tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20083332744985546422024-02-20T10:59:52.652-06:00Kurt "Telas" Schneider<b><i>Yes, it's another gaming blog.</i></b> <p>Before you go, can I mention that I'm a published author, and co-writer for the ENnie Award winning <a href="http://www.gnomestew.com/">Gnome Stew?</a><p>
My system-neutral GMing advice will still be on Gnome Stew. This blog will cover system-specific advice, character stories, and observations on gaming (and gamers).</p></p>Telashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638321955482508217noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2008333274498554642.post-91807312944614434922010-09-21T21:42:00.000-05:002010-09-21T21:42:19.435-05:00A New Life<div class="MsoNormal"> It was late morning before the sun finally rose high enough to reach the western slope of the Stormhorn Mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lone figure strode down the western road; his breath condensed in the crisp autumn air that carried the promise of a harsh winter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Fergon had left the citadel at High Horn Pass well before dawn; the light from a full moon in a clear sky had been sufficient at this altitude for the young man to make his way down the western road from the pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The young Northman hurried along, aware that the regular patrols along the road did not remove all the hazards a traveler might face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> If he put enough miles behind him, he should meet up with a patrol of Purple Dragons, as the professional soldiers of Cormyr were called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The patrol was scheduled to be two day’s travel away, and Fergon knew that if he left early and kept a solid pace, that he could cover that distance in one long day, at least downhill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A caravan had left High Horn four days before, and Gareth had estimated that it would settle down for the evening with the patrol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon had wondered aloud how they could travel so slowly and still manage to make any profit, and the old sergeant had laughed, saying, “You’ll find out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your best option is to travel with them the rest of the way to Eagle Peak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get First Sword Zessington to vouch for you to the Caravan Master, mind yourself with the merchants, and don’t let the guards get to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s boring work, traveling with a caravan, but it’s a damn sight safer than traveling these mountains alone."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"> In the summer that he had spent at the garrison at High Horn, Fergon had impressed even the grizzled veteran soldiers with his ability to cover vast distances on foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had also polished many a pair of boots, shined more armor than he had ever seen before, and swept cubic yards of dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In return, the soldiers at the garrison taught him the local language, showed him how to use a wide variety of weapons, and mesmerized him with stories (some of them true).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> Fergon had arrived at High Horn as the slave of a foreign wizard disguised as a storyteller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A perceptive sergeant had seen through the charade, and managed to thwart the wizard’s plans and free the boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon’s first act of freedom was to kill his former master in a fit of rage, inadvertently impressing the garrison with his bravery and capacity for violence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The soldiers had taken him under their communal wing, and the young barbarian had absorbed everything the troops had shown him, often impressing them with his attitude and aptitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For instance, Astel, a trooper known for his sarcastic sense of humor, had shown Fergon the manual-at-arms for the two-handed Greataxe, joking that “A barbarian should use a barbaric weapon.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon spent the next month mastering the Greataxe, and used it to best Astel in a sparring session.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> But Fergon had recently turned seventeen years old, and he knew that many of the soldiers expected him to take the oath as a Purple Dragon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While he loved the soldiers as liberators, teachers, and even father figures, he was a child of the wild barbarian tribes of the Great Glacier, not a son of the ancient empire of Cormyr.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though he owed the soldiers of Cormyr a debt that he may never repay, he also knew that the structured life of a soldier was alien to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> Winter was fast coming on, and Fergon knew that the garrison would feel like a prison under the snows of winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was time to leave and seek out his own path, wherever that would take him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had told his friends of his intent, and started packing his few belongings, when individual soldiers began to give him with gifts of their own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some would present them to him with emotional goodbyes, such as when Gareth gave him a suit of studded leather armor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others preferred anonymity, such as when Fergon came back from sweeping the training hall to find a Greataxe on his bedroll.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although nobody would admit it, he suspected Astel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> So Fergon left the Citadel of High Horn with a somewhat heavier pack (and heart) than he had intended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> The sun had just kissed the western horizon when Fergon sighted the combined encampments of the caravan and the Purple Dragon patrol a half-mile off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cool morning had given way to one of the last mild days of the year, and despite the dry mountain air, sweat darkened the Northman’s clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He quickened his pace; there was no danger of getting there before dark, but he was eager to be amongst familiar faces, if for the last time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Jendetha looked up from the clothes she was washing and stared at the approaching caravan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The song she had been singing trailed off and she let out a heavy sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caravans depressed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Father would want to get rid of his excess goats for the oncoming winter, and the whole family would be up late tonight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the animals would be have to be combed to make them attractive (and to get as much mohair as possible before selling them).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> But caravans meant more than to Jendetha than extra work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were proof of a world outside Eagle Peak that she would never see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eagle Peak was not a bad place: she was relatively safe, fed somewhat regularly, and loved her family (most of the time).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her needs were taken care of, but her wants were left wholly unanswered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted to travel, to see distant lands, to live a life in which every day would be something other than a minor variation on the theme of goatherd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> She sighed again, and began to sing again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wishing wouldn’t make a life of adventure happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was still laundry to do, and then there would be wood to gather for the upcoming winter, and then there would be shearing and birthing in the spring….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The song was a favorite of hers, a long lay about a maiden rescued from a life of drudgery by a dashing prince, and she had lost her place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So she began again with the recounting of the life of drudgery faced by the dainty maiden.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"> First Sword Zessington had indeed introduced Fergon to the caravan master, who showed obvious distaste at the young barbarian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he had agreed to let him travel with the caravan, if he would carry his own gear and eat his own rations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And if he makes ANY trouble, he’s out on his arse!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon had no choice but to agree or make his way alone down the dangerous road from High Horn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least water was free, thanks to the Chantrus, an acolyte of Shaundakul that traveled with the caravan and created pure water every morning and evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> Fergon quickly found that Chantrus was the only man on the caravan friendly to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The merchants didn’t trust barbarians, and the guards seemed to be threatened by his size, greataxe, and fine armor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So he had spent the last four days in Chantrus’ company, learning about the Rider of the Wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon had often felt as if the vicious gods of his homeland had forsaken him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Chantrus managed, over a dusty four days, to convince the young man that Shaundakul, the Rider of the Wind, the Lord of Roads, the Traveler’s Protector, would care about him in his travels and adventures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the first time since his abduction, Fergon found a deity worthy of his prayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And though he did not fully join Shaundakul’s flock, he felt as if his place in the world was starting to be written.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> But right now, Fergon was thinking only of Thulvas, and how good it would feel to break his nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The caravan guard had once again called Fergon “that animal”, and his teenage patience was wearing very thin indeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sped up his pace, partly out of anger, and partly to get away from the guard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Thulvas, unencumbered by a backpack, kept up with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why do you run, foreigner?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you fear my rapier wit?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You should be far more afraid of my sword.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you know that Cormyr is always driving off foreigners like yourself?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon ground his teeth again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this rate he would get to Eagle Peak with nothing left in his mouth but bloody gums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> Chantrus was speaking to the caravan master at the lead of the column, and Fergon hoped that his meeting would be done soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thulvas would not pick on Fergon around the acolyte, having the uneducated man’s fear of the gods, and a caravaner’s innate respect for the God of Travels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon kept up the pace, hoping that Thulvas would trip and fall, or maybe that Shaundakul himself would rise out of the road and strike him down….</div><div class="MsoNormal"> And then he noticed Chantrus making his was back down the line, a smile on his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He saw Fergon and picked up his own pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon and Chantrus greeted each other as Thulvas hung back, falling into an uncharacteristic silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> “We will be in Eagle Peak within a few hours.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chantrus knew that Fergon was unwelcome by most of the caravan, and that he had planned to stop at the small town to look for work or adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> Fergon grinned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was indeed good news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although he knew how far it was from High Horn to Eagle Peak, the slow pace of the caravan threw off his sense of distance, and Chantrus had been less than forthcoming with their progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked out at the rugged terrain, and noticed a sod-roofed, rock-walled house perched on the crest of a nearby rocky outcrop, not more than a few hundred yards away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A tiny figure in the small front yard seemed to be looking directly at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> “So Eagle Peak begins here?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon’s wave included the house on the hill.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Chantrus raised an eyebrow at the strange question, and then shook his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know you haven’t seen much of Cormyr, but Eagle Peak’s a very small town, much smaller than the garrison at High Horn.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Fergon persisted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“These people are under Eagle Peak’s protection?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They trade there?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, if you want to see it that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eagle Peak is the closest town, and their garrison patrols this area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do you ask?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chantrus’ confusion was written plain on his face.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Fergon whirled around and landed a strong right cross on Thulvas’ nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a muffled <i>crack</i> as his nose broke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blood flowed across his upper lip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon turned around, smiled at Chantrus, and said, “Because now I do not travel with the caravan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I am in Eagle Peak, and the caravan master cannot throw me ‘out on my arse.’”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Chantrus stood shocked for a moment, and then a chuckle broke his face into a grin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He began to laugh loudly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Fergon heard the soft ringing sound of a sword being drawn, and saw Chantrus eyes widen as he looked at Thulvas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spun around again and jumped at Thulvas, gripping his sword wrist and driving him backwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon’s other hand reached out and gripped the caravan guard’s abused nose, grinding it back and forth like a mortar in a pestle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bone ground against bone, sounding like knuckles cracking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thulvas whimpered like a beaten dog, dropped his sword, and collapsed on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon thought about kicking him for good measure, but Chantrus gripped his shoulder, bringing him back from the edge of fury.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “I’ll handle this with the caravan master.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fool drew his sword, and your axe is still slung on your back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You should go now, and stay out of town for the next few days.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He paused, and suddenly dug into his belt pouch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I want you to have this.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He put a small pewter symbol of Shaundakul in Fergon’s clean left hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two gripped wrists in the traditional handshake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon hesitated, glancing between the holy symbol and Chantrus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent"> “Take it; I have many more.”</div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent"> “Thank you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May the road bring us together again.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon nodded and set off up a talus slope towards the stone house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe they would need some wood for the winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, I do have an axe….<o:p></o:p></i></div>Telashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638321955482508217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2008333274498554642.post-62408262628409601742010-08-24T22:45:00.001-05:002010-08-25T12:59:09.771-05:00Freedom<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Freedom, so long an unremembered dream, was his.</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Conan the Barbarian"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> These damnable mountains even take the dawn from me, </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">the sergeant thought. There was no faint glow on the eastern horizon building slowly into a brilliant sunrise, a treasure generally reserved for farmers, soldiers and other early-risers. Dawn was Sergeant Gareth's favorite time of day. For a veteran soldier like himself, dawn could be the last calm moment in a day, or it could mean the end of a long night of battle. But on days like today, the dawn brought nothing more than another shift on guard duty.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> But in the mountains, dawn arrived in stages. The night sky, its stars far brighter than in the lowlands, began to soften in the east. As the sky slowly shed its nighttime darkness, the pass remained in shadow. Eventually, the rising sun touched the surrounding peaks, flooding the pass with a pink glow that Gareth considered unnatural. As the hidden sun climbed into the sky, the light would become more normal, but the garrison on the pass would not see direct sunlight until mid-morning. It was early springtime, and Gareth had not yet adjusted to the mountainous post.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <i>It could be worse, </i>Gareth thought. <i>I could be in the swamps again.</i> The sergeant, like many old veterans, appreciated what he could about his post, especially after the tumult of the last two decades. High Horn was an important mountain pass, to be sure, but it was as secure as anything in the Kingdom of Cormyr. At least here the view was good and combat action was rare. More than two decades as a Purple Dragon had satisfied a young recruit's thirst for action, and even managed to teach him some wisdom along the way. Now, Gareth qualified for a pension, but he felt retirement was something for old men. <i>I can't be old yet. There's still strength in these bones and fire in this blood. I need a wife and children before I can be old.</i> He flexed his fist, ignoring the creaks in his joints as he did. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> High Horn was only pass through the Stormhorn Mountains that would allow horses and (barely) wagons through, and had to be secured. So a garrison had been built decades ago. The raw materials were plentiful, and bored solders made a ready labor pool. But the security of the garrison was mostly attributable to its location; it dominated the pass with two massive towers joined by walls that bisected the pass. Nothing could get across the pass without going through the fortress. It could easily be held by a few hundred men against a force many times their size, and was large enough to house half of Cormyr's armies. Creatures in the area quickly learned that approaching the pass was a one-way trip, as there is little on the face of the earth more dangerous than a fortress of bored soldiers. Regular patrols down the roads and through the surrounding areas kept it as clear of trouble as any mountain pass, and had the added benefit of keeping the soldiers' mischief to a minimum. There is also little on the face of the earth more mischievous than a fortress of bored soldiers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> In many places the changing of the guard is a grand spectacle of military precision and discipline, as guardsmen are marched out, inspected, and given orders before being trusted with one of the most important tasks a nation can face: securing it against all enemies. In a definite sign of impending decadence, many changing of the guard ceremonies have attracted crowds of curious or respectful onlookers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> However, none of these places were the garrison at High Horn. Changing of the guard here happened at generally the same time, by generally the same people. Sometimes the guards even acknowledged each other. Gareth had been following the slow progression of a couple of men up the long road from the East for the last hour, and wondered if Roth, his replacement, would arrive before they did. Roth was usually somewhat timely, but had taken ill yesterday, and Gareth didn't know if he was better, or would use it as an excuse to be late. Roth was young, and had yet to learn that making an excuse was tantamount to an admission of guilt, at least for a soldier. It was late afternoon, and Roth's shift began at the next bell.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The two men continued their slow and painful procession up the mountain road. Painful at least to Gareth, who watched and occasionally frowned at the stupidity on display. The leader of the two men, older and obviously angry, rode a horse that was otherwise unencumbered. The other man was a fairly slim youth if Gareth's eyes judged accurately, but he walked, weighed down with enough baggage to slow two men down. The mounted man continued to harangue his porter, stopping only to drink from a skin he held. Gareth couldn't tell if it held water or wine, but did notice that he never offered any to his companion. As they approached the tower, the mounted man appeared to calm down considerably, as if he was intent on making a good impression on the guards.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Now that they were within a hundred yards, Gareth got a good look at them. The mounted man was indeed older, with some grey in his close-cropped beard and hair. He looked somewhat foreign, but many of the travelers they saw did. His skin was dark and bronzed, and his large nose curved out between two beady, deep-set eyes, over a weak chin. The effect was of a vulture who had been trying to grow hair and a beard for the last two months. He wore a heavy wool shirt and a fine leather jerkin, topped with a cloak against the chill that remained from the recent winter. He gazed back at the guard, as if he had felt his stare. Gareth did not flinch away; evaluation of visitors was part of his job, but the hair on the back of his neck rose. On his own time, he switched his gaze to the walking companion.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The youth (for he was younger than Gareth had thought) was originally from the Great Glacier, if experience was any guide. If he were more than twenty, Gareth would take his pension tomorrow. His reddish-blonde hair had been cut short, uncommon for a Northman, and he wore nothing more than a ragged tunic of rough wool, bound at the waist with a scrap of cloth, and a pair of ill-fitting boots. He was taller than his companion, but stooped under the load. He carried a frame pack piled over his head with bags and what looked like a small chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> As the odd pair approached the wall, Gareth heard the bell sound, and almost immediately, the sound of Roth's hurried footsteps approaching the door. The door opened, and Roth came in, looking only a little pale. "Sorry I'm late, Sarge. This fever has me moving slowly today." Gareth ignored the excuse, gave him a smile that could be interpreted as anything, picked up his gear, and moved out of the room. Roth watched him go, curious as to why the old veteran seemed to be in a hurry today.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">The pair of travelers stopped a good ways from the wall. A small knot of guards exited the tower and stood around, waiting for them. The older man dismounted, turned to his companion, and laced up the youth's tunic and then dusted off his own clothes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth hurried out of the gate just in time to see this. The captain of the gate guard looked at him quizzically, but said nothing. <i>This pair doesn't look like trouble, but an extra hand is welcome. And Gareth may know these two. </i> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Apparently satisfied, the older traveler turned and smoothed his own clothes again, then proceeded to the gate. He smiled and approached within ten feet of the guards, greeting them with a kindly smile and an open right hand, the picture of humble innocence. "Greetings, noble guardsmen. I am Malagar, a scribe from Aglarond. I travel the breadth of Faerun and write stories of far-off lands for the entertainment of my people. They are fascinated by the bravery of the famous Purple Dragons of Cormyr. May I be allowed the privilege of interviewing some of your soldiers?" At this, many of the guards shared a look of pride.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The captain was expecting the usual poor-merchant-needs-shelter story and was ready to tell the man that only soldiers could enter the tower itself, but they could stay in the courtyard if they so desired. The flattery and request stumped him. "Well, um.... We, I, ah.... The commander of the garrison welcomes you, Malagar. This is indeed unusual, and I will have to speak with him regarding your request. Perhaps while you and your ...companion are resting from your journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Yes, captain, that would be most excellent if you could speak with him. I and my assistant Fergon will eagerly await his answer." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> At the mention of his name, the youth glanced up at Malagar, and then quickly back down to the ground. Gareth caught the glance and saw a nothing in his eyes but a dull gaze. <i>The kid must be exhausted, walking all that way with their baggage.</i> Gareth moved towards the boy, "Allow me to help, sir. This boy looks tired."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Malagar stepped in front of Gareth, cutting him off. "Tired? No, he's dim-witted, but not tired. Poor Fergon here was born with a limited intellect, but a strong body. His parents knew he couldn't make it on the Great Glacier, and were ready to abandon him, but I took mercy on the poor soul. He's strong as an ox, but only slightly smarter than one. His pride would be injured if you were to help. He'll be fine, I assure you." The old man's voice was like honey, and Gareth could feel his concern slipping away. Before he could say anything more, the two travelers slipped inside the gate, trailing their horse.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The garrison at High Horn was relatively simple, but massive. A fortress towered over each side of the pass, built into the cliff face, approachable only from within the courtyard or by air. Two massive walls joined the fortresses and made a massive courtyard of the flat land at the top of the pass. Each corner of the wall had a smaller tower, and a large gatehouse straddled the road at either side. The courtyard was home to the few civilians who spent their summers at High Horn, providing the services that all garrisons need, but that the military neglected. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The two made their way to a straw-covered corner of the courtyard provided for travelers, and picked out a site. While Fergon unlimbered his load and began to set up camp, Malagar took the horse to the stables and arranged for his keeping. The stablemaster normally charged one Gold Lion for horses (highway robbery; there was no competition), but ended up keeping the horse for free, if the writer would 'put in a good word about the stables here' in a story. That night the stablemaster's wife wondered how he could agree to such a deal, but all he could remember was how reasonable it sounded at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Meanwhile, the guard captain made his way to Sir Alaric, the commander of the garrison, to speak with him about the unusual request. Sir Alaric was a Knight of the Purple Dragons, a member of a noble order who had disappointed his superiors one too many times, and ended up running what was little more than a rest stop for merchants on the way through the pass. Sir Alaric agreed to meet with the scribe, and began to consider how to properly embellish his stories. All for the benefit of the reader, of course.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth made his way back to the barracks, wondering why he had originally been suspicious of the scribe. On meeting him, he had seemed like such a kindly and humble man, especially to take in that boy like that. <i>If he hadn't done that, the boy probably wouldn't be alive now, or might have been sold into thrall, </i>he thought<i>. The Red Wizards of Thay occasionally raided those Northmen villages for slaves, after all. </i>Gareth's mind began to run over the brief encounter at the gate, as if something didn't fit in. He let it run while he took off his armor and put it away, then lay down on his pallet for a brief nap before dinner. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> But sleep eluded him. Some fact or observation he had missed was demanding attention, but he couldn't put a name to it. All he knew was that it involved the scribe and his boy. <i>Relax, you old grunt; you'll figure it out in time, and it will probably be nothing. It's not like you've been charmed by a Dryad or anything.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> He jumped bolt upright, tugged on his boots and ran out of the barracks room. Almost immediately, he ran back in and grabbed his sword, buckling it on as he ran out again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth burst into the War Wizards' barracks, disturbing some of the sleeping wizards, and most of the studying ones in his haste. "Shevetas, you must lend me your amulet!" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Shevetas was busy studying a new spell he had just received, but he recognized the voice. Sergeant Gareth was an old comrade whom he had served with on a number of occasions. The two had somewhat of a friendly relationship, but nothing to justify lending amulets or anything. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Apparently the only thing I 'must' do is deal with impolite interruptions from rude sergeants who do not belong in this room to begin with." Shevetas didn't even look up from his spellbook.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth sighed, coming to a stop at the side of Shevetas' desk. "It's a long story, but I think there's a wizard in the courtyard with some kind of charm."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "How nice, a charming wizard. Is he pleasant with the ladies, too, or just with the guards?" The wizard's voice dripped with sarcasm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Not that kind of charm. The kind like a Dryad or a Siren has. The kind that makes people act funny." He wasn't getting through. Words weren't his strong suite; he much rather would have shaken the wizard out of his robes, but he needed this favor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Well, then, it must be true," the wizard finally looked up. "You certainly are acting funny. Not in the amusing sense, of course, but funny none the less." He gave the soldier a look that could curdle milk.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Shevetas, you know me. Do I go off half-drawn? Have I ever done anything rash or hasty?" <i>At least that you know of, </i>he thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "No, but there's always a first time. Keeping that in mind, tell me about your charming wizard." Shevetas turned to face him fully. "And be quick about it. If he is in the castle, it's dangerous. If not, I've got spells to learn."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Okay, it started when I saw these two men approaching on the east road...."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "...so then I took the Vorpal Blade from the Knight-Commander's lifeless hands and cut the vampire's head off. I tell you, it was like slicing through a waterfall. That blade was the best sword I've ever used. Too bad they resurrected him; I would have liked to have kept it. Sure could be useful out here." Sir Alaric was in rare form. His stories had departed reality within minutes of meeting this fascinating stranger, this eastern scribe, and he was making them up as fast as he could.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "So this pass is dangerous? We saw no sign of any creatures on the way up."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Only one of the most dangerous passes in all of Faerun. The only reason it's safe is that we're here." Alaric pointed proudly at himself to emphasize who exactly he was talking about.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "You must be exceptionally busy, what with all the patrols and such." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Alaric realized that they were once again talking about reality, and came back down to earth. "Well, actually, it's pretty quiet. Most of the clearing out of critters has already been done. We mostly make sure they don't come back, and protect the pass against raiders from the west"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Really? So how many men do you have under you?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Alaric wanted to exaggerate, to make himself important to this scribe who would write stories about him, but the urge to be honest was overwhelming. "About four hundred. Two hundred Purple Dragons, eighty or so War Wizards, and the rest are support staff. At any given time, about a third of the Dragons and Wizards are on patrol, leaving us with about two hundred fighting men and women on average. Throw in some passes and leaves, a few sick calls, and it's about a hundred fifty, a third of whom are on guard at a time." He was surprised at himself, sharing this much information with a stranger. "You won't use the details in your stories, will you? That shouldn't get out." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Malagar gave the Knight-Commander a reassuring smile. "Of course not. I just like to get a feel for whom I'm talking to. You must be important to have received such a post."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Thank you. I like to think that I've done more than my share of defending the Kingdom."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "I'm sure you have. I'll have to come back and ask you to tell me some more stories. Do you think it would be acceptable if I wandered around the fortress a bit and interviewed some of the guards?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Of course. I'll announce to all my commanders that you are to be given access to all areas of High Horn. Except the most sensitive ones, of course." Alaric grinned at his new friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Of course," said Malagar, <i>You grinning idiot.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "And where is this 'scribe' now?" asked Shevetas.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "I don't know. I imagine he's speaking with the Knight-Commander." The two were huddled over Shevetas' desk.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Well, so much for getting to him before he does any damage." The wizard sighed and leaned back. "And his servant?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "He's either with the scribe, or in their tent. I came straight here."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Hmmm. It sounds like this stranger is using at least two magicks. One to charm everyone he meets, and another for his servant. I’ve never heard of a charm spell as powerful and lasting as this one; it must be something new or very, very old. Either way, we don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with.” Shevetas pulled a book from the stack on his desk and began thumbing through it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“The servant is something else. I wonder if he really is as simple-minded as this Malagar says, or if there is an enchantment responsible for his behavior.” He continued to search through the book. Gareth glanced at it, but could make no sense of the squiggles on the pages. “Ah, here we go: Slave Collars. They are magicked to limit one's intelligence and initiative, but to leave the body intact. It says here that the Red Wizards use them frequently, but the collars are rarely seen outside Thay. Wait. You said he had hair?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Yes, he's obviously a Northman, but it's cut short-"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "The scribe, not the boy. Did the scribe have hair and a beard?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Yes, the scribe has hair and a beard. Both cropped short, like he lives in a warmer climate. Why does it matter?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Cropped short." The wizard thought for a moment. "Or like it just started to grow out."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Well, yes, I guess he could have just started to grow it out.... Look, who the hell cares if he's got a beard? I say we get the son of a bitch now, before he charms Sir Alaric the Idiot into doing anything stupider than normal." Gareth went to stand up, but Shevetas laid a hand on his arm.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "The Red Wizards of Thay shave their heads. And they keep slaves. And they are masters of the magical arts."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The old sergeant slowly sat back down and took a deep breath. "The Red...? Shit."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> "Yes. Deep and wide. We may have more than a simple case of a charming slaver. We may have a spy."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth had Shevetas' amulet against charms and other small magicks under his shirt, but he had been repeatedly warned by the wizard to act as if Malagar was a trusted friend. Shevetas had added, "Of course, it's best if you don't say anything at all." Gareth had no intent of being around if the potential spy showed up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Malagar was at dinner with the Knight-Commander, so the coast was clear for another hour, at least. But Gareth had the soldier's aversion to spellcasters, so he watched from across the courtyard as Fergon methodically packed the camp. Once it was mostly packed, the old veteran stole a glance around the mostly-deserted courtyard, took a deep breath, and walked over to where the youth was trying to arrange the frame pack so he could don it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth gestured at the frame pack, smiled and said, "Give you a hand?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Fergon smiled and grunted in the affirmative. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <i>By all the gods, is he that dumb? </i>thought Gareth. But then Fergon stood up and pointed at Gareth's end of the pack, saying something in a harsh language, and pantomiming picking up the pack by hand. <i>That's better; he just doesn't speak the language.</i> The two of them hoisted the pack and began to carry it over to the northern fortress.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth was surprised to see just how young Fergon was. Despite his near-six-foot height, he seemed to be about sixteen. The way he manhandled the pack showed that there was strength in his sparse frame. The sergeant was hard pressed to keep up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Their room was one that housed wealthy merchants and diplomats on their way through the pass. Carpets covered the stone floor, and a decent tapestry one wall. There were no windows, of course, but Alaric had already arranged for candles and some stew to be sent for Fergon. The smell made the sergeant regret that he was missing dinner. Fergon led the way to one of the beds, and they set the pack down on it. Gareth stood quietly while the young barbarian busied himself about the room, laying out his master's clothes, making a bed for himself on the floor, and moving the thin chest over to the table. Gareth helped with the chest, and it was heavier than it looked. <i>I'll have to ask Shevetas about that.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Finally, Fergon sat down to eat, and even offered half his stew to Gareth, who could not bring himself to accept it despite his hunger. As the young barbarian sat and ate, Gareth stared at him, lost in thought. <i>This boy takes obvious abuse from his master, yet eagerly does all the work and even offers to share what is probably his first meal this day with a total stranger. I swear that I will not let you leave here a slave, Fergon.</i> Impulsively, Gareth reached over toward the young barbarian and twitched aside the high collar to his tunic. A simple thin iron collar lay on his neck, looking like so much adornment. Looking closely, Gareth could see runes scribed into it. He made note of a few of the runes as Fergon gave him a cryptic look.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “You’re sure that these are the runes you saw?” Shevetas looked intently at the paper.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “For the fourth time, yes. What do they mean?” Gareth was getting impatient with the wizard.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “This series literally means, ‘power of the will’, and this is an odd variation of a subordinating rune.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “Okay, so it subordinates the power of the will? Sounds like a Slave Collar. Can you remove it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The wizard looked at Gareth as if he had attempted to speak a foreign language. “It’s not that simple. You can pull the words ‘slavery’ and ‘evil’ out of a book of good deeds.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “But it’s obvious. He’s a slave. He’s got a collar. It’s a Slave Collar.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Shevetas sighed. “I wish things were that simple.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “Sometimes they are.” Gareth gave Shevetas a look that said, ‘prove me wrong.’ Despite his natural superiority, the wizard realized his physical proximity to a veteran of many battles, and relented.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “Okay. Assume you’re right. What do we do from here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “Hey, you’re the brains. Don’t you have any ideas?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The War Wizard thought for quite some time, staring at the runes on the paper. “If he is a Red Wizard…. I would not want to match wands with the likes of him. We must ensure that we have the advantage of surprise.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth chuckled. “In that case, it’s easy. We wait until the Knight-Commander bores him to sleep, then we strike.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Shevetas smiled at the joke. “I’m afraid that this imposter has Sir Alaric on his side. Not only must we act decisively against him, we must also prove his guilt before Sir Alaric finds out what we’ve done with him. Not an easy task, I assure you. This Malagar has our poor Knight-Commander wrapped around his finger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The veteran began to appreciate the complexity of their situation. “Okay, we can’t go all the way to the top, but who can we include?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Shevetas gave him a long stare. “We? There is only one amulet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth didn’t even blink. He had suspected it would come to this. “Okay. I’ll do it on one condition: You get the slave collar off the boy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Shevetas smiled. “You are terrible at negotiating. I was planning on doing that as soon as possible.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth stood up. “Negotiate, hell. I’ll go get Hoff’s cosh.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">As the sergeant walked away, he heard the wizard say, “Good idea. We don’t want to kill him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Malagar sat up in bed at the pounding on his door. <i>It must still be before dawn</i>, he thought, <i>who in the Nine Hells could this be?</i> Under his breath, he cursed the pounding in his head and the Knight-Commander’s cheap wines of the night before that caused it. <i>What sacrifices we make. Have these upstarts never heard of proper fermentation? </i>“One moment, kind sir.” <i>Someday I will extract from their flesh the undeserved respect I must bestow on these barbarians.</i> He opened the door to the lantern by his bed and turned up the flame. “Fergon! Get the door!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth continued to bang at the door. It was still an hour before dawn. If he couldn’t enjoy the dawn, then at least he could make sure that this imposter wouldn’t sleep through it. Finally the door unlocked and opened. Fergon towered in the doorway.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth took a deep breath and excitedly pushed his way into the room. “Sir! Malagar, sir! The Knight-Commander wishes to speak with you!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> The spy, if that’s what he was, sat up in his bed and rubbed at his eyes. He fixed Gareth with his stare and calmly replied, “My poor constitution is not adjusted to the early risings of the military man. Could you please give Sir Alaric my regrets at not answering his summons personally? Yesterday was very taxing, and I’m afraid the quality of the Knight-Commander’s wines is not quite that to what I am accustomed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Protected by the amulet, Gareth saw right through the last statement. <i>That almost sounded like a compliment, but wasn’t. </i>“My apologies, good sir, but he was most insistent that you join him.” Gareth bowed low, hands behind his back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Malagar hesitated for a second. <i>That should have put off any questions. The first to go shall be all early-rising soldiers.</i> Gareth thought for a split-second that he was found out, but then Malagar looked him in the eye and said, in words of velvet-wrapped steel, “I cannot be disturbed. I would be most appreciative if you could explain that to the Knight-Commander.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth felt the full impact of the spell, and believed him. <i>That makes perfect sense. He had a rough day and a late night. Surely Sir Alaric will understand that he needs his sleep.</i> And then he felt the amulet begin to warm up against his skin, almost burning. With a disorienting lurch, his thoughts were his again. And they were not pretty.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Malagar almost had a hand up before the shot-filled leather cosh in Gareth’s right hand caught him full on the temple. <i>He’s quick; I’m glad we got him while he was still sleepy. </i>Any consciousness left in him was quickly winked out when Gareth’s mailed left fist slammed into his face. Gareth turned to face Fergon, unsure of what the youth would do, but not wanting to hurt him. But the young barbarian stood there, grinning at Gareth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Shevetas burst into the room, wand in hand. He took note of the unconscious and bleeding spy and visibly relaxed. He walked over to Fergon, speaking calming words. Fergon continued to grin at Gareth as Shevetas cast the counter-spell to the Slave Collar. There was a faint glow from the wand, then an audible <i>tink</i> as the collar dropped off into his tunic. Gareth stood from where he had sprawled on the bed, and Shevetas took a step away from the former slave. Both the soldier and the wizard stared at the big youth, not sure what to expect, or even to say. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Fergon looked from one to the other as intelligence bloomed in his eyes. He blinked a few times, as if emerging into bright daylight. Then he smiled and nodded at both men, then turned to look at his former master, unconscious and bleeding from his nose. The smile on his face froze into a rictus of rage, and he dove forwards onto the body of his master, a bloodcurdling scream ripping the silence. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Shevetas jumped back. He knew not to get between a raging barbarian and his prey, even a young barbarian. Gareth stood there, watching as Fergon screamed guttural curses and pummeled his former master. Shevetas looked at his friend imploringly. “Do something!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Gareth laughed and looked back, “Like what? Sell tickets? I’m enjoying this.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“But he’ll kill him!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“That’d be a real tragedy, wouldn’t it?” Fergon had taken to pounding Malagar’s head against the wall. Gareth was impressed with his strength and stamina.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“But he’s a spy! We need to take him prisoner!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“Do we? Like I said before: sometimes, things really are that simple.” The solid <i>tonk!</i> of Malagar’s head against the stone wall turned into a juicy <i>thwack!</i> as his skull began to crack.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">A crowd began to appear in the doorway, drawn by Fergon’s scream and continued cursing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth was led from his cell by four guards. He had done this before, so he knew the drill. The other guards knew him personally, or at lest knew of him, and treated him accordingly. <i>At least I won’t fall down the stairs, like some of the poor sods we take in.</i> He was brought, not surprisingly, to the Knight-Commander’s suite. Shevetas was already there, rubbing his wrists where the shackles had been removed. Standing next to the Knight-Commander was Zell, the Wizard-Commander.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “Remove his shackles.” The Knight-Commander had been most insistent that all three be hung for their actions. Gareth had briefly wondered if the hanging would be before or after Sir Alaric came to his senses. Frontier justice can be too swift at times.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “Sergeant Gareth, tell me what you know. I already have Shevetas’ story, and wish to hear your version of… this incident.” The Knight-Commander might be egocentric and overbearing, but he was no fool. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Gareth relied on the soldier’s maxim, ‘When in trouble, tell the truth.’ He started with the first time he saw the travelers the previous day, leaving out nothing, including his admission that he had been ensorcelled by the old man’s charms, that he had drawn Shevetas into the affair, and even that he had stood by and watched as Fergon killed his former master.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> When Gareth was done, Zell nodded at Sir Alaric. “He speaks the truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Sir Alaric stood up and regarded Gareth and Shevetas. “We have you two to thank for exposing a spy. Wizard-Commander Zell, after much study, penetrated the spells that protected Malagar’s chest. Inside he found detailed documents on the structure, schedules, and commanders of this fortress, as well as descriptions of the surrounding area.” He picked up a small case from his desk and opened it. “While your actions went far beyond the chain of command... far, far beyond it, I might emphasize, you two exhibited the initiative and courage that the Purple Dragons and War Wizards are famous for. Our nation relies on soldiers and wizards like yourself for its protection.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “However, if it were to be known what transpired here, Cormyr would be flooded with spies. Nobody can know just how close this Malagar came to being successful in his mission. Perhaps he would have died on the long road to Suzail. Regardless, it is best that he expired before a trial. For your actions, I award each of you the Heart of Valor.” It was unusual for a Purple Dragon or a War Wizard to receive the Heart of Valor outside times of war. “I must, however, insist that you both remain silent on what transpired here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <i>Not as dumb as I expected, </i>thought Gareth. <i>Give us the Heart of Valor, but insist on our silence in return. We get a greater reward than we deserve, but you get what you want.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Shevetas shifted uneasily. “Sir, may I make a request, please?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Sir Alaric looked a little put out, but Zell fielded the question. “What is it, War Wizard Shevetas?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “Sir, it would be easier to keep my silence if I were to be stationed elsewhere. Say somewhere closer to Suzail.” Gareth mentally kicked himself for picking such a cocky partner in this affair.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> But both Commanders smiled. “Excellent request, Shevetas. I shall personally see to it that you are posted somewhere to your liking. Perhaps the Great Library?” The Great Library of Suzail was famous for its collection of magical books.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Shevetas could barely contain his glee. “Sir! Thank you, sir!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Sir Alaric turned to Gareth. “Do you have any such request, Sergeant?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “The slave boy, Fergon. What is to be his fate?” Gareth couldn’t believe he just passed up the opportunity to be somewhere warm, green, and with beautiful sunrises.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Sir Alaric looked confused and a bit crestfallen. “The boy? Um, we haven’t thought of him, but I’m sure somebody will take him in. Don’t you have a request?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <i>No, sir, it might be more fun to stay here and watch you squirm. And besides, that boy needs something more than a job shoveling stables. </i>”No, sir. I like the mountains. But we could always use a hand in the barracks.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> “Very well, Sergeant Gareth. The boy Fergon will be released to you. He’s your responsibility.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">* * * * *</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Winter was coming on; the old sergeant could feel it in his bones. Soon the snows of winter would close the pass. The civilians would go wherever they spent winter, and the guards would prepare for the long siege of winter, stocking up on dice, cards, and other distractions. High Horn remained manned year-round, but weather cut it off from the rest of the world for much of that time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Since being adopted by the guards at High Horn almost eight months ago, Fergon had grown in many ways. His lean body had filled out, now massing at over two hundred pounds. He had learned Chondathan, the language of Cormyr, although he retained quite an accent. And he had even mastered the basic manual-at-arms for the greataxe, originally taught as a joke by one of the guards who thought it the perfect weapon “for a barbarian”. Fergon practiced daily with his axe, and was getting to where he could best some of the more experienced soldiers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">But most importantly, at least to Gareth, was that Fergon had not sunk into despair at what had happened to his family and his people. He was convinced that adversity made him stronger, like a smith’s forge made the steel stronger. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">One night, after introducing the boy to the wonders of mead, the youth had told him, “When I die in this world, my spirit will fly like an arrow to the halls of my ancestors. I will meet my parents, and they will know how I lived my life. If I lived it poorly, they will know, and they will cast me out of the family. I will spend eternity alone. If I lived it well, and met all my challenges with a strong heart, they will welcome me.” Gareth pretended not to notice the tears on the boy’s cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Now, it was time for him to go live that life. He didn’t realize until now that he felt like a father. <i>Imagine that… me, a father.</i> Perhaps it was time to take that pension, meager as it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Gareth heard Fergon coming up the ladder to his post. He usually showed up this time of day, if for nothing more than to catch up. Today the normally boisterous youngster was uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn. They exchanged quiet greetings, looking out at the snowy pass. Some of it would melt, but some was already here to stay the winter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Finally Fergon spoke, “Winter is coming.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Gareth continued to look out the open windows. “Yep.” There was a long pause. “Do you plan to leave?” Both of them were blunt, Gareth by career and Fergon by nature.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Fergon breathed in deeply. He didn’t know how Gareth would respond to his leaving, and he hoped the old sergeant would understand. “Yes.” He glanced at the older man, but he was still looking out the window.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“When will you be going?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“The weather wizards say that it should be clear for a week, then the first storm will come. I plan to leave before it arrives.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“Aye, that’s a good idea.” Gareth continued to study the pass. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Minutes passed, and Fergon said, “I will miss you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Gareth finally turned from the window. Fergon could see tears on his face. The old sergeant grabbed him by the shoulders, smiled, and embraced him. “I’ll miss you too, son. I’ll miss you too.”</span></div>Telashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638321955482508217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2008333274498554642.post-18142655230508221262010-08-24T22:37:00.000-05:002010-08-24T22:37:54.682-05:00My Name Is Fergon<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The boy was far from home when dawn lit the sky with its rosy glow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His breath froze immediately in the subzero air, and his skis left parallel tracks for miles behind him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He skied on at a tireless pace, putting miles between himself and home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there had been someone to see him pass, they would have noted an eager smile and a determined scowl fighting for dominance on his young face.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I will succeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father will be proud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is my fifteenth year and I will earn a name and become a man by hunting the White Bear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alone.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last thought gave him a shiver that he quickly attributed to the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wanted to hurry and get to the Ocean of Ice <i>now</i>, but he knew to pace himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he were skilled and brave, he would still need all his energy to lure and kill the great northern bear, and even more energy to bring its pelt home as a present for his mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And nobody would ever call him <i>boy</i> again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Any other culture would have considered his parents <i>distant</i>, if not downright abusive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the Northland is a harsh environment, and they knew that the best gift they could give their son would be the strength to survive anything it could throw at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy could still remember his father coming home from a hunt with half his face and one arm mauled by a bear that refused to die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He remembered, not the blood and tattered flesh that hung off him, but the look of determination, the slow, smoldering strength in his father’s eyes, and his mother’s only comment, “Where there is life, there is hope.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old Scrama, the village healer, had done what she could, and his father lost only a little strength in his arm, and would carry the scars to his funeral pyre.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">With the rising of the sun, a breeze began to blow in from the northwest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy altered his pace with the breeze, slower when it was strong, faster during the lulls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had two days still to travel, and knew better than to fight the weather that Auril might send his way….</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The white bear sniffed around the dead bird, wary of …something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The large white birds did not normally lie there in a pool of blood, but winter was coming on, and free food was the best kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was a taint of something on the kill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something that stirred memories older than the bear, something buried deep in the bear’s bones.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Finally, hunger overcame wariness, and the bear licked at the blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was fresh and tasty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caution disappeared as the bear settled down to crack the bones between its great teeth, oblivious to the hunter downwind who quietly drew his bow to his ear.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fergon finished drilling a hole in the tooth with his knife, and added it and the remaining claws to the necklace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy had perished in the hunt, reborn in the bear’s blood as Fergon, “Fearless”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bear had fought tooth and nail, taking eight arrows and one deep spear thrust before finally dying, claws and teeth sunk into the boy’s shield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon would remember it forever with this necklace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tooth and nail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps the bear’s strength would be added to his when he wore it, like the magic swords his father had told stories about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fergon smiled as he remembered his father’s tales of men who went away to foreign lands and returned with outlandish tales, wholly unbelievable except for the booty they brought back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drinks that healed mortal wounds, swords that never rusted and were always sharp, a ring that kept the wearer warm, though he wore nothing but a breechclout in the dead of winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wondered what the truth was, for many in his tribe had mastered the art of storytelling, such that every journey was transformed by the telling into an epic odyssey, and every scrap a fight to the death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fergon knew that he would never find out what lay beyond the horizon, for he was his parent’s only son, and had to take care of them as they grew older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to hunt for the tribe, sharing his kills with the farmers who shared their crops with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the only life he knew, and the only one he would ever know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that couldn’t stop him from dreaming about what was beyond the horizon.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The return trip was not as easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bear had been a large one, and its hide had a mind of its own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It kept coming unbound, or knocking against his spear and bow, tripping him as he skied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to re-tie it seven times on the first day, and twice today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if the hide stayed put, its weight alone was enough to slow him down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sighed, realizing that the return trip would take three days, and he might lose some of the hard-earned respect he knew a successful hunt would bring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pressed on, so that he could at least return during the brief daylight hours tomorrow and show his trophy to the rest of the village.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The first sign of trouble was the smoke on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was always steam from the volcanic vents that kept the village warm through the long northern winters, but black smoke clouded the southern sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No Northman built a fire that smoked like that!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon picked up the pace, skis and poles pumping like a machine, more curious than cautious….</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fergon crested the final hill, winded from running the last half-mile, and stopped in shock.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The village was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything had been burned, except for the now-scorched stone walls on some of the houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strange men in red robes and furs strode about the village as if they owned it, rifling through chests and dumping out their contents on the muddy ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no sign of any of the villagers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fergon stood in disbelief, mouth agape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His hunter’s eyes picked out a dirty cloth sack lying on the ground in front of his house and shock jolted him again as he realized it was his mother, lying dead in the mud of the village that had raised her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Numb shock turned to boiling rage in a flash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He dropped his pack and the bearskin he was so proud of, slung his spear, and limbered his bow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would die this day, taking many of the red devils with him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The first arrow took a red-robed figure through the throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He fell back, clutching at the crimson stream gushing from a severed artery and tried to scream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The second hit another in the back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked down in disbelief at the bloody arrowhead sticking out of his chest, and sank to his knees.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A robed figure who was speaking to the second victim looked up and saw Fergon striding forwards and drawing his bow, his face a rictus of anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The robed man barely managed to avoid the third arrow by launching himself headlong into the mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon had already switched targets and fired at a fourth, hitting him in the shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The third man got up out of the mud, pulled something out of his pocket, and began to chant, tracing intricate symbols in the air with his hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fergon had a fifth target, and had nocked and drawn a fifth arrow, but something happened just as he was about to release the arrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wave of energy swept through his body, leaving his skin tingling, and suddenly he couldn’t move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon watched his target realize the situation and run inside the shell of a house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was frozen stiff as a board, unable even to release his bowstring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could do nothing but watch helplessly as the wizard who had ensorcelled him approached, followed by more of his kind.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Why, it’s nothing more than a boy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wizard spoke slowly, with a strange accent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stopped and stood directly in front of the arrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fergon tried with all his being to will his fingers to release the arrow, but they would not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The wizard reached out and plucked the arrow off the bow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Tsk-tsk, boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t you know these things are dangerous?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wizard looked at the arrow carefully, then up at Fergon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now whatever shall we do with you?” he asked, twirling the arrow in his fingers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fergon shifted the slave collar around his neck so he could touch the necklace his owner had “so graciously” let him keep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was careful not to move the collar too much or it would punish him again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had learned over the last weeks that he could not fight it, just endure the paralysis and pain that it brought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">His master was a Red Wizard of Thay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Red Wizards had opened a magical portal to his village, killed most of his people, and sold the rest into slavery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had stumbled on the scene after the slaves had been sold, and his master had closed the portal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now his parents were dead and he was a slave.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fergon paused a moment, touching his necklace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His father would never know that he had become a man, would never know his own son’s name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The young slave had told himself countless times that he would have gladly arrived home before the slavers came, just to tell his father that he had succeeded, though it meant his death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wave of sorrow swept over him as he thought about the things that never would be, all because of a few extra hours’ travel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I am sorry, Father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have failed you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will never know my name, and I will never again hear your stories,” he whispered.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Despite his pain, Fergon could not just give up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where there is life, there is hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had seen sights that made his father’s stories tame by comparison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cities that stretch farther than the eye can see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Magic used to hurt, kill, and torture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Monstrous creatures handled like so much cattle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wizards flying on carpets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A mighty demon, held prisoner by nothing more than chalk marks on a floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His young mind drank it all in, and thirsted for more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was only beginning to learn of the new world around him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">They could chain his body, but mind and spirit were his alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as his father’s spirit had not been conquered, only vanquished from his body to fly to the halls of his ancestors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Fergon realized then that he <i>would</i> see his parents again, in the halls of his ancestors, after his own life was over. He would tell his father his name, and regale them both with stories of what he has seen and done in this strange world south of their village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thought back to the stolen dream of his victorious homecoming and realized that it wasn’t stolen after all, just delayed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A ghost of a smile touched his face for the first time in weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was life; there was hope.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Boy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you daydreaming again?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finish sweeping or I’ll flay the skin from your bones.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Someday, he would be free of this evil man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would be free to live his life, and it would be a story that would be told for ages to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Telashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638321955482508217noreply@blogger.com0