it other than a single chair and table beside the fireplace and a small bed in the other corner. There was a chest with several bundles of animal fur piled against it, but that did not hold Rostov’s attention for long.

Sat at the chair, his throat torn out and his arms hanging limply by his side was the huts only occupant.

Cautiously the druid approached the corpse, who gave every indication of being dead a good long while. He was completely frozen and the blood from his throat hung in long red icicles. A single long white icicle hung from his nose.

Looking closer he judged the bite marks on the poor dead man to be those of wolves. Druids may be safe from wolves, but that certainly didn’t apply to everyone who set foot in the forest.

Just then he sensed something behind him and turning he stepped out of the hut again and looked out into the darkness. Any other human in these woods would not be able to see his hands an inch in front of his face, but Rostov could just make out the shadowy forms of a large pack of wolves coming slowly towards him and the hut.

‘Good evening chaps.’, Rostov said in somewhat nervous greeting.

The largest of the black shapes let out a low rumbling growl.

‘Nice night. How are you all doing?’

The shapes came forward, apparently none of them had anything to say.

And then the great shaggy lump that seemed to be the leader was right there, and removing his gloves, Rostov held out his right hand for the wolf to sniff.

In one swift movement the wolf clamped down its jaws on the druids hand. But Rostov moved swiftly too, and the wolf missed getting a grip although it did strip the flesh from two of his fingers.

Howling in pain, Rostov cursed, ‘You viscious swine! I’m a druid!’

The wolf lept, but the man sidestepped and was soon running as fast as he could in the opposite direction from the pack. The wolves reacted instantly at the sight of fleeing prey and with barks and yelps the entire pack hurtled after him.

There is nothing swifter than a druid running through the forest, expcept maybe a pack of wolves hunting down it's prey. Hugging his bleeding hand to his chest Rostov cursed under his breath.

‘I might have known the fauna would be as evil as the flora around here,’ he cursed to himself.

He was a long way from being tired from running yet, but the pack was no further away from him. Glancing over his shoulder he could see the sleek black shapes making chase. They were perfectly at home in these woods and ran through the trees like streaks of black lightning.

‘Well, I must be quicker.’, grunted Rostov to himself as he hurdled a fallen tree.

He ran on, never tiring, as the day began to break and weak dawn light began to filter between the branches of the trees. He knew he could not run for ever. He would either reach a dead end, or stumble and the pack would be on him.

A plan was formulating in his mind. He decided he had spent enough time in these woods and wished to leave. All druids of his age and experience had the power to travel swiftly over great distances and they could also use the ancient stone circles dotted around Nillamandor as a means of magical travel. It was also within their power to open magical gateways that would take them back to their coven, but these spells took hours to prepare and a pack of rabid wolves would be unlikely to allow him the time to enter the meditative trance he would need, or the space to make the gate. Rostov, for a number of reasons, had no desire to go back just yet. The last time he had seen Xomano, it was saying farewell to her as she left for their coven, so he at least knew she would be there. He had no desire, in fact, to ever go back there, but he certainly preferred that to being torn apart by wolves.

‘Stuff this, I need time to think.’, gasped Rostov as he found he was beginning to run out of breath.

With a great leap he bounded into the lower branches of the nearest tree and as swiftly as he could scrambled upwards as high as he dared.

Treed, he thought as he sucked a finger, he had knocked a nail off his left hand as he had climbed the tree.

Then the wolves arrived, barking and yelping in a great cacophony, then snarling they began to circle the tree.

‘Leave me alone.’, called Rostov down to the pack.

The shaggy pelted leader snarled back at him. You didn’t need to be a druid to know that it meant , Come down, we wish to eat you. (Why had'nt they eaten

‘Wolves never kill druids.’, replied Rostov. the woodman?)

In Gnarlwold, the rules have changed., came the growled reply.

‘Huh’, grunted the man and leaned against the trunk of the tree he had climbed and sucked on his injured fingers.

Ok, think yourself out of this one, thought Rostov to himself. If he was on the ground, and not being chased by wolves obviously, he could draw a magical circle, make a doorway from lashed together branches and enter the trance required to enter the summoned portal. He would then arrive at his coven, bruised and bitten but none the worse.

But to go back on the ground would be suicide. He would be ripped to shreds in a moment.

Still, who said I had to be on the ground...

And as he was thinking it, he was doing it. He took his knife from his belt and began carving the bark off the side of the tree trunk. Using the stringy sappy wood beneath he began to lash branches together. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but he could think of nothing better. As the dawn light began to filter through the trees upper branches, Rostov fashioned a circle from tied together branches that stretched all the way around where he sat. Tied to branches and joining up to the trunk behind him it was fairly secure, if a little on the small side for the purpose planned. The next thing he required was a door for the portal. Just as he started to make one, reaching up to pull more branches down, it occurred to him that he would also need to enter a trance to perform the spell. He looked at the belt on his waist and gauged the tree trunk. There was nothing he could attach himself to here, his belt was too short and the trunk to big. If he entered the required trance here, he would undoubtedly fall from the tree.

Sighing in despair he could not think what to do. He knew he would never make it back to Stonebridge. He doubted he would make it back to the border before the wolves would pull him down. Looking up to the skies as if seeking the gods for help he noticed the multitude of pine cones in the branches of the tree he was in.

Suddenly a crazy notion came to him and he laughed at the folly it would require. Well, the spell books said that a magic doorway was required for the druid, in his trance state, to walk through. Rostov knew this. He had cast the spell dozens of times before. But maybe a trap door would do just as well.

He stood up on his branch and started to pluck the pine cones from around him. With careful aim he began to drop them down beneath him.

What do you do, man?, snarled the wolves, but Rostov paid no attention.

Soon he had dropped many handfuls of cones and had formed a very rough square in the pine needle reddened earth below.

Well, it would have to do, he thought, but there were one or two that had fallen inside the square and they really worried him. What would that mean? Would it tarnish the spell, or make the square smaller? He could hardly go down there to rearrange them though.

Very well, he thought, all I need to do now is enter a trance, fall from the tree, and go straight through my trap door portal, and arrive at the thaumaugercella in the covenhall safe and sound.

Rolling his eyes at his own folly he settled down to meditate. But entering a trance is not the easiest thing to do when you have spent all night sat on a branch and with the knowledge that if you should enter the trance the next thing that happens is that you most likely get pulled apart by wolves.

Soon though he felt himself slip into semi-consciousness, but only to find himself sit bolt upright as soon as he felt himself lose his balance.

With a grunt of annoyance he settled to try again. But each time he felt himself enter a trance, the feeling that he was about to fall awakened him again.

‘Mother Etruna, give me strength!’, he cried in despair.

But there was only one thing for it; he had to keep trying.

The shaggy wolf was getting a little tired of the druid up the tree. They did not really need him as a meal. There were plenty of things to eat in the forest, but it was the principle of the thing. He had called his pack to make chase, and now the thing must be finished. But men were annoying beasts, and they could scamper up a tree pretty quickly. Then it was just a matter of laying siege to them. Eventually they would tire and fall off.

He could make no sense out of the dropped pine cones, but then, nothing that men did made much sense to him. Snarling he circled the ground a few times and then lay down. The rest of the pack took this as a signal to relax a little and they began to settle down as well. It had been a long night, they had chased a young deer clear across the hook gulley. They had got it in the end, but they had entered upper-vale-wolf territory so they didn’t tarry long. It was as they had been making their way back to their own area of the forest that they had scented the druid. Maybe they once respected druids, as the man had said, but the wolf didn’t really know or care. He lived in the now and didn’t care much for the past. But the druid had been swift and he suspected the man would be up the tree for a while yet.

Just as he began to nod off, there was a sudden thump right beside him which made him leap up in alarm. The other wolves leapt up as well to see that the man had fallen off his perch and landed in a heap directly amongst the pine cones he had been throwing around.

The leader snarled and went in for the kill, but then fell back with a startled yelp as a vibrant green light surrounded the man and he descended into the ground as if being claimed by the worms.

This was enough to send his pack running in disarray. None of them cared for magic. The leader joined them in a confused panic stricken run and soon left the tree far behind.

Once he had stopped running, he caught the scent of a squirrel and began to follow it into the darker reaches of the woods, instantly forgetting about falling druids.

Rostov awoke with a startled gasp to see several concerned faces looking down at him. He let out a great sigh of relief. These were the people in his coven.

(G167 24/05/2013 Fri via Roll20 - JF(GM) , AP)

(G167 24/05/2013 Fri via Roll20 - JF(GM) , AP)

DAY 201 (29 Elient)(September) cont....

Veddic then went shopping and after trying a few magical emporiums found a nice
Hat of Wisdom (+2) for 4000gold.

Back at Aunt Bitty's residence Fenrir turned invisible and had a fly around some of the
windows but only saw Bitty sat at some needlepoint.

In the evening, at seven o'clock, Veddic recieved a letter from the Aderbrent Villa
which read :

'Come discreetly to the house.'

He then went to the OJB where he borrowed some stuff from Fenrir's disguise kit.
Once at the ABV he hissed at the gate, 'Let me in!' and he was shown through to a
sitting room where Royus awaited him.

Royus got straight to the point and asked 'What do you want?'
'I need Ellis tools from the Horizon's Sails but I don't know why, but I beleive it's
for the greater good. Incidently do you know a girl called Anya?'
'I've heard of her...' muttered Royus, then 'I can arrange getting the tools.'
Veddic wasn't so sure about this but Royus went on 'I will keep them safe.'
The elderly statesman did not seem impressed with Veddic's lack of knowledge of what
was going on.

Veddic then left and penned a letter in the stree to Deverreck which read,
'Reply to Warm Beds or come yourself. I want to talk.'

DAY 202 (30 Elient)(September)

At midnight Deverreck arrived at Warm Beds in disguise. They found somewhere to talk
and when Veddic revealed that he had somehow arranged for Royus to get the tools he
buried his face in his hands.
'Now he has Ellis, Anya and the tools! We are outside of events now and for things to
work out well for us we need to be in them. The only knew thing we know is that another
piece of the puzzle is known as the 'Vengeance Logos'. See if you can find out about that.'

At one o'clock in the morning Deverreck left and Veddic went to bed.

Raya returned in the morning, but her report on Horizon's Sails wasn't of much worth
now so Veddic went to the OJB to talk to Fenrir.

With Fenrir dressed as 'Bob Smith' they went to talk to Dorothea Goodwin at the Temple
of Ogma. Fenrir asked her about the 'Vengeance Logos'. Dorothea consulted a book written
in infernal and told them that it was a complicated pattern that could be put on something
to bring vengeance on the victim.
'For instance, if you had an injustice done you and you knew where the perpetrator lived
you could carve the symbol on their door and it would trigger on their arrival. It is best
to involve a linked item since this is a sympathetic type of magic. If a ring had been stolen
then the Logos would work best if etched onto the ring. This would even work on an animal
from what I read here the Logos was once used on a horse. Once triggered a demon is summoned
that will endlessly pursue the victim and slay them.'

Dorothea also said she would copy this complicated symbol onto a velum scroll for the fee
of 500 gold which they agreed to. They would come back the next day.

They then returned to Warm Beds and Veddic sent a note to Deverreck which read :
'Have discovered what the Logos is. Request meeting.'

After lunch they went past the OJB and bumped into Cavu. He seemed distressed. When asked
what the matter was he replied that
'I've been handed a big pile of notes from our benefactor. She's going out of sight for a while.
She said that "Even She" had been surprised when Fenrir gave her name to the Inquisition. In some
ways she said she thanked him because she is so rarely surprised. But now I've lost contact
with her. That just never happens. She says she'll make contact once she's set up in another
location. For now I'm going to hide out in the dungeons downstairs. My guards were pressed into
service on the wall so I suppose this is the safest place for me.'

Next they headed over to the HGV, with Raya. They went into the solar and were met by Parry who
explained she was working here now under Deverreck.
'He's gone out though' she explained.
While they were chatting a monk called Lyria Loomer came in and warned them that they had been
followed by persons unknown to the villa and that they should be more careful.

They waited five hours, then in the evening Deverreck returned.
He said good evening and then found some food to eat. Veddic told him that he had found out
what the Logos was and grumbled about the expense and the lack of understanding he had of what
was going on.
Deverreck replied 'Well, my task is to track down Gilliard De Rosan. Genuinely, do you want to
swap jobs?'
Veddic said no, then Deverreck filled his pockets full of food and left once more saying over
his shoulder,
'Don't be followed again and get your side of it sorted for tomorrow.'

At eight o'clock the gang returned to the OJB and Veddic sent another note to Royus which
read:
'Need to speak to Ellis and Anya ASAP. Reply to OJB.'

At eleven o'clock the reply arrived

'Come tomorrow afternoon.'

DAY 203 (Highharvestide)(October)

In the morning, the gang (Veddic, Fenrir, Corum, Raya, Cavu) breakfasted at the OJB down in the
common room. A tall man and a short man in hooded cloaks arrived and approached Fenrir,
'Mr Thunderstaff. Can I have a word with you in private?' asked the tall man
'Who are you?', asked the young warlock.
'Please do not cause a scene, but my name is Gilliard De Rosan.'

Fenrir frantically tried to bluff a message to Veddic about who their mysterious visitor
was and then went to talk to him in Corum's office.

When they were alone De Rosan said :

''
So, it appears you have slipped Bnurgstickslackskin's leash for a while. Demon-follower's fighting
amongst themselves is nothing new and long may it continue. While you are battling demon's
you are no threat to me so I will leave you alone.
However, if you do start to be an annoyance again I will make sure something very
unpleasant happens to you. Something that a resurrection spell wont be able to sort out.

Well, all that having been said and now set aside, I will come to the reason for my
visit. Partly to see you in the flesh and commend you on your bravery, if not your sense,
and partly to ask you a question.

Now, when Mr Cavefoot returned to the fold I was greatly interested to hear what he
had to say about his captors, namely the Blood Drinkers. Conveniently you had left most
of them alive so it was an easy task for me to find one and ask them a few questions.

They told me, in broad terms of the demon's plot against me involving Ellis Aderbrent
and Anya Wavesilver. They also told me that the fellows that had defeated them had been
led by a man who styled himself Fenrir Thunderstaff which has lead me here.

I think only Vinet the Bloody knew what the plan was for Ellis and Anya and he is
now beyond my reach.

So now I am here to ask you. What is the demon plan for Ellis and Anya?
''

Fenrir answered truthfully that he had no idea and De Rosan continued,

''
Very well. I command you to do this : Find out what the plot is and stop it.
I will be watching you very closely. I will also have Mr Cavefoot to follow
you at all times. He will be as your boon companion until I say otherwise.
Oh and one more thing, stay away from Redraven!
''

De Rosan left, leaving behind the short man, Cavefoot the Half-fiend dwarf.

Veddic had sent for Alduin, but he had not arrived. Fenrir signaled Raya to
follow De Rosan, but he vanished on the other side of the market.

Fenrir chatted to Cavefoot a little bit, who on the whole seemed a nice enough
sort, or at least as nice as a half-fiend dark dwarf was going to get. He even
admitted to being a fan of Fenrir
'Loving your work, my lord' he declared with obvious pleasure, 'I appreciate
a good bit of chaos like others appreciate art. I am also a big fan of all your
murders. Keep it up!'

Fenrir sneakily sent a letter to Maliantor of the Grey Hands writing:

''GDR back and one if his minions is now my 'companion' ''

When asked about De Rosan's location Cavefoot replied it was a big secret and
sat down to eat some of the breakfast.

Fenrir realised it would be a good thing to distract his new watcher somehow
but the dwarf was not interested in sex with genies (one of the OJB's chief
attractions!) and so he gave up for now.

So with Fenrir now rather hobbled, Veddic and Raya went over to the Aderbrent
Villa in the afternoon. They were in disguise but Raya reported to Veddic
that
'Someone fell over behind us.'
'How do you mean?' asked the cleric
'Where the crowd is gathering, a man fell over like he'd dropped down dead. Want to
take a look?'
'No. Let's keep going, but in a zigzag fashion.'

They entered the villa and were shown through to a sitting room.
'So, what news?' enquired Royus as they handed over their weapons to the footman and
another tough looking man came in.
'I have questions for Ellis and Anya.'
They were summoned and Royus said 'Well. Ask your questions.'

So, Veddic talked to Anya first and asked
'Have you ever suffered an injustice?'
Anya replied 'Keeping quiet is my best option. If am free, let me go.'
'She's not going anywhere.' put in Royus which put Anya into a sulk.
Royus spoke for her 'She is from a minor noble family. Wavesilver. She was a tear-away. Got in
with the wrong crowd.'
'You don't know anything' grumbled Anya.
'Devil worship?' asked Veddic.

As the questioning continued, they learned that she was 35 years old now and her 'bad phase'
had happened when she was in her late teens and early twenties.

Not much the wise, Veddic and Raya left and picked up the Logos copy from the Temple of Ogma.
It consisted of the pattern and about ten pages of instructions written in infernal.

Dorothea also, when asked, said she didn't know much about Anya but that she could ask
around and told them to come back tomorrow.

Wearing out yet more shoe leather they next went to the HGV to see if Deverreck was there.
He wasn't though and Parry told them that he had come back late last night but that he
had left at the crack of dawn.
Veddic left a note:

''I have the logos and instructions. Will run past FTS. See what he makes of it.
And keep it away from his unwanted companion (and then went on to tell of De Rosan's visit)'

With holes in their shoes they returned to the OJB, not long after lunch. They kicked
Cavefoot out the door who cried
'He'll be angry!'
The gang all then sat down and compare notes, literally as the conversation was all written
down and then burnt rather than spoken.

Fenrir examined the Logos and read the notes. The Logos could be used on an item or
a being. Either would be destroyed or transformed when the demon was summoned.

In the late afternoon Veddic went out to learn what he could of Bandar Redraven with
Raya. They learned that Redraven was currently residing in the villa of Bresnoss Artemel.

He had a house on the grounds and they went to visit him. Veddic introduced himself
by saying
'My name is Veddic, I am an associate of Mr Thunderstaff.'
'What can I do for you?' asked the nobleman as the servants left after serving tea.
Veddic describes some of what had been happening lately
'Interesting that Fenrir Thunderstaff is alive.'
Veddic went on to say that Fenrir had been at the Thank You Ball posing as 'Bob Smith'.
The cleric then asked,
'What does Vengeance Logos mean to you?
'Ahhh!' cried Redraven as if realising something very important, 'I know what that is.
This is starting to make sense to me now.What are Fenrir's intentions?'
'We want to stop Demons and Devils'
'Commendable.' agreed Redraven 'What do you know of a woman called Anya Wavesilver?'
Veddic told of what he knew and Redraven filled in some more saying
'From what I gather she fell in with a rich set of devil cultists. She fell in love
with their leader. When the cult was discovered though, the leader betrayed her and
the others so that he could save himself. His name was Gilliard De Rosan.'
Redraven leaned forward 'The Logos is very dangerous. Does Fenrir plan to make this
happen or try and stop it?'
Veddic replied 'We plan to stop it. How tricky is the ritual to perform?'
'That I don't know.' admitted Redraven.
'I share your reservations of summoning a demon. But we do have powerful allies in
the Grey Hands.'
Redraven leant back in his chair and arched a single eyebrow.


Meanwhile(!) Fenrir was still at the OJB chatting to Cavefoot. At nine o'clock in the
evening Corum went out to do his duty on the wall.

At eleven o'clock Fenrir retired to bed.


DAY 204 (1 Marpenoth)(October)

Fenrir came down for breakfast and was surprised to learn that Veddic and Raya had not
returned.

He waited until lunch but the only person he saw come in was Nestoone who was looking for
Dwerry. Corum was round and about, but just in his office.

Once more Fenrir turfed out Cavefoot and went to talk (or pass notes to anyway) Corum
and they then went and collected Alduin and went in search of Veddic and Raya.

In the afternoon they finally turned up at Redraven's house in the Artemel Villa grounds.
He told them that Veddic and Raya had turned up at his house in the evening but had
left at about ten o'clock.

Bresnoss Artemel was summoned and he woke his night shift guards. They swore blind
they had not seen anyone leave, but Artemel said
'These useless lumps were probably asleep.'

Fenrir insisted on a search of the house and grounds and Artemel grumbled that he would
get his men to do it, but after an hour he told them
'Your friends are not here.'

Redraven was happy to give them some refreshment in his solar but after that they
left.

At five o'clock they arrived back at the OJB. Corum and Nestoone, worried about Raya,
sat down to try and figure out what was going on.

At eight o'clock Corum went out to arrange getting off his wall duty and arrived back an
hour later.

At nine o'clock, after much more discussion, Nestoone remembered that Veddic had been
to the HGV and having not found Deverreck there had left a message.
'Let's go to Warm Beds and check his mail.' he declared cleverly.

At Warm Beds Fenrir persuaded the landlord to hand it over and there was a message
from Deverreck
''Come at once.''
They made haste to the Hiilgauntlet Villa. On the way Alduin noticed a man behind
them being pulled into an alleyway by a shadowy figure and going 'GLERK!'
Doubling back they found the body of what looked like a sellsword.

At the HGV they arrived, Fenrir and his new friend Cavefoot, Corum, Nestoone and
Alduin. They found Deverreck and told him what had been going on. When he heard that
Cavefoot was a minion of De Rosan he fired off a couple of magic missiles and chased
the dwarf out of the villa!

When they were alone once more he said:
'I have found Gilliard De Rosan. He is posing as a nobleman called Bandar Redraven in the
Artemel villa!'

Fenrir reeled back in amazement as he now realised what must have happened to his
companions. He asked Deverreck to use a 'Sending' Spell to contact Veddic.

He reported to them the reply he received:

'Red Raven is De Rosan! He has Raya and I captive but I know not where. It is wet and dark
and I am chained. Help!'

A LAND OF TREES - Chapter One : After the War - 2009 rewrite

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A LAND OF TREES

******************************************************************************

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Chapter One : After the war.

********************************************************************************

During the great war, the country of Styke was untouched. Not one drop of blood had been spilled in this land in the name of the great conflict between man and nog. Styke had not sent a single soldier to the great battle in the far north that would be the turning point in the struggle. Nog invasion forces

had landed in all the surrounding countries to the north, east and south, but not one single nog had set foot in the forests of Styke. Maybe they knew something that the people in Styke did not. The country certainly had its own problems. Blood thirsty rulers and rowdy neighbours not being the least of them.

Nobody in this sheltered kingdom thought the outcome of the war would have much affect on them one way or the other, but as it turned out, maybe victory for mankind was little better than defeat. The kingdoms of man were tired from many years of war, and the defeated armies of nog had nowhere to go. Back to Fiarka? Nothing awaited them there but strife as the southern noggish nation once more disintegrated into violent conflict with itself. Ertia? The northern nog nation had closed its borders. A wall was being erected and its new xenophobic leaders would have nothing more to do with anyone, not even its own returning soldiers. This left the tens of thousands of suddenly unwanted and landless noggish forces a choice of two options. Either retreat into the great forest and become outlaws and bandits, or try and integrate into human society. Opinions varied in the lands of man as to which was worse, a nog robbing you or trying to 'integrate' with you.

So, as the defeated nogs moved south, many of them trickled into Styke. Some became bandits and preyed on an already blighted land and some went into the towns and villages and became cheap labour. Labour so cheap in fact that all sorts of problems started to occur with them and the human workers that found themselves out of a job because a nog twice as strong and hard working had just taken it.

Styke's already pretty patchy economy collapsed and the country took a deep breath as it prepared to dive back into the dark ages never to return. Some may have prayed that neighbouring Bellavia or Enttland might invade and return some sort of semblance of order, but they had their own problems. To the north Tomsk was if anything in a worse state and to the east, well, people tried not to dwell too much on what was happening to the east. Styke and Gnarlwold had once been part of the same kingdom, many years ago. Gnarlwold had closed its borders ten years ago after a violent power struggle had catapulted the then Prince Bludwurm onto the throne. Somehow, no one was entirely sure how, King Bludwurm became a follower of the dark gods and the kingdom became a hellhole. Thousands were put to the sword and refugees fled to the surrounding kingdoms. But these days no one ever came out of Gnarlwold. No one except .. things best not talked about.

And no one ever went into the Gnarlwold forests to find out what was going on either. And if they did, they didn't come back.

When you are a race of people, smaller then nogs, smaller than men, smaller even than the naxeme, the smallest pygmy race in all of Nillamandor in fact, you either stay out the way, or stay where you are put. If your greatest warriors are no more than four feet tall you can forget owning a nice patch of good

farming land. Not for any great length of time anyway.

If the Stykians were the forgotten people of Nillamandor, the torms of Tormwood were the forgotten race of Styke. Many years ago a small kingdom of torms had existed between Styke and Tomsk. During one of the many wars between the two kingdoms Tormwood was gobbled up by the protagonists and divided up at the treaty table. North Tormwood became Fraska and South Tormwood became Fressle. The good land was settled by humans of both sides and the torms moved deeper into the forest. The bad land, well, the torms could keep the bad land.

Fressle became possibly the most little known shire on any map of Nillamandor. Torms, or fressles as they were known in Styke, were tolerated in the rest of the country although treated little better than tame goblins. Over the years this small people, who took almost anything in their stride made a place for themselves in the kingdom, even if it was, needless to say, a very small one.

Fraskans and fressles made little difference to mankind, but they were all torms as far as torms were concerned. So, this tale begins with a small fressle as she was born south of the border.

Why she currently was not in Fressle remains to be seen, but here she was trudging through the snow in a town called Korismalle.

Fressles are very small creatures, and Mary was even shorter than most. She stood not much more than three feet tall, which made the larger snow drifts particularly heavy going. Dressed in a multitude of skirts and pinafores, and an overcoat two sizes too big for her, topped off with a pointed wizard’s hat, its tip sagging slightly due to the damp snow, she looked more like a child’s spinning top than a person.

Her thick leather boots, made for the feet of a human child, were beginning to let the moisture in and she could barely feel her toes, wrapped up in two layers of stockings as they were.

Pulling the collar of her coat further up and hugging her muffler around her she continued on her way, the only bit of her face visible were her green eyes and very red nose. She was not far from her destination now at least she reflected. Just a few more streets and she would be at the inn.

It was still dark, as dawn had not arrived yet, but murky street lamps cast a yellow glow down onto the snow, and created an eerie effect on the fall of the clumps of thick snowflakes.

Leaving a trail of small foot prints behind her she crossed the smaller of the town’s two market squares. There were several cart loads of refugees here. Most likely from Tomsk. With nowhere else to go and nothing else to do they had simply stopped there carts here and set up home. It looked like a very cold existence, thought Mary, as she walked past them. A woman sat on a box beside her covered cart, all wrapped up in blankets, her frosted breath gently rising in the weak pre-morning light. She held a baby in her arms, not much more than a bundle of rags. It was very quiet.

Behind the cart could be heard the sound of chopping. As she crossed over to Grocer Street, Mary saw that it was a man, slaughtering the last of his horses. There was a small fire here as well, beside which huddled two children. Both of them bundled up heavily against the cold in a way similar to her.

It was usual policy to move vagabonds on in the Duchy of Cannonbury, but no one had the heart to move these ragged families out into the forest for they would have surely perished.

As Mary looked over at them her eyes made contact with that of the woman’s, her gaze was like a pool of numb despair. Mary doubled her pace and hunched her shoulders up in her coat. The refugees and herself were the only people in the square. The tall roofs of the kirk cast early morning shadows across the snow covered expanse. The street she was heading for was between the tall buildings of the sheriff's court and the citadel. Turning her back on the square she scurried onwards.

The cobbles on Grocer Street had been cleared and Mary stamped her feet as she walked to loosen the snow that caked her legs right up to her knees. She used her gloved hands to brush as much off her coat as she could.

Grocer Street had tall buildings on both sides and the snow sprinkled down slowly in a line all along its length to the river.

It was still quiet, but market stalls were beginning to be set up although no wares were on display yet. Cold and sleepy youths huddle around braziers drinking cups of steaming tea, talking softly.

By law no stalls could be set up in the market before eight o’clock, but that didn’t apply to stalls along the side streets, so early birds would set up shop along this thoroughfare to catch dockers and stevedores as they went to work.

Mary was still a fairly unusual sight around here. Fressles were not particularly uncommon this close to Tormwood, but one that wore a tall wizard’s hat, complete with moons and stars traced upon it in sequins was very much worthy of comment. The conversations stopped as she walked past and people watched her with unreserved curiosity as they might watch a cat if it had learned to walk like a man and wear boots and had happened to stroll by this morning.

A fressle who was helping erect one of the stalls gave her a friendly wave as she passed, which Mary returned. It was young Jeki, little more than a boy, but who liked Mary tremendously. He worked for a vegetable merchant in town and was kept very busy.

Finally Mary reached the docks, the canal was iced over, but traffic could still push its way up and down. Stevedores were gathered around the docks, stamping their feet to keep warm, waiting for the first of the day’s barges to come in. The local men were all gathered in one group and the migrant nogs, a much more ragged set, were in another.

She crossed the canal by the lock, its great wooden gates made slippery by ice and snow and began to trudge up Calinary Lane. A group of tall, but tired looking nogs walked past her. Mary stepped into a doorway to let them pass. Each of them must have been easily over seven feet tall. They had great shaggy pelts which tufted out of rips and tears in their once proud uniforms. Their faces were covered in fur and tusks jutted out of their lower jaws coming up to nearly touch their big black snouts. Their large brown eyes looked more like those of a goat's than anything human. Each of them had, at one point, worn the blood red tabard of the noggish marines, but only scraps of it could still be seen on them. Most had a sack over their shoulders as a makeshift cloak. One still wore his stovepipe hat although it was very bent.

Mary tried to make herself as small as possible as these great shaggy beasts, once proud soldiers, went down to the docks to try and find work. Although the war had ended a year ago, Mary had the instinct of all fressles that said, hide from the monsters, lest you be eaten!

After they had passed she continued on her way and entered the Lost Goose Inn that sat on the corner of Calinary Lane and Wool Street. The Inn itself jutted out into the street like a tall ship. It was four stories high, taller than the buildings on either side, and the lamp that hung from its doorway was still lit, casting an eerie glow across the snowdrifts. No one had cleared the doorway yet so Mary had to struggle to the entrance. She knew the door would be locked, as it always was at this time. She unlocked it with a large iron key which she drew from her coat pocket. Giving it a shove she entered the main room.

She kicked the snow from her boots once again and crossed to the fireplace. The huge guard dog that was curled up on the hearth looked up and gave her hand a lick as she put it out as a greeting. The fire was little more than embers but she put some wood on it and stoked it up.

In time she would clear the door way, clean the tables and mop the floors, all before the landlord would rise. She wouldn't hold that against him, he would have been awake until four in the morning last night.

But first she helped herself to a nip of brandy from behind the bar to ward off the cold. She removed her coat, but not her hat, and set it across the bar. She unwound her scarf and placed it on her coat which revealed her face for the first time. She had the delicate features of a child, but her appearance was deceptive, as her eyes were much older. To someone not paying much attention she might pass as a human child of about eight, but in truth she was a little older. She was fully grown for a fressle but still young, not having reached her nineteenth birthday.

Her small button nose was very red with the cold and her round cheeks equally rosy. Her long blonde hair was coming loose from her hat, which she removed to try and get her curls a little more under control. She took a grip from her hair and holding it in her teeth she wrapped her hair up into a bun. The grip replaced and her hat pulled firmly down she felt more ready to tackle all the morning’s chores.

After she had cleaned the taproom and the kitchen she gathered some things from the larder and started chopping vegetables and pork into a big cauldron to make soup. To do so he stood on a small wooden stool, which was her constant companion through the entire day. When you are three foot tall you need a wooden stool to do just about anything in a kitchen designed for grown humans.

'Morning Mary!', boomed a voice behind her as Hanz the landlord came down the stairs, stretching and then shivering as he ducked through the doorway.

Hanz was a big northlander and the houses in Korismalle were all too small for him. Not quite as tall as a nog, but not far off it, he had been a handsome man until a sword had sliced away his left eye and half his cheek.

He wore a black eye patch and a livid red scar ran from the patch to his upper lip hidden as it was behind a thick beard. He wore his platinum blonde hair tied back in a long pony tail. He had once been a warrior of King Turku of Vegas, but now was no more than an innkeeper.

'Mm smells nice.. ', he said as he peered into the cauldron, which bubbled away on the kitchen stove. He reached for a spoon but had his knuckles wrapped with a ladle.

'That’s not for you! Your breakfast is in the larder.'

Grumbling under his breath Hanz went into the side room and came back with a bowl of porridge. He meekly sat at the kitchen table and taking some milk poured it on his cold breakfast.

'Is there any honey Mary?', he asked.

'Yes there is, but none for you, and you know not to ask! If you must drink with your customers till all hours is it any wonder your digestion is in the state it is?', Mary had turned from the stove and was waving the ladle at him.

'Ya , ya, ok, ..' , muttering he went back to his porridge.

Soon though he had finished, and looking across to Mary rumbled out a deep laugh.

'You and that hat Mary! I swear you never take it off!'

Mary couldn't help but laugh with him . 'You never tire of making fun of me do you?'

Hanz shook his head as he opened the hatch to the cellar from which he would pull out however many barrels of wine and beer he thought he would need for that day.

Despite the snow outside it was still warm in the tea shack, as it always was. There were a lot of bodies in it. Everyone was gathered around the fireplace, sitting on the old overstuffed and broken armchairs, drinking tea that was being brewed from the stove in the corner.

One of the men was treating the others to a little history lesson.

'So young Horace, if you are to die, then you will be dying in an honourable place at least!'

The young man that was being addressed, a tall skinny youth held his cup in cold fingers next to his lips and looking up from his chair said,

'Why is that?'

Two of the other men rolled their eyes at each other behind the back of the historian and smiled.

'Well, young champion, this edifice may be used as a simple arena for sport and blood letting now, but it was once a great auditorium used by the Marathons.'

'Who were they?' asked the youth again.

The historian pulled on his grey beard and said,

'Yes indeed, they were a tall, slender noble race. As tall and slim as your good self I am sure. They are extinct these last thousand years, wiped out by a noggish invasion from the south. As is forever the way. It even had a roof at one point, which has long since collapsed. When you are out their today, look at the markings on the floor. Four great columns stood there at one time. They say the Marathons knew much of magic, certainly they were not humans, more akin to the wood-dwellers than men. Their empire included Styke, Tomsk, Gnarlwold and even Bellavia. A great nation indeed.'

'Huh!', grunted Horace, 'I have never heard of them.'

'Your ignorance does you no credit then, their ruins can be found all over the north west. Indeed, in Angor there are dozens of haunted little villages. And who do you think built all the canals? The Great Northern and the Royal? They sprouted out of the ground perhaps? If you die this day your blood will spill on magical ground.'

'I don't like the sound of that.', said the youth and shivered despite the warmth.

One of the men at the back of the room stood up and said,

'Don't worry about old Yorri. Get your cloak, I will show you round one more time before this evening. The guards allow it, if it’s your first fight.'

'You would do well to heed my words as well young De Fenn, we are all fated to meet our maker out there.'

'Not me old man! I have only two more months left to serve!' replied the younger.

The old man muttered something in reply, but no one heard it.

Nodding at the guards at the entrance the two men walked into the centre of the deserted arena. It was afternoon now, and the snow had stopped. Still, the snow that covered the centre of the arena was six inches deep. It would be cleared by evening though.

One of the men was tall and thin, the other shorter and stockier but still tall by human standards.

Horace’s teeth began to chatter.

'So, we can't see Yorri's pillars today because of the snow, but where we are is the best place to stand. I expect your first fight will be one on one. Whatever they decide you are up against will come from the Goblin Gate.', said the shorter man, pointing to a portcullis set in the wall directly before them.

Horace glanced over his shoulder as if looking for somewhere he might retreat.

'Don't stand any further back,’ continued the other, as if reading the young mans thoughts, ‘It’s within throwing range if the crowd decide that you are craven and besides its unlucky.'

'And then what?', chattered Horace.

'Remember your training. If it’s a fimpin or goblin then the thing will be half starved and crazy with fear. Just keep your shield up and cut at it when you see an opening. Remember and don't stab it. The fight will end quicker but the Master won't like it.'

Horace was looking around the arena. The other man had a strong foreign accent, perhaps from the western isles, but the skinny youth was too fearful of what would happen to him later in the day.

'If it’s a cat, then that’s fine. Keep low. The thing will be starving, but all you need to do is keep it back.'

The man suddenly cuffed him on the shoulder much to Horace’s surprise.

'Pay attention my friend, I'm trying to save your life 'ere! Just so.'

Horace looked down at his companion and took in his features for the first time. He had known him for a while but up until now he had just been another of the unfortunates sentenced to fight in the arena.

He had an easy smile and a gingery-blonde beard. Beneath it he had a youthful complexion and it dawned on Horace that despite his height and broadness this was a teenager younger than himself. No older than eighteen.

There was something else about him as well. His left eye was blue and his right eye was purple. That sort of thing could get you into trouble with the witch hunters in some parts of the country Horace knew. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before, but he supposed he wasn’t noticing much of anything these days.

'If it’s a bear, then you are in big trouble. Pray that they armed you with a spear. If not the only thing to do is try and duck beneath its claws and go for the throat, but that takes nerve.'

'You fight today don't you Bandrax?'

'Aye.’, replied the other , 'But it certainly isn't my first time.'

‘I’m terrified.’, admitted Horace.

‘Aye, I don’t blame you’, shrugged Bandrax, ‘It is annoying that we don’t know for sure what we will fight. They won’t let us near the pens, and Yirrloy is dead so now we have no one to tell us what they are holding.’

Yirrloy was a guard who had worked in the pens and had been very friendly with the pit fighters, and always told them when anything new came in. But he had been killed by an escaped bear in the autumn.

‘Let us hope they have something anyway, ‘reflected Bandrax. ‘Or we will be fighting each other.’

They trudged back to the tea shack, which was a small wooden room on the outer wall of the arena, but safe and guarded behind the compound wall. The abandoned arena itself had been used by a local magistrate for entertainment for the last five years or so. Condemned prisoners were offered a spell in the arena or a much longer spell in the galleys.

Despite the hunger and destitution that gripped the whole of Styke men killing animals, demi-humans and sometimes each other, seemed a sport that everyone was still willing to pay for.

'Ah, they return.' said Yorri. He had struck a match to his wicked old pipe and was smoking out the already fairly pungent room.

A guard by the door grabbed Horace and grunted,

'Not you, report to the armoury.'

Bandrax sighed and flopped down onto a broken old arm chair by the stove.

'Well, he’s been trained with a sword and he's seen the arena.'

The training yard was on the outside of the arena, enclosed by the wooden stockade wall of the compound.

Horace had only arrived two months ago.

'He won't last long, there is no fight in him.' said the old man.

Several of the others, wiry poachers and petty criminals, nodded at this.

'How you have lasted so long is a mystery to me' replied the younger man.

'I trained at Toad Hall lad, was one of Woads guards for twenty years as well you know.'

The older man removed his pipe from his mouth and stroked back his long grey beard.

'Here’s an interesting thing. I was thinking about your name lad and then I remembered something. Cadro De Fenn means beast of burden in old Ertian. Maybe you know and maybe you don't but the land that was conquered by the nog a few generations ago. The Ertians were refugeed throughout Nillamandor and would take any job to feed themselves hence the name. It is not generally known now in the northern lands although some older people from the south may remember. I remember a trader from Che mentioning it.'

'You are a veritable wealth of information.'

A few of the others laughed and one skinny poacher dressed in leather and wearing a large purple cloak said,

'Cheer up Bandrax, there are worse names.'

'Hum, ', muttered the young man as he poured himself another mug of tea.

'I'll not quarrel with anyone here today. Me and Horace will surely not be the only others fighting tonight and I would rather be on good terms if we must fight side by side again.'

The others nodded at this wisdom. Sometimes the Master had the urge for a melee and all the pit fighters would be called out en force to face a small army of goblins or a mixed menagerie of assorted beasts. They had all fought together side by side on occasion and although they would banter and jest with each other, for in truth there was not much else to do between the training and the fights, there was a comradeship there.

Alcoholic drink was never permitted although they could sometimes buy some from the guards, so they spend the winter nights sat together in the tea shack drinking greenleaf and bark tea, telling stories, bragging and insulting each other.

The men who passed through the arena were ex soldiers, poachers, thieves and rapists. No one lasted much longer than a year or two except for old Yorri who had been there as long as anyone could remember.

There were about twenty men huddled in this small room keeping warm. In the next room across the corridor there were ten armed men to guard them.

Of these condemned twenty, some would die tonight if they were unlucky and the prisons and lockups of Korismalle and the surrounding villages would be scoured for more likely looking candidates.

Bandrax sat in silence now, stroking his scratchy beard and sipping his tea. He longed for escape and had already beaten the odds by surviving for two years in the pit. He had been sixteen when he had been taken up.

As he listened to another of Yorri’s long winded stories his mind wandered and reflected on how he had arrived here.

He had a strong accent by the standards of the men of Styke as he was originally from Laval, one of the western Island Kingdoms. His town had been sacked by noggish marines during the war and he and his elder sister had ended up pulling an oar as slaves on a nog galley. But as luck would have it the war ended three months later and the galley, in accordance with the peace treaty of Kolopa, docked at the nearest port and released its slaves. Well, that had been Homderi, the western most port of Styke. In a kingdom that itself was starving, getting a loaf of bread was hard enough, let alone a passage back to the western isles.

In search of work they moved east, but there was nothing for freed slaves anywhere in Styke. His sister, tall and manly Brella was an apprentice blacksmith but even that could not find them income and they quickly realised that they would have to steal food just to live.

But it was on an orchard raid that Bandrax had been lifted by the Watch, while Brella managed to escape.

For stealing a bushel of apples he was faced with ten years in the galleys, the very same place he had just came from!

When a representative of the magistrate of Korismalle arrived at the jail and offered a shorter sentence as a pit fighter, Bandrax jumped at the chance. So, here he was. Taking a long swallow from his now stone cold tea, he reflected, and I haven’t seen my sister in nearly two years.

Soora woke as she did every morning and walked down to the lake to draw water to boil for her morning wash and to cook her breakfast. Her ramshackle hut was hidden from all directions by the deep evergreen forests that grew hereabouts but from the lake she could see all the way down the river to the village. At the head of the village was a tower that had sat unused, certainly since Soora had started living in the forest, slowly crumbling into ruin, another relic of ancient times that was no longer needed. The little village of Stonebridge had not had a use for it in a long time.

The lake was mostly iced over and the village was covered in a thick white blanket of snow, but smoke rose from the chimneys and lights could be made out, glowing in the dawn gloom.

The tower had become a lot busier just recently. Strange flashes at night, even stranger noises would drift across the lake, sometimes startling her out of her sleep. Since her son had been killed, she was very afraid of the night.

Soora was tall and dark skinned, certainly not a naxeme, as were the majority of the inhabitants around these parts of the mountains. The whole area was a pretty much forgotten about set of secluded flat, but tall sided valleys that sat between the towering Askbakar Mountains to the west and the vast forests of Gnarlwold to the east. Nominally these lands were ruled from Timu, but the de facto rulers were the town and village councils of each settlement. Most of the naxeme around here that knew Soora, and not all of them did know that an outlander lived above the village by the lake, knew her as an Eastman, but that wasn't the full story.

Although Soora's worst fears were that a necromancer had moved into the tower, she just couldn't bring herself to believe that the Sheriff had allowed it, or the magistrates come to that.

Putting the bucket down for a second, she pushed back her hood and looked across the valley to the village, the whole settlement laid out in front of her like a model. And just to confirm her suspicions of strange goings on she spotted a rider coming from the east, at full gallop, towards the tower. At the river trees grew so for a moment the rider was lost from view, but was soon flying across the next field and up the steep path that lead to the towers door. This wasn't the first time she had seen this happen.

As she watched, some strange blue glow lit up the top windows of the tower, then another and another, pulsing in the dawn light. Soora new magic when she saw it and it didn't make her happy at all. She had hoped she would never see anything arcane ever again.

Presently another rider appeared from the east, heading at high speed towards the tower, then another two close behind the first. It was going to be a busy day down at the village evidently.

Shaking her head, Soora carried the heavy bucket back up to her cottage, a walk that would take her twenty minutes following a deer path up an old dry gully until it levelled out into a flat hollow that may have been a quarry at one time. It was hemmed in on all sides by large pine trees and was very difficult to spot if you didn't know it was there. Soora's lazy dog, Toresian, would just be about getting out of his bed, she reflected.

But Tor wasn't in his kennel as she approached her door and that was enough to set her nerves on edge. Every day for the last three years he had sat at the entrance step waiting for his breakfast. With great trepidation she slowly pushed open her front door. With a creak it opened and inch by inch revealed the first of her only two rooms.

Muddy foot prints, not hers, lead into the bedroom.

Where is that cursed creature?, she thought, I need him to deal with situations like this. But the hound was nowhere to be seen. Carefully, as silently as she could, she pulled a log from the woodpile by the stove. With fear leaping up into her throat she carefully edged towards the bedroom door.

Pushing it slowly open she first saw the bottom of her bed, then as she looked through the narrow crack she had created she saw a pair of boots, as if someone was lying there. Suddenly something leapt out at her and she nearly swung at it before she realised it was Toresian. He greeted her with a slobbery lick on the face and just as she got her bearings back a man leapt from the bed and cried

'Soora!'

She gasped then sighed in recognition, 'Rostov!'

The tall bearded man, dressed in leather and chainmail smiled at her. He had removed his helmet, which lay on the bed and his long blonde northmans hair fell loose across his shoulders and down his back.

His kind blue eyes lingered on her for an uncomfortable moment before she said

'What in heavens name are you doing here?'

His smile dropped for a second and he waved a hand replying 'I .. ah.. just happened to be passing'

'Oh really, and you decided to come here and trail mud all over my clean floor?'

He seemed to notice the mud for the first time.

'I’m sorry I shall clear it up. In truth I have business in the village further down the valley so ...I thought,... well having not seen you in over a year.'

Soora shooed him to the front door and signalled him to remove his boots.

'When did you become so martial?' She said as she noticed the sabre at his side for the first time.

'These are dangerous times.'

'Wait just a second , you must have something to do with the tower!' she said as she put things together.

'Why yes. I have friends waiting for me there. The things I have seen this last year Soora! Lands way to the west you would not believe.'

'I don't want to hear about it. I am not interested in any of your childish wanderings.'

'Soora, I’m a druid. Wandering is my job.'

She folded her arms and looked at him. Suddenly Rostov realised how unwelcome he was here. He had not even been offered a drink. In fact she was standing in the doorway barring his way into the house even though he held his boots in his hand. With resignation he sat down on the front step to put them back on again.

Toresian licked at his hands and face and he ruffled the dog’s fur in reply.

'Well, perhaps a year was too soon after all ... is there anything I can do before I go?'

She gave him a sour look, and didn’t say anything for a long while, but then something seemed to occur to her and she said,

'Follow me.'

She led him out of the hollow and along a tangled and twisted path. Stopping at a small glade she pointed to a squat apple tree.

'You're a druid, find out why the apple tree didn't give any fruit last year.'

Rostov rubbed his chin,

'I.. a druid isn't really like a gardener you know ..'

'Right fine,' she said curtly and started to walk back to her cottage.

The man was about to follow her but something drew him to the snow covered tree and he reached out to brush the frost from one of its branches. It was more like something from a cave than a forest. The trees branches seemed withered and grey, and although not dead, it looked as if it would never bear fruit again.

All druids had an affinity with nature and the things of the forest. Rostov began to feel a little uneasy.

As he always did when he felt wary or uncomfortable he pulled a short clay pipe from his belt and from a pouch he produced from his cloak, began to stuff it with tobacco.

Taking the pipe in his lips he clicked the fingers of his right hand and a flame suddenly burst to life on his index finger. Putting his finger to his pipe he took a few long draws and soon he was producing a great cloud of blue smoke.

Letting his left hand feel along the apple tree as he walked past it, he walked a little deeper into the woods. Occasionally he would see another tree that had been blighted. He stopped at an old oak and, the bark beneath the snow was grey and flaked off when Rostov put his hands to it.

‘What ails you ancient one?’, the druid pondered to himself.

Stepping back he took another long draw on his pipe and pondered for a moment.

‘There is more to this than apples.’

Striding back to the cottage, Rostov remembered to tap out his pipe on his boot before entering. Soora hated the smell of the tobacco he smoked.

He was about to enter again, but decided he was not the most welcome of visitors after all and knocked instead.

Soora answered the door and said,

‘Well then. Fix the apple tree?’

‘It’s not as simple as that, I think a blight is on the trees around here. It bears further investigation.’

Soora nodded to him and said ,

‘You’ve been smoking that awful stuff again, I could smell it all the way down here.’

‘Aye’, laughed Rostov ,’Well, I still remember the promise that was made, but as yet you haven’t kept your side of the bargain! Besides, I have friends who do worse. Jalamu smokes Dragon Eye Seeds, so that he can see visions.’

‘I know exactly what Eye Seeds do and I don’t want to hear about it!’

Rostov raised his hands in submission and said,

‘Yes, yes. Anyway, I must make haste to join with my companions in the village. I might drop by later if I can discover what is affecting your apple tree.’

And with that he turned and walked down the muddy path towards the lake.

Just as he reached a bend which would put the cottage out of sight he turned to have one last look.

Soora was still looking down the path at him. Now what does that look on her face mean, wondered Rostov to himself? Sadness and longing were written all over her. But I only see that soft part of her when I am leaving. She is full of pride, but underneath it there must be part of her that wants me to take her in my arms?

Maybe I am just fooling myself he reflected, maybe her heart is as cold as her words.

Muttering to himself at the complexities of women he gave her a wave. She waved back, and with that final gesture he turned once more and headed towards Stonebridge.