For example, it's location. While most of the taverns in Miryn were located on the waterfront, and catered to the sea-going traveler, the Stand was located some distance outside the capital, on the road leading to the Pass of Mardor, and the Burning Sands beyond. The location had been carefully selected, based on the reasoning that any traveler who was planning on, or had been, crossing the Sands would more than likely want several large drinks.
On this particular warm summer night, a dusty horse plodded down the road leading to the Stand, weariness reflected in it's every movement. It's rider, a giant form in a dun colored caftan, slumped in the saddle, equally exhausted. Finally, the matched pair rode up to the tavern.
After gently watering his mount at the trough, the rider opened the door. Inside the bar, his eyes scanned the crowd, taking in the usual assortment of drunkards, thieves, ladies of negotiable affection and other scoundrels that were it's clientele. Shoulders set purposefully, he marched across the room, to the bar along the rear wall. A slight jingling sounded with each step, as he moved closer and closer. With a grunt, he settled his vast bulk on a creaking stool. His hooded head leaned back slightly, taking in the great bow of carved silveroak hanging on the rear wall.
"A mug of ale for a dying man." he rasped.
The slender form that reacted to his remark was another reason that the bar held some notoriety in the kingdom. While his leather smock was like those worn by tavern masters across the 13 Lands, his azure hair and skin marked him as one of the R'kadi, a race of sorcerers and witches. The barkeep smoothly placed a foaming mug before his newest customer, golden eyes peering within the shadowy hood. "Tal, is that you?"
"Ah, betrayed by my weaker impulses," the stranger replied, pulling back his hood. Sand encrusted red hair tumbled free, revealing the bearded face of Talkannen of Thun. "Hello, Ambler."
"Trip go well?" Ambler replied, hand outstretched.
"Dusty and dull, as always," Tal grinned, clutching Ambler's scarred hand in a viselike grip. "But Barim keeps sending me on these Mat-blasted patrols. '
"My heart bleeds for the tragic life of a Royal Arbiter" Ambler retorted.
Tal shrugged. "I guess I deserved that. How've you been? Any trouble?"
"Oh, the usual..." Ambler grinned thinly, "It seems that every young tough with a grudge against the 'hated blueskins' stops by sooner or later to take a shot at me'. I have to admit, sometimes it can get really annoying."
"What, the constant fighting?" Tal chuckled.
"No, trying not to kill them. It's been years since my mercenary days. I'm supposed to be a respectable merchant now."
"You could always call for an Arbiter instead...I'd be glad to do your fighting for you" his ursine companion hinted, a broad grin on his face.
"Nah. I find that I enjoy these little..." Ambler stopped suddenly, skin paling, "Great Mother..."
"What is it?" Tal asked worriedly.
"Om'matreka..this can't be possible."
A hush fell over the assembled bar patrons as an eerie chanting made itself heard. Slowly, it grew louder, as the doors opened, and a trio of strangers marched into the tavern. Their simple, homespun robes, not unlike that which Tal himself wore, were unremarkable, but the staves they held were not. They shimmered with an eerie radiance, which did not so much illuminate the room, but simply dispelled the shadows.
As they approached, Ambled shuddered, and slumped to the ground.
"Ambler! Are you all right?" Tal shouted. "Should I call a Healer?"
"Those three...danai...utlani baraq, utlani tiran.." Ambler moaned, lapsing into the tongue of his youth.
Tal nodded in comprehension. Danai, mined from the stones of the sky, had many uses...all based on it's singular property to absorb magic. And Ambler, this far from his homeland, was particularly susceptible to it's effects.
"Ambler!" Tal whispered fiercely. "You know the rules...I cannot interfere, unless one of the parties asks for Arbitration."
"Ar'batri'ya..." Ambler moaned.
"Close enough." Tal grinned once more, not with the friendly smile he'd worn earlier, but with the feral rictus of a warrior, ready to fight. From beneath his robes, he drew a bronze mace, ostensibly the sign of his office, but a bit larger and heavier than absolutely necessary [for that purpose, at least]. Tal let his robe hang loose, revealing the chain mail beneath.
"Now, gentlemen...is there a problem?"
In unison, the trio turned to face him. Blank eyes stared, and a dull voice echoed in his skull, "We bear a message to all the residents of this land."
"That is all well and good, friends, but your staves are causing my friend discomfort. If you would come with me, I'm sure we could find a venue for your announcement."
"We care nothing for the fate of the R'kadi. We are on a holy mission." the voice replied coldly.
While this had been going on, the rest of the clientele, well experienced in the ways of bar life, had, by means of various orthodox and unorthodox exits, left the room at a fair rate of speed. The only exception was an ascetic looking scholar, who was rapidly scribbling something down on a roll of parchment with a truly impressive black quill.
"Well now." Tal purred, hefting his mace, "As Arbiter of the King, I have been charged to maintain the order. You are creating a conflict, and it'll be my pleasure to resolve this situation.."
The voice issued forth once more, as the three figures stared impassively. "You are not worthy to maintain the ways of Order. You associate with a child of Chaos, drink the milk of madness, and wear a cloak of deception. You have no power over the True Law."
"The True Law, eh? I know a lot about the Truth..it's part of my job." Tal's grin widened, "But not my favorite. Thankfully, you gentlemen have given me the opportunity to indulge myself in the part that is...Judgment."
Spinning on his right leg, Tal swung his rod of office in a great sweep, directly toward the nearest cloaked form. The sudden stop it made, just before contacting one of the staves, jarred him from his wrist to his elbow, as his mace fell from nerveless fingers.
"As you have been told... you have no authority over the Law."
"Tirani!" came a shaky cry from behind them. Momentarily distracted from the numbness of his arm, Tal turned to find Ambler leaned up against the bar, an ornate dagger clutched in his right hand.
"K'ya Emblya, Khaymot Dib!" the R'kadi shouted, slicing open his left palm with the dagger, and letting the blood flow onto the blade.
The three figures closed in on him and began chanting anew. Talkannen found himself frozen where he stood, as the cloaked singers walked past.
Ambler staggered forward, blood dripping from his slashed palm. In his eyes, his anger shone like a beacon, piercing the heart of the coterie that was tormenting him. He lifted the now crimson blade high, and words of R'kad spilled from his lips.
"Om'matreka, vedo lakot, oda galif, olva sang."
The figures paused, and Tal felt the hairs on the back of his arms rise.
"Tesra vayn, bote nem."
Outside, the wind howled, and the silver moonlight dimmed.
"Al gelev palen..."
An aura of azure flame erupted about the blade, as Ambler raised it high over his head.
"VAKRA TIRANI!"
With a snarl, Ambler cast the dagger at the nearest singer.
There was a sudden flash, a thunderous crackle, and a scent of ozone. As Tal's vision cleared, he saw that his opponents had vanished, and the bar was aflame. Finding himself free to move, he leapt over the burning counter, and gathered up the nearly unconscious form of his comrade.
"Archentos.." Ambler moaned, pointing upwards. Tal nodded, and as he hefted Ambler over his right shoulder, snatched up the silveroak bow with his free hand. With a swift kick, he shattered the bartop, giving him passage to the main room. Pausing only to recover his mace, he charged the door, as the ceiling collapsed behind him.
His horse had backed away from the flames, but neared as his master approached. Tossing his burden over the saddle, he murmured, "Derva, m'lad... it's time to go"
The horse snickered in response, and as soon as his partner was in position, galloped down the road to the capital. Mere moments later, a burst of flame announced the marriage of flame and alcohol. As they rode on, Ambler shuddered, and attempted to shake himself free. Tal reined in Derva.
Ambler gingerly slipped off the horse, and carefully stepped back, "This is not good," he murmured, the color returning to his cheeks.
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble.." Tal remarked, relief flooding his face.
"Yes?" Ambler replied, brushing ash from his clothing.
"Would you mind telling me what in the name of Mogar's Malevolent Masque happened here?"
"Something you and your king are not prepared for. The coming of the
Law."
Smiling wistfully, he headed toward the council chamber. Unfortunately, those days were long past. Instead of late nights with the Margravaine of Etrea, he had early mornings with the royal council. Somehow, it didn't seem like a fair exchange. Accompanied by his crimson liveried guards, he marched the dim halls of Miryn Keep. Along the way, he paused to gaze at a polished steel shield hanging from a statue of his illustrious ancestor, Mardor the Bold. The face that met his gaze shared some features of the ancient hero, but the cares of kingship were also evident in his lined face and silver shot hair.
A polite cough sounded behind him. He turned to face a necessary evil... Chamberlain Matsel, a man who's dry and dusty demeanor melded perfectly with his ledger books. "Beg pardon, Majesty, but they are waiting for you ..."
"Oh shut up, Matsel... it's not like they can start without me," Beldor sulked momentarily, before smoothing his hair one last time, and proceeding onward. At the door to the council chamber, Beldor withstood yet another announcement of his interminable titles, finally reaching his throne, where a mug of hot Jafa tea was waiting for him. As he sipped at it greedily, he glanced around the table.
Matsel, fussy as ever, took his accustomed place at his left. Beyond him, the rotund form of Jebel, Baron of Shirrak, and one of the largest landowners of the kingdom, jiggled slightly as he hefted a goblet of rich red wine. Based on the spots on his yellow doublet, and the carafe before him, it was not his first. And probably not his last.
Next was the Hierophant, Prester Dantler, Wisest of the Wise, high priest of Yochan the Lawgiver, resplendent in his ceremonial robes. Occasionally, Beldor wondered if he ever took them off.
Seated across from the Chamberlain was Elladora, the recently widowed Countess of Blackwood. Her husband had once served as Lord Martial, a post still vacant, and his wisdom was sorely missed. His widow, while one of the true beauties of the kingdom, hardly seemed a suitable replacement. In her sable gown, she sat, wanly awaiting the beginning of the meeting.
And finally, at Beldor's right hand, sat Lord Barim, Arbiter General. Unlike his fellow councilors, he wore his armor, covered only by a pale green mantle. He did not look happy, but then he rarely did.
"My lords and ladies," Dantler began sonorously, rising to his feet, "the Council is met, in a time of great crisis. Yea, it has come down through the ages that we, the Grand Council of Miryn, have been given the task, no the mandate by the Great Judge, who watches over us, and guides us on the path of peace, and for whom we owe our life, family and honor, and whom we shall face in the Reckoning, with the knowledge that we, of all who live.."
"Talk too much." Barim, muttered, munching on a biscuit, "Danny old boy, if they gave out laurels for sheer lung capacity, you'd win hands down, but do we really have to go through this every morning?"
Dantler sat down in a huff, and in a hurt tone replied, "The state of
our souls are of great importance. You of all people should know
this..."
"What are you trying to say..." Barim glowered, as his hand fell nonchalantly to the mace at his hip.
"Gentlemen, PLEASE!" Matsel interjected, "Could we move on? I still have to go over the accounts for the last three moons. If they aren't kept correctly, who knows what madness may ensue."
And as usual, the "Grand Council" started bickering. Beldor watched them, a bemused look on his face. Draining the last drops of his tea, he stood, and spoke one word.
"SILENCE!"
Naturally, the room fell silent. He was the king, after all.
"Now that I have your attention... what, pray tell, is the reason you dragged me out of bed this early?"
"My apologies, Majesty," Barim replied, reading the scroll before him. "Last evening, Talkannen, one of my men, returned from a circuit of the desert tribes. Stopping at a local tavern, he witnessed an attack by three strangers who demonstrated considerable mystic might, and definite hostile intent."
"In Myrinic?" Countess Elladora queried.
"They attacked the bar with rods of Danai. The target seemed to be the owner of the tavern, a R'kadi expatriate named.."
"Ambler?" Beldor said. "Is he still around? I haven't seen him since..." He suddenly stopped, voice trailing.
"The death of her Majesty, " Dantler replied quietly. "And the birth of your son."
"Did they say who they were?" Matsel prodded.
"According to Tal," Barim rustled through several scrolls, "they claimed to be representatives of `the True Law', whatever that means. They refused arbitration, resisted physical chastisement, and were only defeated by a R'kadi stormblade, which destroyed them, as well as the tavern itself."
"Did Ambler survive?" Beldor queried.
"With Tal's help, yes. However, the bar itself was completely destroyed."
"Pity," Jebel cracked, "He had good wine."
"What did this Ambler fellow have to say about it?" Matsel mused.
"He has agreed to testify to the Council on the matter." Barim replied.
"Then by all means, let him speak" Beldor commanded..
Barim passed a note to a waiting page, who slipped out the door. Moments later, the herald announced the witness’ arrival.
"Emblya, of the House Khaymot, called Ambler the Gray." And Ambler strode in. He was no longer wearing the smock of a barkeep. Thanks in no small part to a chest he'd left in the Royal vaults, he was garbed instead in a cloud-grey robe, heavily embroidered with silver brocade. His wrists and hands were wrapped in red cloth, leaving only his fingers and thumbs free. Slowly, gravely, he marched into the room, pausing before the throne of the King.
"Why do I get the sinking suspicion you aren't going to kneel.." Beldor sighed.
"In that outfit?" Elladora murmured, "He'd get it all wrinkled. I wonder what he's wearing underneath it."
"Milady" Ambler grinned, "you'll never know....."
"While I'm sure that satisfying the Countess's curiosity would be most entertaining," Matsel remarked dryly, "We do have more important matters to discuss."
"My apologies," Ambler replied, bowing at the chamberlain, "I have long been absent from the halls of power, and I fear my manners have decayed somewhat."
"Great Mardok," the Baron snarled, spilling his wine, "Will someone please get to the point?"
"If you would indulge me a moment longer, my dear Baron, I believe I can satisfy that demand." Ambler intoned, a chilly mask dropping over his features..
"For a hundred generations, the R'kad Empire held dominion over the 13 Lands. At it's height, it's power was nearly unbeatable."
"Nearly, but not totally. A century ago, in the reign of the Matriarch Yanar Valmot, strangers from the icy south sent a diplomatic envoy to her court. They spoke of making a covenant with our people, and offering them great knowledge, eternal peace, and undying order."
"Sounds rather enjoyable" Beldor mused.
"That it does, your Majesty. But we R'kadi learned long ago that power comes with a price. In this case, our very souls."
"Demons!" Dantler proclaimed, "Wights of the Ice!"
Ambler shook his head. "Not in the sense you mean. But still a great evil, one possibly more threatening than any devil or imp.
"You see, there are Five Houses of Magic. We R'kadi use three: Air, Fire, and Water. The Guild of Shapers use another: The House of Earth. However, there is one house that we all are forbidden to use, on pain of death... the House of Spirit."
"B-B-But, we use that daily, in our work!" Barim spluttered.
Ambler paused. "I mis-spoke. In my youth, such an error would have brought me a thrashing. We are forbidden to change the energies of the House of Spirit, though we, as you, are capable of sensing their flows.
"These Utlani, these outsiders, did not share that restriction.
Using techniques long thought lost, they had pooled their souls into one
mass, losing all that made themselves unique in the process. They offered
knowledge, but not learning. Peace, but not freedom. Order, but not life.
Our empire would have become just another part of their machine-like existence,
and with our power joined to theirs, all other
lands would have joined them."
The Countess shuddered, "That's not fun at all."
"Indeed, my lady. Yanar cast them from the Empire, but they had already spread their contagion. Reports came from outlying provinces of blank faced warriors, who overran village after village, destroying them utterly.
"Finally, we came to a decision. The Storm was gathered, and met the Tirani, as they had been named, for their domineering ways, on the plains of the Kobyiat."
Ambler paused, a somber look in his eyes, "Many great warriors paid the Price that day, but in the end, we were victorious, and the Tirani were scattered to the four winds. A watch was set on the southern frontier, to prevent them from ever gathering in such strength again."
"Clearly," Matsel murmured, "they have failed."
"I fear you are right, milord Chamberlain. The Empire is not what it once was, and the Tirani have risen anew."
"We must fight them!" the Hierophant shouted.
"Then we'd lose," Barim murmured. "Talkannen told me how well his powers worked on them, or to be more accurate, how badly."
"Let the barkeep fight them off again." Shirrak grinned. "He did a great job the last time."
"I find your faith in me inspiring, your Excellency." Ambler retorted, "but I cannot defeat an entire army."
Beldor cleared his throat, "Then we must get an army that can. We must send an envoy to R'kad. Only with their help can we overcome this threat."
"Ah... your majesty" Matsel murmured. "The protocols of the Treaty of Miryn state that only an envoy of the blood of Mardor will be accepted."
"And if I go, that would spread unnecessary rumors. Which means only
one thing." Beldor paused, took a deep breath, and exhaled
slowly.
"Guards... send for my son."
A relic of darker times, the dungeons were no longer used for their original purpose. What few political prisoners the kingdom had developed were usually fined, exiled, or occasionally simply killed. So when the young prince, enamored of the works of Akva-Sul, requested a private area for his researches, preferably one with little external light, the dungeons seemed the ideal choice. With nary a thought, the king assigned them to his sole offspring.
But then, the strange odors started, and weird sounds were occasionally heard. After one incident, where a massive blob of evil smelling green foam melted the wall near the old furnace, the Guard found it rather easy, if not preferable, to station a guard at the door to the cellar, but leave the dungeons themselves alone.
Hence, when word came down of His Majesty's request, the guards on duty performed the first step of the long established procedure for summoning the prince.
They played dice for it. The squad gathered in the shadowy corridor leading to the cellars, and awaited the decision of their grizzled commander.
"Then it is decided. Three tosses each, low score goes down to get him. Right?"
A panoply of grunts, shrugs and nods showed the general agreement to this proposition. The sergeant crouched, and tossed the ivory pyramids into the air.
"Four, Two, One... beat that, you bums."
Young Paxel, just promoted to this squad, reached a shaky hand out, and gathered the dice. Squaring his shoulders, he tossed them into the air.
From the shadows, a massive hand snatched the tumbling bones. Slowly, the fist clenched, with a grinding noise, only to open again to scatter a handful of dust.
"For shame, gentlemen," said the figure as he stepped into the torch light. "Gambling on duty... I shall have to put you on report."
"Lord Talkannen!" the sergeant stammered, "I didn't see you there."
"Naturally," he drawled. "Otherwise you would never have suggested, even in jest, that attending the Prince was a chore."
The sergeant nodded furiously, "Y-y-yes, milord. Of course."
Tal bowed his head in response. "Since you find the duty so onerous, you are dismissed. Gather your men, and await further instructions in your bunkhouse."
"Yes SIR!"
"And do wake up young Paxel... he'll catch cold lying on the floor like that."
For his part, young Prince Brandor was unaware of the drama being played out in the corridors above. One of his father's ambassador's had found another Akvan tablet in the bowels of an old tower in Telia. Knowing of the prince's interest (as well as the fact that any damage that could occur would accrue whilst he was several leagues away, a fact he'd shrewdly omitted from the accompanying letter), he'd sent it as a gift on the 15th anniversary of Brandor's birth, scant weeks ago.
Since then, Brandor had spent most of the days in his candle-lit sanctum, painstakingly translating the words into a more modern tongue. And today, he was ready to assay the formulas thus revealed. Running a hand through his sandy locks, he reached for the scroll where the fruits of his long labors were inscribed.
"Calling Forth The Fires of Tyas", he murmured, rummaging among the jars, boxes, and vials strewn on the table before him. "Let's see..."
"To bring the fire of the burning god to earth requires 20 stela... that means the ratios will be out of twenty. Must remember to start small this time."
Brandor glanced guiltily at the emerald scars on the wall from a previous experiment, then purposefully placed a scale on the table directly before him.
"As the Burning One rules the dead, gather 15 stela of the white blood of the tomb," he recited, grabbing up a jar filled with an acrid white substance. He grinned as he began doling out spoonfuls into the right hand bowl.
"14... 15... You have to love these religious types. Took me a week to figure out they meant niter. White blood of the tomb indeed. Next?"
He perused the scroll before him. "Oh right... '3 stela of Brimstone, to symbolize the fires of perdition.'" Three spoons of a yellow powder joined the mixture.
"And finally, to symbolize the souls of the damned, 2 stela of the ashes of the dead. In other words, charcoal. Mix well and offer to Tyas."
The next several moments were filled with the sound of a mortar and pestle. Brandor worked at the pungent mixture until sweat beaded on his brow. Finally, it seemed ground as finely as possible, and he reached for a slender stick of wood.
Placing one end in a handy candle, he twirled it about until it caught flame. Carefully, he brought it over to his work bench. He leaned over...
Two loud thumps announced a visitor at the door. Brandor stood up, banging his head on a low hanging alembic. The slim wand dropped from his fingers, and burned momentarily on the flagstones before extinguishing.
"Ow... Go away! I asked not to be disturbed." Brandor shouted, and reached for another sliver of wood.
"Bran, my boy," a familiar voice responded. "Either open this Mat-blasted door, or stand back."
"TAL!" the prince shouted, leaping to the door. With some anticipation, he slid open the lock and pulled the heavy oaken door open.
Talkannen stood there, idly tapping his mace in one gauntleted palm, "Ah, there you are, your Highness. Lovely morning, isn't it?"
"When did you get back?" the young prince chattered.
"Last night... I'd tell you more, but your father wants to see you in the Council Chamber." Tal glanced down at his royal charge, clad only in a simple white tunic and brown hose. "You might want to change into something more formal."
A quarter glass later, the herald announced the arrival of Crown Prince Brandor, heir to the Iron Throne of Mardor, and the young prince entered, panting ever so slightly. The only other signs of his haste were a certain dampness of his hair around the ears, and a slightly askew red doublet.
"You wished to see me father?"
Beldor nodded, "I have a task for you, my son. Perhaps the most important role of your life."
Briefly, he outlined the situation, "...and hence, you are the only person who may deliver our plea to the Matriarch."
"But father... I'm so close.."
A stony stare was the only reply.
"But the kingdom comes first. I understand."
"Will the Matriarch believe him?" Matsel mused.
"Perhaps not if he was going alone." Barim replied thoughtfully. "Would you accompany him, Emblya?"
For the merest instant, panic showed on Ambler's face, before his mask reasserted itself. "That may not be enough. My status in the court is not the best."
Barim stared thoughtfully at the slightly pale R'kadi. "Then we shall send Talkannen along. As a bound Arbiter, his word is sacrosanct."
"Um.." Elladora said.
"Yes, countess?" Beldor prodded.
"If the prince, Amber, and uh... this tall fellow all leave at the same time, don't you think people might get suspicious?"
Barim blinked. "They might... we'd need an excuse."
Brandor cleared his throat nervously. "If I may, my Lords (and Lady)."
"Yes, son?"
"I'm of age now. What if you announce that I am taking a trip to Parradine? The Guildhouse is there, and everyone knows I've wanted to witness the Changes for years."
Beldor thought about this, "Well done, my boy. Once there, you could easily take a side trip into the mountains... or anywhere else that struck your fancy."
Matsel nodded, "And a ship for Parradine leaves on the morning tide. But what of Talkannen and Ambler here?"
"A thought," the Baron of Shirrak slurred.
All eyes turned to him.
"I happen to know of a ship, that for a fee, will take our stalwart warriors anywhere in the sea of Nesta. No questions asked."
Barim bored his gaze into Jebel's bloodshot eyes. "And how, pray tell, do you know of this vessel?"
The Baron merely grinned.
When the announcement was made, reactions among the populations varied. The merchant quarter went into overdrive. By the next morning, the docks were awash with vendors selling commemorative woodcuts, somewhat suspicious foodstuffs, flowers, banners and bows.
The fishermen sighed, and woke up earlier than usual, to avoid the traffic from the armada of well-wishers that would inevitably fill the bay.
In a small tavern near the palace, (not as well known as the Last Stand, and therefore much quieter), the Prince's Guard detail drank to his health, safety, and hopefully long voyage.
Deep within the vaults of the palace, a slender figure opened a cobweb draped trunk.
And standing beside the King, watching the festivities below, Barim scowled, and stifled a yawn.
It was bad enough that the King had made a pageant of this. In order to maintain at least a semblance of security, he'd had to summon several Arbiters from more important matters, just so His Majesty could parade to the docks with the usual brood of slimy sycophants, overbred nobles, and pampered popinjays. Barim shrugged inwardly, as his wind beaten features swept the throng before him.
"All part of the job," he mused, "I'm getting too old for early mornings."
That was the crux of the matter. Not the bright chatter of the present, but the tiresome events of the recent past.
The sun had barely risen when they'd assembled in a sheltered cove that morning.
"Are we sure this is a good idea?" Tal grumbled, slumped in Derva's saddle.
From his right, steering a small cart, Baron Jebel whispered, "I do apologize, Milord Arbiter, but if you wish to avoid notice, this kind of deception is unavoidable."
"I know that, Baron..but did it have to be so Mat-blasted early?"
To Tal's left, Barim rode quietly astride a steed that, by it's scars and slow walk, clearly matched the world weariness of it's rider. "It must be done, for the King, the Land, and the Truth." he remarked sharply. It was the same tone of voice he'd used to a young novice on the practice field so many years ago, and he was secretly gratified to see it had the same result.
Blood rising to his cheeks, Tal stammered, "My a-p-pologies, Lord Barim. The hour has made me careless."
Barim nodded, "See that it doesn't happen again."
Jebal chuckled, "Not a morning person, Lord Talkannen?"
The glare that was directed to the rotund landowner might have felled a giant, if not for the merciless yawn that defused it's menace.
Barim winced as the morning chill settled in his bones, "Are we sure this captain of yours is reliable, Shirrak? If he blurts out too much in his cups in some harbor tavern, this entire trip could prove futile."
"Oh yes, I can safely say that the Captain is possibly the most reliable shipmaster in my fleet. The Silver Shark has never been..ah..."
"I believe the word you are looking for is caught, your Excellency"
came a voice from the fog ahead.
A light breeze swirled the mists, bringing with it the tang of fresh
sea air, leavened with the redolent aroma of exotic spices.
Three figures stepped from the fog. Two, matching specimens of scarred muscle, held crossbows at the ready. The third…was a woman.
Crimson hair flowed around her face as she approached the trio. Her loose sailor's blouse, leather pants and boots showed her practicality. The rapier in a well worn scabbard riding her hip showed her lethality.
Mail armor jiggled as the two arbiters reached for their maces.
"Remain calm, gentlemen" the svelte woman commanded, "We wouldn't want any unfortunate accidents. Vix! Nax! Keep them covered."
"My dear Captain Mako", the Baron yawned. "Why must we always go through this rather dull routine."
"Because I don't trust you, your Excellency",
"What? After all we have been through?"
Violet eyes gleamed, as the dim light of dawn began to grow. "Because of all we've been through, old man."
"ENOUGH!" Talkannen roared, kicking his heels into Derva’s flanks. A firm grip on his left arm halted his advance, nearly unseating him.
"The situation seems to be in hand, Tal." Barim murmured, "Keep your temper leashed, Arbiter."
Mako strode purposefully towards the Baron's cart, and was soon in deep conversation. Her aides, the aforementioned Vix and Nax, glared at the patiently waiting Arbiters, silently daring them to attempt an attack.
The mists burned away, shattered by the light of dawn. Barim’s eyes widened, and a tight grin grew on his features as a new figure, who's grey robes mirrored the fog itself, was revealed behind the rough-hewn pair. His headscarf hid his features, but the silvery bow stave, unlike any in the entire realm, stated his identity plainly as it gleamed in the morning light.
"Good morning, gentlemen," his clear voice welcomed, "I was wondering when you'd arrive."
The two sailors whirled, only to find themselves disarmed as the heavy bow stave spun in the newcomer's hands, knocking their weapons free.
Tal smirked, "Well, well, well. If it isn't that legendary hero, Ambler Grey."
Ambler, for so it was, bowed his hooded head in acknowledgment. Stepping between Nax and Vix (who each rubbed a bruised wrist), he approached the small group of wayfarers.
"Good morning, Captain. It is good to see the Shark remains in good hands."
Mako turned from her consultations. "My uncle spoke well of you, grey one. For his sake, and the sake of old debts," she glanced at the Baron, "I have agreed to this ridiculous crusade."
"As well you should…"
The blare of trumpets shattered Barim’s reverie. The king had finished his speech, and now the young Prince had his turn.
"Honored Father", he intoned in a shaky baritone. "Nobles, friends, and subjects. Although I am only recently a man, it gratifies me to know that you think me ready to make this journey, alone and unattended, and represent our fair kingdom at the Changes of Parradine."
He stood silent for an awkward moment, at a loss for further words.
"My son", Beldor commanded, "It is time."
The king turned to Barim as his son knelt before him. The craggy faced arbiter raised a velvet covered bundle, and let the wrappings fall free.
With studied reverence, Beldor raised the shimmering rod concealed within. "Brandor, my son. This day, I am prouder of you than any other. Behold the sceptre of Keldor the Wise, the first prince of our realm. Carry it with you, near to your heart, and know that you are near to ours."
Brandor looked up, eyes shining, and accepted the burden. The trumpets blared one last refrain, and the heralds led a final cheer. Grimly, Barim followed his lords up the gangplank of the Balinori, and stood guard as they prepared to make their final farewells.
King Beldor led his son to the prow, where a swarthy Mitran with truly impressive eyebrows bellowed commands to his crew.
"Keep an eye on those ropes, you mangy dogs! If you rip the topsail, I’ll hang you up in it's place!"
He glanced up at the approaching duo.
"Brandor, my boy. This is Captain Niska, master of this vessel. At sea, his word is law. Obey him as you would me."
Brandor nodded, barely able to speak. Suddenly, his father grabbed him in a rough embrace. "I shall miss you, son." he whispered.
"And I you… Father."
"Come now!" Niska roared. "We must cast off, ere we miss the tide!"
Beldor stepped back, and bowed. "As you wish, Captain." Pivoting on his heel, he strode toward the gangplank, Barim smoothly falling into step at his side.
"Don't look back" Barim murmured.
"I know, old friend. It seems like only yesterday I first held him in my arms. And now the survival of the realm, if not the world, rests on his shoulders."
"He is a Mardor, like his father. How can he fail?"
So when the silk clad figure strode stately into town, all eyes turned to him. Old Relan, enthroned at his customary bench watched muzzily as the stranger approached.
In the morning light, his eyes widened as he saw the scalplock and sigil of the Shaper's Guild. By instinct, he twisted his right hand to ward away witchcraft.
"Fear me not, revered one." the Shaper murmured. "I seek the croft of one called Ilda."
"Heard the stories, have you?"
The Shaper's head bobbed, "Word has reached the Guild. I have been sent by the Dorshan himself to study the claim."
"Thought as much" Relan burped "Scuse me…Ilda’s house is down the lane there, hard against the slope. You should be able to hear the wheel."
"Thank you, freeman. May the Maker craft you Peace."
"Nice lad." Relan thought, as the visitor stepped down the lane. "Pity
about the hair."