Ranger of Path

By Jorden Leonard

Ishkur, an orphan nostalgic for the heroic roots of his adoptive band of ambitious adventurers, sets out on a redemptive mission to recover the secrets of a forgotten trade route traversing a contested realm.

The orders that he finds in his pocket upon waking are always written in the same strange hand, yet he has never met the writer. This time the note says he must join up on the road with an assassin, an old acquaintance he's not quite sure he can call friend.

When world shaking events interrupt and strip Ishkur of everything but headstrong optimism, he pushes on, blazing his own foolhardy path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jorden Leonard
• Release date: Mar 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370002535

Jorden Leonard

I write. I play. I love. I was a kid in Fern Forest, Hawaii. Now I reside with my wife and son in Portland, Oregon. On the volcanic island, I lived in a redwood house and played on a beach of my birth stone. One day, I drowned in the Hilo Bay after being repeatedly thrown in by drunken relatives. I still remember the moment when I gave up and breathed in the tea colored water—hence Ranger of Path's cover. My lungs surrendered, but my heart never stopped. I forgave the foolish swimming lesson the moment a fear sobered relative resuscitated me. I never played D&D until college, and now I host a Roll20 game within my novels' setting. I played Eve Online, exclusively PVP, for close to a decade. I’ve bought many transformer toys, pretending it’s only because I love my son. He’s moved on to nerf guns, but I keep the old toys in case he changes his mind. I turned forty and started Jiu Jitsu along with my son, but I got my cauliflower ear from wrestling in high-school. I think I broke my hand in a white belt tournament, and I don’t want my wife to find out. I once burned my face while fire dancing. I am a fire dragon.

Book preview

Mortal Hosts for the Founding Demigods of LUTE:

Ishkur; half-elf, scout, and ranger for Lord Icarus Path of Green.

Hildr; human, advocate, and valkyrie for Lady Darla Desire of Red.

Haden; orcelf, assassin, and champion for Lady Uostai Play of Black.

Krieg; human, general, and seeker for Lord Blitz Truth of Blue.

Goldstone; olympikin, scholar, and paladin for Lord Talom Mourning of White.

Five Terms:

Demigod; the spirit of a worshiped word possessing at least one mortal host.

Hospitium; a commitment between a host and guest after food is accepted.

Overgod; the overlord of one of the five color-coded alignments.

Verdant; a vibrant color of green and the crusade to honor Overgod Gardener.

Yule; the measure of five thousand feet.

Mystic Skills of Green:

Healing; to enhance regeneration. An outer skill.

Strength; to be faster, stronger, and tougher. An inner skill.

Nature; to bond with life. The prime skill.

Creation; to stimulate growth. An inner skill.

Aura; to see the hues of souls. An outer skill.

0. Prologue

A boy is caught pulling the legs off a cricket.

Don’t do that. How do you think it feels?

The boy chews on his lip and says, Unhoppy?

—Ishkur Inshushinak Ishtaran

A squirrel pokes its head out of a hole in an old fir tree. On a moss covered rock below, a man little bigger than it trills and waves an acorn with a right arm that’s shorter than his other by a third.

With greenish skin and limbs thin as twigs, he is a brownie, a fae friend of the forest and no danger. The squirrel scurries down and snatches the nut.

The brownie smiles and trills a bird’s song as he lies on the moss.

A hint of smoke stings the squirrel’s nose, and it rears up with whiskers twitching. The acorn falls, and the tiny animal bounds away, chittering a warning.

Fire.

Stunted arm pressed against his chest, the brownie cartwheels off the rock and tumbles to a cobbled stone path that leads to his tribe’s habitat. Once a road, it was built by humans an age ago, but has been overgrown, hidden by nature and the efforts of his tribe.

He stumbles and rolls and runs. Everything and everyone he knows can burn. His thimble-sized heart beats fast as a hummingbird’s wings and air pumps through his lungs in a constant stream. Fire is a brownie’s worst enemy.

Smoke thickens ahead where his ancestors live on in the form of a grove of trees. They provide shelter for his people, and their auras have comforted his soul since birth.

He cocks his head as distant trills scream out. Fellow brownies in pain.

A figure aflame walks out of the smoke. Naked, with the hips and breasts of a human female, she glows like heated metal with hair that dances within a pillar of fire.

The brownie shivers and crawls forward. The woman roars, and a shimmering wave of red energy bursts out from her, moving fast as arrows in every direction. It hits him and flows on. He shakes and tumbles away from the elemental beauty and his smoldering home.

Distance eases the mystic fear tinting his aura, and he punches himself with his stunted arm and cries sappy tears. It was his duty to watch the old path as it connects to a human town only a few days away. His queen had even warned a danger was coming.

At an oak tree, he climbs to a tangle of grass, twigs, and leaves. Tufts of gray fur decorate an entrance to the empty squirrel’s nest. He trills an apology for the invasion and wiggles inside.

Curled into a ball, the brownie tries to trill a song but can only cough and caw like a crow. He has failed his people. His stunted arm twitches, and he forms a fist.

In the language of humans, he says, Avenge to make amends.

Whoever brought fire to his home must pay.

1. A Simple Mission

Pay in advance for this game

Bathe both before and after

Don’t you dare forget my name

Or you won’t survive this whore

—Hildr Vas Trumurne

All griffins shit logs. Long, thick, and adhesive. When launched mid-flight, the spears of excrement generally hold together until impact.

Ishkur, a disgraced ranger, cleans an aviary for the beasts at the top of a speckled granite tower. Built by the hands of giants, it straddles a deep crack in the land. Plowed fields cover one side of the narrow canyon, and a verdant forest covers the other. His mother was human and his father an elf, so this spot between worked and wild land suits him, even if the humble job does not.

The tall aviary serves a town that’s half alive. Stretched along the farmed side is a hive of people. They fill the stone structures and wooden extensions along a well-worn dirt road that curves away from dusty bridges.

Ishkur pauses at a window overlooking the long abandoned half of town, which is being excavated for treasure and expansion. He narrows his green eyes as axes chop trees that have spent centuries stretching limbs from granite ruins. He spoils his laugh lines with a frown as orange flags are planted to mark a wide cobblestone path of a past age and turns back to his chore.

Spinning a dung rake like a polearm, he rolls the last of the arm-length droppings into a chute. Forgive the splatter. He tosses the rake and picks up a mop and bucket. If I clean up the mess.

The trim half-elf whistles with pinch-nosed cheer while wiping the aviary floor, a children’s song about marching ants his mother taught him to get through chores.

Good morning! Covered in a dark wool robe, a rosy-cheeked old man enters from a side door, shaking a paper bag. I’ve got your favorite.

Ishkur empties the putrid wash bucket and wipes his hands. You don’t have to keep bringing me treats. This is my penance.

Freshly sealed with the power of my workshop. The old man holds open the bag while Ishkur pokes around inside. Guaranteed to stay fresh for a year.

Ishkur pulls out a palm-sized bar of something in metallic packaging. Let me pay your costs at least.

Don’t embarrass me. The gift is given. Accept it as you would hospitium.

Thank you, Apple.

The man’s cheeks flush as bright as the fruit he’s nicknamed after. One bar a day, no more, or the sweetness will spoil your stomach.

Wind gusts in from the open roof, stirring straw.

Ishkur moves to oil a hanging saddle and bridle, custom made for a huge mount that’s like the front of an eagle fused with the hind of a lion. The mystically-tamed monster is the fastest way through rough land, and Ishkur takes care of what takes care of him.

I’ll eat them after I’m allowed adventuring again. Your treats are the perfect supplement.

Apple sighs. Last batch of the peach ones. Couldn’t bear to sell them at market.

Why?

The old man frowns. Only one tree grew peaches around here.

The brownie tribe’s tree. Don’t brownie queens become fruit trees when they’re done reincarnating?

Sure, the tree was Queen Saugrin’s grandmother.

Oh. Ishkur picks at his ear tips. Have you heard from their tribe?

No. Apple snorts. I did get pelted by their tiny sling bullets the day after your lover’s lady torched their habitat, but I haven’t heard a brownie’s trill in weeks.

But you warned them. How can Saugrin be mad at you?

I serve at the pleasure of your band. Apple bows, the wild white nest of his hair flopping. Anything a lord or lady of Lute does shades us all.

Ishkur grabs the mop and bops the man’s head with its shaft.

Batting the stick away, Apple snorts like a drowning hog. You fae-brat.

You old fart.

And they smell like my pie bars. The old man tucks his hand in his armpit and flaps like a chicken until the sweat and pressure starts a squeaking.

Ishkur chuckles and rubs his nose. So, I’m stuck here mucking about because I took all the blame for the warning you gave. Maybe I should have told my lord the truth. If you’d been kicked out of the band, at least the brownies would have taken you in. He points a finger down. If I summon Lord Icarus, would you confess?

Apple gulps. It’s taken me years to earn this post, my own place of power with the Lords Under The Eye’s protection. He pats a stringed instrument painted on the granite wall, the symbol and acronym of their adventuring band. What am I if your lord takes it away? Should I run down that ancient route, following the brownie tribe? If the little twig men did forgive me, they don’t need a shaman with half the skill of their queen.

I’m sure Lord Icarus won’t get rid of you. Ishkur taps the painted lute with the mop’s handle. Half a brownie queen or not, you’re still the best shaman Lute has.

More than a dozen silhouettes of the stringed instrument are stamped, woven, or molded around the large room. Judging and reminding.

Ishkur says, How could you have known Verdant druids would come to the brownies’ defense? He grips Apple’s shoulder. It’s time my demigod learned I didn’t completely betray his trust, but we don’t have to tell anyone else, not even Hildr.

"Your woman will forgive you, but I don’t have your soft green eyes or fine auburn hair. The old man chuckles. I’d give up casting, if I could claim your fae charm."

I can readily tease sighs out of women. Ishkur pulls his hair back, uncovering ears pointed like a cat. Until they notice these.

Bah. Apple shrugs. Humans can be as tribal as elves. It’s tough for any stranger to get accepted, but once you’re in, you’re like family.

"Well, you are a part of our Lute family. Hildr would forgive you for warning the brownies."

Aye, you’re right. She may forgive, but her red lady will roast me quick as she burned out that brownie tribe. Apple gets on his knees. "Regardless, I trust your green lord’s discretion. He clasps his hands together. Go ahead. Call him."

Ishkur chuckles. Such a deferential pose for the aviary master. Can I get you a bowl for alms?

Don’t mock my reverence. He swats at Ishkur but misses. I love you like a son, but you are a vexing holy vessel.

I thought that was my charm.

Crossing his legs and whipping his hands about, Ishkur bows like a royal dignitary. Apple cackles and mimics the hand gestures with more flair.

Ishkur pinches his fingers together. Lord, I request your possession.

Wait, wait. The old man grunts, settling again with hands clasped and head bowed.

After a few toe taps, Ishkur shrugs and grabs the mop. I guess my lord’s busy—

Everything blurs.

Ishkur smiles as his mind falls into a mental mirror that envelops him like a pool of murky water.

But it’s dry.

Ishkur licks his lips as the aviary comes back into focus. Well, that was short.

The old man stands and clears his throat. Check your pocket. He filled a page faster than I could pee.

Ishkur pats the breast pocket of his padded linen tunic, pulling out a folded paper that wasn’t there before. The silhouette of a lute fills a corner on the page, and he traces writing neater, and more precise, than his own.

I’m off probation.

He grins, summoning his demigod’s attention with a ritualistic finger poke and pinch. Thank you, Lord, for writing a proper mission of redemption. I’ll stay on path and resist heroics.

Smart to stay realistic and not swear off foolishness. Apple coughs. Did Lord Icarus mention me?

Your workshop is safe. The aviary remains your responsibility.

I hope you appreciate having the demigod you do. Imagine if you had Hildr’s.

Ishkur laughs with a lilting voice that trails off-key as a breeze teases a familiar perfume out of the room’s beastly odors.

A woman with waist-length orange hair enters.

Speaking of your she-devil… Apple bows and holds up his paper bag. Hello, Hildr. Would you like a treat?

She waltzes by, smacking aside the bag and snagging the mop from Ishkur. "I am the treat." Formal attire of red silk and gold lace hugs a body built to heat hearts, and her rhythmic motion with the handle jiggles parts.

Apple whistles and clears his throat. This is my cue. I’ve got some workshop work to do. He salutes Ishkur. Keep your rhymes quick and your prose clean.

Ishkur salutes back. Keep your mind slow and your fat lean.

Apple snorts and tosses his bag of packaged treats onto a pile of gear. Remember, no more than—

One a day. I got it.

The old man steps out as Hildr dips the mop into a fresh bucket.

My mama taught me to find pleasure in my work. She slaps the floor with the dripping mop head. Are you enjoying this penance, Ishy?

Sure. He taps his pointed ear. I don’t mind cleaning up after fellow hybrids.

Hildr glides and strokes, presses and twists. Drudgery is transformed into a dance. From the arch of her back to the parting of her lips, she stirs the human in him like no one else can.

He gulps, blushing a harlequin shade of green. This new direction our band’s taking… I wasn’t prepared for the ruthlessness.

She pouts and twists the mop until fouled water dribbles. Lady Darla’s given me a new mission.

Oh. Nice evasion. Lord Icarus just gave me a new one, too.

Your lord is a very forgiving demigod.

And your lady’s spiteful and jealous. He spreads his arms, stepping to her.

Aye. Amber eyes narrowing, Hildr pushes him backwards. Vengeful, too. She reaches into her cleavage and pulls out a roll of paper. I am to abandon you and fulfill the desires of another.

His face pales. What… like a whore?

You betrayed us and almost got me killed. She taps a lute stamp on her roll. I still don’t think you’re sorry.

Maybe because I only told Apple. My intentions were pure and the consequences unintended. He’s the one that ran off to warn the brownies. Ishkur forces a smile. Back to Lady Darla’s fresh assignment for you—

Sex. She raises an eyebrow. I plan on enjoying it.

He bites his knuckle. We’ve gallivanted like heroes. For years, protecting and avenging without you needing to resort to…

Making sweet love with someone because my godly ghost took over and—and wrote a name with a lot of dirty verbs all around it?

Ishkur kicks some wet straw. Songs are sung about the Lords Under The Eye, and these recent shifts in focus taint our burgeoning legend.

We’ve never been heroes, just hosts for demigods who dabbled in heroics. She shrugs. They’ve the immortal nature and mystic mastery to be the only true lords and ladies under the pantheon. You embrace their will or get discarded. She straightens and walks to the door. My mother also trained me to be hospitable, so I expect the full century of youth and beauty while in Lady Darla Desire’s service.

With my fae-blood, it took my mother’s lifetime to get me to adolescence. He coughs and says in a deeper voice, A hundred more years of baby-face isn’t what appealed to me.

Oh right, you accepted your lord to become famous and adored. She rubs her rounded ears. All because some village bumpkins scorned you for being a mutt.

Maybe.

Good luck dying a hero. She flips her hair back. When my time’s up, I’ll kill myself while still perfect as a cherry blossom.

Humor usually charms her. I wish you’d stick around and get plump. He clears his throat and says with the hint of a grin, Cherries taste sweeter with a pit in the middle, rather than petals all around.

She snorts. Ever the awkward jester. I don’t have to pretend to like you anymore, but I still kind of do.

Wait… kind of do like me or kind of pretend to? He creases his brow. I wasn’t a mission, was I?

Poor disabled heart. Hildr pats his chest. If you couldn’t tell whether I really liked you, does it matter if I did?

Yes. My new mission is to survey the rest of the old trade route, all the way to the ruins of Sarvern. He crosses his arms. A fresh chance from Lord Icarus to further Lute’s interests, and I’m going to embrace it.

She mimics his crossed arms. Really?

Yeah. Ishkur smiles. I’m even picking up Haden at a hamlet two-thirds of the way.

Lovely. Some quality time with your best friend. Hildr licks her thumbs and smooths her eyebrows. But, Haden’s going to wonder. You betrayed me, your lover. How can he trust you? How can anyone?

He cringes. My betrayal, it… I was drunk, and I was here with Apple. He chews his lip. She’ll forgive the old coot, but Lady Darla might kill him. He tried to talk me out of it. Keeping the lie alive for you, old man. I’m sorry. I should have listened to him.

I wish so. She sighs. "And Haden? Come on, Ishy. Our band brother’s an orcelf assassin with an insane demigoddess feeding him notes. How easy would her words convince him that you’ll sic the Verdant Crusade on him next? Like as not, Lord Icarus will have to find a new host because you accidentally slip off your griffin."

With my armor, I’d survive the fall, but I won’t survive ostracized. Forest and trees, nothing but animals speaking. Ishkur picks at the tips of his ears. Every chirp and growl becoming poetry as my mother’s madness seeps into me. Please, trust that I’ll never risk losing all of you again. Lute’s my only fam—

Splat.

The severed tail of a massive fish twitches next to Ishkur’s foot. He hops back as a whoosh lifts his hair, heralding the arrival of a griffin with golden fur and cream-colored feathers. The wagon-sized beast slurps up the fish tail as its wide wings fold, and it curls into a straw nest with a screeching growl.

Chores, done.

2. Peach Tribe

Better to bow than be beaten down

Better to kiss a ring than be hung

But then when getting old, fat, and round

Don’t envy the freedom of the young

Instead, prepare to be forgotten

With an epitaph about caution

—Seedwick Apple Morehunt

Ishkur sneezes and covers his face as loose feathers, fur, and hay swirl and settle across the aviary. Adventure time.

Peggy! Hildr rushes with a giddy skip to the huge griffin. Hello dear, did you catch a nice catfish?

The beast squawks, coughing up an arm’s length of fish spine. Ishkur curls his lip.

Ah. Hildr chuckles, making her orange hair dance. Poor Ishy will have to clean that up.

Ishkur pats the note sticking out of his breast pocket. Peggy’s arrival marks the end of such lowly duties.

He steps to a pile of gear packed into a corner. Piece by piece, he pulls out a silver suit of full plate. My Exquisite armor. Each piece is formed and detailed with a sculptor’s love without betraying function.

As long as he keeps in shape, mystic craftsmanship allows for strapless wear. My second skin. Ishkur slips into the custom-fitted suit with a speed and ease impossible for mundane armor.

Oh. Hildr pulls a piece of rancid meat out of a saddle bag, waving it in front of Peggy’s beak. Fly steady for my heroic fool.

He flexes gauntleted hands. Lover no more, but I’m still Hildr’s fool.

Off-white wings tight to body, the griffin bobs her head and snatches the treat with a snake’s speed.

Hildr smiles. Maybe you can get Peggy to shit on our loggers along the way. Might alleviate your pent up alignment impulses.

Gardener is the overgod of tamed and untamed nature, and my lord demigod navigates the space between. Ishkur grunts, working pulleys to lift his saddle onto the griffin. I accept development and respect men doing honest labor for us. Only the radical Verdants can’t see that.

Like your mother?

Ishkur flinches and slips on a helmet with a green-tinted lens filling the visor. It fuses to his breastplate with a slight hiss. Safe.

If Lord Icarus never chose me, maybe I would be a Verdant. He straps a polearm and a backpack to the saddle and climbs onto the griffin. But a pragmatic one.

Ishy. She rolls her eyes. "You would be the holy war’s only pragmatic crusader."

Maybe. He adjusts his seat. Now, who did Lady Darla assign you to pleasure?

Hildr flutters her lashes. Well, there’s this tall gentleman with golden locks that’s almost as handsome as he thinks he is.

Goldstone.

She nods, tracing a thin scar that crosses her chin.

He clenches his teeth. Haden might kill me, but he’d never call me ‘mutt.’

Hold a moment. Hildr narrows her eyes, stepping closer. Take off your helmet.

Is Goldie waiting for you outside?

Don’t do something stupid. Think of what Apple would say.

Goldstone compared Apple’s pie bars to sweetened manure. Ishkur grins wide within his helmet. Stay up here while I circle around. I’ve got a pragmatic impulse to release something pent up.

Do you even know what pragmatic means?

Ishkur clucks with his tongue and tugs on the reins. The giant of claws and talons chirps, carrying him across the aviary.

It means you should tell our handsome bandmate, ‘Lord Icarus possessed poor Ishy!’

With an armored heel kick, Ishkur smacks a wall switch. There’s a rumble, and the whole side of the room rattles open like a colossal maw perched over a ravine.

It’s a proper precipice—a sheer drop to a river raging with winter’s melt. The griffin spreads wings wide as a town’s double-lane street and leaps off the edge.

Straps of leather hold Ishkur’s legs tight against ribs where feathers fade into fur as they dive. His gauntlets stick to the reins with mystic enhancement while his helmet dampens the raging wind. The beast pulls up low enough to tear petals off early spring blossoms. Ishkur is pressed hard against her spine until she evens into a steady rise out of the canyon and over the split settlement.

Where are you, Goldstone?

He steers using leans and heels as much as reins until the town below spins. You see him, Peggy? Look for white armor with gold trim. Several bridges arch over the crevasse to connect the halves of the settlement. There he is! He tugs her into a dive towards a pearl white figure on the largest bridge.

You pompous paladin. The tall man’s back is as well-armored as Ishkur’s, but his long blond hair blows freely in the wind. Should have worn your helmet.

The griffin hunches and stiffens as the man turns with a greatsword in hand.

Heads up! Ishkur leans as a log drops.

Ishy? Goldstone slices it, but that doesn’t stop the splatter. You, mutt!

Ishkur shakes his fist. Not your woman!

He straightens Peggy out and makes her rise to a cruising altitude. Not mine anymore either. Ishkur sighs. They probably deserve each other.

Letting the reins fall, he unrolls a map backed with boards to keep it stiff. An orange dot blinks where they are, Lotus Hollow. A piece of chewed gum sticks where Haden should be, a hand span away. Hold on a few more days, my friend, and I’ll rescue you from those country bumpkins.

He steers until they’ve lined up with the orange flags that mark the overgrown trade route’s beginning. The land is a checkerboard of mud and old growth. Lumber demand is revitalizing Lotus Hollow, and the Lute adventuring band is taking over the town’s booming business.

Forgive me, Mother. If I don’t embrace their ambition, I’ll be abandoned.

He jabs down with an armored finger and then pinches, miming planting in the air. His mother taught him the simple gesture before he could walk, a prayer to Gardener, the overgod of Green, and also a summoning. For her it was the first step to any of her druidic castings. For Ishkur now, it requests the attention of Icarus Path, the demigod of Green that chose Ishkur as host.

"Lord Icarus, when I broke your confidence and spoke to Apple, I wasn’t just blowing off steam about the new path Lute’s taking. My mother’s memory was strong in my thoughts, too.

"I was drunk, but I think I did expect him to warn the brownies. Of course, I didn’t want Hildr hurt, but I was relieved that the Verdants found out.

You know my mother groomed me to join their crusade, our overgod’s crusade. My whole life, I had to listen to her warn that holy war was nigh.

Only to die right as the war started while still bitter at my failure to properly cast.

I’d buried her, and the chains of obligation felt thicker. Out of guilt and blind duty, I would’ve enlisted in the crusade she just missed. Thank you for claiming me first, and I’m sorry I let those chains persist. He gulps. I so regret this slip up spoils six loyal and mostly fun-filled years.

Ishkur smiles, hugging his saddle.

As our band considered my treason, you stayed true. Protecting me like the father my father can’t be. I owe you everything, and I’ll try to get through this second-chance mission without troubling you.

Most of an hour passes, and he shifts in his seat. My place of shame approaches. He hums a song, one his elven father moaned through his bark-covered mouth while becoming a tree, as a patch of fire-scarred land breaks the monotonous canopy.

How devastating was Lady Darla’s reprisal? He narrows his eyes, tugging Peggy into a dive. I have to know.

Massive wings stir up a cloud of ash as she lands. Ishkur hops off and crunches charcoal with his boot heels. Scorched earth. The griffin sneezes and snaps a thin trunk with her furry behind.

He hisses and hurries over to the charred wood. Careful, Peggy. This was a brownie elder gone to root. As my father did.

Hundreds of thin rings circle a lime-green core. Centuries.

He clenches his gauntleted fist and then pokes and pinches. Lord Icarus, did you know this tribe was rooted so deep before you missioned me to move them?

Nothing blurs. I’m not my mother’s crusader. He takes a deep breath. Nor an avenging hero.

At least this elder’s descendants tumbled to safety, right? And, hopefully none lingered to witness Lady Darla’s inferno.

We’re just instruments being played.

Near the center of the scorched earth is a blackened fruit tree.

Hail, totem of the Peach Tribe and Queen Saugrin’s grandmother. He steps over a knee-high wall of stone blocks surrounding it and fondles one of the few spring buds struggling to open. No matter the miracle of little hands tearing up cobblestones twice their weight, it was fruitless against a demigoddess of Red’s flame.

Ishkur removes a gauntlet and presses his thumb into the rich earth that was hidden under the stones of the old trade route. Gardener blessed.

He pulls a string of copper bells out of a pocket, and Peggy perks up as his shaking hands make them sing. These were my mother’s. Jiggling them harder, it becomes a crooning bird’s song that the griffin squawks and growls along to.

Shame upon shame. Failure upon betrayal. How harsh would Mother judge my part in the ruin of this sacred place?

He runs his hand along lines of sap weeping down blistered bark. Apple would cry too, seeing no more peaches coming out of you.

He pokes and squeezes sticky fingers together.

Lord, you must help this one at least. This place’s power will remain with Gardener if you mystic this tree healthy. Maybe those Verdant druids could set up a shrine to the side of this path. He rubs sap off in the soil. You don’t want another crusade to claim this blessed spot, do you? The Obsidians for sure; they’d love such desecration.

He gestures at the charred grove, which had once been a court of small but stately trees covered with tiny twig men. Trilling and dancing with fae abandon.

Still no blur. Lord Icarus, hello?

Silence is guilt. He growls, stomping back to the griffin. And this place will fade from Gardener’s grace.

I’m sorry, little cousins. Ishkur pinches his heels against Peggy’s sides to lift off. By our overgod’s grace, make a tribal home far from both selfish demigods and hostile crusaders.

The beat of the griffin’s wings mixes the remains of ancient brownies with the dust covering the cobblestone road.

3. Not Broken

Yips like a dog, hops like a frog

It’s a gremlin. It’s a gremlin

Squats on a grave and lays an egg

It’s a gremlin. It’s a gremlin

If your pet cries out, don’t be in doubt

It’s a gremlin. It’s a gremlin

Wearing kitty’s skin to lure you in

It’s a gremlin. It’s a gremlin

—Whisana Elkrun

Halfway through the second day of flight, the world blurs, just a little.

PLAYER PATH DISCONNECTED.

A beat of wings and it clears, without a reflective vision or time missing.

What was that? Ishkur jabs air and pinches. Lord Icarus?

Ishkur lands Peggy in a field and hops down, crushing flowers with purple petals. A failed possession? He pulls off his gauntlets, pokes the ground and pinches above it.

I’m summoning you, Lord Icarus. His eyes stay clear, and he frowns. Are you… are you okay?

A crow caws, but no mental mirror appears. No sense delaying Haden’s pick up.

I keep troubling you, Lord, with doubts and worry. He pats his breastplate where his note is and climbs back on his griffin. I suppose I deserve to be ignored.

He unrolls his map. The orange dot is a bit past midway between Lotus Hollow and the gum-marked spot labeled Sarvernway.

My lord’s probably just sulking in demigod land.

Well past noon the next day, Ishkur leans back in his saddle and taps the side of his sealed helmet. Eagle, he says in Elvish, and his vision mystically sharpens through the tinted lenses.

His helmet is imbued with five charges that he can expend for five minute enhancements. It will take a few hours for a spent charge to recover.

Farms? We’re about there, Peggy. I think I see some ho—

The griffin screeches and dives towards a herd of white-tailed deer.

What? Ishkur tugs on the reins and digs his heels into her flanks, but she twists and tries to buck him.

Calm down, Peggy!

The griffin perks at her name, shaking her head like a drunken chicken. Oh no.

He pokes and pinches in the air. Lord! Everything blurs but immediately clears again. She’s broken free!

The deer scatter, and his rebelling mount banks around a giant cedar. Branches whack his armored chest and head. His gauntlets’ enhanced grip doesn’t fail, but a saddle strap flaps loose.

Help me!

Ishkur doesn’t have a fear of heights so much as a healthy respect for a crushing altitude when traveling faster than a galloping horse. Losing control in reach of the canopy is a measure of relief as his stomach churns.

Peggy swivels her head. Ishkur leans away from her wild eyes and yawning beak.

Watch out!

He grabs his pack and polearm, leaping off as she flies through a pine. Sappy needles blind him, and his long weapon wedges between branches, jerking him to a halt.

Pop!

He screams as he hangs, arm out of his shoulder’s socket. Pain means I live.

Peggy squawks, flapping hard to recover from hitting the tree. Ishkur clamps his mouth shut, and his griffin flies on after the deer, talons extended.

Dislocation should be treated quickly with the joint immobilized while the muscles relax. His mother’s medical lesson cycles through his mind while he pants like a woman in labor.

Ishkur drops his pack. It bounces between branches, and he taps his chest as it smacks into the ground.

Heal, he says in Elvish.

His shoulder grows warm, and the ache deepens. He swings his body and moans while switching grips to his good arm.

After a few deep breaths, the joint cools, and there’s a soft clunk. Slowly shrugging, there’s no twinge, and he sighs without wincing.

Four heals left. Imbued with healing charges, his breastplate can regenerate major damage within a five-minute window, and a spent charge recovers at the typical several hour rate.

Stupid. The air filtering into his helmet is full of pollen and other spring promises. Should’ve tapped before I jumped.

Ishkur grabs a branch, bracing his foot against the trunk. With a metallic clink he slaps free his polearm and slips it onto his back.

His gauntlet’s sticky grip is a lesser mystic effect, but it’s constant instead of expiring after a few minutes. Using them, he climbs down like a spider and backflips off to land on his feet.

Lord Icarus is quiescent, and my mount’s conditioning fails? Did Apple get banished or die, enabling Peggy to rebel?

Ishkur shakes his head. Poke. Pinch.

Whatever’s going on, Lord, I won’t abandon my duty. By horse, mule, or my own back, I’ll get Haden to the ruins of Sarvern and survey on the way.

If only he didn’t have an orc’s weight on that elf frame.

Somehow, if you can, get Peggy plus my map back to me. Hildr’s not too off about Haden. I won’t renew his friendship arriving late and without a griffin to transport us.

He kicks a large boulder resting next to the trunk, deposited by a glacier that melted an age before the tree sprouted.

This could’ve broken my neck.

He kisses his gauntlets and bows in the general direction of a distant land, where smiths and casters forged and imbued his prized gear. Bless you all.

Turning so his shadow stretches in front of him, Ishkur taps his helmet and says in Elvish, Shaman. The world grays with his helmet’s second enhancing option, and it blurs when he jerks his head towards a distant griffin’s shriek of predatory triumph.

Good for you, Peggy. Try not to choke on a hoof. If you find your way home, give Apple a peck for messing up your conditioning.

He slowly moves his head back and forth, stopping when there’s a colorful flicker to the left. Safespot for the night, not too far.

Off. He taps to return to normal vision and sighs.

At least a day late to meet Haden. He opens his armor enough to pull out his Lord’s note from his breast pocket. And how will we get to the coast? A stagecoach won’t make it through, and no way such a bumpkin place has an aviary.

Mission failure won’t be on me. With an armored finger, he flicks the lute stamp and pinches the paper before putting it away. I will keep summoning until you answer, Lord Icarus. He slips his pack on and hikes east.

The ants go marching one by one…

The sun sets, and he taps his helmet and says in Elvish, Owl. The final enhancement option doesn’t make things brighter; instead, everything gets much clearer. Colors muted by shadows have a dozen more shades, and no mundane darkness is impenetrable.

It is nearly dusk when he reaches a rough but well-used road. The survey map, with its location blinking orange, is still holstered in the saddle that’s as lost as his griffin’s conditioning. He rifles through belt pouches, pulls out a pen, some ink, and paper, and then he sketches from memory.

The hamlet rendezvous is to the right, south. It won’t be for nothing, even if I can’t get Haden to the coastal ruins in time. He dots a spot and crosses over it with lines that he labels trade route and rough road. He continues the trade route line to the edge and writes 300 yules to ruin. By my own hand, this survey will be done. He adds an s and then stuffs the map into a pouch.

Shaman, he says as he taps his helmet, and a rainbow of light shines up from behind a small hill. Off. The mystic sight switches off with another tap, and he goes around through grass that could tickle his chin.

A bare patch of muddy ground is bordered by a circle of rune-covered stones. A safespot, for the hosts of demigods to rest and commune. He kicks one, making his metal boot ring but failing to budge the melon-sized rock. Referred to as a mystic miracle. As if that’s adequate explanation.

He steps within, twisting his helmet and gauntlets off. Would a bench be too much to ask? He cradles the gear and sighs. With an arch and shrug, his pack slips from his shoulders and misses his heel.

No.

The pack disappears like a popped bubble, reappearing outside the circle with a flicker. He reaches out and retrieves it with a growl.

Making sure nothing loses contact with his body, he sits in the muck and crosses his legs. This day’s too crazy. He pulls out one of Apple’s pie bars. It’s a two treat day. He takes out a second and unwraps them both.

The first is gone in three bites. The second peach and honey bread ration takes a few more.

Ishkur rubs his stomach and burps. Full and relaxed, time to concentrate. He slows and deepens his breathing.

Since I’ve been allowed to see and come inside the sacred stones. He forces a smile. Lord Icarus is ignoring, not forsaking.

A scruffy dog wanders out of the tall grass, sniffing his footprints.

Don’t you piss here. I’m trying to meditate.

The