Warden

Chapter 1 Spotted Woodlands “I don’t like this. We shouldn’t be in these woods.” “Would you rather be out there with them?” “Papa says these woods are haunted.” “No, he didn’t. He said the woods are guarded.” “What’s the difference?” The snap of a branch froze the three in their tracks. None of them could move. Fear had turned their muscles to stone. “What are you three young’uns doing in these woods?” The oldest of the three peered around a tree to see a Dwarf sitting on a stump. The old man was dressed in brown leathers like a woodcutter. His head was lacking any hair, all of it having slid down to form a long beard, braided into neat rows. In place of a hairy dome there were Dwarven runes tattooed about his skull. He was whittling and, from the look of the shavings, had been doing so for quite a while. “It’s all right, little ones, I won’t hurt you. You can come out.” The three moved out into the clearing, hands and legs still shaky from worry. A red squirrel ran up into the Dwarf’s lap, “A treat, little brother.” The man held out a small boca nut for the squirrel. “Now what are you three Halfling children doing in the forest?” “Hiding.” The Dwarf put his nose to the wind. “And best you are. Those are some nasty fellas that follow you.” The small girl said, “They chase us.” The middle child of the three asked, “Sir, are you the one who haunts this forest?” “Guards, not haunts.” His brother corrected him. The Dwarf chuckled, both beard and belly rolled with the laughter. “You might say I am both. I am Arastor Frostriver, Warden of the Spotted Woodlands.” “Sir, can you help us? There are bad people following us.” Arastor stopped whittling, “I know of what follows you, little ones. You have no need to worry. The forest will handle them.” The Dwarf motioned to a tree in the distance. Out from behind came a small brown and white deer. Its fur and antlers shimmered with an iridescent light. “It’s a fairy deer,” cried the youngest Halfling. Arastor chuckled again, “Follow the deer, young ones. I will handle those that hunt you.” The Halfling children did not question the command; they only ran after the stag. The horses and their dark riders came to a sliding halt. Arastor did not look up, but continued his whittling, “Your kind are not welcome in these woods.” The leader of the group yelled out, “We go where we please, Dwarf.” “You need not shout. I can hear you plain.” The dark rider jumped off his horse, threw his cloak to the ground, and drew a long, blood-stained scimitar. “I will shout, I will scream, I will burn this forest to the ground if I please.” Arastor did not flinch; he only continued to whittle, “As I said, Orcs and their brethren are not welcome here.” The Orc let out a violent scream, “Who are you, tiny Dwarf, that you can command a tribe of the Nations?” “The Nations?” Arastor looked up at the sky, “The Orcan Nations are no more. The war is over. Dregu is dead.” “As long as one of the blood lives, the Nations live.” “I see.” Arastor slowly peeled a large sliver off his whittling wood. “You five are a long way from Moonharbor.” “How did you know...?” the Orc shook his head. “We are from the Scar!” “If that were true, then you have come a long way only to spill your blood in the mud and leaves of this forest.” “Where are the Halflings?” “Safe with me.” The Orc went from screaming to laughing. One of the horsemen still mounted said, “There are five of us and you are only one tiny worthless Dwarf.” Arastor spoke an insult in the Orc language that translated loosely to, “You’re as smart as the mud on my boots.” All five of the riders yelled. The leader hollered, “His skull is mine.” He trudged forward to gut Arastor like a fish. Until a root snaked out of the ground and wrapped around the Orc’s ankle. The Orc slashed the vine away, cutting leaves, grass, and dirt with it. Another root immediately wrapped itself around the other foot, working its way up to just below the monster’s knee. It wound so tight as to cut off the Orc’s circulation. “I don’t think you’ll get that loose without cutting off your foot,” said Arastor. The Orc yelled in his native language. Arastor looked up long enough to watch one rider point a crossbow his direction. “Not a good idea,” said the Dwarf. A tree branch whipped across the shooter’s face, knocking him backwards off his horse. The crossbow went sailing into the air and fired. The bolt lodged itself into the back of the lead Orc, still rooted to the ground. Arastor went back to his whittling, “Leave now. It will only get worse.” The other three riders leapt off their mounts and made a run at Arastor. The ranger sat calmly until the enemy was halfway to where he sat. Arastor then exploded in a flurry. Seemingly out of thin air, two short swords appeared in the Dwarf’s hands. The ranger’s movements were swift and graceful. It looked more as if he was dancing than in combat. His short arms and stubby legs showed elegance no ballerina could match. At one moment, he was on his knees, sliding on wet leaves as an attack sailed over his bald skull. Next, he was in tight against a foe, his blades cutting and slashing at vital areas. Before anyone could land a blow on Arastor, he was off again, spinning, tumbling, and leaping movements aimed at either attacking or avoiding. Dirt leaves and twigs all flew joining Arastor in his dance. When the Orcs thought the Dwarf was cornered, two massive brown bears ran out from the cover of the trees and tore into the three in defense of Arastor. Moments later, three dark riders lay dead in the fallen leaves. The bears growled and spit blood. “Get back on your horses and ride out,” Arastor said to the two who remained, “Don’t come here again.” **** “Do you think the bad men are gone?” The youngest Halfling stroked the small deer. “I don’t know, Yesna. We’ll wait here for the Dwarf man for a while.” “Can we at least go inside Osvon, I’m getting cold.” “Papa said never to go in a stranger’s house.” “And a wise man is your father.” Arastor walked out of the trees into the clearing. The three Halfling children each jumped at the Dwarf’s voice. “And I would give the same advice,” said Arastor. “But in this case, I think it would be best. These woods get a might chilly at nightfall.” “You’re not going to eat us?” asked the youngest. “No, little one,” Arastor laughed, “I’m so full of troll I could not eat another bite.” The youngest child giggled. The other two were not sure whether to laugh or run. “Go inside. It will be all right.” Arastor petted the deer on the neck, “Thank you, brother, for your help. Now go home to your family.” The Halfling children watched the Dwarf talk to the deer with great fascination. “Mister Dwarf-sir-man,” the youngest pointed, “you can talk to animals?” “I can, little one. Now let’s all go inside out of the cold.” The cabin that Arastor called home was new to the children. Halfling's live underground. But not like Dwarves do. Dwarves carve out their massive cities from great caverns under the mountains. Halfling settlements are burrowed underground, like gophers. It is possible to ride right past a Halfling village and never know it is there. Arastor’s home appeared a combination of both styles of living. His house was carved and dug into a hillock in the forest. The front of the home looked like a human cabin; the back of the home was set into the hill, so it lay underground. “Mr. Dwarf-man-sir,” said the youngest Halfling, “your roof is grass like ours.” “Yes, little one. But I do not live as far under the ground as you do.” The interior of Arastor’s abode was filled with nature. Furniture carved by Dwarven hands from dead logs. Plants and herbs in pots made of moss. Even the ground’s roots that made the dwelling’s roof had grown down into the room. It had a single fire pit and the sweet smell of Honey Redbud and Black-eyed Parsley covered the air. “Caaaaw.” “Yes, Chawk, we have visitors.” “Is that bird bouncing its head or bowing at us?” “Chawk is paying high respects. He is bowing.” “How does a bird know about bowing?” “And respecting,” shouted the youngest. “Chawk knows many things,” Arastor said. “He is my smartest and most faithful companion.” The youngest Halfling bowed back, “Nice to meet you, sir bird.” Arastor threw several wool blankets on the floor near the hearth. “Warm yourselves. Are any of you hungry?” All three Halflings jumped up and down, “Yes! Hungry.” “Ok, ok... I have some stew I can heat.” “Sir Dwarf-man,” said the oldest child, “what meat is this in the stew?” Arastor smiled, “There is no meat in the stew. I do not eat forest animals. What tastes like meat to you are the Hancrack berries. I’m told the flavor is like chicken.” “No meat?” “No, but it will fill you up and warm your belly.” “Sir Dwarf—” “Just call me Arastor.” “Are the bad men gone?” “Yes, and they will not return.” Arastor took to filling Tobak into his smoke pipe. “Why were the men chasing you? And where are your parents?” “We’re from—” “Undercorn,” Arastor said. “Yes,” said the oldest child, “how do you know?” Arastor took a few puffs of his pipe, “It’s the closest Halfling village to the Spotted Woodlands.” The oldest continued, “The bad men came. Took many of our friends. Papa put us in the wagon, sent us off.” “Do you know why the bad men took your friends?” The children shook their heads. Arastor took out a piece of wood and his whittling knife, “You can sleep here by the fire. In the morning, I will take you to the ferry-man in Stonepoint. From there you can ride the barge across the river.” **** “How may I be of service?” The Dwarf with the red tunic made a shallow bow. Cratha had ridden two hard days to reach Tinker Town. She was exhausted and sore. She had neither the time nor the inclination for pleasantries. “I need an inn for a few days.” The Dwarf said, “An inn for tall folk. The first you’ll find is the Black Bird at marker 585.” The Dwarf took notice of Cratha’s expensive clothing, “If you’re looking for something more regal, the Blushing Lord is at marker 501.” Cratha spurred her horse on. “Thank you.” The woman was surprised at how crowded the Blushing Lord was for such an early time of the night. “How can I serve you?” said the barkeep. “I need a room for three days. Something big enough that I can entertain company.” “I’m sorry, Milady, we don’t run that kind of establishment.” The barkeep blushed. “No no,” said Cratha, “for meetings. I am the Librarian from Fallfell. I am here on business.” “My apologies, Milady. I have a wonderful suite of two adjoining rooms. However, it is costly. A gold crown a day.” “That will be fine.” **** “I ain’t seen her around these parts since before last winter.” The old man motioned for the barkeep. The dark figure standing next to him looked more like a shadow than solid form, “Any clue where she would go?” “Can’t say. She ain’t got no family I know of.” The shadow set a gold crown on the bar top, “Where did she stay when she was here?” “She had a shack behind the pottery house.” The shadow figure moved silently through the back alleys of Hollowrock until he found the pottery house. Moving swiftly through the various complete pots and broken shards of clay, the shadow made his way to the back of the home until he stood before a ramshackle hut that was too dilapidated to be termed a shack and which had been empty for some time. The door, empty of a lock or even a handle, creaked when pushed open. The shadow looked around the small cabin. In the moonlight all that was visible was a cot, torn and broken at one end. There was a chair, worn with age, and a small table. On the table sat a large rag and a well-used honing stone. “Damn.” **** Arastor had sat by the children for most of the night. Eventually sleep came to the Dwarf, but not without fitful dreams to accompany it. One dream stirred his consciousness, and he woke with a cold sweat on his neck. When his brain had once again regained its bearings, he found himself used as a pillow and blanket for the three Halfling children who had cozied up to him like a cat in a sunny window. Arastor was accustomed to not sleeping alone. He often woke with various forest creatures in his bed. This was the first time since he was a child he woke with other people. The raven leapt from its stand and flew out the window. Arastor slid out from under the children, doing his best not to wake them. The Dwarf pushed aside a small cupboard near one wall, exposing a tunnel just large enough for his girth. It was only ten paces to the end of the tunnel. It ended directly under a hollow stump. Arastor peeked up out of the stump at the front door to his home. He saw a shadowy figure in the early morning light. The ranger silently pulled himself out of the stump hole. Barefoot, he crept toward the front of his home. Arastor slid a curved dagger out of the back of his leather tunic. Arastor had silently made his way to within inches of the shadow figure without it noticing him. He slid the curved dagger between the shadow’s legs and gently lifted the blade into its crotch. “Surprise.” **** “Woman, you’ve made a deadly mistake.” “Deadly?” The lady stood at the end of the alley. She made a point of blocking the men’s escape. “That’s an appropriate choice of words.” The woman took a step forward, “You’re good when it’s three on one.” Each of the three men standing over a beaten and bloodied body of a girl slid out a weapon. “This urchin robbed us. We have just given back what we got.” “I don’t care.” The man closest to the woman tilted his head. “You don’t look much like a vigilante. Those swords you wear, know how to use one?” The men laughed, “Run off, woman, or we’ll do that same to you.” The woman slid only one of the two blades from its sheath on her back. The men looked at the sword in the lamplight, its thin long curved blade gleaming. “A katana. That’s a fancy sword for some street whore.” The woman placed the sword out in front of her, gently setting the tip of the blade so it touched the cobblestone. She released the handle, and the blade stayed in place, perfectly perpendicular to the ground. “It was my father’s. He called it Bamosi.” All three men laughed in a tense, fearful way. “Oh yeah. What does that mean?” The first man rushed forward with his partners fast on his heels. The woman was well prepared for anything the three men would or could do. She had spent her life on the streets and had taken down her fair share of foes. She waited till the last moment then fell to her knees, grasping the standing sword with both hands, spinning it down onto her but then thrusting upwards to the left. She took the lead man’s right hand off his body. While he was screaming in agony, the woman spun still on one knee tripping the second man. She laid into the third man, slicing just above his boot. The cut was so severe the man fell, a gush of blood spraying onto the alley. The first man was coming again with no weapon; one hand missing, he was in a rage of pain. His only focus was to kill this woman. She stood still, head bowed until she could feel his breath. Once again, the katana came up; this time taking the man’s other hand. As the no-handed man passed her, she twisted the sword cutting into the man’s back. The woman felt the tip of the blade slice through his spine. The second man was near now, his blade coming down to her left. She ducked, making a short stroke cut across the man’s hip exposing bone. He fell to the side against a building, trying desperately to keep his balance. Two more cuts, one across his knee exposing the bone, one across his chest. The man slid down the wall, his eyes open but not breathing. The last man saw his companions cut down without a single blow to the woman. Prepared to run, he froze for only a breath. That was one breath too many. The man’s head fell to the cobblestone alley, his body falling after that. “Bamosi. It means reckoning.” The woman picked up the girl, carried her from the alley, kicked open the tavern door of the Road Apple tavern and carted her into the backroom. “Rain! You can’t keep doing this,” the barkeep cried. “I can as long as I breathe,” said Rain. “And I suppose there are two dead bodies in my alley now.” “Three.” “Great!” The barkeep threw up his hands, “How many is that?” “I don’t keep track.” Rain laid a blanket over the young girl. “If this was any other town, they would hang you for murder.” Rain spun on the bartender, “But this isn’t any other town, this is Hollowrock. And no one here will care how many I kill.” “That may no longer be true,” said the bartender. Rain was surprised at what he said. “Why?” The man lowered his voice and closed the door to the back room. “There was someone here asking about you.” “When?” “Last night. I sent him to the shack behind the pottery house.” “Nice. I haven’t lived there in over a year.” The barkeep handed Rain a small leather bag. “It’s not much, but it should get you as far as Allond.” Rain shook the bag, “Thank you. I’m sure it will be enough.” “How are you going to get out of Hollowrock?” “Steal a horse.” **** “And she left for where?” The anger could easily be heard in the shadowy figure. “She refused to tell me.” “So, she left you in charge of it all.” “At least for the time being.” The short man sat down on a crate. “That makes no sense.” “None of it does. You don’t think she knows about me?” “We took every precaution. This has been years in the planning. Although anything is possible, I can’t see how she could have any inclining.” The short man rubbed his legs. “And the Halfling?” “I sent him in pieces down the White River.” In the darkness of the alley, the short man could not see the shadow figure smile, remembering how he had carved Falbin into bite size pieces for whatever lies at the bottom of the river. “What are his next orders?” “The plan he set to me may have to be changed now that the woman has gone traveling.” The shadow peered around the building’s corner, “I will take this news back to his eminence. Wait for my return.” The short man grasped his canes and began to leave, “I understand.”