Last of the King's Men, Chapter 10

"I'm sorry, Lab, but I cannot tell the Mossminders how to conduct their own business."

The short, stocky, balding old man was not at all happy with this statement. His usually-pale face had developed a slight purple hue, and he began to grind his teeth in frustration.

"But... they're selling an inferior product! If enough people find out, it'll drive me out of business and then there will be nobody to repair any of their barding or anything else when it breaks!"

Beryl shook her head, shrugging softly and holding her hands up.

"Then so be it. If you're so concerned about your loyal customers, then perhaps you need to focus more on your own product than someone else's. The Melvar and Marilynn own the general store, and you know that there's no way they can compete with you for leather sales. Just do an honest job, show your customers some respect," she emphasized that last word, "and they'll come back. You've been in business long enough to know that."

The old man mumbled something under his breath for a moment or two, then spat on the floor, brushed the dust off his pants, and turned around to stomp into the back storeroom. Beryl stayed for a moment, in case he decided to come back for a last word, and then turned around to exit the shop. As the bell over the door tinkled quietly, she said a silent blessing to her goddess Melora, wishing the old curmudgeon health and prosperity. The small wooden building was the northernmost structure in town, its front door overlooking the Kellor River as it rushed along peacefully. Behind her, a wooden sign next to the door read Labgum's Tannery, and below it, a semi-permanent addition read, "Apprentice Wanted".

Beryl walked on the path back towards town, taking in a deep breath of air as she got away from the tannery, hoping she wouldn't have to return for another complaint before the day was out. Next to the tannery was the town's fishing pond, and even at this early hour two fishermen were already sitting in their canoe at the center, half a dozen fish laying hooked against the side of the boat. She waved at the two of them, and they waved back, calling out a morning's greeting to the priestess. On the far side of the pond she could see Eban Jakobs' house sitting atop its steep hill. She hadn't seen Eban all morning; where could he be? Probably out with that girlfriend of his. Occasionally the two of them had been seen running off North of town- Beryl shivered in the morning's light breeze at the thought. The Northern woods had always given her a bad feeling, but she was never quite sure why.

Past the pond Beryl crossed the two streams connecting the pond and the river, passing the mill along the way. A few logs had already been reined in as they were delivered down the river, and within the next few hours the town would be filled with the noise of the saws. Down the road she saw Stanner, one of the boys working at the mill, on his way in to work. She waved to him and he smiled and waved back. He looked tired; like he had been up late, probably working into the dark hours of the night. Sharyna, the owner of the mill, can be a bit of a slave driver sometimes; or maybe he was hanging around the tavern. In any case, it was none of her business.

Passing the mill, Beryl came to the town's square, where several people were getting their shops ready for the day. Melvar Mossminder, the halfling owner of the general store, had already opened up and was sweeping the dust out of the door. The tiny man smiled and waved at her from across the square. For a moment Beryl wondered if he knew that Labgum had taken such offense to him; but she had been the legal arbiter in the area for many years, and she knew the importance of confidentiality. She wanted everyone to know that she was someone they could trust, and depend on. In a way she thought of herself as part of the community's backbone- being both the resident spiritual leader, as well as the town's source of medicine and advice on anything related to nature, her time was valuable. Her father Obyl had left the position to her when he died nearly fifteen years ago, and while it took the stubborn village folk some time to grow accustomed to a new doctor and judge, it did happen.

As she left the square she saw that Grett, the bartender at the Rusty Dragon, was opening up his doors as well. He nodded curtly to her as she passed, and then hobbled back into the building, his peg leg tapping against the floor as he did so. She walked along the road next to the stream, eventually coming back to the temple of Melora, her home and the town's only public place of worship. The small wooden building was surrounded in flowers, growing in the grass all around the building and some even twisting among the vines the gripped the sides. At first glance one might even think the inside of the building had been overrun with a rainbow of petaled plants as well- but every bouquet inside the temple had been placed and cared for meticulously by Beryl during her free time. She loved their colors, their smells, and the feeling of being surrounded by the beautiful bounty Melora had provided. Around her neck she wore a long plan string necklace, holding a palm-sized seashell given to her by her mother when she was a child. Beryl often placed a flower in the shell as a reminder that Melora was always nearby.

After gathering some medicinal herbs and salves, she left the temple on the way to the Brawn farm. There was a flock of sheep grazing out in the pasture outside the homestead, and a few hired hands were watching them and guiding them along their way. As she opened the gate and stepped into the yard, the family's dog happily ran up to greet her, its black-and-white tail wagging and sending its long fur flopping in every direction. Beryl laughed as the dog jumped up to place its paws on her stomach, its mouth open and its tongue hanging lazily out to the side.

"Down, Patches. Come on, girl!"

Bethie Brawn was standing in the doorway to the homestead, taking off her large apron as she called to the dog. Patches reluctantly released Beryl from her embrace and ran back to the house, snorting as she did so. Beryl met Bethie in the doorway and followed her inside, pleasantly smelling the remnants of their breakfast lingering in the air.

"How has your morning been so far?" asked Bethie, her light brown hair matted with sweat against her forehead.

"It's been well... just making my rounds," she replied.

"Have you eaten? We have some leftover eggs and oats if you're hungry."

"No, thank you, Bethie. I've already eaten. I appreciate the offer."

"I heard old Labgum called you up this morning... what's that grump been up to lately? Probably fired another apprentice I take it?"

Beryl nodded. "That he has- but what else is new?" The two of them laughed. Beryl could tell Bethie was trying to pry more information than that, but none would be given.

"Are you going to the town meeting this morning?" asked Bethie, putting away the last of the breakfast.

Beyl sighed slightly. "Yes, although I may miss the beginning of it. And yourself?"

Bethie shook her head. "No, I've got too much work to do around the home. Barrica will be there, though. He certainly knows my thoughts on Eban Jakobs and his silly dreams."

"Well," began Beryl, "I suppose we'll have to see what Ostedler thinks we should do. Now, you said one of your lambs was injured?"

Bethie nodded, and led her outside. Next to the barn, one of the sheep was lying in the shade, one leg tucked under its body. As they left the house, the dog Patches came with them, hurrying off to pick up a stick in the hopes of convincing them to play a quick game of fetch. Bethie absentmindedly grabbed the stick and threw it far away, and showed the injured lamb to Beryl.

"While one of the boys was taking the herd out yesterday, they wandered close to the forest. I'm thinking it might have stepped in a hunter's trap."

Beryl took a look at it, and saw some small cuts and gashes marring the white hair on the lamb's leg. After examining them, she shook her head. "No, it looks like it wandered into some thorn bushes. See..." she pulled out a thorn nearly an inch long, and the wound it had caused began bleeding. The lamb tried to get up and get away from her, but she quickly took hold of the animal and held it close, comforting it. "I'll be able to get her bandaged up, but she'll require near constant attention for the next day to make sure it's healing."

Bethie was not happy with the diagnosis, but she nodded. "I'll get Mara to watch her. That girl's been spending too much time with that Stanner boy, I'll tell you. Barrica caught him sneaking to meet her after nightfall last night- that boy's lucky he wasn't waiting with his pitchfork! And plus, just the other day..."

Beryl pretended to listen, but she was busy applying some salves to the wounds on the lamb's leg. She was whispering small prayers for the creature, which helped to calm her as well as provide some measure of protection against infection. The lamb licked Beryl's hand as she finished, causing her to smile.

As she was finishing up, Beryl stood, realizing that Bethie was still talking.

"...always running around with it on his shoulder, and now he's got two of them..."

But Beryl was distracted. She could see, off in the distance, a group of people walking towards town. They came from the East- likely from the forest- and she didn't recognize them, especially at this distance. Bethie most likely noticed them as well, as she stopped talking about whatever it was she was saying and followed Beryl as the two stepped closer to the edge of the property, watching the group approach Kellorville.

From this distance, there appeared to be five of them- one was a Dragonborn (a red, from the looks of it), a human boy, an elderly human male, a female- elf, maybe? And the one walking in front of them all was a tiefling, as recognized by his red skin and tail. They all wore cloaks, most of them with hoods drawn, and the dragonborn, tiefling, and human boy all were clearly wearing armor. Though none of them were drawn, all but the old man had weapons. They walked in a tight-knit group, never one straying far from the others. All five were on alert, watching everything around them, but at the same time, trying not to look like they were on alert. All of them looked exhausted and ragged, as if they had been traveling for weeks. But if they were travelling on foot, as they were right now, where could they have come from? There were no other settlements within travelling distance, even if they had horses. Who were these people?

They stopped only for a moment in front of the sign at the Eastern edge of town, maybe speaking to each other as they did so- it was difficult to tell from so far away. Then they continued on the path, once again looking suspiciously like they were trying not to look suspicious. It became obvious, then, that Bethie was frantically trying to snap Beryl out of her trance.

"Beryl, did you hear me? What in the world should we do? We haven't had visitors here in... months, years even! Not since Mara was a little girl! What do you think they're here for? Where do you think they're from? Where are they headed? Do you think we should-"

Beryl cut her off. "We shouldn't do anything, Bethie. For all we know they're just passing through. Passing through isn't a crime, and neither is stopping in town and buying supplies or even talking to the townsfolk. This doesn't need to be a big deal unless they make it a big deal. Do you understand?"

Bethie tried to protest, but in the end kept her mouth shut. She turned around and hurried, wordlessly, back into the house, gesturing for the dog to follow her. Beryl had lost sight of where the visitors had gone off to, so, following her better judgment, decided to continue with her rounds for the time being. She passed by a few more farms over the course of the morning, and it seemed all of them had already heard about the visitors- though it seemed each home had a more extreme opinion of them than the one before. In every case, Beryl urged them all to go about their business, and that if anything happened they would be notified immediately. The last thing she wanted was for the xenophobic townspeople to run these visitors out of town without any provocation.

After finishing her rounds, the sun was at its highest in the sky. The town meeting was supposed to have started at noon, so she made her way to the Rusty Dragon. Near the building, she could hear raised voices from within, so she assumed the meeting was well underway. As she crossed the square, however, she felt a sudden, sharp gust of wind blow a cloud of dust past her face, and it stung her eyes. As she rubbed them to regain her sight, she realized she was standing in a massive shadow. She suddenly felt a freezing cold creep across her body, and she saw her breath come out as a fine mist. She turned around, almost paralyzed with fear, and saw what caused it.

Inside the tavern, the townsfolk were interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream.

Last of the King's Men, Chapter 9

For all of recorded history, the elves of the great forest known as the Feyswyld have lived their lives in seclusion. Many people say that the elves are immortal- and that only when they leave their realm, a place where life itself permeates the very air and earth around them, that they become vulnerable to the hand of time. Because of this unlimited lifespan, the elves have been able to plumb the depths of every kind of knowledge imaginable, and even the greatest breakthroughs in the study of magic throughout the world are said to be leaked secrets of elven lore, and that if one were to somehow access the heart of the Feyswyld the primal powers that sustain the world would be theirs to control.

But Lady Jannah was no elf. Many people made that mistake, and many people regretted even uttering that word in her presence. Long ago, a group of elves left the Feyswyld, at the great disdain of their nature-loving brethren. By leaving their race's ancestral (some might say god-given) home behind, they forsook their racial qualities- the so-called immortality, the ability to refresh one's body and mind through meditative trance, and their natural affinity for all things magical. As a result, they became a new race- the Eladrin.

Physically, Jannah was a paragon of her race. Her hair was long and silvery-white, her ears pointy and sensitive to even the slightest of sounds, and her body was fit and shapely and agile. In another time and place, one might even say she was beautiful- but life had not prepared her for a life of beauty or luxury. She used her body as a tool, as a means to accomplish a task. Her focus and her skill was her greatest asset, and she put it to good use. At times she found herself wondering if, had her life gone differently, she might have been a different person- had she not awoken so many years ago in the middle of the night to the sound of bloodcurdling screams, had she not watched her twin sister and elder brother be torn to pieces by the blade of a ravenous orc, had not her entire life been taken from her by an opponent too numerous and mindless for her to comprehend, perhaps she might have been able to notice the occasional glances and courtships aimed at her by men in King Adorn's court. But since that day, she lived for her archery and nothing else. Every battle, every scar, was a part of her that made her what she was.

It had been almost two years since the news of Adorn's death. The months lived in exile had begun to bleed from one to the next. Their numbers had dwindled down so low as time went on. After Meredith's death two weeks previous, their number was five. The halfling had always been the best at keeping everyone's spirits up; she and Harrow would play their instruments around the fire, and then the two of them would argue music theory for hours as the sun went down, her tiny stature standing up against his pompous self-confidence. But now, even she was gone, and though nobody said it out loud, they all had their doubts. Galmod, the despicable tyrant, had sentenced them to death, and one by one that sentence was being fulfilled. They all wanted vengeance; there was no question of that, nor of whether Galmod deserved it. But what could four exhausted knights and a single squire do to fight back against the ruler of the strongest nation in the world?

They had been looking for a new home for what seemed like a lifetime. They had combed the outermost edges of Lograd, looking for somewhere they could hide out- their original goal had been to find someone sympathetic to their cause, that might be able to help them, but after so long, and with their numbers so low, Jannah could tell the others just wanted somewhere to stop. Somewhere to rest. But everywhere they went, it seemed Galmod's men were a step ahead. They had been run out of more towns than she could count, and more than one village had been burned down in an attempt to take the Horselords with it. Everywhere they went, innocents suffered. They had reached the Great Forest, marking the western edge of Lograd- an expanse of dense forest reaching hundreds of miles in every direction. This far from the seat of the throne, they were safe from patrols... but they were no closer to finding a home.

Even before their exile, Jannah had always felt most comfortable when out in the wild. The day her family was brutally slain, her concept of "home" shattered. Even though her life was spared, saved not by her own ability but by the fortuitous arrival of the true king of Lograd himself, her life had been broken. Adorn Marethal IV rescued her from certain death at the hands of the savages, and, taking pity on the young girl, invited her to live in his courts. She eagerly began training in the arts of war, hoping to some day, some how avenge the death of her family. But she was never quite comfortable sitting indoors, relaxing- not when there were enemies out there, plotting against them, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Now that Adorn's murder had forced her into a life of wandering, she took guilty solace in knowing that she was no longer trapped in a castle like some maiden. Sometimes, when she was able to forget the circumstances that brought her here, she was able to feel happy.

But such times were few. Life in the wilderness was miserable for everyone, and she was no exception. The days were short, and the air freezing. Ra'uf's magic was a godsend, capable of providing them warmth and relative comfort in the day, but the nights were still bitter cold. The cold was hard on them all, but most on their horses. Their steeds had stayed with them this long, despite the hardships they all faced. Artemis had, long ago, asked why they bothered to keep the horses through their exile- such a question was difficult to take as anything but an insult. Lograd horses were the strongest, fastest, and smartest in the world, and were the cornerstone of their status as knights. These creatures were their loyal companions. While at times the necessary food and care could feel like a burden, having their horses with them provided mobility beyond anything they could manage on their own, as well as the ability to bring supplies far heavier than what the knights themselves could carry. But utility aside, these steeds were their friends.

"Discarding a horse out of convenience would be like discarding a squire, Artemis," Harrow had said.

Jannah would sometimes look into the eyes of Sorroweth, the gelding that had been given to her by King Adorn himself upon the day she became a knight, and bite her lip to hold back tears. She and Sorroweth had been friends, companions, partners, through thick and thin for decades. Looking into his eyes took her back to when she was a child, riding her parents' horses across the vast, lush countryside. Even after the Orc Wars, when she lived in Adorn's court, one of the few things that could make her feel at home was riding Sorroweth at full speed, the wind whipping her long silvery hair around. She rode him into battle on many occasions over the years, and he had never let her down. Even when things were at their worst, in the dead of winter when food was running low, she put caring for her steed ahead of caring for herself. He was the single connection she had to better times.

Jannah did want to find a new home. But not for herself- for Sorroweth. For the others. Some day, they would find one.

----------------------------------------------

Meredith was dead.

It took Artemis Redsleeves a long time to come to terms with that truth. She wasn't the first of the Horselords to be killed in the many months since he had joined, but she was the one he felt closest to.

It was strange for him after he met them- now, it seemed like a lifetime ago. He had spent so much of his life living with people that he was certain cared for him only as a slave meant to do chores and accept beatings, and then, when those people were taken away in an instant, he began to experience life relying on himself. And then, in another flurry of changes, he was part of a team- a team that worked together, lived together, and truly cared for one another. It was more like a family than anything he had ever had in his life.

Much of his time was spent learning to hunt, learning to make arrows, learning to care for horses, learning to sharpen swords and polish armor- nothing felt like a chore; everything felt like an opportunity to better himself and give back to the people that had taken him in. So much of his time was spent in rigorous, exhausting training sessions with Sir Harrow and the others, but once they were finished almost every evening brought them all together, around a huge fire, Ra'uf telling bawdy tales and Meredith getting everyone to join her in singing jaunty drinking songs. She was such a small person- of the race known as Halflings, as Artemis learned- but she had such a big heart and was always there when she was needed. Almost a year ago, when Bealen and Philip were killed by some of Galmod's men that had tracked them down, it was difficult for Artemis to live with- but Meredith was always there for him, her tiny shoulder willing to accept his tears. She had no lack of encouragement, and she could always make him smile. If their group was a family, she would have undoubtedly been the mother.

And now she was dead.

As the winter came, it was especially important for the them to find a place to camp that could be more easily defended and hidden than ever- if Galmod's men were still following them, tracking their horses through the snow could be the Horselords' greatest weakness. Also, the more open their encampment was, the harder it would be to keep the horses warm, even with magic. In their efforts to find a safe place to camp, the group stumbled upon a tribe of hobgoblins that had marked the land as their own. Sir Harrow attempted to parley, to communicate that they meant no ill will and that they wished only to leave in peace, but the hobgoblin chieftain refused to listen. They were attacked from all sides, and the fight was brutal. Artemis had been trained well, for so long, but he was still new. He did his best to hold them off, to protect the others, but he wasn't able- Meredith was struck by the chieftain's spear in the onslaught. In the end, the Horselords were forced to retreat. Artemis was able to rescue her body, but there was no saving her.

The others dealt with the loss quite stoically. After all, they had lost far more- most of them had lost their entire families, after all. But Artemis felt responsible, like if he had been good enough, he could have saved her. Her death left an emptiness, a void that he knew would never be filled. But he knew that loss was a part of life... he knew it was something he would have to get used to. As they buried Meredith in the cold earth that night, he had a nagging feeling, asking, If I died today, would they just bury me and go on with their lives?

The next day, the Horselords returned to the hobgoblin camp. They were ready for battle, and ready for vengeance. Though their number was only five, Artemis, Grash, Jannah, Ra'uf, and Sir Harrow were determined. When they first arrived the previous day, Sir Harrow had instructed the rest that if the encounter led to combat, they were to try and escape with minimal expenditure of resources- but today, no such order was given. The battle as quick, swift, and deadly. Jannah opened a volley of arrows at the front line of spearmen, and Ra'uf blanketed the battlefield with burst of flame and clouds of darkness to funnel the enemies into advantageous positions. Artemis and Grash stood side-by-side deflecting blows and crushing the hobgoblin warriors as they advanced, and Sir Harrow stood amongst them, creating openings and coordinating attacks for maximum effect. Grash let loose a gout of draconic flame from his mouth, enveloping the last of the warriors, and Jannah, using a momentary supernatural quickness posessed by members of her race, instantaneously dodged a thrown spear, but in the process found herself directly in front of the chieftain, his axe raised in fury. Artemis, having been trained rigorously to take advantage of openings, interposed himself between them, knocking Jannah out of the way, and impaled his sword in the hobgoblin's thick stomach. The chieftain's retribution, however, left the edge of his axe in Artemis' side, but the battle was over.

Grash got Artemis bandaged up, his magic having done as much as it could to stop the bleeding. Sir Harrow spent the rest of the day scolding Artemis for foolishly putting himself in danger, but deep down Artemis knew he had done what he had to do; they had already lost Meredith, and they weren't going to lose another. Jannah was certainly thankful- though Sir Harrow insisted she could have taken care of herself.

"Besides, if you got yourself killed, where else would I get another pack mu- I mean, squire?"

They all had a good laugh. Except Artemis, as it hurt too much to move his midsection. In the months that followed, laughter wasn't as common. They all did their part to keep each other's spirits up, but things just weren't the same. And they never would be. It felt less like a family to Artemis; the feeling wasn't gone, just less so. He still felt closer to these knights than he felt to anyone else in his life. He still put all of his heart and soul into his training, in the hopes of never letting something like this happen again.

Meredith may have been gone, but Artemis promised himself it wouldn't be in vain.

Writing- Day 66

Hello, everyone out there!

I have to say, I am very pleased with how my novel is turning out. I feel like I'm growing as a writer with each and every chapter- in all honesty, I'm kind of embarassed looking back at the first couple chapters- not that I think they're bad, but because I've learned so much about how to write since then, and I feel like I could do such a better job now than I did at the time. (And I'm sure in another ten chapters I'll feel the same way about everything since.) But, of course, I know that if I obsess too much about going back and changing things, then I'll never get around to actually, you know, writing. So I'm not going to worry about it too much- I just hope that people who are reading it for the first time like it enough to stick through until the end. :-P

Speaking of which, does anyone out there know if there's a way to set up my blog so that it lists the entries in a different chronological order? I mean, I like having the most recent chapter show up first, and if this were a conventional blog I'm sure it would be best for the most recent blog entry to show up first, but I'm always concerned that someone coming across my novel for the first time will not only have to scroll down (and possibly across multiple pages) to get to the first chapter, but also, every time they finish a chapter, they'll have to scroll through the end of the next chapter (possibly spoiling it) in order to get to the beginning of the next chapter. It seems like it should be a simple thing to change the order of my blog posts, but for the life of me I can't seem to find an option for it anywhere. So, if anyone out there has experience with blogger or blogspot, any info sent to gekleinert@gmail.com would be most appreciated.

By the way, have you ever realized how ridiculous of a word "blog" is? Seriously.

Anyway, once again, I'm very pleased with how my novel is turning out. Many thanks to everyone who has read it and/or given me feedback so far. I'm super excited about where the story is going to go later on, but of course I need to write the chapters in between in order to get there. So I should probably just keep at it and channel my enthusiasm into my writing.

Happy blogging!

-Gabriel

Last of the King's Men, Chapter 8

It was just another day in the quiet village. The sun was high in the sky, and barely a cloud was visible through the endless blue expanse above. As a faint breeze carried across the dirt throroughfare, a young woman named Sibbya held a covered basket in one hand and a cloth satchel in the other. As she stood on one side of the road, staring up at the bright sky, she could tell that the days were already getting shorter- she could feel it like the sands of an hourglass were shifting, counting down. To what, she wasn't quite sure.

Behind her, Sibbya's home sat nestled amongst the trees at the center of town. The wooden building was so small, so unassuming, that one could walk by it a hundred times and never notice it. In fact, as she stood there for perhaps several minutes, more than four people did walk by- and not a single one even acknowledged she was there. But she was no stranger to this sort of behavior. All her life, people knew that she was different. Her slender frame hidden now under several layers of cloaks and robes despite the warm weather, her long hair almost as white as her pale skin, the hauntingly intense look in her eyes- but her appearance was only half of it.

She broke her stillness and walked along the opposite side of the road, casting barely a shadow as she neared the edge of the nearby stream. She knelt down at the water, the soft grass yielding easily underfoot, the only sound that of the local mill's waterwheel lazily lapping along further up the stream. Producing a large bottle from her satchel, she lowered it below the water's mutable surface, watching the crystal-clear fluid fill the vessel. She stoppered the bottle and placed it back into her pack, setting her basket down onto the warm ground as she did so.

Glancing over one shoulder, she noticed two people walking along the road towards the town square- heading towards the bar for an early drink, no doubt- and she feigned interest in a passing butterfly for a few moments as they passed, talking about something or other. She checked over each shoulder again once they had gone, and then placed her hands into the water, closing her eyes. The clear water felt cold at first touch, but as she held her hands beneath their surface it began to feel warm. She opened her eyes again, and her hands beneath the water were glowing- bright enough to be visible in the midday sun- beginning beneath the skin of her palms, and expanding to fill each of her fingers, sending rays reflecting off the tiny waves in the surface of the stream, rippling reflections dancing across her face. After barely a moment of holding her shining hands under the water, she suddenly pulled them back as a fish- slightly larger than a man's hand- swam straight between them, as if lured by an irresistable siren's song. As soon as she pulled the fish from the water, the light in her hands vanished, and the creature began thrashing around- awoken from its dream and brought into the hard world beyond the water's edge. She spoke a soft prayer to the gods that be, and, after taking the fish's life, placed it into her basket.

Standing, she grabbed her satchel and basket, breathing in deeply of the warm fresh air. She began to walk upstream, following the small strip of grass between the stream and the dirt path. As she reached the square, she watched where the stream originated, branching off from the river ahead and passing under the bridge that led to the mill and beyond. Around the plaza, a handful of people walked to and fro, all minding their own business and none of them paying any attention to her. To her left, the tavern stood, its owner casually sweeping the dust from the entryway. One leg, replaced by a wooden peg, clunked loudly on the threshold with each step. From inside the tavern, the sound of glasses clinking and chairs scratching against the floor preceded the odor of alcohol that continually wafted from the building, even during the business' slow hours.

Once the bartended had finished his chore and gone back inside, and the square had mostly cleared of citizens milling about, Sibbya began hurrying across the dusty space ahead of her. She kept her head down, her arms tense at her sides, her feet making tiny strides as fast as she could without drawing attention. She reached her destination- a cozy-looking building with a sign above the door labeled, "Melvar's Provisions". With her head down, she could easily see that the ground in front of the door was well-traveled.

Once inside the store, she flattened herself against the wall next to the door and stood very still. She became aware that she was breathing very quickly, and she lifted an arm- still holding a basket with a fish beneath the cover- and pressed her forearm to her lips to quiet her breathing.

It's alright, she told herself. You're just an ordinary person going about your ordinary business.

Once her breathing had reached a normal level, she heard a noise, and jerked her head to the side to see what it was. A short man, barely taller than her waist, had come around the corner from the back room, and was now tidying up behind the store's counter. He was humming a tune lightly to himself, his black mustache buzzing slightly as he breathed the tune through his nose.

The tiny man stood stooped over behind the counter, consolidating two boxes of nails into one larger box, his tune reaching a slightly higher cadence. He raised his head slowly as he placed the box onto an unseen shelf, and in the corner of his eye he saw the tall, heavily-clothed pale human girl before him. He jumped, startled, and ceased humming immediately, attempting to casually ignore that it had happened at all. He adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat as he stepped onto his footstool, giving him a slightly better angle for dealing with larger customers.

"Pardon me, Sibbya. I, er, didn't see you there. What can I do for you?"

Sibbya stood, a blank look in her eyes as usual, and said nothing. The halfling stared at her, a friendly smile on his face, as if expecting her to speak, and then realized after a few moments that she had placed a bundle of thread and a sewing needle on the counter before she made her presence known. The man looked it over, calculating the cost, then looked back up to her.

"That'll be two c-"

She interrupted him, not by speaking, but by holding out the basket which now held a freshly-caught fish. He looked it over, then back to the thread, then back to her. He sighed silently, then smiled at her once more.

"Tell you what... this one's on the house. I insist."

His smile was genuine, and Sibbya wasted no time in setting down the basket, grabbing the thread & needle, placing it in her satchel, and picking up the basket again. She turned around without a word, and walked out through the open doorway into the dusty square once again.

After leaving the store, she followed the edge of the town square, occasionally glancing to either side of her. To her right, just beyond Melvar's Provisions, was the edge of the river that crooked ever-so-slightly past town, and just further down the water's edge gave way to a gravelly beach where several small boats were currently moored. She followed the path to the next intersection, at the edge of the village proper, where the road continued on towards the West. She could see, off in the distance, an old farm just off the road. A work-weary man guided a plow yoked to two oxen, sweat dripping down his face under the bright sun, his young daughter carrying a bucket of water from the river.

Turning left at this intersection, she followed the road around the village proper. She passed by another farm, where several farm animals stood around in the yard. At the edge of the property, a young brown-haired boy and a young girl in a white sundress stood at the farmhouse's fence, talking and smiling and laughing. In the boy's hands he held a small rat, its head dark brown and a stripe leading down the back of its otherwise white coat. The boy smiled as he held the rat to the girl's shoulder, where it quickly scurried and nestled itself in her long flowing brown hair. Sibbya could see the happiness in both of their eyes, and she found herself crossing to the other side of the road to put more distance between herself and them.

She passed by another farm, this one larger than the others, where almost a dozen people were out in the field plowing and carrying bushels of grains past. As she neared, she could hear the sound of a rhythmic clanging of metal against metal, and the sound guided her eyes to the building next to the farm, where an open doorway showed the town smithy hard at work. His forge was glowing red-hot, undoubtedly elevating the temperature in the building even higher. As she watched him, the blacksmith inside caught Sibbya's eye, and gestured a greeting towards her and went back to his work.

She hurried along, eager not to draw more attention to herself. People rarely noticed her as it was, and she didn't mind. It was never easy being different. As a child, meeting other children was never a cause for happiness- the other children were never anything but mean or cruel to her. She always had a sort of unearthly beauty to her, and children rarely knew how to react to that. But if the children were bad, the adults were worse- it was not uncommon for an adult to run up unseen and steal a lock of her hair, ripping it out violently if necessary, in the hopes that it could be made into a tea that cured fever or strung into a necklace that would bring good luck. She never had parents- her mother died during childbirth, and nobody ever spoke of her father- and she had been passed around from family to family until she was old enough to live on her own. Then she was given the tiny, unassuming house in the center of town, which had belonged to her mother. Only then did people leave her alone.

Even if people left her alone, however, Sibbya was never comfortable outside of her home. She always had a feeling of impending doom, likely something bad was just waiting to happen: to her, or to her town- she wasn't sure. At times she wished she had someone to talk to, someone she could trust, someone that had answers- but she had no one.

After walking most of the way around the small village, she reached the road that led East out of town. Next to the road, nailed to a young tree, a wooden sign read, "Welcome to Kellorville." Sibbya looked down the road, towards the forests in the distance, and let out a deep sigh. Some people longed to see the world, but not her. This small town was all she needed.

Last of the King's Men, Chapter 7

It was the end of a long day as the elderly Marquis Ra'uf Roras was putting the finishing touches on a wooden raven statue. In his hand he held a decorative dagger, a gift from an old friend now long passed away, which he had been using for the past few days to carve the hand-sized bird from a block of ash. Over the months since their exile, he had gradually learned it was better to keep himself occupied during his rest than to allow his mind to wander. It had been four days since the group's last foray into civilization, and while it had gone better than others, this particular attempt at finding a new home was, as always, a failure. Exile was a difficult fate in a land as large as Lograd- the nation reached as far as civilization itself it seemed, and in most places being seen meant being chased out of town, or worse. They had been slowly spiralling farther and farther from the seat of the throne, hoping to find somewhere, anywhere, that they could settle and call home. Of course all of them had revenge somewhere in their minds, but as Brother Gregor and Amund learned at the cost of their lives, revenge, if it was even possible, would never come while the exiled were stuck camping out in the wilderness. But still... if even Gregor's power and Amund's wisdom weren't enough to reach the traitor Galmod... then what could be?

No, Ra'uf told himself. The Raven Queen has a plan, and while She may not make it clear to us, She will guide us along the path to our destiny. And if our destiny is to die, even out in the wilderness like dogs or at the hand of a traitor-king, then so be it- when that day comes, She will welcome us with open arms.

Ra'uf hoped, however, if that were the case, that he could at least bring Galmod to face the Goddess along with him.

He sat around the campfire, finishing the feather detail on the ashen raven's wing. His staff, the ceremonial staff passed down from his father, and his father before him, rested against the nearest tree, its top adorned with a far more elaborate raven visage draped with strands of beads and ritual fetishes. Grash and Meredith had gone off into the woods in search of food, and Jannah was perched high up in a tree somewhere out of his vision, keeping watch. That girl always did prefer to be alone, it seemed. Bealen and Philip were seated on the other side of the fire, talking amongst themselves and maintaining the group's unused equipment. The sun was beginning to go down, turning the sky a brilliant orange. Off in the distance, the waxing moon was visible, and scattered around it the brightest of the stars were beginning to show. Earlier in his life Ra'uf would have looked to the stars as portents of things to come; the last few months had taught him not to take stock in prophecy so readily. Fate belonged to the Raven Queen, and she alone.

With a loud proclamation of his own return, Harrow emerged from the treeline, joining the three present Horselords around the fire. Moments later the boy Artemis stumbled into the campsite, carrying not only his own sword and shield, but also Harrow's sword, their wooden training weapons, an extra shield, and some firewood. His face was glistening with sweat, and his shaking arms looked ready to fall off as he dumped all of the gear at the edge of the circle, audibly panting and walking with a poorly-disguised limp. He had a few scratches on his cheek, and as he sat down next to Ra'uf, his knuckles were noticeably bruised and bloody. This was hardly a surprise; he often looked like this after training sessions with Harrow. It took three of them arguing with the tiefling to convince him to start off training with wooden weapons rather than real ones- but in the end he agreed that while it was important to teach fighting as realistically as possible, Artemis would be as much of a danger to himself as to anyone else if given a real weapon too early. Judging by the kind of wounds the boy came back from time to time, however, it was anyone's guess whether he stuck to it or not.

Grash and Meredith returned to camp just as the last rays of sunlight disappeared through the trees, and with them brought a young doe that would hopefully feed the group for the night. Within minutes it was skinned and on a spit over the fire, everyone's empty stomachs eagerly awaiting their meal. While the rest talked amongst themselves, Ra'uf fetched his staff, and, speaking a prayer to the Raven Queen, asked for Her blessing on this meal She had granted them- its life had been sacrificed to bring them nourishment, but just as all lives shall in the end, it had joined Her in Her domain. He waved the head of the staff over the roasting animal, and the creature's flesh sparkled momentarily, its juices altering ever-so-slightly to be more pleasing to taste. While the other Horselords carried on their conversation, Artemis watched, entranced by the ritual.

The meat was moist and succulent, and everyone present devoured it, especially the young boy Artemis. His hands, wrapped in rough bandages, were soon licked clean after the meal. It was strange watching him- while the rest of the exiled knights viewed every day as yet another day of their lifelong prison sentence, Artemis seemed to view it as the opposite- as if his sentence ended the day he met them, and since then he'd been on a lifelong journey of freedom. Everything seemed new to him, he never had a drought of questions to ask, and even on days when he was exhausted and likely in many different kinds of bodily pain, he always seemed eager to get right back to it as soon as he was able. Ra'uf admired that- it reminded him of days long past, of when he was young, and when he was older, spending time with his s-

"-Sun's already gone down so stop asking," Ra'uf blurted out, and then he went right back to eating, as if he had just said nothing. Artemis jumped slightly at this sudden unprovoked response, glancing around the fire- if the others noticed it, nobody made it obvious. He was still getting used to the seemingly random outbursts that the rest of the knights had apparently grown accustomed to. If questioned about what he had just said or done, Ra'uf would claim to not understand the question. Artemis was learning to just ignore it like the rest.

After their meal, the rest of the group began to disperse, heading either to their watch stations or to their tents to sleep. Harrow bid Artemis and Ra'uf good night, and reminded his squire to cover their equipment before retiring so as to prevent rust. Also, to be ready to get up at the crack of dawn for some more drills.

Artemis sat, watching the dying fire, his body hunched over in what must have been the most comfortable position for his aching muscles. Ra'uf held out his new wooden raven, pleased with the end result, and told Artemis to hold out his hand. As he did so, Ra'uf placed it on his palm, made a flashy gesture with one hand as he used the other to tap the statuette on the head. With a small red flash, the bird sprang to life, danced around in the boy's hand, flapped its wings a few times, and then returned to its original position, as lifeless as it was just moments previous. Artemis smiled widely, amazed at every moment of the display.

"How do you do that? I mean... I know it's magic, but... what is magic?"

Ra'uf took the statuette back, placing it on the log next to him.

"Well... that question would take quite a while to answer. And, in fact, many people spend their entire lives trying to answer that exact question, my boy. But... I suppose I could try to give you the simplified version."

Artemis turned to face Ra'uf, ignoring the pain all over his body.

"Magic is..." Ra'uf began, "...Magic is everywhere. It's everything. What you see me do-" as he spoke, he held out an empty hand, then snapped his fingers, and suddenly a gold coin appeared between them, "-is only one kind of magic. This kind of magic- called Arcane magic- is one of the most easily recognizable, and also the flashiest." The coin began to spin on his outstretched finger, and- whether it was just an illusion of the campfire's reflection or part of the magic display- the spinning edges appeared to catch fire. "This type of magic is most commonly produced through years of rigorous study, learning to manipulate the undetectable trace amounts of magic in the air and the world around you. In theory, anyone with enough time and devotion could learn the art, but few have the patience or skill to truly master it." With that, he quickly snatched the spinning coin back into his hand, then opened his palm- and the coin was gone.

"Arcane magic," he continued, "can also be found, though incredibly rarely, in certain gifted individuals who are born with a natural affinity for it. For these people, their magic comes not from studying the mechanics of manipulating the magic in the world around them, but rather from a naturally higher amount of magic coursing through their veins. These types of spellcasters often have some sort of magical source in their bloodline, such as an ancestor that was a dragon."

"Dragon ancestors?" asked Artemis. "Would those people be dragonborn, like Grash?"

Ra'uf cocked his head slightly. "Hmm... not quite. Grash's race is part dragon, but that's different. Not all dragonborn can cast magic, and not all natural spellcasters are part dragon."

Artemis didn't seem to completely understand, but he didn't press the issue.

"But just as there is Arcane magic, there are also other types. Another common type is Divine magic. Some people, like Grash, are granted the use of certain magical abilities from their devotion to their deity. Such magic is often very difficult to come by, and can also require years of study, though in a different manner than Arcane magic."

"Wait a moment," began Artemis. "Grash can cast magic? I've never seen him..."

Ra'uf smirked. "Yes, he can, but you probably haven't seen it for a variety of reasons. First, Grash doesn't like to show it off like some do." With that, he opened his palm once again, where it appeared a ball of flame was already burning. He casually placed the ball of fire on his head, where it took the form of a small woman performing some sort of a seductive dance. Artemis laughed at the display, once again amazed by something so extraordinary.

"Second," continued Ra'uf, waving his hand and making the dancing girl disappear, "many of Grash's magical gifts only manifest when locked in combat with someone evil."

Artemis nodded. "I've read stories of knights who fight evil monsters, and use holy powers against them. I suppose I hadn't really thought of what that would be like in real life."

Ra'uf nodded as well. "You may have been a bit too preoccupied to notice, but the day we first met, Grash used several of his abilities to aid in the battle against Galmod's men- in fact, it was because of his magical healing that you didn't lose your arm after that. Well, that, and Grash is an excellent medic, magic or no."

Artemis seemed captivated by all of this- though Ra'uf figured it may be strange finding out that he had been under the effect of magic without realizing it. But if it bothered him, the boy didn't let on.

"But one more thing- and this is probably the most important part of all of this." As Ra'uf talked, Artemis was on the edge of his seat, rapt with attention. "I mentioned earlier that some Arcane casters have a higher amount of magic in their veins. You see, everyone has some amount of magic- the world itself is a very magical place. Many things that you can't explain are, in some way, magic."

"Like luck?"

"Yes, like luck" continued Ra'uf, "though more than just that. Many believe that magic is what keeps your heart pumping. Magic is what makes the sun rise in the morning. Magic is what allows some people to lead, and it's what makes you strong or fast. Magic is what lets you keep going after you've given it everything you have. Everyone has some kind of magic in them. As you grow and develop your skill in combat, you'll be developing your own kind of magic, and some day you'll be able to achieve things with a sword and shield that rival even my abilities with illusion and flame."

Artemis' gaze traveled towards the pile of equipment he unceremoniously dumped on the ground after the tiring walk back to camp. "Really?"

Ra'uf nodded. "There's an old tale about a swordsman so skilled that he could strike an opponent a hundred paces away without even drawing his sword."

"How is that possible?" asked Artemis.

The old man smirked again. "Well, I think a large part of that is being figurative... but if you keep training with Harrow, some day you'll be using 'magic' of your own."

Artemis smiled, and stood up, feeling once again the burning of his sore limbs. "Well... I'll be looking forward to that." He grabbed some cloths from his tent, and then limped over to the pile of equipment he had left on the ground, and bent over to wrap them up, wincing with each movement of his arms and legs.

As he began to hobble back towards his tent, he stopped, and turned towards Ra'uf, who had once again begun placing minor magical effects onto the wooden raven.

"Ra'uf," he began, pausing as if trying to find the right words.

"Mmm," hummed the mage, still busy with his new toy.

"Sir Harrow told me you lost more family than anyone else here."

Ra'uf's eyes opened widely and he inhaled deeply as, in the flash of a moment, a flood of memories barraged his mind. He saw himself as a young man, receiving his decorative dagger from King Adorn Marethal III upon earning his knighthood, as a commander spending years leading squads of men through the northern mountains exterminating every last orc that lived, as the marquis of the Altmark marrying his beloved wife, as the Northwarden of Lograd watching his two sons ride horses through the fields around the castle he once called home, and as a grandfather watching his grandchildren with the love that only a grandfather can have. Then he saw all of these images shattered, all of his dreams of spending his twilight with his family as the governor of their region destroyed by the traitorous pitiful excuse for a man now calling himself king. He wanted to scream, he wanted to stand up and charge straight into the center of the nation he once loved and pierce that devil's black heart with the dagger given to him by the true bloodline of Lograd. He wanted to bring every single member of Galmod's bloodline face-to-face with the Raven Queen to face their final judgment, and if he had to take the world with him, so be it.

He blinked two or three times, otherwise perfectly motionless. He exhaled, invisibly regaining his composure.

"The Raven Queen has her plan for us all; it is not our place to question it."

Artemis nodded. "I understand. Well... I'm really sorry for your loss."

As the boy headed off to his tent, Ra'uf held the figurine in front of him, gazing into its opaque, wooden eyes. His world ended on that day, just a few months ago; when he learned of the fate of his family, of the end of his bloodline, his mind split. He would never be the same person again. At least not until he returned the favor to Galmod tenfold.

He tossed the figurine into the dying fire, an offering for his Goddess. Please, Goddess, grant me the strength to carry on until I join You, he prayed.

Last of the King's Men, Chapter 6

It was the dawn of a new day, and Artemis Redsleeves was dreaming. In his dream, he was sitting in his bedroom, holding one of Orin's old discarded schoolbooks in front of him, trying desperately to read it, though he couldn't discern the words. He enjoyed looking at the pictures, however, and he smiled, watching the pictures dance before him- a large red dragon was waving its arms around, as if doing a comical dance, and a knight in red armor wielded a sword and shield against the beast, standing between the dragon and a silver-haired maiden who was throwing things at the dragon. The story seemed to be told by an old sage smoking a long pipe, and as Artemis finished looking at the pictures dancing before him, he tried to turn the page- to the left, rather than to the right- and found that his left arm simply wasn't there.

Trying to figure out why his arm was missing, he glanced up, and saw the Keverses, chasing each other around the building with a flaming frying pan. Growing concerned from the fire, Artemis decided he should probably look for his parents- which, after all, were right below the floorboards, waiting for him just out of reach. As he bent down on the ground and reached his arm through the gap in the hopes of finding them, he felt a kick against his side. It was Orin, the Keverses' son, wearing a silly suit of paper armor and with an arrow sticking out of his chest.

"Get up, you lazy bastard."

He didn't move his mouth as he spoke, but the words seemed to be coming from him. As Artemis lay there on his stomach, craning his neck to look up, he felt himself growing smaller. Orin kicked him, again and again, repeating that phrase, somehow remaining perfectly still despite his kicks and his taunts. With each kick Artemis shrank more, until he was small enough to stand on the page of the book he was reading. As the book enveloped him, he saw the red dragon was coming for him, still doing its awkward dance. He grabbed the red knight's sword and shield, only to realize once again that his arm was missing.

"I said get up, little boy. This is no time for rest."

It was no longer Orin's voice- in fact, Artemis couldn't quite tell where the voice came from. Another voice came in shortly after- this time, it seemed to be coming from the dragon.

"Come, Harrow. He helped save your life. Let him sleep a while longer."

Artemis' eyes slowly opened, and as his vision adjusted to the light, he saw the red dragon's face, just inches from his own, looming over him. He let out a scream and tried to scurry away, only to be stopped by a sudden sharp pain in his left arm. He glanced quickly to his arm and saw it had been wrapped and splinted, and the memory of the previous night began to come back to him. He looked back up at the dragon before him, and saw it was not quite a dragon- at least, not as he had dreamt it. The creature immediately before him looked like a man, but his skin was covered in shiny red scales, and his face resembled the sharp snout of the dragons he'd seen in storybooks not unlike the one in his dream. But he wore clothes, like anyone else, and had no wings nor tail- and perched atop his snouth was a tiny pair of glasses, behind which two crimson orbs stared back.

Behind the red dragon-man stood another man Artemis remembered from the day before- his smooth skin was also bright red, he had two black horns sprouting from his forehead that crested back over his jet-black hair, and behind his tunic a thick red tail slithered back and forth as if of its own free will. Taking a moment to take stock of his surroundings, Artemis could see he was in a tent, and he was sitting in a makeshift bed. His red-sleeved shirt had been removed, and was sitting on the floor next to his broken shield and sword. His heart was beating a mile a minute, and it was obvious that he was frightened and confused.

The red dragon-man spoke, reaching out a scaled hand to feel Artemis' forehead. To his surprise, the scaled face let out a deep chuckle.

"Calm down, young one. Either you had a bad run-in with one of my brethren in the past, or you're a little groggy. You're in no danger. You were injured, but you're going to be just fine. I'm going to give you a few minutes to settle in, and I'll be back. I'm not going to eat you- at least not until lunch time."

He laughed once again to himself, and then stepped out of the tent, the green of the forest visible momentarily through the door. Artemis closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths, remembering again the events of the previous day- the knights in a circle around the old man, the horned man and the dragon man; the gauntleted knight who broke his arm; and the woman lying on the ground, who pleaded with Artemis for help. Then, everything went dark... he opened his eyes, and saw that the horned man had remained in the room, and sat down next to the makeshift bed.

"Are you all... criminals?"

The words came out of Artemis' mouth before he knew what he was saying. The question had been in the back of his mind from the beginning; he just hadn't quite known if he was ever going to ask it. It seemed to take the horned man by surprise, as his eyebrows raised rather suddenly- his human-looking eyes stared back at the boy before him, but he smirked as he responded.

"My, you get right to the difficult questions, don't you? Well... before I answer that... allow me to ask you a question. If you thought that we might be criminals... then why did you try to help us, especially against such odds?"

Artemis sat up with some difficulty, once again feeling the sharp pain in his arm, not to mention several other aches and pains in his body. He turned to face the horned man, trying his best to face him on the same level.

"Because... I saw the woman that was with you, on the ground. I could tell that man had hit her, even though she was weak and he was strong. Even if she was a criminal, she couldn't have deserved that. It just seemed... I don't know. Wrong. Especially for a knight."

The horned man studied him, squinting momentarily.

"I see. Well, between you and me, Jannah is far from weak- but I understand what you mean. But tell me. What about the consequences? What if you attacked an officer of the king, and were sentenced to prison- or worse- for it? What then?"

Artemis opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. His brow lowered, then shifted, as he looked for an answer. He opened his mouth again, and exhaled quietly, his eyes slowly scanning the room, vaguely expecting to find the answer hidden in the corner.

"I..." he began after a few moments. "I... didn't think of that. I just... did what I felt was right."

The horned man's eyes opened, and he smiled.

"Sometimes, that's what you have to do."

He extended his red hand towards Artemis, who slowly shook it with his own.

"My name," began the horned man, "is Sir Harrow Thorn, of the Horselords of Lograd."

Artemis' eyes went wide. "You mean... you're a knight? Are you all knights? Real knights?"

Sir Harrow Thorn nodded, still smiling. "Yes, it would seem so." He picked up Artemis' shirt and tossed it to him, standing. "Get dressed and meet me outside. I'd love to answer your question, but... like I said, it's a difficult one." He started out the door of the tent, then poked his head back in a moment later, adding, "By the way, I didn't catch your name."

Artemis had begun trying to put his shirt on, but was finding it quite difficult with one of his arms unusable. He looked up to the horned knight's face, and replied, "Artemis." He paused, glancing at the shirt in his hands, and he smiled, proudly. "...Artemis Redsleeves."

The knight raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth to say something, then shrugged and disappeared outside.

-----------------------------------------------

After a few minutes, Artemis met Sir Harrow outside, where it seemed a small camp had been made- there were two tents set up, a small firepit with a meager fire burning inside, and near the fire were a set of blacksmithing tools. The camp was set in a small valley between two knolls, with a large rock at one side, and enough natural brush on each side to hide the camp's presence to anyone at a distance. The red-scaled dragon-man was sitting by the fire, polishing a large suit of armor. He smiled and nodded as the boy emerged from the tent, adjusting his spectacles as he went about his business. Sir Harrow stood with his foot on a log, stoking the fire, and as Artemis neared, he gestured for him to walk with him.

"Artemis Redsleeves, was it? Tell me a little about yourself."

Artemis followed him beyond the line of brush surrounding the camp, and into the dense forest.

"Well... there really isn't much to tell. I was born, I worked on a farm, until someone- or something- destroyed my home, and... now I'm here."

Sir Harrow nodded. "I see. I'm very sorry to hear about that. We've all lost family during these dark times... it's never easy."

"Oh. Well, I... wouldn't really say I lost family. I mean, well... I never really had any family. My whole life I've lived with- worked for- these people. The Keverses. But they were killed by whatever destroyed our home, and now I'm on my own."

Artemis felt strange. He had never really had someone to talk to- someone who he thought would actually listen. He wanted to tell him every thought that was on his mind, but he reminded himself that he had just met these people- and he still didn't know what they were doing out here.

"Now, Artemis, on to your question. Out of curiosity, how well-versed are you in the way of current events?"

"Um... not very. Not at all, in fact."

"Hmm," Sir Harrow said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose I'll start right at the beginning. The kingdom of Lograd was ruled for many years by a righteous and just king, Adorn Marethal the fourth. He was beloved by many, and the beginning of his rule ushered in an era of unprecedented peace throughout all of the land. He led the armies that exterminated the orc scourge before you were even born, and since then has ruled with grace and kindness towards every one of his subjects, from the wealthiest lord to the lowliest peasant. That is... until recently.

"About six months ago, word arrived that an army had attacked a keep on Lograd's border, and killed many people. A group of the king's most loyal and skilled knights- about two dozen of us- rode away, to find out the truth behind this attack. But we were fools- in our absence, the king- our beloved king- was assassinated, along with his ill son. The Marethal bloodline, the true bloodline of the rightful rulers of the land, was ended."

Artemis hung on his every word as they walked. The forest around them had seemingly grown quiet, as if the trees themselves were listening to the tale.

"We learned of this news long after it happened, while we were far away from our home. We had discovered the truth behind the attack that had drawn us away- it was committed by an army of orcs, despite the knowledge that not a single orc had been seen alive in decades. But that didn't matter- the attack was an elaborate diversion, to put us where we couldn't protect king Adorn. The mastermind behind all of this, we later learned, was the king's general, Duke Galmod. Galdmod is a tiefling, like me- if you go back far enough, he and I are related, like most tieflings. When I was a child I used to dream of some day becoming general, following in his footsteps- but now I know that he is nothing like me. After Adorn was killed, he assumed the throne, and- knowing that we, the faithful of the true king, would see the truth, he branded us as traitors and charged us with treason against the throne, forcing us into exile."

They had reached a small stream, and Sir Harrow knelt down beside it, facing away from Artemis as he did so. He began washing his hands in the stream, and he took out a canteen to fill with the crystal-clear water.

"So, then," began Artemis, "you aren't criminals. Your only crime is refusing to bow to a king that isn't your own."

Sir Harrow stood, shaking his head. "Like I said, your question is a difficult one. It isn't that simple. You see, when we left Lograd, there were twenty-four of us- two of us left the rest of the group early on, heading back to the capitol. One of those was Sir Aelfrey- considered by many to be the king's favorite. He likely saw through the ruse earlier than any others, and left us to investigate. But the rest of us continued on, until we learned that we had been exiled. At that point, none of us knew exactly what to do. Some wanted to just accept our exile and try to find somewhere else to live our lives, sparing any further bloodshed. Others wanted blood paid for blood, and began planning on killing Galmod right then and there. Many of us were in the middle.

"In the end, it split us. Half left to return to Lograd and seek revenge, the rest stayed back. None of us know exactly what happened to those who left... except that they failed. And because they tried and failed... We found out later on that because of this attempt on his life, Galmod had all of our families- everyone who shared blood with the twenty-four exiled- put to death."

"What!?" Artemis shouted, not believing his ears. "He had them killed? Your families? All of them?"

Sir Harrow was still facing away, and his voice was not as jovial as it had been earlier on in the story. "All of them. Every one of us, our brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children... everyone. Dead."

Artemis remembered the many days he had spent, crying in solitude, because of the fact that he would never know his parents. But now, when he tried to imagine what it would be like to know not only parents, but brothers and sisters, and then to know that they were dead... And not just that they were dead, but that it was his own fault...

"How could you all live with yourselves?" he asked. He hadn't meant for it to come out like that; but nevertheless, he had said it.

Sir Harrow let out a deep sigh, and turned around to face Artemis. "Many of us couldn't. Upon hearing the news, two of our number- men, loyal knights that I had known for years, drew their swords and fell upon them, right then and there. The rest of us were too shocked to stop them. And even after that, another Horselord left in the night, leaving behind all of her belongings and a note begging us and the gods to forgive her. We looked for days, but never found her.

"The reason I told you this was such a difficult question to answer is that all of us wanted Galmod killed, even if, by the law of the land, he was the new king. The moment the rest of the knights left on that suicide mission, I regretted not joining them. I'm sure all of us did. Not a day has gone by where I wonder if I had gone, maybe we could have been successful. And not a day has passed where I wonder if, had I tried harder to convince them to stay, our families- as well as the rest of my kinsmen who gave their lives in a futile endeavor- would still be alive. To that extent, I consider myself a murderer."

Artemis looked Sir Harrow straight in the eyes, and nodded. "I understand," he said. "And I don't consider you a murderer. I'm sure your family would feel the same way."

Sir Harrow stepped past, walking back towards the camp. "Perhaps. In any case, since that day, our numbers have grown steadily smaller. The eight of us that remain split up occasionally to cover more ground in hopes of finding somewhere to settle- we're meeting back up with the others tonight. The wilderness is a dangerous place to live, and to date we have yet to find a town where we can live without being discovered. And Galmod still knows we live, and hasn't stopped sending patrols of guards to hunt us down. Usually we can elude them, but yesterday... well, you came quite in handy." He glanced backwards at Artemis, smiling. "Though you could use a bit of work."

Artemis smiled, feeling rather proud of himself.

-------------------------------------------------------

As they got back to the camp, Artemis was rather surprised to see that all of the tents and equipment had been taken down, and the red-scaled dragon-man was packing it up. Next to the fire, over which was some sort of animal roasting on a spit, sat his armor and massive axe, resting against a sitting log.

Sir Harrow called out as soon as they arrived, "Any word yet?"

The dragon-man looked up, shook his head, and said, "Not yet. But soon, I'm sure."

Sir Harrow gestured for Artemis to have a seat by the fire. "Artemis, allow me to introduce you to Grash Vesuvix, noble Paladin of Erathis. Grash, this is Artemis Redsleeves."

The dragon-man smiled a wide toothy-mawed smile, and gestured in what must have been a salute of some kind. Artemis waved, still fairly intimidated by his dragon-like visage.

"Erathis..." Artemis said after a moment of silence, hoping to not show any disrespect. "That's the goddess of civilization, right?"

Grash nodded, finishing up the last of the packing. He sat down on a log near his equipment and began polishing it.

"That is correct. It may seem odd for someone with a faith such as mine to live out in the wilderness, but there is a saying, 'The goddess always places a road before us. It is our responsibility to recognize that road, and follow it to her.' I see Harrow hasn't driven you off just yet. Shall you be joining us for lunch?"

Artemis found himself wondering how in the world someone could consider a meal lunch this early in the day, but he simply nodded.

Sir Harrow sat down next to him, turning the spit with the roasted animal. Artemis could see it was a bird of some sort. "Grash, here," he began, "has served as our field medic and voice of reason over these last few months. It's thanks to him you didn't lose that arm of yours."

Artemis turned towards Grash, trying his best to look him in the eye. "Thank you. I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

Grash shook his head. "Not at all. I should be thanking you, young man. If you hadn't helped us, I'm not sure if any of us would be here today. We're all in your debt."

Artemis couldn't help himself. "Are you a dragon?" he blurted out.

Grash let out a loud belly laugh. To Artemis, it sounded like a roar.

"Boy, you flatter me. I suppose the answer is yes and no. I am what's called a 'Dragonborn'. They say my people are descended from the dragons of old, but believe me, there's quite a few differences between true dragons and myself. The temperament, for one." He chuckled to himself, and even Sir Harrow grinned at the remark.

"I'm... I'm sorry," began Artemis. "This is all so new to me. I've spent pretty much my entire life locked up in a farmhouse, doing chores all day, every day. What little I know about the world I taught myself. I only know what a dragon is from the pictures I'd seen in schoolbooks I found, and when I first saw you, well... I guess I was confused. I hope I didn't offend you." In his mind, Artemis wanted to add, "Please don't eat me."

Grash laughed again, thoroughly amused by all of this. "Trust me, Artemis, you didn't offend me at all. Ignorance is no crime."

"Which brings me to my next order of business," said Sir Harrow. "Artemis, I asked you earlier why you helped us, even though by all accounts you could have been labeling yourself as a criminal. Do you recall what your answer was?"

He nodded, remembering the decision he had made the day before. "I did what felt was right."

Harrow looked at him- his shirt with red sleeves, his arm in a sling, his messy dark hair. "That was the right answer," he said, smiling. He pulled a sword out of a sheath within his cloak, which Artemis noticed was in considerably better condition than the broken one he had been using. "Artemis, I happen to be in need of a squire. How would you like to devote yourself to a life of running from the authorities, scavenging for food and supplies in the wilderness, and training your mind and body harder than you've ever thought possible along with men and women closer to you than family, all in the hopes of saving the world in the name of what feels right?"

Sir Harrow held pommel out towards him, still smiling. Artemis got the distinct impression he had been preparing this speech all morning.

He smiled back, taking the sword in his hand. "I think that sounds amazing."

Grash smiled warmly, and the three of them feasted on the roasted bird that had been cooking over the fire. Once Grash had finished polishing his armor, Sir Harrow helped him don its thick metal plates, the half-moon symbol emblazoned on its chest- Artemis recognizing it to be that of a cog, the symbol of Erathis- reflecting the sunlight proudly. As they talked and ate, Harrow suddenly held up a hand to silence the others- he was looking at something.

Up on the ridge at the edge of the campsite, a small creature was watching. Harrow, narrowing his eyes at it, said, "Come closer and deliver your message."

The fox did so, walking very mechanically towards the fire. It stopped several paces away, and then spoke with a deep human voice. Artemis recognized it as that of the old man that had been under attack the day before.

"Jannah and I have met up with the others. We will rendezvous at the agreed location at the agreed time. End message."

The fox blinked, shook its head thoroughly, and then scampered off at a frantic speed.

"Well, gentlemen," said Sir Harrow, "now we travel."

Last of the King's Men, Chapter 5

Sir Harrow Thorn sat before the fire, the familiar constellations watching overhead. It had been a long and difficult day- harrowing, even, he thought with a benign grin- and he and his companions were resting for the night. Hours had been spent finding a campsite far enough from the path, behind enough natural brush, in just the right place for them to be able to feel safe. They had bandaged wounds, prepared what food they could, and cared for the... "visitor" until long past nightfall and now most of them had drifted off to sleep. If any others were still awake, they didn't betray this by making noise, but Harrow wasn't thinking about the others. His fingers gently danced along the strings of his lute, and as his eyes remained fixed on the flames before him the melody wafted across the campsite, seducing his ears and encouraging his trance.

At times in his life, when surrounded by friends with his instrument in hand, he'd regale them with a tale or a song, as much to entertain and educate as to impress and inspire. But a specific tale was on his mind tonight, and his allies at rest around him had heard this tale many times. The perfect chords drew images in his head of times long past, and as his thoughts began the story he let out a long sigh, and with it he exhaled the grief and pain of a lifetime.

There was once a young tiefling named Harrow Thorn. Born the only child to a family of minor nobility, he rarely wanted for much- he had a strong father, a caring mother. The county of Gilead was their home, with its lush, rolling hills and acres of farmland and verdant woods across crystal-clear lakes. His childhood was everything someone could have hoped for- he was riding horses as soon as he could fit in the saddle, his family would vacation in interesting locales all across Lograd, and he received training in the martial arts as well as the fine arts of music. He loved school more than anyone he knew- he loved learning. Once he reached adolescence, it was not uncommon to see him seated beneath an old oak tree between lessons with a stack of books at his side, plumbing the depths of history and fantasy alike even as his friends were racing off to climb trees or throw stones into water. As he grew more experienced in the arts of war, dreaming of someday becoming a knight among the fabled Horselords of Lograd, he found himself more interested in the theory and strategy behind combat than in combat itself, and it was this thirst that drove him to develop his skill- mentally and physically- further.

Harrow Thorn enlisted in the local militia as soon as he was of age. His knowledge and skill- both on and off the battlefield- got him attention, but his wit and natural charm is what kept everyone captivated. On many occasions he found himself telling stories to a crowd of listeners in a local tavern, debating some topic of import to a local expert, or flirting with young girls who had seen him lead a group of soldiers or witnessed one of his many dramatic shows of linguistics. Tieflings were fairly rare in Gilead- his family was one of the few in the county, and certainly the most well-known- but it seemed girls of all races were attracted to his strong presence despite (or in addition to) his race's devilish features. If ever asked his "secret", Harrow would simply wink and say, "Ladies love the tail."

The soft melody being played across the campfire began picking up speed, painting images in the ear of happier times and easier days. Sir Harrow Thorn remembered the days of his youth, living amongst his people in Gilead. Such a time seemed like an eternity ago- or perhaps the life of someone else, witnessed from outside, or learned through a story or jaunty epic.

It was the talk of the town the day the Horselords came to Gilead. The militia gathered to pay them due honor, standing in rank and file as they passed on through, saluting them on the way to their duty. Even if they only rode by for a moment, Harrow had never been as excited before that moment. Their mighty steeds, exactly as grand and majestic as in the stories he had read as a child, groomed perfectly and adorned in polished barding- stronger and hardier than four horses combined from any other nation, or so the stories told. And atop the stallions rode a squad of half a dozen knights, men and women with shining breastplates bearing the standards of the stalwart nation of Lograd. People from all over had gathered along the road simply to watch them ride by, and it was all anyone could talk about for days.

Harrow and a few of the other militia volunteers were running through drills in the training yard. They had seen little action themselves, with the nation at peace since the Great Orc War so many years previous, but all of them- Harrow especially- dreamed something more, of being recruited into the national army, proving themselves in battle, and being knighted and included among the ranks of the Horselords themselves. So they ran drills, they sparred, they practiced whenever they had time.

When it happened, Harrow was practicing with his throwing axes- having never been fond of using a bow- and directing the five others in their stances. As he retrieved his axes from the target board, he heard a noise: a yell, or perhaps a scream, from far off in the hills. He whistled to signal the others and they stopped their drills to listen- and they saw a man, perhaps a boy even, running from the East, screaming.

They hurried to meet the boy, whose face was white and his torn clothing covered in blood. He was hysterical, and barely able to speak, but Harrow gathered that his family- a merchant caravan that they had seen coming through town occasionally- had been attacked by bandits, or cannibals, or something. The boy had managed to escape, in the hopes of finding help. The soldiers all looked at each other, unsure of what to do. They could each tell they were all terrified. They had trained and practiced, but had they actually prepared themselves for whatever had to be done? But then a thought shook all of the fear and uncertainty out of Harrow's inexperienced mind: Help, he realized, is us.

He immediately took charge. The orders came from his mouth before he knew what he was doing. He commanded the youngest of the group to escort the boy back to town and notify anyone he could. The men hurried to gather their gear, suiting up only in what armor and equipment would provide the most protection while wasting the least amount of time. Already in his armor, Harrow grabbed his twin swords, a gift from his father upon his entry into the militia, and the men were off to do their duty as soldiers of Lograd.

They found the remains of the caravan, and followed the trail of blood and struggle back to the bandits' hideout. Whoever did this had already killed several of the merchants, their bodies- or parts of them- scattered about outside the filthy hovel. From the sound of screams inside, whoever was still alive was likely being raped or beaten, or both. The sight of the bloodshed, the sounds of the screams, the smells of carnage and the heat of rage tried to overwhelm Harrow's senses, but as he forced it all out of his mind, the years of studying theory and technique began to click within the gears of his mind. He observed the three entry points, one central and two on either side, devising a plan in his mind of how to funnel the bandits into the center and block the other two. He was already picturing them rushing out, weapons drawn and thirsty for battle. He envisioned his men flanking them, disarming them, locking them into the most disadvantageous positions, and taking control of the battle from the very beginning.

But his rigid plan was not enough. As his men moved to either side to flushing out the bandits, their sheer numbers overwhelmed the blockades and forced them out of their advantage. Before long, Harrow and the other militia volunteers were surrounded by brutish, savage men with war paint on their faces and jawbones adorning their armor. But the battle was not lost- the men's drills and training were not for nothing. They fought back the closing circle of foes, using Harrow's instruction to gain advantage when they could and focus on a single target at a time. But even as the bandits' numbers fell, they scored blow after blow on the soldiers, and one by one Harrow's men fell until only he remained. The leader of the bandits growled at him in some bestial rage, and came at him with a savage club fashioned of metal and wood. Harrow attempted a parry, but the slender, flexible longsword couldn't stand up to the force of the club, and as the maul crashed against his wrist the blade was knocked from his grip. Before he could even react, another bandit bludgeoned him in the back of the head, knocking him to his knee and blurring his vision. All he could hear was a loud ringing, and distant shouting.

Something heavy smashed into the ground beside him, and he instinctively rolled away, thinking his attacker had narrowly missed with a fatal blow. But as he regained his sight, he saw the object on the ground was one of the bandits' heads, sliced clean off at the neck. The rest of the savages stood momentarily stunned, and in the blink of an eye another one fell, this one run through by a bladed weapon. As the circle around him broke into a panic, Harrow took the opportunity to scurry to a better vantage point, and he saw his savior- a man in gleaming armor, a banner of Lograd planted firmly in the ground at the edge of the clearing. A visored helmet hid his face from view, and gave him an almost machine-like, ruthlessly efficient presence. In one hand he held a sword dripping with the blood of two of the savages, and in his other he bore a massive shield emblazoned with a roaring lion's crest. The remaining bandits quickly moved to surround him, and Harrow knew he couldn't let them.

He ran forward, stabbing the closest one in the side. It was barely a clean enough blow to pierce its armor, but in the moment of distraction as the savage turned to face Harrow, the knight was able to bash his shield into the man's torso, forcing Harrow's blade deeper into his stomach. Pulling the sword out just in time to see another bandit turns its attention towards him, he raised the blade into a block with both hands. But as the brute's weapon collided with his, the pain in his wrist coupled with the girth of the club overpowered his defense, and this sword was torn from his grip as well. But as the bandit's weight caused him to recoil, Harrow's boot founds its way into the arched brute's face, knocking him back a step. In that instant, the knight- blocking incoming blows with his tall shield- stepped in front of Harrow, keeping him from being surrounded by the advancing bandits.

"Grab your sword, and make a wall next to me," said the knight in a low, gravelly voice.

As Harrow grabbed his sword, he realized what the knight was doing, and it all clicked. The way he had positioned himself, the bandits were on one side, and the hideout- likely with innocent captives inside- was on the other. If they wanted to, they could try to rush in through the front door and use the captives as a bargaining chip. But their numbers were decreasing, and by standing between them and the main entrance, they just might be able to manipulate the bandits into leaving. At this realization, memories of strategies exactly like this one began rushing through his head- things he had read years before. Victory wasn't always about defeating your opponent, he remembered. It's about rendering your opponent incapable or unwilling to achieve their goal, even if that just means eliminating a few of their number and blocking off their advancement. The savages could still advance, by running to the side entrances, but to do so would mean splitting up and wasting time. It was so simple. It was brilliant.

The bandits, the four that remained, appeared to be considering their options. After what seemed like a lifetime of deliberation, they ran. Two of them ran away, leaving their fallen allies behind. The other two split up, and began running to the other entrances into the building, either to take hostages or simply barricade themselves inside. Harrow dropped his sword and grabbed an axe from his belt, throwing it through the air at the panicked brute. His earlier strategy may have failed, but his aim was still true- the axe buried itself in the bandit's chest, and he fell. The knight, lacking a ranged weapon and likely judging it impossible to chase after the bandit while in full plate armor, dropped his heavy shield to the ground, and, hefting his mighty sword in both hands, threw it spinning through the air, impaling the savage against the wall of the hideout.

A brief moment passed, and Harrow began to break into a run after the two that had escaped. The knight, however, sharply held up a gauntleted hand, signaling him to halt. Harrow looked at him, confused, and spoke between panting breaths, "But... they're getting away!"

The knight shook his head, walking over to where his sword held the last bandit's lifeless body against the wall. "That may be, but there are only two of us, and they have a head start. In the meantime, there are dying men here, probably wounded civilians, and several criminals who could very well get up at any moment and stab us in the back. Secure the area first. Help is on the way."

Help. The word hit Harrow like a club to the back of the head. He should have been help, but instead he may have gotten his companions killed. He hurried to the nearest of them and began checking for signs of life. As he fell to his knees, frantically checking for a pulse, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard that deep, gravelly voice.

"You did good, young man. I'm quite impressed, actually. From what I saw, you began with a good plan... but planning only accounts for so much. When plans change..." he placed his boot against the dead body pinned to the building with his sword, pulling it out and causing the body to slump to the ground, "...you have to improvise."

Finding a weak pulse and feeling momentary relief, he looked up at the knight, who had removed his helmet, revealing the face of an aging, battle-scarred human man with steel-grey eyes and streaks of silver in his hair.

"My name is Sir Aldwyn," he said, helping Harrow to stand. "Sir Aldwyn of the Horselords of Lograd." Harrow was speechless, knowing without doubt now that he was standing before one of the legendary knights. He hadn't had the time to think when the man first arrived, but it was no surprise to him that this knight was able to not only save him, but also fend off an entire group of bandits with such ease. But the man continued. "But there will be time for formalities later. You check the rest of the fallen and find out who is still with us. I'll secure the inside and free the captives."

Through some miracle, none of Harrow's men were killed, though all of them had suffered broken bones and required immediate attention. One of the bandits was still alive, though unconscious and bleeding profusely into the packed dirt outside the hovel. Of the bodies of the merchants, none of them had survived. A few minutes later, more members of the town guard had arrived, and Sir Aldwyn emerged from the hideout moments after, escorting three severely beaten women from inside. The guards rushed them to safety along with the injured militia soldiers and the dying bandit, and after making sure everyone was accounted for, Sir Aldwyn led the squad back to their hamlet atop his mighty steed.

On  the way, he talked with Harrow. He commended him on reacting to his duty as quickly as he did, and although he was clearly inexperienced, his knowledge of strategy and ability to lead men in battle was not something that comes along often. Because of Harrow's leadership and service, at least three women's lives were saved.

As they dismounted Sir Aldwyn's steed back in town, the knight put his hand on Harrow's shoulder once again.

"Young man... Harrow Thorn... As I said, I was very impressed with how you handled yourself. I have been looking, across the country, for a suitable squire to train so that someday he may join the company of the Horselords of Lograd. If you are willing, I would be pleased to have you."

Strumming the lute in front of the dying fire, Sir Harrow remembered that day as if it was yesterday. It was one of the happiest moments of his life- perhaps only second to the moment when, four years later, he was able to finally stand as a knight, as a Horselord, among the crowd of allies and brothers-in-arms which welcomed him with open arms. He had spent four years of training, of improving his skill in battle, of proving to himself and to the knight which had given him the opportunity of a lifetime that he was truly worthy of his new title. His entire childhood was spent learning, discovering- and those four years were spent honing, perfecting. Now, upon becoming a knight, he was able to lead allies into combat, direct the tide of war, and truly know the path of battle before it even began. Sir Aldwyn was with him every step of the way, first as a superior, a mentor- and then as a friend, a peer, an equal. Harrow, or Sir Harrow as he would then be known, vowed to uphold the values and honor of the Horselords of Lograd no matter what that meant.

As he sat in front of that fire, out in the wilderness, after everything he had come through in the years since he had been made a knight, it became clear to him that he had stopped playing. His mind had begun to wander... to more recent events... to the things that had happened as of late, over the past year. He remembered his allies, his friends, his king... his family...

No, that's enough for one night, Sir Harrow thought abruptly to himself. He set the lute down, tossing a bucket of water onto the glowing embers. He needed to get to sleep... it was late and tomorrow was going to be a busy day.