"This was a stupid idea! What kind of moron talked me in to this?" Eric complained under the tender ministrations of a green, scaly lizardman.
The lizardman laughed, a strange, hissing sound. "I don’t sssthink that anyone talked you into sssssssssticking around waiting to be hit with thisssss arrow, Errrrric." He pulled the bandage tight, and passed the arrow to Eric for an example. "Isssss not bad."
A deep chuckle came from behind him, and a voice said, "And if you meant who talked you into joining a band of mercenaries, I don’t think Tesarra would take you if you couldn’t come up with that excellent idea all on your own."
Eric reached out, and Stathis and Corman hauled him to his feet. Corman passed him his leather and chain shirt, and helped him pull it on. The half-elf was a good head taller than Eric, and held him easily. The pair had been the first to greet the young man when he was introduced, after Corman calmed him down at the sight of the lizardman. Eric hadn’t realized how many non-human mercenaries there were, but these two had become his fast friends.
The last month and a half had pushed Eric further than he ever had been before. He’d had time to get into shape over the last two years. However, learning to use a sword was tough, if you could call the padded bats they had been given swords. He had had to get a shield, even just a wooden one, because no matter what the grizzled veteran who taught him tried, he always blocked incoming blows with his left arm. Some of the other raw recruits laughed, and asked him where he learned to hide so well, but they were soon looking to him for training with their own shields. Not getting hit did have its advantages.
Other than the problem with the shield, he had been doing very well, if he had to say so himself. He could ride. He was learning how to fight. When the captain leading his band learned that he could actually read, he pulled him aside and started teaching him basic strategy and tactics. It was not often that a literate man with Eric’s intelligence asked to be a mercenary. The one thing he wasn't sure of was killing. He had never killed anything in his life, even after all the time spent on this world. He told his new friends this.
Corman said "Don't worry about it, my friend. Anyone can kill. It’s why and when you kill that’s important."
After a month of basic training, it was announced that the recruits were ready for the long march to their headquarters outside Darkcruigh. There, they would winter, to be sent out as soon as possible in the spring. The captain wanted his money’s worth out of the men. The marching had been grueling, and it became clear that every armed group eyed the raw mercenary troop as a chance to acquire new weapons and armor. Today had been the first real action. The band was fording a river when a small group of hidden bowmen, Bullywogs from the sounds of them, started to fire. It didn’t take more than a good charge and some sword-waving to chase them away, but Eric took a wood-tipped arrow in the thigh in the initial assault. Fortunately, it wasn’t barbed. It sure hurt like crazy, though.
As the dark-haired young man stretched out in his blankets , he wistfully thought of Tardos Keep, and even more wistfully of the friends he had left behind, wherever they were.
She found him in the garden, collapsed beside a bed of marigolds. "It’s time to come in, my duck," she said softly. "It’s going to rain." She lifted him gently and pulled him into the cottage.
Hank’s arm was sore and his fingers burned, but the zombies were still coming forward, ignoring the rain of arrows. Despite training with Donavan for six weeks, he still hated it when he had to pull out the foot-long dagger at his side. At least these were zombies. It was harder to feel guilty about killing beings which were already dead, and it was most often the dead who tried to tear into the flesh of the living these days. Hank hadn’t quite realized the challenge of keeping the roads clear so often included fighting to protect unwary travelers. He was learning fast.
The tiny merchant caravan was surrounded with the blotchy gray bodies of the zombies, though many of them had already sunk back into the mud on either side of the road to return to their slumber. Donavan was charging down to help the caravan guards with the remaining six, his long sword flashing in the torchlight. Hank drew his knife, ducked under a Zombie’s blind grasp, and slashed his blade across the dead thing’s torso. It retreated before him, and another thrust convinced it to return to its grave.
Hank was turning back to the caravan when he heard the voice call out, "Hank! Duck!"
Hank dived and rolled, the tree branch wielded by a zombie behind him whistling over his head. He kicked hard at the zombie’s knees, and heard a brittle bone shatter. The ranger got to his feet and kicked the zombie again, frowning sternly. It crawled off to the side of the road and back into the bubbling mire. Hank climbed to his feet and picked up his bow, looking for the source of the voice. Donovan had finished the last of the zombies at the caravan, and was not even looking towards him. Who, then?
A greenish glow shone just over the brow of the hill ahead, and Hank walked towards it cautiously. His eyes widened.
"Presto? What are you doing here? This road is dangerous." His friend knelt in the roadway, his head down, and the green light shone all around him. As Hank got closer, he realized that the vision of his friend was transparent, a ghost in the darkness. Presto was slowly and unsteadily climbing to his feet.
"H..Hank? Is that really you?" Hank’s friend sounded weak and unsure. He got to his feet, but swayed dangerously. Hank got a good look at him, and, if his transparency made him seem ghostly, his pale, drawn features made him more so. His eyes darted around, bright with fever, and he was shaking. Hank sheathed his dagger.
"What’s wrong, Presto? Are you sick? Trapped somehow? Where are you?" Hank tried to reach out to steady him, but his fingers passed right through.
"I was in the garden. Hank...I’m sorry but I...I...don’t feel so good. And I can’t get back. Please don’t leave me alone. Please...I don’t want to die here all by myself...." Another shiver racked the translucent form, and the light began to fade. With the light, the definition began to fall into darkness.
"Wait...just hold on for two days, Presto! I promise I’ll be there in two days!" Hank reached out, but the light faded completely, and the only sound was the night winds and murmurs from the caravan. Hank turned and ran back to the wagons.
Donavan was speaking to the leader of the merchant guard. "It was very foolish to be on this road at night. Where were you bound?"
The merchant guard shrugged. "We’re headed with furs to Tardos Keep. There hasn’t been a caravan from this part of the world to Tardos for six hundred years…it is a market ripe for the taking for the first caravan to get through."
That struck a chord with Hank, but he couldn’t think about it for now. He had to get back to Madeline’s. "Donavan! I need to go, tonight! My friend’s in trouble, and I have to help him."
Donavan turned towards his apprentice. In the last month and a half, despite all the training, the exhaustive lessons in bowmanship, fighting, and woodlore, his Master rarely said three words together. Still, Hank knew he was a good man. Since boyhood, he had learned the lore of the woods. Hank also suspected he’d done more than guide merchants through the forest in his time. "I see. Where?"
"Standwell. I have to go. My friend needs me."
"Go. In two weeks, return." To offset his harsh words, Donavon handed him his own quiver, and the bag of food from his shoulder. Hank appreciated the gesture; hunting and gathering up his arrows would take time. He liked this tall, dark, silent man. "Watch. It will rain tonight."
"I’ll be careful. And I will be back. I promise." He slung his bow over his shoulder, and hurried up the road towards the town of Standwell. ‘Just hang on, Presto. Two days....’
"Awake the Camp! To Arms!" The call radiated from the left side of the camp, but was repeated by every man as they grabbed their swords. It might not be a true threat, but letting an enemy catch you in your bed was worse than foolish, it was fatal.
The sharp voice of the commander split through the sounds of metal on leather as swords were drawn and sharp eyes peered out to the darkness. "What is it, Nightwatch?"
Eric blinked sleep out of his eyes and drew his sword, leaning heavily on his good leg. He strained to hear what the Nightwatchman was telling the band’s commander.
"A spirit, Sir. Or a ghost. We believe the latter. There was a green light radiating from those trees over there. Corman went to investigate, and saw the undead standing just beyond the line of the trees. Per standing orders, he awakened the camp." The Nightwatchman’s voice sounded like the appearance of ghosts, skeletons, or zombies was standard procedure for the troop, but Eric couldn’t think of anything standard about dead people not staying that way.
He heard the sound of rustling through the camp, and looked over his shoulder to see Corman run past him to meet with the commander. The Half-Elf was breathing hard, but regained his composure quickly. "Sir? The being has disappeared. We have searched the entire perimeter of the camp, but can’t see a trace of him."
The commander’s head was silhouetted against the firelight, and Eric saw him nod gravely. "Very well. It was probably some poor lost spirit trying to get to wherever it is he belongs." He raised his voice, so the order rang across the camp. "Stand down! Back to standard watch."
Eric gratefully laid his sword and shield down next to him and crawled back into his bedroll. The idea of a ghost wandering around the camp made him feel even colder, and he couldn’t shut his eyes. When Corman returned to his blankets, Eric was still awake. He inched closer to the tall mercenary.
"So what did you see?" he whispered.
Corman shrugged. "A ghost. Just like any ghost, I suppose."
"Yeah, but what did it look like?" Eric’s voice betrayed a little nervousness, but he tried to keep it under tight control.
"Short. A young human, and no warrior, I suppose." Corman pulled the blankets up around his shoulders. "Dressed in blue and brown, I think, with brown hair and eyes. Nothing special...well, except for being dead." He chuckled softly at his own joke. "He glowed with green light, and you could see right through him. His face was pale like death, too. If I saw a man on the street like that, I’d consider rifling his pockets. He certainly wouldn’t be using his coin for long."
Eric shifted uncomfortably at the image. "Did he say anything?"
"Nothing, really. He just asked me how to get home."
Eric relaxed. The ghost hardly sounded dangerous, and the spirit’s loss resonated with his own. A home for a ghost must be nearly as far away as his. Before falling asleep, he mumbled, "Good luck, Ghost. Sounds like you need it."
Somewhere in the darkness, Tiamat opened an eye.
Donavan was right. By sunrise, the rain was coming down in sheets, and it didn’t stop. By noon, the road was pure mud, and the wagon ruts had become streams flowing to either side of the track. The rain plastered Hank’s hair to his head and blinded him as it ran into his eyes. Above, the lightening crashed, brightening to incandescence the gray sky. Hank had to stop for a moment to unstring his bow; he’d be no good in a fight if the string snapped because of the wet. He twice had to leave the road completely where it washed out.
‘Maybe someone else is closer,’ Hank thought, breaking his way through the undergrowth. ‘Maybe he didn’t just get me.’ He would never let the others down, but they weren’t here. And Presto....' He shook his head abruptly. No, he would get there, in two days. Just like he promised.
He reached the Talon river, and found to his dismay that the bridge had washed out. The rail, however, still clung determinedly just above the swirling, muddy river. Hank paused at the side of the river. "I’ll never make it," he said aloud. "That thing is ready to break away any moment." There was another bridge, larger, and further above the water level, but it was a good half-day downstream. If he tried to get there, it would put and at least another day to his travel. He looked at the river, then up at the lightening-wracked sky in frustration. "I’d never make it in two days anyway. Not with this rain."
Hank turned south. But after walking about ten feet, he gave a shout of worry and frustration, and pounded back towards the narrow bridge. He splashed his way to the edge nearest the rail and leaped, grabbing for the rail before the current could pull him away. His fingers clambered at the wet, splintering wood...slipped...and finally held true. The current pulled at him like he was a doll, and the rain was heavy enough that he could hardly tell when he was under water or above it. But he hung on.
Slowly, painstakingly, he inched his way along the rail, hand over hand. He almost lost his grip twice, but manage to regain it again. After what seemed like years, he reached the eastern bank and crawled up on shore.
Soaking wet, shivering with cold, he checked his bow and knife, took a deep breath, and again strode through the rain towards the town of Standwell, and the person who had asked him to come.
"I’ve got them!" Diana yelled, waving the shining blue gemstone in one hand, the six-foot long spear in the other. "Let’s go!"
"No! Wait for me at the entrance. The bounty is also for the Roper, and I’m not leaving without it!" Xalan turned, and ran back into the shallow cave. Diana leaned against the entrance, clutching the spear to her as she waited for the sounds of fighting within the depths of the cavern.
The village of Heertag had been suffering severe drought for weeks, ever since a new creature had taken residence in the village shrine and killed the Guardian of the Stormgem. Diana quickly discovered that Xalen made most of her living ‘taking care’ of such problems in exchange for any treasure the creatures accumulated. The pair had stolen into the underground shrine to take the Stormgem back. But that was not enough for Xalen. Diana began to hear the sound of grunts, and a strange inhuman wail as her mentor started the fight. She tucked the Stormgem into her pouch and kept a tight grip on the spear, just in case.
‘Now, what’s that?’ Diana thought as she noticed a green glow begin to coalesce in the half-light of the cavern’s entrance. But before she could go and investigate, she heard a shout from deep within the cave.
"Diana!" Her mentor’s voice did not sound frightened, but there was enough urgency in it that the young woman forgot all about any green lights, and went running back into the cave with the spear in hand. Xalen wouldn’t call her unless it was critical.
She found Xalen clutched in one of the four, long tentacles of a pillar-like being, almost obscured by the darkness of the cavern. Xalen’s staff was clutched in another tentacle, and the thing's tiny eyes shone with an eerie red light. Xalen was struggling weakly against it, but her efforts were not succeeding in pulling her away from the creature’s grasp.
The cavern itself had been a small shrine before the Roper moved in. The paintings were still bright on the walls with scenes of orchards and flowing fields of grain. A pedestal in the middle of the cavern once housed the Stormgem, and it still shown with the gold plating that decorated it. There was a bed to one side, neatly made, that once belonged to the guardian, but the guardian would no longer be using it. His naked skull leered from a pile of bones against one wall of the cavern. There were more bones scattered about -- villagers who had gone up to the shrine before they realized that its Guardian had failed. Some of the bodies were fresh. Diana could smell the rotten-sweet fruit from their last offering.
"Let her go!" she shouted, brandishing the spear she had found. She did not anticipate a response from a monster that looked like a large stalagmite with tentacles. She got one.
"Why should I?" The voice sounded like ancient stone, filled with malice. "I did not attack you or even this one until I was attacked."
"I said, let her go!" Diana waved the weapon threateningly. The fine steel of the blade flashed in the dim light. "If you let her go we’ll..."
"No, Diana!" Xalen shouted, trying anew to worm out of the Roper’s grip. "Use the Guardian’s spear! Kill it! The bounty!" She was cut off abruptly as it wrapped another tentacle around her mouth.
"I shall let her go, if you leave and do not return. You have the Stormgem. You can have this one, despite the grievous hurt she did me. Just go." The thing did seem injured. One tentacle hung at its side limply.
The weight of the stone above her seemed oppressive. All Diana wanted to do was get out into the free air and run. But all around her, the hollow eyes of the dead seemed to follow her, and she could not escape their gaze. She leveled her spear and frowned. Finally, she came to a decision.
"Did you kill these people?" Her voice was like iron, and her dark eyes would not be swayed. Xalen struggled in its grasp.
The beady red eyes blinked once, and then it finally replied with a rumbling voice, "They were my prey. But that is no concern of yours."
"Are you sorry?" Diana took a step nearer. It shuffled a step back, confused. When Diana took another step forward, it threw Xalen aside.
"I return her. Let me be!"
Diana bit off the words. "Will you kill again?" She waited, but the Roper had no reply. The evidence was about her.
Diana thrust. The spear plunged into the center of the being, cleaving through the leathery skin. The tentacles waved in the air, and it collapsed in on itself like a deflating balloon. Diana’s eyes were cold as she yanked the spear free, and the words she said were for her mentor. "I will not kill for bounty, for you, or even for myself, if I can help it. But I will kill for justice. Don’t ask me to kill again."
She slung the spear over her shoulder and walked back to the cavern entrance. By the time she got there, the green light was gone.
Hank reached the town of Standwell at noon. The storm had lifted by late afternoon on the first day, and now the sky was overcast with patches of blue. His wet leathers creaked as he walked, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be dry again, but he didn’t slow as he rounded the town walls. He did pause to restring his bow as he approached the Healer’s cottage, and took a wary look around.
The garden bloomed furiously; life, still damp and fresh from the recent rain, spilled out of every bed. Flowers of orange, red, and gold bloomed, and beans and cabbages were lined up in neat rows. Other than that, the garden was empty. Hank opened the gate and made his way down the narrow path to Madeline’s cottage. Smoke was coming out of the chimney, despite the day’s warmth, but everything else seemed normal. Bundles of herbs hung from the windows to dry. Hank knocked on the door.
The short, middle-aged woman opened the door just a crack and peeked out. When she saw it was Hank, she threw it open wide and wrapped him in her embrace. "Ah, it’s you! And all soaked to the bone too! Please, come in. He’s inside."
Hank loosened his grip on his bow, but he didn’t let it drop as he ducked into the Healer’s cottage. The sunlight filtered softly through the light curtains, and the air was filled with the fragrance of drying herbs, spicy and sweet together. The cottage had only three rooms, but here, in the main room, a fire burned in the fireplace, a pot over it with what looked like laundry. A pair of small chairs and a table were near the fire, separating the body of the room from a small, cast-iron oven and some cabinets. On the other side of the room, there was a rocking chair, a stool, and a cot.
Madeline led Hank towards the cot where his friend lay, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. His face was pale, but his lips and cheeks were very red, and he shivered beneath layers of blankets. "Please, sit." she said, offering Hank the stool by the bedside. "Can I bring you a cup of tea, or something to eat? You look like a drowned gweekan." She bustled over to the oven to heat some water and fetch a blanket.
Hank just lowered his bow. "I’m here, Old Buddy," he said softly to the unconscious form. "Now what?" The magician did not move.
"He’s been like this for about four days now," the Healer said, opening a canister full of tea. "I found him in the garden, poor duckling. Not that this hasn’t been coming for quite a while. Long overdue, too, I think."
Hank looked down at his friend, and was bitterly reminded of Bobby and the Garden of Zinn. "He’s so sick...Where’s the cure, Madeline? I’ll go wherever I have to...."
"Not even the Dungeon Master could heal this," Madeline said, bringing Hank a cup of steaming tea. "There is no cure. This is a part of him, and to interfere with its course would mean his death for sure. Right now, he has a chance, however slim."
"Then what’s wrong with him? You’re supposed to be a healer; what’s the matter?" He sank down on the stool next to Presto’s bedside, looking at the Healer helplessly.
"You have not heard of the tests?" Hank shook his head. Madeline fetched a blanket and draped it around his shoulders. "Well," she said, sitting down in her rocking chair, "Maybe we can enlighten each other, because I have a few questions of my own. Have you ever wondered why there were so few magicians? With magic, we could protect our crops, shelter our houses, heat our water, and even keep the dragons at bay. We could even hide ourselves from the likes of Venger, for a time. What good mage would not want to teach his skill to as many as he could to protect his lands and people?"
"I guess I hadn’t thought of that." Hank took a sip of the tea, but his eyes never left Presto’s face.
Madeline leaned forward, her black eyes clouded. "The reason there are so few magicians, my lad, is because so few manage to pass the tests of magic. Only one in a hundred is born with the gift of magic flowing in his or her veins, and of them, only one in a hundred survive their first test. The greater the potential, the greater the test. Most of those born with the gift die before the age of twelve."
"Then Presto is...." Hank’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward.
The Healer nodded. "Yes. This is the first test. His spirit and his body are separated, and unless they reconcile quickly, he shall die."
"But when tried his magic after giving up his hat, it didn’t work. Well, except when he cast that one spell in Merlin’s castle. Besides, he’s sixteen, not twelve." She had to be wrong. There had to be something he could do to save him.
"For some reason, the test was delayed in him. You say he cast a spell before this?" Madeline leaned forward, her eyes brightening with curiosity.
Hank considered for a moment, and then decided he had to trust the Healer. Maybe if she knew their real circumstances, she’d be able to help. "We don’t come from this land," he said cautiously. "In the land we do come from, there isn’t any magic. But since we came here, Presto’s cast all kinds of spells. They never exactly worked right all the time, but they helped us out of a jam more times than I can count."
Madeline rocked back. "A different world. Well, the tests shouldn’t begin, then, until he got to this world. But that must have been some time ago. And they definitely would have started if he was actually trying to use his magic. You mentioned a hat?"
Hank smiled sadly, and lightly touched Presto’s shoulder. Presto twitched and mumbled something that Hank couldn’t quite make out, but did not open his eyes. "When we got here, the Dungeon Master gave each of us a magic weapon. He gave Presto a hat. He could pull just about anything out of it. But it didn’t always work right, and sometimes it didn’t really do anything at all." He took a deep breath, and added, "Once, when Venger took the hat, Presto cast a spell from Merlin’s spell book without it. But Eric told me before he left that he tried a couple of times to cast spells after he gave the hat back, and nothing happened. We all figured that he couldn’t do magic at all any more. No one can, from our world."
Madeline’s eyes cooled noticeably at the mention of the Dungeon Master, and Hank realized, for the first time, that there was a lot more to this woman than met the eye. "I see," she said. "I think, then, that this explains much. The Dungeon Master gave him a magical focus, but it arrested his natural development as a mage. It may not have worked correctly all the time because his natural powers were conflicting with its inherent powers, causing unpredictable results. What spell did he cast when he did not have the hat?"
"He banished all the dragons from Haven." Hank pushed down a wave of guilt. If he hadn’t given back the hat, Presto wouldn’t be suffering like this. Still....
"Oh, by the gods of light," Madeline whispered, raising her hands to her cheeks. "Such power...." She abruptly stood. "My boy, I need to go out in the garden and cut some herbs. Keep the fire going, and give him water from the jug on the table if he ever wakes enough to drink it. I shall be back soon." She hurried for the door, gathering a basket and scissors on the way.
After she left, Hank looked down at his friend. "Come on, Presto. Come on back."