A Journey Derived

By Barry Hodges

Can a hero be made of the unsuspecting? Can mankind place all its hope on the shoulders of one? A halfling by the name of Mateo Hamlik, more versed in the ways of comfort, takes to the road in this epic tale of good versus evil.

Leaving the quiet familiarity of his home, Mateo pursues a stranger from the south, expecting to find answers to these very questions. Instead, he finds that his journey is just beginning. Join him as he meets with companions brave and wise and travels through thriving cities, forgotten forests and mountain kingdoms.

Barry Hodges captivates the reader, spinning a wonderful tale. Yet his story is not one of mere fantasy, but is filled with hope and truth. A Journey Derived takes you on a trip that will leave your heart yearning for more.
Take the Journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449714697

Barry Hodges

Barry Hodges lives in Virginia with his wife and son. A Journey Derived is his debut novel.

Book preview

Prologue

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The night sky was bleak and starless and the rain that fell over the Citadel was cool despite the summer’s heat. Maryn de’Garisette dismounted, leaving her horse, Whisper, by the large but unguarded gate of stone and wrought iron, entering the estate grounds. The place was one of perpetual decay, carrying a depressive nature that spoke volumes of a history that it could not undo. Yet that had seldom bothered her, for she had been able, on previous visits, to find some bit of light in the dimness. Tonight though, she could not shake the foreboding feelings of gloom and wondered if they were at not at least in part her own making.

With a sigh, she stepped off of the crumbling walkway and began the short trek across what had once been a well-tended front courtyard. She found herself focusing on the few points of dim light escaping the untidy windows of the second level, but her ears were intent on the surrounding darkness.

Why the councilors wished to continue meeting in this place was a mystery to her. At the least, they could see to it that it was properly maintained, if not refurbished. But it was here, to the Citadel, that she had been summoned.

The place had not always been known as such, and its state had not always been one of such dilapidation. The grounds over which she now walked were once part of the Peruvian emperor’s domain—a summer haven and meeting place. One of many of the noble family’s palaces, it had grown to be the hub of the Peruvian government due to its central location. And it was here that Stavros Aevincort, emperor of the great Peruvia, had spent his last days before death took him and thrust the nation into a tumultuous civil war.

She stepped around a few unruly ground shrubs and started carefully up the depleting front stair. The war that had split the nation began in this very place, for the councilors of the emperor were present, serving as statesmen in his illness. Absent was an heir to the empire’s throne; the Aevincort name ended with the dying emperor. He was not an aged man, barely past forty summers, but his wife, a youthful nineteen had yet to bear him children.

The bloodshed began almost before the body of Stavros had cooled. Peruvia had never known an empress, and there were those who were unwilling to answer to one, due in some parts to her gender and other parts her age. Still, those same councilors who had called the emperor sovereign failed to agree on any one man’s claim to the throne, and so the palace became a battleground. Natalia, the emperor’s wife, was murdered in the same room where the body of Stavros still lay, and many others met the same fate or were forced to flee to escape it.

One councilor to the emperor, a man from the southlands by the name of Tavin Luveneaux emerged that day to seize command of the palace proper and the surrounding area. The once serene and elegant summer home was quickly warped into a fortress of war and armies flocked to it, both to join the risen southland commander and to raise arms against him. Few had escaped the bloodletting immediately following the emperor’s death, but their response was swift and thus the civil war began. Hence the new name, the Citadel, for it was by the gates of this fortress and the surrounding countryside that many a Peruvian found death all in the name of a new emperor—one who would never be.

Moving forward several generations, Maryn stood before the entrance and sighed. The aged, great wooden door shined with rain in what little light the night sky offered. New emperor indeed, she thought, raising her fist to knock at the door. Peruvia had known no emperor since Stavros’ death, but at least the war had ceased, albeit splitting the nation into several smaller provinces that now dealt with one another hesitantly through the words and deeds of councilors.

Perhaps the broken and mostly abandoned palace served as a better representation of the Peruvia’s new era, humbled as it was by the war. Who would have thought that out of the wreckage of war, no emperor would have arisen. Instead, the country was governed by councilmen, and it was they who broke the country first.

The Citadel’s door was opened wide and four men beckoned her inside. They were dressed alike in the livery of the southern province of Teiru and its councilor, Davion Armon.

One of them spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper in the silence of the Citadel. Councilor Armon will see you now.

Of course he would, she thought, but held her tongue in check; he had, after all summoned her here. The one who had spoken beckoned again with his free hand; the other was burdened by a small candlestick, the only light in the palace foyer. She followed him and one of his comrades farther into the Citadel, her gaze fixed on their backs which were little more than deeper shadows among so many. Were there no other lights to spare in the place, she thought.

Their footfalls echoed loudly on the marbled floors, muffled only slightly by the dust that had gathered. Walls that had once shone almost to brilliance with their whiteness were now yellowed and stained with things other than age alone. They made their way slowly up a winding stair to the second level, her mind wandering to envision the place as it had once been: the walls clean and accented with the pinpoint lights of sconces; the floors and staircase railings polished to a sheen that could only be outdone by the brightness of a crystalline chandelier high above. Then again, as was its history, the place held another, less kindly vision. For what once had been immaculate had also been bathed in the blood of those who had built it. They traversed a broad corridor, coming to a stop just outside an opened doorway on the right.

Councilor, the Lady de’ Garisette has arrived per your request, announced one of the guardsmen.

She could not see the councilor yet, but his voice spoke from inside the room, Please, show her in.

She followed the guardsmen into the room, her eyes adjusting to the light from several candles and a small heatless fire at the far end of the large chamber. An oval table stood near the hearth, empty but for a few of those candles, fewer papers and some lingering dust that had refused to give way to cleaning hands. Despite it, the place looked as if someone had kept up at least the pretense of tidiness.

She found Davion behind a large mahogany desk, but not seated. He stood with his back to them with his hands folded behind his back and his eyes fixed on something beyond the Citadel through the opened curtains of a floor to ceiling, paned window. He too was dressed in black and silver, the soft light of candles changing the tone of the latter to something nearer to gold.

Her two escorts had posted themselves on either side of the room’s entrance; she knew their stance with their hands relaxed on the pommels of their swords, a pose most guardsmen seemed to adopt. She crossed the room, stopping several feet from the desk. He stood still and silent for several moments more before finally turning to acknowledge her.

How fares Maryn de’ Garisette? he asked the unexpected.

I am well, Maryn responded automatically.

Davion hummed a short response, his fingers finding the stem of a half empty wine glass on the desk before lifting it and downing its contents. He sighed heavily. You know why I have asked you here? he asked cryptically.

Down to the business at hand, she thought, for she did know to a degree. He spoke of Teiru, the province that he governed and that she called home. He spoke particularly of those lands south of Teiru’s border, a derelict country where men far gone from civilization roamed among creatures twisted by centuries of hatred for all mankind. At its pinnacle, Peruvia had cowed the southlanders if not befriended them. There would be no peace with them, but the empire had ruled sovereign. Those to its south could form no alliance strong enough and muster no army united enough to stand against it.

But with the fall of the emperor came winds of change and those winds blew from the south. A peace sustained only by the unity of the empire failed when the nation itself faltered. Maryn herself had felt the bitterness carried on those winds, but never before had the uncivilized and the inhuman come en masse.

It was good that those doing battle with evil thought of and hoped for, dissension. Where evil reigned, its rule was often tenuous, for chaos overruled that power and those with no thought of the well-being of others answered to it. Now though, the powers of the south had risen together, and it would take all of Peruvia, as it had once been, to stand against it. And perhaps more, she thought.

She did not answer his question and indeed, he did not need it of her. There were few in what had once been a great empire that did not know of the happenings in Teiru. If those men of the southern black country were uncivilized, then their actions were monstrous. Yet, to fall in their wake was better than the alternative.

They have become bolder, he stated the obvious, thinking aloud.

Maryn cleared her throat, waiting for acknowledgement, for he had seemingly forgotten her presence in the room. His eyes returned to her and she saw in them panic. The people will fight on, she said, but we can no longer rely on chaos breaking the tide from the inside. Something drives them; something that they all fear.

But what… his voice trailed away, but his eyes searched hers, hoping that she held an answer.

I do not know, was her answer. She watched him pace for a moment and felt one of the guardsmen shift behind her before growing impatient. Surely he had summoned her here, this far from home, for something more than a status report. You have spoken with the other members of the council? she asked.

I have, he replied, as he paused his pacing, but sighed heavily again. Of course they agree that we must stand together, regardless of whether we are the empire that we once were. But will it be enough?

She forced herself not to shrug. Stand together in what way? she asked. Will they send men to aid us?

Some, yes, he replied snappishly. But Beryl Tanor refused to offer much in that way.

Her eyes widened with a temper flaring hot, but she bit her tongue.

He argues that Amsted, a southern province like Teiru, is in danger as well, Davion continued.

What, her voice almost screamed incredulity, will the enemy swim the Blue Marshes in hopes of pilfering what bit of goods there are to be had rather than simply walking into the farmlands of Teiru?

Councilor Armon raised his empty wine glass in mock salute. There is more, he said. He also places hope in the good will of our northern allies. Our request for aid should be extended beyond our own borders.

Atallis? she asked simply. Their northern sister, Atallis, had always welcomed trade and they were on good terms, but Peruvia had never requested that they bring their men to fight and die on its soil. Then again, the loose-fitting collage of provinces was no longer Peruvia.

Davion nodded, adding, And the nomads beyond.

Maryn found herself gritting her teeth, but forced herself to stop, cutting off the growl that wanted to escape her clinched jaw. The Kanerok people of whom he spoke lived beyond the Dagger Slope Mountains, a range on Atallis’ northern border. It was a treacherous region, and the land beyond it was no less so. It was said that giants roamed those hills, and even without that, the nomads, a barbaric people were difficult to find, for the plains beyond the mountains were great. Help would be a long time coming from those folks should they even agree to it.

You want me to go? she asked the question almost rhetorically. Of course he wanted her to go, why else would she have been summoned from her position? As they had said, this was a time when men, or in her case women, with swords were of highest value and esteem. But the politicians would play their games.

Only to Atallis. He was quick with that answer but provided some elaboration. Your objective is only to reach the queen of Atallis. You are not instructed beyond her borders, but you well know the amount of aid we need. Who knows how many the enemy, whoever it may be, has to break upon our border.

And the nomads? she asked.

He smiled a sarcastic smile. At the least, I gathered the more favorable mission for you, he said. Councilor Tanor will be sending an emissary beyond the Dagger Slopes.

She nodded. Then it would appear that I have some packing to do.

She snapped a salute and Davion nodded, waving her off with the empty wine glass. Best of luck to you, de’ Garisette.

And you, Councilor, she replied, turning to leave.

Chapter One

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Mateo Hamlik paused on the hill’s crest, placing his overloaded pack by his feet before looking back over the landscape of the village, Edgewood. This was home, as it was and had been to many a halfling, but why then did this last look goodbye seem so final? Halflings were an intuitive lot, although very few of them would name themselves such. Perhaps their sharper minds were a way of settling the differences in stature between them and the other races. For the term halfling spoke truer than some; three and a half feet was tall for a halfling, and there were some that barely topped that three foot marker, wild mops of curly hair included. Mateo took after the many and did not think of himself as intuitive, but he had been getting these feelings of late.

It was those that had spurred his sudden interest—no, call it a need—to leave Edgewood. That decision had been no afternoon tea, so to speak, especially with his other half seemingly arguing that all was well and why not stay a bit longer if he really needed to go at all. With the village’s gentle sloping hillocks and cottage-like homes, some of which were nestled right into the hillsides, it was an abode of near perfect peacefulness. Yet if that was so, why did he crave the road unknown and why did he get the distinct, intuitive feeling that all was not well and that the near perfect peacefulness was soon to be gone?

Standing upon that hill, overlooking home and watching the morning sun rise over it in the east, Mateo was reminded of something that his father used to say: The things in life that seem the most difficult are usually the right things to do. With that bit of encouragement running through his mind, Mateo plopped his old fishing hat atop his head, waved a last farewell to Edgewood and shouldered his pack. It was going to be a long way to wherever he was going. Perhaps though, he thought to himself as he walked, this beginning would still only be in the making if not for a certain visitor.

Arthur Cordie and his wife, Gayle ran The Half Pint pub; and although the small village in which it stood would never be known specifically for the taste of its ale, the couple ran a grand establishment. Here one could find rest and refreshment aplenty, be it from a hard day’s work or from a hard road behind them. The Cordies had even went so far as to add a small wing for the larger folk, although it was an exceedingly rare occasion to which The Half Pint had the opportunity to welcome guests that exceeded the stature of its namesake.

Perhaps that is why the southlander’s appearance had created such a stir. Not being a people very well versed in travel, they were unable to pick out exactly where in the south she was from; only the Cordie’s stable boy had seen the direction from which she had arrived and thus she was dubbed southlander. Indeed, she had barely sat down to her glass of wine before the village erupted in idle chatter. Something even stirred Mateo, idle himself despite those nagging feelings telling him to be gone, to look in on the traveler.

He found her at the Cordie’s place, seated at the only table that accommodated a stature other than halfling; the glass of red wine sat by her elbow as yet untouched. He had ordered a pint of ale himself before offering her his company. At her quizzical, but nodding acceptance, he pulled up a stool, peering over the larger table and around his mug to study her.

Dark hair would have lain in heavy ringlets about her face, but she had it pulled back loosely, allowing only a few locks to rest upon her tanned cheeks. Her garb was dark, some earthy greens and grays to offset the black, and she wore her breeches tucked into high leather boots. A thin sword hung at her side, but she carried it discreetly and for that Mateo was thankful. No need to turn the idle chatter into that of panicked apprehension.

He spoke to her at no great length, for she seemed intent on resting but a short while before being about her business. Still, she was not rude. Although Mateo found himself carrying the conversation, it could at least be classified as such, for both of them talked and he did glean a bit of information. Her name was Maryn and she hailed from Teiru, the southern-most province of what had once been the greatest of empires, Peruvia. She was not forthcoming with her destination, but neither did she deny it when he asked if she was headed for Korinth.

Halflings might be an intuitive lot, but other folks’ business had always been their own, at least until that business brought them within the boundaries of a halfling village. And it was obvious to him that she was on an errand of some importance. With an errand such as the Lady Maryn’s, it seemed inevitable to him that it would lead to the queen’s city.

Queen’s city or no, the details of the lady’s errand remained her own, yet Mateo did not miss the fact that she hid something behind the brooding darkness of her eyes. That something of which he glimpsed was dark, darker than the pools within which knowledge of it lay, but was as elusive as his own feelings of late. Perhaps that is why he chose to follow after her. Had she given him half a chance, he would have ridden away with her. He felt a bond with her, possibly forged by his loneliness at choosing the unknown over his home. And Korinth, capital of Atallis, seemed as good a destination as any. He thought of her as strong—fearless even—and that gave him courage. For within those brooding pools of green lay hardship and strife gone by, and perhaps more to come, but also courage to stand against it.

Courage she had lent him, but not company for the journey; she had not given him a chance. Instead, she had left the welcome of The Half Pint and Edgewood village behind before the rising of the next day’s sun. She had wakened no one to see her off, although the Cordie’s stable boy did sheepishly admit to hearing the jingle of tack in the wee hours of the morning. Still, she could hardly be blamed; their outland guests were few and could not be held to wait the waking of an entire halfling village to see them off as was their wont. Indeed, Mateo Hamlik himself had only felt obliged to say a proper farewell to his sister and her family when he had set out the very next day.

He had hopes that the lady’s errand was of the kind to keep her in the city at least until his arrival. Beyond Korinth, he had no idea where his journey might take him, and by his reckoning he was stepping a bit too far out on this limb by even leaving his home. The largest part of him wanted nothing more than to unpack all of his things, grab his pole and head for the river for a day of fishing. But there was another part that grinned slyly at the opportunity to be brash and brave, two things that most halflings merely shook their heads at.

So it was that he hefted his sturdy walking stick, adjusted his hat again and took to the road. Behind him, Edgewood dwindled slowly away and the road opened before him. He made a good start that day, keeping to the road that ran within hearing distance of the River Ilgrith, but did not cross the bridge that spanned it east to west as it turned toward the northern plains. Crossing that bridge would be an event all its own, an event that would take him farther from home than he had ever previously cared to wander.

He stopped for the day beneath a grove of pines, setting his stick aside to hand dig a shallow pit for the fire that he would light later. Dry tinder was easy to come by, and he did not have to venture far to gather good firewood. By the time the sun had slipped over the horizon, leaving a few smudges of pink and orange on the clouds’ edges, he had finished setting camp. He rolled his blankets a little away from the fire pit for it would not be a cold evening, and began rummaging through his pack for dinner.

He lay out those things that would make up his menu that night, his mind once again drifting toward his fishing pole. He almost imagined the Ilgrith calling his name, as had been his excuse many a time before; but alas, he would have to make do with what his pack relinquished.

He lit the fire, breathing softly on the embers until they caught, and then returned to his blankets.

Still nothing to turn my nose up at, he mused as he took inventory of his dinner selection: a couple of ripe apples, a good wedge of sharp goat cheese, a fresh loaf of his sister’s grain bread and a bit of creamed butter she had added to his pack while admonishing him to be sure he ate it before it lost its texture. He sliced into the loaf with his knife and spread a healthy portion of the butter on the too-big hunk of bread before biting into it.

Well and good that she had not lost her touch, he thought of Aeda before following that bite with another and then adding a chunk of goat cheese to his already full mouth. He chewed slowly, his taste buds mulling over the mixture, but his mind on his family. His sister’s was the only family he had of which to speak.

She had a husband, Danil, and their daughter, Juli, who had recently celebrated her first birthing day. He laughed to himself as he remembered the look of concentration on her face as she tried to place the sunhat that he had bought her upon her head. After a few failed attempts, she seemed happier trying to eat the hat rather than wear it, and it found its way with surety to her small mouth.

When he had determined he must leave, only Juli had not looked upon him with consternation. She had just looked, her blue eyes studying him intently, seemingly displaced from the toothy grin that her mouth held. It was then that she had noticed the rugged hat on his head and had exclaimed with delight, Teo, for that was what she called him, go fish!

There was always such an innocent knowledge in those tiny blue eyes, such good-hearted mischief in her ready grin. It made it all right—the not yet knowing his course or why he must take it—knowing that in going, he might keep her safe. He recalled that glimmer in Lady Maryn’s eyes that had spoken of dark things and thought of Juli. If but only for a few brief moments more, he would do all in his power to see that the darkness of the world did not cloud the innocence so abundant in Juli’s eyes.

Perhaps it was a bit strange, he thought to himself, that the person he would miss the most was the one too small to carry a sensible conversation. Yet he had always found it easy, talking with little Juli, whether she conversed in that language foreign to him and he pretended to follow along, or whether she used what few words came almost natural to her. He hoped that she would remember those talks and the face of her uncle despite his absence. Something in his mind seemed to keep affirming the fact that his leave from Edgewood would not be one short-lived.

He sighed, trying to shake the solemnity of his thoughts and turned his eyes toward the apples that he had left from his meal. He uprooted a small pine sapling and stripped it of its needles before spitting one of the apples and setting it turning over the flames of his small fire. Halflings have a particular affinity for food, and even displaced from his usual setting, Mateo was a good cook. He turned the apple slowly so that it did not burn, but the fruit’s juices began to seep from its skin, causing a smoky sizzle when they reached the flame. He removed the first apple just as the skin began to crisp and slid it from his make-shift spit with the blade of his knife, laying it aside to cool. And thus went the second apple.

The graying dusk in which he had made camp soon settled into darkness, leaving Mateo to his fire and his apples. The fire lasted well into the night. The apples, fortunately for the halfling, did not. Having eaten his fill, he trekked quickly to the riverbank to wash the stickiness from his hands before seeking sleep. Lying amidst the pine needles, he had left only a few bread crumbs and two apple cores burning in the fire as evidence of the meal to which he had not turned up his nose.

The sun rising in the morning found Mateo still asleep in his pine grove with his short frame sprawled half in and half out of his blankets. He had seemingly found more comfort for his head in the pine’s fallen needles than in his makeshift bed, until now at least, when they tickled at his ears and woke him. Then again, early mornings are full of things that disturb the slumber of those who lay without. The sun was bright even through the pine boughs sheltering him, and the early bird was apparently already up, twittering eagerly in the comfort of its nest.

He sat up, knuckling the sleep from his eyes before setting himself on feet still unsteady with it. His thoughts went to his small pantry and the wondrous concoction he could make with a stray tea bag and a bit of honey. That would certainly chase away the cobwebs, but alas, there was nothing to be had but water thus far on this adventure. Still, he had high hopes for the commodities of the city. He kicked some loose dirt over the ash remains of his fire before re-rolling his blankets, grabbing his pack and hefting his staff. On to day number two, he thought.

The morning air stirred with a touch of autumn, but not so much that he needed his cloak. He crossed the Ilgrith by bridge shortly after, forcing himself to move on after only a short pause. No looking back, he thought to himself, rather look forward with the hopes of returning in that round about way. Here his road less traveled broadened, opening into a wide earth-packed way, but he decided that the dew-dampened grass suited his mood better. The landscape dipped and rolled gently behind him, and despite his earlier thoughts, he found himself looking back on many a pretend sunrise for he was hidden temporarily from its sight because of the small valleys. There wisps of fog still hung over the grass like small ghosts looking for lives gone by.

He did not pause to break his fast, instead he balanced his staff in the crook of his arm as he rummaged through his pack for a repeat of last evening’s meal, minus the roasted apples, of course. The travel-sized meal seemed like it was over before it had really begun, but he chased it with a drought of water and dusted the crumbs from his tunic. Perhaps it would be a long day, but he intended to put a good piece of the road behind him.

As it was, the day progressed more quickly than he had expected. He had put many a step behind him when the sun finally chased away the morning’s chill and the last of the lingering fog. With it came the summer’s heat which did little for his appetite even when the lunch hour rolled by. Still, both he and the sun continued their respective treks westward. He stopped only once, setting aside his pack and staff before swiping off his hat to wipe his brow. He dismissed the idea of lying down between the exposed roots of one of the nearby shade trees; instead he sipped at his water a bit, picked up his things and continued on his way.

There’s just something not right with a halfling skipping both lunch and an afternoon nap, he mumbled.

By the setting of the evening sun, the day’s heat had diminished, but Mateo’s appetite had turned full tilt. And a bit of the old bread and cheese routine, despite its goodness from the night before, were doing very little to set his mouth to watering. His thoughts turned to the dried beef that he had packed just in case, but that would match his hunger only marginally and make him thirsty to boot.

Mateo stopped to make camp anyway, finding his way into a bit of woods that dotted the Atallis plains sparsely. His mind had moved forlornly back to his home in Edgewood, particularly focusing on some of the mealtimes spent there and it was then that he realized that he had left behind even the whisper of the Ilgrith, for its westward journey had turned eventually north-westward. He moved to his pack, gathering his blankets for the night and wondering if there was any real need for a fire—the evening was a warm summer one after all—when he spotted the hare. It sat perfectly still, with the exception of its twitching nose, beneath the low branches of one of the scrub bushes at the edge of his camp. His pack already in hand, Mateo moved slowly so as not to startle the timid creature, removing his sling and loading it with a small metallic bullet.

Not having the stature or strength to draw the bows favored by men and elves, halflings had adapted nearly perfected, sling shooting. They had even crafted sling bullets by setting molten metal to spherical moldings which flew truer than any stone.

Still, a hare was a hare and not only fast, but unpredictable in its flight. Mateo stood slowly, his face set, but his mind hoping that the rabbit did not move before he was ready. He did not move his feet, he was close enough, but began winding the sling slowly. The rabbit watched timidly, but did not move until it was too late. The small rodent’s dash for the roadway was cut short as the bullet took him.

Mateo let out a little whoop of excitement. It had been a good while since he had last used the sling and had packed it almost at a whim, wondering if the thing would be just dead weight. He had found need of a fire, and the before unappealing bread and cheese seemed a marvelous addition to his meal when coupled with the roasting rabbit. The last of Aeda’s butter was not wasted either, and it was good that it had not turned bad; this he added to a few herbs he had packed and created a rub for the rabbit, minus the small bit he saved for his bread.

Shortly thereafter, the quiet night found Mateo fast asleep, having enjoyed a traveler’s meal like no other. He laid half atop his blankets and half atop nothing but the bumpy ground with his fishing hat dropped carelessly over his eyes, and his hands, greasy fingers and all, crossed over his full belly.

He was awakened the next morning by the cool splatter of rain on his face. Up before the sun, he mused discontentedly after lifting the brim of his hat to peek into the still dark camp. A stray drop found its way into one of his now opened eyes and he rose, groaning to his feet. No rest for the weary, I suppose, he thought as he gathered his things quickly to keep them from the dampness. He pulled his cloak from his pack, throwing it over his shoulders and adjusting the hood to cover his head before replacing it with his old hat. He scanned the camp quickly to be sure he had not missed anything and then was off. No rest indeed, but at the least he would give the rain a run for it.

The day seemed a miserable ordeal with the precipitation just heavy enough to be bothersome, the clouds a perpetual gray overhead and the sun coming up, but not out. Mateo kept his chin up though, his eyes set toward his destination. He took to the road over the dampened countryside, and even soaked through, he would not be deterred. Hunger came a while later, but he did not pause; it would do him little good to break his fast in a puddle. At least the dried beef he had scorned the afternoon before seemed a little more appealing. He ate it on the move, chasing it with droughts of water from his water skin.

On that first day of rainy weather, he figured that his journey was a little more than half behind him. The rain let up only in slight intervals, allowing the sun only a brief stay before blotting it out with clouds again and establishing its right to douse the earth. The following days were a mixture of stopping to shake what water he could from his drenched cloak and attempting to find a marginally dry spot in which to make camp for the night. That night he slept beneath a low growing pine. It had been cozy enough, at least until the rain had found its way there too. He had risen once again before the sun’s rising and continued on his way.

Despite having been awakened two days in a row by the pressing rain, his days went by smoothly enough. There were no lavish meals or feet up by the fire, but Mateo found himself in good spirit, even going so far as to whistle and hum the tunes of some old songs to which he had forgotten the words. Then again, he had never boasted of being a singer.

It was beneath the cloud of modestly persistent rain that he reached the smoothing of the land, where the hillocks of eastern Atallis passed into the flattened plains at the heart of the country. As the hills gave way to the plains, so did the woods; he found his road marked by farmland more than by trees, but still a small copse or grove could be seen now and again. With the changing landscape, he found himself able to see almost everything and that sparked a hope in him. Perhaps tonight would find him within the comfort of a shelter more suitable that the protective branches of a straggling tree. After all, it had been two days in the weather and despite his upbeat demeanor, he thought himself sure to catch some rain-borne ailment.

So it was that he almost ran upon such a shelter, should the inhabitants find welcoming an option. Surprising was the good piece of woodlands behind the property, blocking it from view until one had almost passed it on the way to the city. By the look of it, it was a well-built place: a small cottage-like structure reminding him of some of the homes of Edgewood but on a larger scale. A stone chimney rose from the midst of the roof, and the same rough masonry lined the covered porch columns. Otherwise, it was pieced together with logs. By the curtained windows above the front porch, he could tell that there was a second level, a loft most likely.

Opposite the house stood the remnants of a family-sized garden, mostly picked over, but with a few late crops nearing harvest. To the left and slightly behind the house stood a large barn, larger than the house, and beyond it was a good piece of land enclosed by fencing which delved into the woods. Here a couple strong-looking horses whetted their appetites on the land’s grasses.

By this time, the sun had passed its zenith and was on its last bit of the journey but was still quite visible in the western sky. It would be time wasted if he stopped, but by his reckoning, he was only a day’s travel away from Korinth and that by foot. He pondered on whether to stop, weighing the possibilities of receiving that welcome, but the decision was made for him as he noticed the approach of a small girl, presumably the self-appointed ambassador of the house. She wore a dress patterned with flowers and carried a doll in her hands, its corn colored hair almost a match to her own which hung long and straight down her back.

Hi, my name is Jenny, she said, extending her small hand in greeting. Her eyes were large, but not yet timid as she looked up at him, blue with a bit of something darker hinted at here and there.

Mateo thought that he must look a sight; he was tired and the rain had drenched him to just this side of drowned. Yet, here she was waiting patiently for him, her small hand extended. He pushed back his hood so that his face was no longer hidden and took her hand gently to shake it. Good afternoon, Jenny. It is a pleasure meeting you. My name is Mateo.

She repeated his name slowly to herself, sounding uncertain. Then again, uncertainty seemed her forte now, what with her one act of courageousness done for the day. She plucked absently at the hem of her dress, swaying to and fro with one eye always on him, but their conversation seemingly ended. Having not met many a child stranger Mateo was at odds himself, but he broke the sudden silence anyway, not wanting to add to her discomfort.

Is your father home? he asked.

Her smile was answer enough, but her eyes were alight again now that he had brought her back to familiar territory. She raised one small finger as if to say wait here and scampered off back toward the house. A man appeared on the porch, presumably the girl’s father. The words of their conversation did not carry, but they spoke briefly, Jenny’s voice carrying an air of urgency. The father turned his gaze toward Mateo and the halfling watched, even at this distance, as his face became lined with worry. He then knelt beside the daughter, admonishing her sternly, but Mateo recognized the desperation in the man’s voice and found himself smiling despite himself as he embraced his daughter fiercely. How could he blame the man, for his thoughts went to sweet Juli and the loving protectiveness that he felt for her.

Jenny wriggled from her father’s embrace and took his hand, trying to lead him to the waiting halfling. He followed, albeit haltingly. He had to slouch his tall frame to allow the girl to keep a hold on his large hand. As they drew near, the man edged his daughter behind him, keeping a hand upon her shoulder as his studied Mateo. The gray eyes were hard, but not unkind. Trust though, was something to be earned and was not given freely. Especially in times such as these, Mateo found himself adding to the thought.

From his weathered face came a voice that matched his look. How can I help you, stranger?

His name is Ma-Tayo, Jenny piped from behind her father. She elongated the syllables precisely but was quick to avert her eyes from her father’s after the brief interruption.

Mateo Hamlik, Mateo introduced himself, extending a hand. I was just passing through on my way to Korinth. He started to add that it was raining and he surely would not mind sharing a bit in their hospitality, but he did not.

The man shook his hand, and afterward Mateo watched as his eyes scanned the road from which he had come, first to the left then right. The name is John Ambridge, he reciprocated.

Mateo did not imagine any sort of welcoming, other than the one Jenny had extended at any rate, and so took it upon himself to leave. Well Mr. Ambridge, I had best be on my way. It was a pleasure meeting you. He shouldered his pack once again and flipped the hood of his cloak back over his head before turning away westward.

His departure was drawn short as the front door to the Ambridge home was opened and a woman stepped onto the porch. Who is it, John? she asked.

John answered over his shoulder, his eyes still on Mateo. A traveler, Catherine. On his way to the city, Korinth.

Will he be staying for dinner? the farmer’s wife inquired, a question that had obviously not entered John’s mind. When he answered with a shrug only, she continued, Well, ask him.

With her mother’s apparent blessing, Jenny took over. Well, Mr. Mateo, can you? Can you stay for dinner?

The halfling turned back, his eyes shifting from the hopeful blue-gray of Jenny’s—the darker color in her eyes was the gray of her father’s—to that of John Ambridge. The farmer met this question with a shrug as well, but his expectant daughter saw something in his eye, for she emitted a small cry of delight and swung back toward the house to the mother waiting on the porch. John gestured toward the house and Mateo followed, a small grin creasing his face.

As they neared his home, John spoke loud enough for his wife and child to hear, but the words were directed at Mateo. We haven’t enough room in the house for guests. Perhaps we could put you up in the loft for the night, he gestured toward the barn.

Mateo only nodded, failing to see any bad in the statement. What real choice was there given the rain-soaked ground, and rain-soaked halfling to boot, when presented with the dry warmth of the farmer’s barn loft? Besides, the farmer’s tone left little room for argument should any present itself, but Mateo could not blame the man for his caution. Things were not all well in the world; his departure from home gave credence to that. At least there was still a bit of hospitality to be found at the hands of good-hearted country folk, albeit the lord of the house seemed to extend it begrudgingly. Still, what blame could be placed on the man who worried for the safety of his family?

He shook the current strand of thought from his head, following both farmer and daughter onto the covered porch and pausing long enough to shake what water he could from his cloak. The wife, Catherine, greeted him with a warm smile which he returned sheepishly before following the three of them inside.

The kitchen into which they entered was small and a bit too warm, but the cook fire burning beneath a boiling kettle reflected brightly off of the polished wood of tabletop and cabinet. A window had been placed in the eastern wall, perfect for sunrises, and nestled in the corner beside it was a large cupboard. It was from here that Catherine grabbed more dishes, adding a fourth place at the table for their guest. She swept hair that was a shade darker than her daughter’s from her face before bending over the kettle and stirring the contents with a large spoon. It was not long before Mateo began to feel out of place. With Catherine eyeing the cook pot and a pan of bread in the oven and Jenny helping her father shuck corn from a bin, there seemed little else to do. Thanks be to the lady of the house though, for no one had thought to set out the utensils and she was not too shy to assign him the task.

Dinner was served before dusk had settled and Mateo sat among the Ambridge family; the road traveled forgotten for the moment at the sight of the marvelous feast spread before him. A stew of venison and potatoes, corn grilled over the fire and a pan of round bread so soft that the butter seemed to melt it rather than the other way around.

The four of them took their seats, Mateo pausing long enough for the family to find their routine positions, but then the Ambridges did something unique, at least to the halfling. The three of them bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Mateo, being uncertain and not wanting to intrude, bowed his head quietly and folded his hands before him on the table. A brief moment passed before John’s voice rose from the silence, giving thanks to the Lord of the house and asking a blessing upon the meal and home. There was even mention of the welfare of a particular traveler, and it was not until later, in the quiet darkness of the Ambridge loft, that Mateo realized that he was that traveler. While the anticipation of the meal had warmed his belly, the feel of Jenny’s small hand closing on his warmed his heart, making him especially glad that he had paused here for the night.

And while the idea of God was not foreign to Mateo, or to other halflings for that matter, he had never thought Him one to be so accessible to conversation. Yet, Jenny’s hand seemed to him an anchor in the swell of uncertainties that he suddenly felt and no wonder that. Despite the size of her small hands and the fact that he was a stranger to her, she had reached out to him, both on the road and here now at the table. She possessed a genuine innocence that lent an almost overwhelming degree of credence to that upon which her faith was based. So it was that he found himself silently mouthing a word of thanks to Jenny’s God for the blessing of her and her family’s hospitality. The prayer seemed to gush out of him all at once, disallowing the proper formation of any practical thought. But his words had been sincere and he breathed an audible Amen with the others as John finished.

When he opened his eyes, all others were on him and the silence in the room seemed to stretch thinly. Then, as if to say that all was well, John gave a brief nod. Jenny smiled at Mateo over her plate, passing him the pan of corn while John began slicing bread.

Thank you, Mateo murmured, taking the pan from Jenny. Thank you all very much.

Catherine smiled at him after sharing a knowing look with her husband. It is no trouble, dear. No trouble at all.

Mateo returned her smile with his own sideways grin, for the look she had passed to her husband had indeed looked as if it were no trouble. However, his first bite of stew, and the many bites of the meal that followed, would bet against that. Nothing so good could be no trouble at all.

They spoke a little over dinner, mostly small talk surrounding their separate backgrounds and it was mostly Catherine, with a few excitable words from Jenny, who carried the conversation. Yet, no one asked him why he was headed to Korinth. And what would he tell them if they had? His reasons for leaving Edgewood and chasing the shadow of a lady named Maryn were not common knowledge, even to himself. He only knew what he felt and those feelings had compelled him to follow through.

A strange thought crossed his mind then as he chewed thoughtfully over Catherine’s stew; a glancing thought that perhaps the One he had so endearingly dubbed Jenny’s God had something to do with the way he had been feeling. He had imagined the idea of leaving home not of his own making, but a benevolent one nonetheless; the idea that this personal God was somehow behind him filled him with confidence. Still, on the footsteps of that thought was the very probability that there was a counterweight of sorts to this benevolent, personal God; something or someone who was much less good. He recalled the war that he had seemed to wage within himself: to leave, not to leave, to leave, but oh so much later.

He was snapped from his reverie by Catherine’s voice. …be of some help.

He had caught only the last bit of it. I’m sorry, he said questioningly.

I said that since you are heading to the city, perhaps we can be of some help, she repeated, offering him a plate laden with a heavy slice of—were those blueberries—pie.

Oh, he almost exclaimed, trying to maintain eye contact with both her and her pie, that won’t be necessary. You’ve done quite enough already, and I thank you. Despite her gentle, caring side, the pie had won out.

Nonsense, she said, trying to conceal a smile as he gazed lovingly at the pie. John is traveling to Korinth on the morrow anyway. Mateo glanced at John who only grunted; there was pie already in his mouth. A farm doesn’t run itself, she continued, assumedly taking the grunt for argument, and these pies don’t just fall from the sky. Besides, we are in need of…, her voice faded as she murmured half to herself, ticking off a few items before saying, I had better make him a list.

Mateo tried a bite of the pie and found that he had suddenly become more in a pie eating mood than a mood for conversation. Still, he offered after the first bite, If it is no trouble.

John shrugged. I might as well have a bit of company along the way, he said around the hunk of pie that waited on his fork.

It was not long before the meal was finished. The pie had a way of finding its way onto one’s plate only to vanish quickly moments later. Mateo sipped at his water and wiped what few crumbs had escaped his mouth from his hands before pushing back from the table and giving his belly an appreciative pat.

When Catherine asked if he would like anything else, he declined, saying, Mrs. Ambridge, that was as a fine a meal as any, and I am very grateful. But I’m afraid that if I eat another bite, I might not be able to move from this chair. He patted his belly again for emphasis and laughed with Jenny who had not yet finished her pie, but seemed greatly amused by his over-eaten state.

With dinner finished, his belly over-filled and the night upon them, Mateo felt his eyelids growing heavy. He fought sleepiness until John offered to show him to the barn. He scooped up his pack as they went, and John brought a lit lantern from the porch. It did little to light the darkness of the night, but they were able to find the barn and John led him inside. The mixture of smells of the horses come in from the field and that of fresh straw was both familiar and expected, alerting Mateo to the presence of the animals before the sound of their nervous snorting. The steps of the loft’s ladder were a bit of a stretch for the shorter limbed halfling, but he made it up without incident. In the dim light, he found a hanging lantern and stretched on his toes to strike flint to it before peeking back over the edge to wish John a pleasant evening.

And a good night to you as well, Mr. Hamlik, John replied from the small pool of yellowish lantern light. I’ll call on you in the morning and we’ll see what we can see about getting you to Korinth.

Well and good, Mateo called to the farmer’s retreating back, Until tomorrow then.

If John responded, it was lost in the night’s darkness.

Mateo dropped his pack on the straw and rolled out his blankets for a bed. His cloak was still a bit damp, but he folded it anyway for use as a pillow. Snuffing the lantern, he lay down. Other than the makeshift pillow, his bed was completely dry and for that he was thankful. Then again, he found himself thinking, there was an abundance of things for which he could be thankful. The Ambridge family, for instance, had touched him in a profound way with a simple act of kindness. His thoughts seemed to drift aimlessly, but at their center was an immovable force, Jenny’s God. He felt like a child quietly uttering his thanks to a God to which he had only spoken once before, but fell asleep with his lips still moving and thinking that perhaps he should call Him something other than Jenny’s God.

The morning found him too soon as he was awakened by the sound of the barn door’s creaking and John calling, Mr. Hamlik, are you awake?

Mateo rolled over with an audible groan, but was quick to give a response. Yes, he said, I’ll be down in a moment.

He thought he heard John chuckle, but ignored it, gathering his things. Below him he could hear the sound of tack and harness as the farmer led the horses outside. Mateo grabbed his pack, stuffed his hat down around his ears and picked his way carefully down the loft ladder. His hopes that they might forego rain proved true, at least for now; the clouds were slow to relinquish their territory and the sun was not putting up much of a fight. As he exited his previous night’s abode, he found John hitching the horses to a wagon and the women, Catherine and a sleepy-eyed Jenny, waiting nearby. John gave him one of his brief nods as he continued to work, but the others came nearer to wish him well.

I hope that your travels are safe, Mr. Hamlik, Catherine said.

To which he replied, sweeping off his hat momentarily, Thank you Mrs. Ambridge. Your family’s hospitality exceeds one’s highest expectations, and your work in the kitchen is more than praiseworthy.

Catherine reverted to John’s nodding, a smile touching her slightly blushing face.

Jenny, not quite so bashful, suddenly ran to him and wrapped tiny arms around his shoulders. I’ll miss you, Mr. Mateo, she almost cried before pulling away to look him over inquiringly. Will you come again to visit?

Mateo smiled, his heart once again warmed by the girl. Indeed I will, Jenny, if at all possible.

John approached them then, having readied the wagon for travel. And we’re off, he announced, delivering an embrace to Catherine. I’ll be back soon, dear, he said.

See that you are, she answered before Jenny piped in.

When, Daddy; when will you be back?

John knelt before his daughter, placing one of his calloused hands on her small shoulder. Just as quickly as you can imagine, he answered matter-of-factly.

Mateo could almost see the calculations going on in her head as she mulled over this, but she was not finished yet. Will Mr. Mateo be back as quickly as I can imagine, too? she asked.

John looked at Mateo with one of those comic, half exasperated, fatherly looks before turning back to his daughter. Mr. Mateo will visit again with us some time, but right now he has business to attend. With Jenny’s accepting nod, he hugged her around the waist and told her that he loved her. Then standing, he kissed his wife goodbye. Well, he said to Mateo, we had best be off.

With final farewells hanging in the air, Mateo followed John to the waiting wagon. What’s in the wagon? he asked.

John smiled, digging around in the back to find an ear of corn before holding it up. Corn, he answered.

And so they were off, the two of them bound for Korinth, sitting side by side in a wagon-load of corn. John kept a loose hand on the reins, the horses knowing their way once they reached the road and that left Mateo just trying to find and maintain a comfortable seat, a difficult task given