The fire flickered and danced, gobbling up the logs and sending up sparks to be joined with other fires before getting lost among the stars. Around the fires sat two dozen or so men, big and loud, with thick beards and strong muscles. They tossed back ale and tore off meat with their bare hands, laughing and talking boisterously. A few were even singing a song, though their voices were less than pleasant. They were all in good spirits. A fine day’s work had been done, and tomorrow they would be going home to get their pay. Tonight, they celebrated. All save one.
Sam sat silent at a fire near the edge of camp, chewing down some of the bread and meat the men had shared with him. He had his own rations, but since they’d been kind enough to offer, he wasn’t going to refuse. He was young, not stupid.
Long, black hair ran down his shoulders and hung down over his black eyes and eyebrows. His skin was pale, and years of working in the sun had darkened his complexion only slightly. He had a thin face with slightly pointed ears and despite being eighteen, he had not even a hair on his chin.
Finishing his meal, Sam rolled his neck from side to side and stretched, wishing he could get to sleep. He had a long day ahead of him and wanted to be well-rested for it. Sam could get by on a few hours’ sleep, but he didn’t want to. Friend and fellow resident of Krall he might have been, but he was only one person. The others were in a jovial mood, and nothing Sam could say or do would dissuade them. Instead, he sat back and listened to one fellow, a man called Un, tell about the squad of halflings he had seen marching through the woods.
“They passed right in front of me, they did, a foot away from me nose. Must have been at least ten of them, all sorts, from bears to lions.”
The others laughed. “Come off it,” one said. “Only a few halfling ever come out of the Thanghorn, and never in those numbers. You might see ten in a decade, not all at once.”
“They were there.” Un insisted. “Covered in armor and carrying weapons, and marching just like they was in an army.” He leaned in, dropping his voice, so the others had to inch closer to make out what he was saying.
“They’s been rumors the halflings are coming out in greater numbers, and now I believe them. The watch ain’t doin’ too good of a job, from what I hear. Travelers say the roads aren’t safe anymore.”
“Since when have they ever been safe?” Another man asked. “For the nobles, maybe, but not for us.”
“All the same, I still think I saw them.” Un insisted. Spying Sam near the edge of the fire, he called him out.
“Oi, you there. What’d you think about all this?”
Sam hesitated, not sure what to say. He didn’t want to offend the man, but he agreed with the others that the rumor was nonsense. Everyone was looking at him, so he finally said.
“Honestly, I don’t see how that can be true. I think, if there were that many halflings marching around, we’d know it. If they have even half the powers people say they do, ten of them wouldn’t have anything to fear from twenty woodcutters and a farmer.”
“Aye. But what if that ain’t their job. Arandvi’s not far from here, that’d be what they’re after.” Un seemed dead set on making them believe his story, which Sam couldn’t see any point to.
“You’d need a lot more than ten halflings to take Arandvi.” Sam pointed out, forgetting his earlier reluctance. “If the halflings ever did come out of those woods, the king would have plenty of time to see it and muster the army, no matter how bad the border guard is.”
“Well, I saw ‘em, and I don’t care if none of ya believes me.” Un retreated, muttering to himself. The four men remaining watched him go, then turned back to the fire.
“The tax collector’s comin’ ‘round again.” A big man said. Sam thought his name was Raf.
“They’ve already been by my place.” John spat on the ground. “Wouldn’t leave my wife alone when she told we hadn’t more than twenty silvers, and insisted on ransacking the whole house. When they left, they took five extra pieces for ‘wasting their time.’ Someone needs to put ‘em in a barrel and throw it in the river.”
“But if we did that, we’d have soldier’s down on us before the weeks end.” Raf said. “Maybe some of the villages on the outskirts could get away with it, but we’re too close to the capital.”
“And that’s just the problem.” John said. “I’d take my wife and move, but everything’s so far away, except the blasted capital. And movin’ there’d be worse.”
“I don’t think the villages far away are as safe as you think.” Sam interjected. “Remember all the troops that have been passing through recently? I’ve talked with some of the peddlers, and they all say the king’s spreading out his reach. North, south, east and west all are being covered. With soldiers that fa abroad, I don’t think anyone’s safe.”
“They might keep the roads protected, at least,” said Thran.
“Aye. They’d replace thieves that can be hanged with those that have the law on their side. I’m not sure which is worse.” John stared at the fire.
Rising to his feet, Raf stretched. “Well, this has been a nice dreary talk, but I’m off to bed. It’s my turn to help hitch up the horses, and they’s always a pain.”
“At least you guys have horses.” Sam muttered.
“Right, your family keeps its horses at home, doesn’t it?” Thran asked.
Despite himself, Sam laughed. “Yes, they don’t get out much. Or at all, actually. Both are old, and I doubt they’d even make it to the capital. This way takes a little longer, but we keep our livestock.”
“You’ll probably be wanting to get to bed as well. Sorry we can’t keep the noise down.” John waved his hand around, gesturing to his fellow lumberjacks. “Not all of them have to haul a cart tomorrow. I bet half of ‘em will end up sleeping on the woodpiles.”
“And will you be one of them?” Sam asked with a grin.
John smiled back. “If I get to bed much later.”
Sam retired to his wagon and spread his blanket out in front of it. Lying down, he gazed at the flickering fires, occasionally obscured by one of the men moving about. Even when he closed his eyes, he could still see the fires. Sam wanted to turn over, but he was reluctant to put his back to the open. The lumberjacks wouldn’t hurt him, but they weren’t the most observant, especially with the amount they’d been drinking.
Rolling over on his back, Sam looked up at the stars. They looked different, as they always did around autumn. Come spring, they would be back to normal, but until then, Sam looked up at a changed sky. At times he believed could almost see the stars moving.
When he turned on his side to gaze again at the fires, a few stray hairs fell into Sam’s vision. He brushed them back angrily. He hated his hair this way, but good hats were expensive, and there was no point in wasting money when Sam had a ready solution. His skin didn’t darken much, but it could still get sunburned.
Even as he brushed the dark strands away, a thought occurred to Sam. Reaching around to the back of his head, he grabbed a big fistful of hair and pulled it over his eyes. Closing his eyes again, Sam was relieved that the dancing firelight was gone. Feeling pleased with himself, he put his hands over his ears and fell asleep.
Sam was the first one up the next morning. The sun had yet to come up, and a heavy fog blanketed everything. Sam waved his hand in front of his face. He could see that, but anything beyond was just a dark blur, if it was visible at all. Sam sighed. A mist like this would leave his clothes clammy for hours, then the sun would come, burn the fog away, and do it’s best to burn him into a crisp. There was never ideal weather for traveling.
But, ideal or not, his family needed the money. Sam crammed a handful of bread into his mouth, then quietly picked his way among the sprawled-out bodies of the woodcutters. He didn’t want to run over any of them, and it took him quite a while to find a safe path. Walking back to his wagon, he pulled on a pair of gloves. They were cheap, but better than nothing.
Standing in between the wagon’s protruding poles, Sam knelt down and grasped the handles. Hoisting them up to waist height, Sam started forward, cringing as the wheels squeaked and groaned. With every step, he expected one of the men to wake up, but none of them did. When he at last reached the edge of the clearing, Sam breathed a sigh of relief; and promptly ran into a tree!
Staggering backward, Sam’s hands flew toward his forehead in an instinctive reaction, meaning he dropped the handles of the cart. They fell with a crash that redoubled the pain in Sam’s already throbbing head. Behind him, he hears the men coming around, dazedly trying to figure out what had just happened. Several cried out, and one screamed and swore as he apparently stepped in some leftover coals.
Sam registered all this within a small part of his mind, but it was mainly focused on the massive pain in his head. He sank to his knees, still grasping at his face. A lump was already forming, egged on by the shouts coming from behind him. The woodcutters seemed to be readying for an attack, though they could hardly see anything in the mist.
Sam groaned. He knew what he had to do, but that wouldn’t make it any less pleasant. Standing up, he shouted “It was me!” then immediately winced at the pain. In a softer voice, he continued. “This is Sam. Sorry, I hit a tree. It’s impossible to see anything in this fog.”
“That’s true enough,” a voice acknowledged. “Men, put down your axes before you gut each other. We don’t need to worry about halflings with you lot fumbling about. It’s just Sam.”
Sam felt his face burn, even though nobody could see him in the darkness. “Sorry again. I just didn’t see the tree till I hit it.”
“Well, next time, try to keep your reaction quieter.” Even through the mist, Sam recognized John’s voice.
“I hope there won’t be a next time, but I’ll keep it in mind.” Kneeling down, Sam groped about for the handles and found them. Hoisting them again, he started off once more, being careful to avoid the tree. The last thing he heard was John saying, “I’d normally say let’s get started since were up, but with this weather, I think we’d better just get back to sleep.”
Wishing he could do the same, Sam staggered off, trying to ignore the splitting pain in his head. He knew it would be gone by tomorrow, since he always healed quickly, but in the meantime, he’d just have to deal with it.
I just hope the day doesn’t get much worse. Sam thought as he heaved the cart down the barely visible road.
#
The day hadn’t gotten much worse. But then, Sam reflected as he stopped for his midday meal, it hadn’t gotten much better, either. The pounding in his head has still not gone away, throbbing in rhythm with the pounding of his feet. After several hours, the fog had lifted, replaced by the sun, which continued to pound down on Sam, except when the occasional overhanging tree branch blocked the sun. It was under such a tree branch that he had finally stopped to eat. Taking out his flask, Sam shook it experimentally; and the sound it produced was not at all encouraging. Normally it was about half full by this time, but the constant beating of the sun had forced Sam to consume much more water than he normally did. He needed to find a stream, and quickly, otherwise he would be left with no water at all.
Sam took a deep breath. Sitting absolutely still, he concentrated on what was around him. At first, he heard only insects chirping, the occasional leaf rustle when forest animals moved, and the almost imperceptible sound of the nearly nonexistent breeze in the treetops.
Sam didn’t give up; this would take patience, which was something his father had drilled into him. Closing his eyes, he focused all his energy on listening. Straining to catch what other people couldn’t to see without his eyes. Still there was nothing, but then, very faintly, he heard the laughing of a brook as it gurgled and splashed downhill. Still not opening his eyes, Sam turned his head in the direction of the water. When he was absolutely certain he had the right direction, he opened his eyes again.
He was staring off to his left, which led straight into the forest. Getting up carefully, Sam slung the flask around his waist and grabbed the cart. He pulled it off the side of the road, hiding it carefully behind the bushes. This done, he paused for a moment to reorient himself, then headed off, ducking and dodging the branches hanging in his way. After about five minutes he came upon a small stream.
It ran swiftly downhill, over the rocks and through small furrows in the ground, laughing like only water can. Sam knelt down and dipped his hand into it. It was cold. Cupping a small handful, he lifted it to his mouth and drank. Just as he was putting it to his lips, he heard a sound behind him. Rising and spinning around, Sam’s hand went to his ax. It was nothing more than an ordinary chopping ax, but it was the only weapon he had. He drew it now.
Standing still, tense up and waiting for anything, Sam’s thoughts drifted back to what Un had said. There really couldn’t be any halfling’s out here, surely?
Sam shifted his feet, crouching slightly, like his father had taught him. He moved his left foot backward, and it slipped on a wet rock. Sam fell with a crash, barely managing to stop his ax from impaling him. His head hit the dirt, and the pain intensified. Gritting his teeth, Sam scrambled up, groping for his ax.
Nothing. For several minutes, there was no sound. Then a bird tweeted, and Sam jumped a foot in the air. Coming down to earth, he put away his ax with a shrug. After all, there are things like deer in the forest. I suppose one of them could have made a branch snap.
He didn’t totally convince himself, however, and resolved to sleep with one eye open that night. Filling the canteen, he returned to the wagon and set off once more. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, though Sam did feel that at times, he could hear the rustle of leaves, the flash of something darting out of sight just in time.
This and the pounding in his head did nothing for Sam’s nerves. By the time night began to fall, he was in a foul mood. Dragging his cart through a grove of trees he let the handles fall. Stripping off his gloves, he dumped them in the back of the cart, the grabbed the food satchel. After weighing the odds, he decided it wouldn’t do any harm to start a fire, albeit a small one. He boiled some of the jerky from the night before, savoring what flavor still remained.
When the meat was gone, Sam smothered the fire and rolled up inside his blankets. He appeared to be asleep, but his eyes, hidden in shadow, remained open, darting from place to place. He tried to relax and keep his breathing deep and even, but inside he was taut as a bow string, ready to snap at any minute.
If any attack was going to come, it would probably come at night. That was when the most people would be asleep and, theoretically, most vulnerable. Most people traveled in groups and kept watch for this very reason, but Sam was the only one who ventured to the capital anymore.
Leaves rustled loudly and Sam almost grabbed for his ax, but then he noticed a fox scurrying out of the bushes, it stopped and sniffed the air, then darted off into the night. Must be nice, not having to worry about taxes and halflings and soldiers. Sam’s thoughts drifted as his mind began to fade away, demanding a rest after the long, weary, boring day. All you have to think about is food and predators. If only all problems were that simple. He was able to stay vigilant for another couple hours, but then sleep overpowered his mind, dragging him away into the world of dreams.
Sam wasn’t sure what woke him. Maybe some sixth sense, maybe a slight rustle of grass. Whatever the reason, he jerked awake, eyes darting about as he tried to discern what had awakened him. It took a few seconds, but then he noticed a dark figure standing on the edge of the clearing. The figure did not move. It just stood there, and even without seeing its eyes, Sam could tell it was watching him. He kept his breathing even, and half closed his eyes again, trying to make it seem like he was still asleep.
Internally, he readied himself. If the figure attacked, he was only going to have one chance to grab his ax. He had to be ready. Sam watched the figure intently, hands ready to throw off the blankets and grab his weapon. He focused on nothing else, making sure not to miss a twitch of the figure. It was that focus that almost proved to be his undoing.
There was only a slight, soft swish behind him. Tense as he was, Sam reacted instantly, not bothering to throw off his blanket, simply rolling to the side, on top of his ax. Looking up at the sky, Sam heard the thud of metal striking dirt. His mouth went dry as he looked left and saw the gleam of steel in the moonlight.
I almost died. Sam thought and for a moment, he froze. That proved to be a mistake, and the blade removed itself from the earth, and Sam followed its progress upward, over the clawed hand, over the scaly green arm and chest, and until he was looking at the vicious face of a gator halfling. It seemed to grin down at him, silhouetted by the stars and moon above. That face gave Sam the kick he needed, and he flung the blanket off him, throwing it at the halfling in a desperate attempt to give himself a few seconds.
It did, and Sam rolled to his feet and grabbed his ax, only to dive aside seconds later as he heard the whistle of something cutting through the air. Regaining his feet, Sam took in the scene. Before him stood not one but two gator halflings, one with a short sword, one with a mace. They glanced at each other, then both of them sprang for him, weapons readied. Sam wasn’t stupid. Clutching his ax, he turned and sprinted into the forest.
Branches whacked him in the face and tore at his hair and clothes as he stumbled away, in what direction he knew not. Behind him, he heard sounds of pursuit, and redoubled his pace. Ax in hand, Sam barreled onwards, hoping against hope that he could somehow lose his pursuers in the woods. Suddenly, he tripped and fell, losing his ax as he braced himself against the ground. Glancing back, Sam saw the two of them only seconds away. Leaving the ax where it lay, he jumped to his feet and began running in a different direction.
Sam ran for what felt like hours, though he knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. His smaller size meant he could turn quicker and slip between places the halflings couldn’t, but their speed more than closed that gap. Chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face, Sam kept going, forcing himself onward through sheer willpower. He knew it couldn’t last, though. He was on the verge of collapse, and no matter how many times he turned, no matter how fast he ran, they stayed with him, waiting for the right moment to kill him.
Sweat ran into his eyes, blinding him, so Sam could barely see where he was going. Plunging into a particularly dense thicket of brambles, Sam caught his trouser leg on a thorn. He jerked at it, but it didn’t tear. Conscious of just how little time he had, Sam braced himself as best he could, the yanked backward with all his strength. The leg tore, and Sam fell backward. To his surprise, he didn’t land on firm ground, but instead kept falling, banging his head on something hard and rocklike.
Sam landed hard, losing what little wind he had. He lay on the cold, hard floor, sucking in great wheezing breaths. The end had come for him. The gators were upon him, and he could run no longer. Forcing open his eyes, driven by some morbid desire to see his killers, Sam beheld the two gators looking down at him through a hole, their faces leering at him in that hideous grin. As one, they jumped down after him.
And as one, they screamed.
Sam was temporarily blinded as bolts of energy sprung from all sides of the hole, punching through the gators’ armor and torso, and continuing out the other side. Sam shut his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the shrill cries that tore at his ears. He remained prone until he felt something tickling his face. Startled, he opened his eyes and sat up.
He was in what looked like some sort of shrine. The floor, walls and ceiling were covered in a gray stone that flowed together, making it look completely natural, except that nature never made something as smooth as this. Covering the walls were runes from a language Sam couldn’t read, though they were obviously ancient, as there had only been one language in Dundeith for thousands of years. The runes seemed to pulse slightly, giving off a golden glow. After taking in the room, Sam looked down at himself and almost choked.
He was covered in ash! Moving his hands, Sam realized that he was also sitting in a pile of ash that was considerably large. Looking around again, Sam couldn’t see it anywhere else in the room, except under the hole leading to the outside.
Sam didn’t need a moment to realize what that meant. All this ash, was once living things. Things that stumbled into this hole and didn’t make it out. Suddenly sickened, he scrambled to his feet, away from the pile of death. Lots of ash came with him, and though he tried to brush it off, the blood and sweat already on his clothes made the ash sticky, so he only succeeded in smearing it around. Giving up the battle, Sam looked up at the hole again. If that thing kills whatever falls into it, why did it let me through?
One thing was clear, however. The smooth walls, bolts of power, all of that pointed to magic, and that made Sam nervous. He had never seen a magician, but the stories people told of their powers were frightening. His father had told him that most of it was exaggerated or made up entirely, but he had warned Sam to be wary of it. After seeing its power firsthand, Sam was in wholehearted agreement.
At the same time, the room didn’t frighten him. He couldn’t explain it, but he didn’t want to leave just yet. Going up to one of the walls, as if drawn to them, Sam cautiously pressed his hand against it. The runes seemed to grow brighter, flaring for just a second and to Sam’s left, part of the wall opened. It swung silently inward, and Sam walked over for a better look inside. Carefully, he poked his head out from behind the wall, ready to duck the second anything came at him.
As he cast one quick, furtive look inside, his mouth fell open, and he forgot to breathe. The walls were the same. Slate gray, flowing together, and covered with runes. But while the previous room was empty, this one contained one sole object. Hovering only about ten feet away, a sword floated, point downward, still as stone.
Its blade was about three feet long polished till it shone, steel shining like silver, with a shallow groove cut into the sides. The grip was silver, and wound about with a smooth leather band. The hilt was some curious metal, akin to steel but not quite. At each end of the hilt, there were four round sockets. Six of the eight were empty, but on the outermost end of each side, there rested a topaz and a sapphire. Both jewels gleamed in the light. The pommel was silver, shot through with thin lines of gold. The entire design seemed to have melded the sword into one unbreakable, beautiful weapon. Sam was awestruck. Caution forgotten; he walked forward. Stretching out his right hand, Sam grasped the sword.
A ripple spread through Sam, and his whole body tingled. It felt like someone had shocked him, but much more pleasurable. His entire being seemed to have been awakened, and for a brief moment, Sam’s mind expanded more than he could imagine. He could feel every part of his body, from his lungs to heart to bones to things he couldn’t even name. It felt like a great weight was simultaneously pressing down on him and lifting him up. With a faint part of his mind, he thought he could hear a whispery voice speaking; and so it begins…
The moment passed and Sam fell to his knees still holding the sword. He gazed at it in awed wonder, not daring to let go. Shakily, he got to his feet, noticing that all the injures he’d acquired throughout the day had vanished. Despite having the most difficult, painful, terrifying and exhausting day of his life, Sam felt like he had just rolled out of bed. His mind felt fresh as well, letting him analyze the situation clearly, instead of looking at it through a haze of cobwebs.
The first thing to do, Sam decided, was to get back to his wagon; and that meant getting out of this room. Walking back into the ash-room, as he decided to call it, he stopped underneath the hole and looked up. Outside, he could still see the stars, and the moon was just drifting out of sight. He still had a lot of night left, which was good, because the hole looked to be almost twenty-five feet up in the air, and Sam had no way of reaching it.
He leapt as high as he could, stretching out his hand to try and reach the lip. His hand fell almost eighteen feet short. Sam was tall, and he could jump higher than most people, but it clearly wasn’t enough. Sam tried again. And again. Then he tried getting a running start. Starting from the wall, Sam sprinted forward, then jumped, reaching desperately. His hands still fell short, but he had gained about six inches.
Starting back in the sword room, Sam tried again, running and leaping for all he was worth. He got a few extra inches, but it might as well have been a league for all the good it did. Next, Sam tried climbing the wall. It was hopeless. His feet slid down, and his hands couldn’t find a grip anywhere. He then tried running at the wall, then straight up it. The end result was Sam sprawled on the floor, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
He tried jumping from the floor to wall, then back to the hole. That didn’t work either. Getting on his feet, Sam stared upward at the hole, which he was now starting to hate. Throughout all his attempts, it hadn’t moved, hadn’t done anything. He didn’t expect it too, but to have it just sit there, silently mocking his attempts was maddening.
Looking down at the floor, Sam tried to force his mind to think, to come up with any idea that could possibly have any chance of working. He came up with several completely ludicrous schemes, which he never would have tried under other circumstances. None the less, he tried them, one after the other, failure after failure, growing more and more desperate with each one. Finally, he tried standing on the pommel of the sword, then jumping from there.
Standing up carefully on the wavering blade, Sam slowly, cautiously, bent his knees, keeping his balance through a combination of skill and desperation. Then, when he at last felt secure, he jumped.
From the second he moved; Sam knew he had made a mistake. The sword topped back under his shove, and instead of leaping upwards, Sam fell forward as the point of the sword came up. Sam saw the flash of steel and knew he was done for. He couldn’t even find the strength to look away as the gleaming blade came up at him, sealing his fate.
Then something happened. Just before the sword hit Sam in the face, something flashed, and the sword veered off to the side. It was there and gone in an instant, so fast Sam wasn’t even sure he’d seen it, as he and the sword fell to the floor. Sam could feel the cold, hard metal pressing into his arm, though at the moment, he was just thankful it wasn’t his neck.
The sword hadn’t even cut him, though it certainly should have. Sam wasn’t sure what to make of what had just occurred, but then, the whole day had been strange really. Turning over onto his back, Sam gazed up at the sky. With surprise, he realized the stars were fading. He had been trying to get out of this deathtrap for half the night.
It suddenly occurred to Sam just how tired he was. The last few days had been strenuous, and he hadn’t gotten a full night of sleep. Putting his hand to his mouth to cover a sudden yawn, he marveled at the fact that he was still awake. The cold stone floor (Sam had scattered the ash all over the place with his antics) suddenly seemed the most comfortable bed in the world. Sam’s hand closed over the sword’s grip, and he lost himself in strange dreams, with things lurking just outside his mind. They prowled in the shadows, watching and waiting for something, though he knew not what it was.