Wrath Bringer - The Epic of Battailous - Book One

By R. Jason Lynch

Calamitous was born during a fearfully stormy night. His twin brother, Salubrious, was born as that same storm began to calm and the night became peaceful. This was seen as a sign that Calamitous and Salubrious were two sides of the same promised savior. Yet, sometimes great expectations put undue pressure upon those who bear them - especially when it was foretold that the savior would defeat a cruel and cunning Dragon, destroy the Tree of Deepshadows, and heal the Tree-Glimmering.
Meanwhile, a young woman named Propitious is thrust into the world of adulthood, and the journey is proving to be painful. Will she allow her woes and sorrows to darken her heart, or will she keep her eyes trained upon the promise of hope?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365361371

Book preview

Wrath Bringer

The Epic of Battailous – Book One

(A Parable of Joy and Misery)

By R. Jason Lynch

WRATH BRINGER

The Epic of Battailous - Book One

Copyright © 2016 by Ronald Jason Lynch

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-365-36137-1

"Love seeketh not itself to please,

nor for itself hath any care,

but for another gives its ease,

and builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

– William Blake

Prologue One

The Predicament

When Curesoon was a little over forty years old, he left the half-sunken courtyard of his castle and paddled a small boat across the wide forested lake that surrounded his new home.  From the lake’s shore, he carefully followed secret waymarks through the swampy wood until he finally came to the edge of Miremurk.

By the time he had traveled all that way, the day had grown late, and there was only a couple of hours left before sundown.  For this reason, he intended to pay farmer Guileless a little visit to collect the pony and cart which he had left in the farmer’s care.

As he walked through the swamp, Curesoon had played out in his head the conversation he would have with the younger man.  He planned to ask permission to sleep in the farmer’s barn, but he knew that Guileless would insist that he stay in the cottage with himself and his family.  Moreover, he knew that the wife of Guileless would cook a pleasant supper before bedtime and a delicious breakfast before he started on his journey.  It was this prospect that the bard’s stomach looked forward to most.

Pausing just inside Miremurk within the last of its tangled trees, Curesoon peered out at his friend’s modest cottage that set nestled comfortably in the lovely meadow just across the way.  The bard then watched the road beyond to see if anyone was passing by.  When he felt certain that the way was clear of searching eyes, he stepped out into the small meadow that lay between the dark wood and the road.

Well, hello there!  Where’d you come from?  A woman’s voice suddenly asked somewhere to his left.

Curesoon slowly turned to find five pairs of eyes looking at him.  The voice had come from a group of warriors who now all stood frozen in the middle of their sparring.  Two men held weapons above their heads ready to strike while two others were poised to defend themselves.  The fifth warrior was a woman with pale red hair, and she was just about the throw a dagger into a nearby target.  All of them stood gawking at the bard with disbelief.

I ... Curesoon started to answer but could think of no reasonable response.  His mind was only able to scream a single word: Barbarians!

Unfortunately for the bard, when he checked the road for travelers, he had not thought to scan the whole field that lay between the forest and the highway, and so he unwittingly stumbled into a camp of Barbarians.

He’s dumb with fear!  One of the men said in a nasally voice while letting out a scoffing laugh and pointing with a wooden practice sword.

D’you get lost in that dark wood?  Another Barbarian asked while scratching his shaved head.  He was an overweight man dressed in a monk’s habit and leaning upon an ebony staff.

Any chance you saw the Troll that’s supposed to live in there?  The woman added in a tone of curiosity while balancing her dagger on the tip of her forefinger.  They say he has a horde of treasure.  She added under her breath with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile.

Curesoon hesitantly nodded to both questions.  After all, it was not exactly a lie.  He had gotten lost in Miremurk, and he had seen the Trollop, even if all that had happened over ten years earlier.  As far as the details concerning the Troll’s gender, it did not seem overly important at the moment.

When the small group of Barbarians began to move toward Curesoon, his past suffering at the hands of their race rushed in upon him.  As cold fear suddenly gripped his heart, he snatched his plain looking sword from its scabbard without thinking.  As he unsheathed it, its bright blade rang out, and the sound seemed to hang in the air for several seconds.

Oh no!  He’s pulling a sword on us!  The knife juggling Barbarian laughed while skillfully flipping her dagger up into the air and then catching it again.

The largest warrior stepped forward to meet this new threat.  What’d you wanna go and do that for?  He whined in a deep giant’s voice while raising a large wooden practice mace in warning.

However, before the huge Barbarian could attack, his nasal-voiced companion stopped him with an outstretched arm.  Then the thin swordsman dropped his wooden practice sword and gracefully unsheathed his real weapon.

Let me go first.  He demanded and then openly confessed, I haven’t killed anyone in weeks!

Careful, Hauteur!  The knife juggling warrior warned with a mocking chuckled.  You don’t want to get any blood on your new tunic.

Scoffing, Hauteur turned his grayish-blue eyes upon Curesoon.  Quickly slashing the air as if to clear away dust and cobwebs from his blade, the swordsman assumed a readied stance.

The giant man looked concerned, but the rest of his companions laughed menacingly and stepped backward a few paces to give the swordsman plenty of room to ply his craft.

For a long terrifying moment, the thin man only stood there poised and ready while grinning at the bard.  Curesoon was toying with the idea of running back into Miremurk when the man suddenly lunged forward.

The bard closed his eyes tightly and waited.  At first, he worried that nothing was going to happen, but only a second later, he felt his arms being jerked to his left and then there was a sudden jolt as the clash of steel came to his ears.  In quick succession, he was tugged this way and that for several more seconds, and every move ended with the noise of metal striking metal.  Finally, the bard’s arms stopped, and he could feel something pushing against him.

Slowly opening his eyes, Curesoon found that his sword was locked against the Barbarian’s blade.  Hauteur’s pale-blue eyes were extremely close to his own, and he was gazing at the bard with wide surprise.  He had obviously noticed that the bard’s eyes had been closed the whole time.

The thin swordsman relaxed and stepped backward a pace.  Shifting uneasily, he glanced over his shoulder at his fellows and saw that they too were just as stunned as he.  Turning back to Curesoon, Hauteur narrowed his eyes.

You’re obviously a very lucky fool… The sword-master began and then lunged forward.  As their swords met anew, he finished his thought between clashes of steel.  But luck… Can only carry you… So far.

With a blur of perfectly executed strikes, Hauteur attacked with renewed fervor, and yet, Curesoon’s sword deftly met every thrust.

The bard felt as though he was being pulled around awkwardly like a puppet being moved by its strings.  However, to the Barbarians, Curesoon looked like a marvelous master of swordplay.  In fact, it seemed as if Curesoon knew where Hauteur would attack even before the swordsman knew himself.

Would you like a little help, sweety?  The dagger juggler asked with a snicker.

Hauteur paused and then shot the woman a look that hushed her laugh.  Help?!?  With a bard?!?  He growled between heavy breaths.  You forget, Avaritia!  I am the greatest swordsman… Within the seven kingdoms!

And you’re the most humble as well!  The fat monk replied with a laugh.

Other than the monk’s remark, his companions did not argue with the swordsman’s self-assessment, and that made Curesoon believe that his statement might just be true.

Hauteur refocused his attention upon Curesoon and then readied himself to deliver a third wave of attacks.  His slender hands twisted upon the hilt of his sword as though he was visualizing himself strangling the bard.

After a second more, Hauteur sprang forward and loosed a barrage of perfectly made thrusts, hacks, and stabs.  His pride had been wounded, and now it was clear that he was no longer playing with this pathetic Common-man.

Curesoon’s plain looking sword did not care whether the Barbarian was playing or angry.  It met almost every strike or simply moved its user out of harm’s way.  Then, as if the sword had grown weary of their game, it suddenly twisted around in the bard’s hand and jerked Hauteur’s weapon from his grasp.

The thin swordsman gazed at his empty hand with utter disbelief, but before he could recover, Curesoon’s blade came to lightly rest upon his slender white neck.  In response to the cold touch of steel, Hauteur promptly fainted.

Curesoon’s mind quickly recalled the other Barbarians who stood around him, and immediately he whirled around to see if they were of a mind to rush forward and defend their friend.

The other warriors only stood with wide eyes and expressions of shock upon their faces.  No one has ever bested Hauteur at swordplay!  The four warriors whispered to one another in hushed tones.

What should we do now?!?  The huge man asked with a distraught expression while wringing his massive hands like a child on the edge of tears.

Suddenly, the one Barbarian who had remained quiet during the whole affair now spoke up.  Whatever we do, I suggest we do it with a generous measure of courtesy.  I have no desire to see myself bested by a mere bard.

The knife juggler gave a curt laugh, and then she mocked a courtly bow.  Sir Bard of Miremurk, if you would be so kind as to follow us, we would like to introduce you to our war-chief.

Curesoon took a deep breath, sheathed his sword, and gave a slight bow of his head.  Meanwhile, the huge man shot a pouty glance at the bard and then gingerly took up Hauteur in his massive arms.

After a short walk into the heart of the camp, they came to the porch of a large lavish tent.  But as they approached, a large gray-haired hound leapt up and barked so loudly that the bard almost jumped out of his skin.

Quiet, Boarsbane!  You’ll frighten our guest!  A deep gravelly voice roared from somewhere within the tent.

Immediately, the huge wiry haired hound coward and laid back down, but as he did so, he issued one last low growl to warn the trespasser that he was still watching him.

Shortly, a muscular old man strolled out of the tent without a scrap of clothes on his person.  So, who do we have here?  He asked as he wrapped his waist in a long leather kilt.

Curesoon gave no answer because he was distracted by the old warrior’s chest and arms.  These were covered in faded tattoos depicting many different scenes of battle.

However, when the bard looked at the old man’s face, he found that one of his eyes was had been gouged out leaving only an empty socket.  He cringed at the sight, but still, he said nothing.

The old warrior reminded him of Fervid Fire-maker, for Fervid had also lost his eye in a battle, but unlike this Barbarian, the Ancient covered his missing eye with a leather patch instead of displayed it proudly.

The knife juggler spoke up.  My Lord Bellicose, this bard came strolling out of Miremurk and promptly bested Hauteur at swordplay.

The aged warrior’s bushy eyebrows rose in an expression of surprise.  It seemed that his untrimmed brows were the only hairs upon his body that he let grow, for his head was completely bald and his face was covered in thick gray stubble.

Glancing over at Hauteur who was still unconscious and cradled in the giant’s huge arms, the old man let out a quick chuckle and then locked his one eye upon Curesoon.

So, d’you see the Troll they say dwells within the swamp?  Bellicose asked with a skeptical expression.

Curesoon only nodded.

The aged Barbarian ambled over to the huge man and slapped him roughly on the shoulder.  This big boy is Ire.  They say his mother was a Troll.  That’s why he’s so big and strong.

Bellicose gently patted Ire’s face.  Though he was not a small man, his hand looked little on the giant’s cheek.

In response, Ire offered a silly smile.

I faced a Troll once, long ago.  The old warrior limped back around and stood before Curesoon once more.  It wasn’t an easy fight.  That monster slew five of my best men before we managed to bring him down.  He growled with a slight sneer of glee, and as he spoke, he pointed to a battle scene upon his right breast.  It clearly depicted the struggle about which he spoke.  In his death throes, he broke my right shoulder.

In reply, the bard wordlessly grimaced.

Bellicose glanced at Curesoon’s colorful hat.  You’re awfully quiet for a bard.  He remarked with a raised eyebrow.  You sure you didn’t steal that hat from someone else?

Curesoon shook his head.  No, it’s my hat.

So, you can speak!  The old warrior grinned.  Perhaps, you actually are a bard after all, but are you entertaining?

Curesoon shrugged.  I suppose that’s something you’d have to judge for yourself.

Well said!  Bellicose agreed with a laugh and clap of his old, gnarled hands.  And as I see it, you owe me some sort of compensation since you’ve wounded my sword-master.

Wounded?!?  Curesoon echoed with disbelief.

Turning, the bard was surprised to see a tiny line of blood upon the unconscious swordsman’s neck.  Curesoon’s mouth fell open, but he could find no words to escape the predicament unfolding around him.

Bellicose continued.  For this reason, I proclaim that you shall repay me for this slight by accompanying our little troop as we travel to the village of Edgewood.  Along the way, you’ll have the opportunity to prove your merit as a bard.

Curesoon took in a deep breath and was about to respond, but the old war-chief interrupted him.

Tetchy!  Bellicose roared so abruptly that everyone flinched including the dog.  Where’s that fool girl?  Tetchy!!

Presently, a young light-brown skinned slave appeared holding a wooden sword in her tan-colored hand.

Girl!  Bellicose growled.  What’re you doing with that practice sword?  Didn’t I tell you to leave the swordplay to free-men?

But that’s not fair! She began to argue, but the aged warrior quickly cut her off.

I don’t have time for your cheek, girl!  Bellicose grumbled and then gestured irritably.  Go fetch Jot and tell him to bring what he needs to draw up a contract.  I’m taking this bard into my service.

The girl glanced doubtfully at Curesoon and then angrily threw down her wooden sword.  As she stomped away, she grumbled loudly.  Everyone’s always saying, ‘Tetchy, go do this and Tetchy, go get that, but don’t let Tetchy learn to fight!’

Ignoring the girl’s insolence, Bellicose turned back to the bard.  I suppose I should introduce you to my troop of warriors.  He motioned to those who stood around Curesoon.

First, there’s my son, Tor… The name went unfinished as the old man blinked and then glanced about.  Where’s Torpid?

Wordless, the other warriors only looked down at their feet. 

Where is Torpid?!?  Bellicose asked a second time with more forcefulness.  Didn’t I tell him to practice his archery before dinner?

After a few more awkward seconds, the dark-haired warrior finally spoke up.  My lord, The man began in a calming tone.  Your son said he was weary from our day of travel, and so he retired to his tent.

Angrily, the old warrior yelled for his son a third time, but before there was an answer to his call, a large raven flew down and lighted upon a nearby table.  After the bird ruffled his bluish-black feathers, he croaked loudly at the war-chief.

Yes, yes!  Bellicose growled at the raven.  I’ll introduce you too.  He turned back to Curesoon.  This is Glum.  He’s the pet of my sorceress, Susurrus.

Glum squawked again as though he did not appreciate being called a pet.

Just then, the slave girl returned with a small nervous man in tow.  She was pulling him along by the collar of his jacket, and as he struggled to stay on his feet, he clutched a scroll, an inkwell, and a quill in his long spindly arms.

Ah, there you are, Jot!  Bellicose said with a tone of sudden satisfaction.  Write this: I, Lord Bellicose, do take into my service the bard…

The old warrior paused and eyed Curesoon.  What was your name?

Curesoon.  He replied with a frown.

Ah!  The war-chief nodded and then began again.  "I, Lord Bellicose, do take into my service the bard, Curesoon of Miremurk, to entertain myself and my troop of warriors as we make journey from Freeland to the town of Edgewood which is located upon the island of Grimwood within the Kingdom of Gala.

If we survive the journey…

If we survive?!?  Curesoon blurted out.

Sea voyages can be perilous.  Bellicose shrugged and then growled at the scribe.  Don’t write that!  After a deep sigh of frustration, the old warrior picked up where he left off.  "If we survive the journey and Curesoon proves his skill as a bard, then the slight against me – namely the wounding of my sword-master – shall be forgiven, and Curesoon shall receive a half of a tenth portion of all our winnings taken in the tournament held at Edgewood.

"Moreover, if Curesoon proves his skill and wishes to entertain us upon our return journey, he shall receive the other half of the tenth part as payment.

"Signed, Lord Bellicose, sixth war-chief of Vastland.

Good!  The old warrior said with a self-satisfied look.  Did you get all that, Jot?

The little scribe gave a start at the calling of his name.  "I… I have, my lord.  Now, I only need to rewrite your words on the right.  Jot moved toward the old Barbarian to show him the parchment.

The war-chief growled and waved him away.  Never mind that!  You know I can’t read your scribbles!  Finish and then give it to the bard to sign.

Jot stammered out apologies and then hastily scratched the same words a second time.

When he had completed this task, he hurried to give the parchment to Curesoon.

The bard calmly took the scroll from the little man’s quaking hands while considering him for a moment.  Silently, he noted that Jot reminded him of Tippleglee.

Quickly dismissing the thought, Curesoon dropped his blue eyes to the letters upon the page.  To his surprise, the scribe’s writing was not so terrible that it could not be read.

Silently looking over his unsolicited contract, Curesoon decided to refuse, but after he studied the old warrior’s stern face, his resolve quickly melted.  With a quietly growled sigh and a roll of his eyes, he begrudgingly signed his name at the bottom of each side and then handed it back to Jot.

The little scribe hastily delivered the contract to his lord.  Bellicose spread the parchment out upon a table and unsheathed his dagger.  Bringing the blade down upon the page, he carefully cut a wavy line down the middle.

The deal has been cut, and now, it cannot be altered.  The old warrior announced while handing the right half back to the scribe who quickly passed that portion back to the bard.

With that business out of the way, let us feast!  Bellicose roared enthusiastically.

Prologue Two

Traveling Companions

Just before the sun had set, the small troop of warriors gathered around a long table filled with food.  They invited Curesoon to eat with them, but he quickly realized that by the rules of the Fellowship, there was little he could eat.  In the end, he found a small loaf of bread, but before he could finish it, the raven swooped down and snatched it from his plate.

Glum lighted upon one of the polls of a tent and quickly gobbled down the morsel.  Once he had consumed the food, the large black bird seemed quite pleased with himself and even taunted the bard with a mocking croak.

Smirking at the raven, Curesoon announced his weariness with a loud yawn.

Tetchy!  Bellicose called with a slightly raised voice.  Take our bard to his tent.  We want him well rested so he can entertain us upon the road.

The slave girl sighed angrily, tore one last bite from the pork rib she was gnawing upon, and then loudly dropped it into her plate.  Wiping her fingers upon her tunic, she glared at the old warrior as she shoved away from the table.

Why does everyone else get to keep eating while I have to lead this bard around like a dog?!?  She grumbled while stomping away in a huff.

Curesoon gave a slight bow to Bellicose and then made haste to follow after the ill-tempered young woman.

We pitched your tent right here.  She growled while pointing and then she started to stroll away.

Thank you.  Curesoon managed to blurt out before she was gone.

These two words caused her to pause.  What’d you just say?

The bard shrugged.  Only, ‘thank you.’

Tetchy tilted her head as her smooth brown brow creased with confusion.  The moment stretched out until it felt awkward to Curesoon.

Well, goodnight.  He mumbled and then quickly ducked into his tent.

Inside, Curesoon settled into the sleeping sack that they had rolled out for him, and there he laid listening to his new companions as they continued to talk and laugh together.  As he listened, he caught himself smiling at their merriment.

Somewhere in the midst of his eavesdropping, the bard must have fallen asleep, for suddenly, he found himself startled awake.  For a second, he wondered what had roused him from slumber, but then a gong sounded loudly again.

Sleepily crawling over to the tent door, Curesoon carefully peered outside.  As he glanced around the campsite, he decided that it had to be close to midnight.  Around the camp, only a few torches still flickered, and all was very quiet, but again, the gong sounded noisily.  It was then, that Curesoon noticed a slave poised to strike a large brass plate a fourth time.

When the gong sounded again, five of the six Barbarian warriors assembled in front of the black tent before it had fully gone silent.  Several seconds later, the gong was rung a fifth time, and after this sounding had faded into silence, the flaps of the tent were thrown open and a strange figure in a long black cloak strolled forward.

The five fighters bowed before the cloaked person and then knelt.  In response, the shadowy figure drew back the hood of the cloak to reveal the lovely face of a pale woman.

Though the cloaked woman was extremely beautiful, Curesoon felt uneasy as he watched her.  Her movements were more graceful than those of a Barbarian, but shadows seem to enshroud her like the black cloak she wore.

This strange woman was clearly not of the Barbarian race, for she was far too slender, and her limbs were far too delicate.  Her skin was as white as snow, and she did not have the ruddy cheeks of the Northman.  Also, unlike the golden curls of most Barbarians, her long hair hung down in straight silvery-white locks.  As for her eyes, they could not be seen, for she wore a band of black lace over them.

In turn, the cloaked woman held each warrior in her hidden gaze, and when she had finished with the last, she looked up.

At first, Curesoon thought she was looking at him.  With a flinch, he quickly pulled his head back into his tent.  However, seconds later, he heard what sounded like a harsh whisper, though it was much louder.

Torpid!  The voice called with a note of motherly irritation.  Didn’t your father command you to come and learn from me?

Curesoon timidly poked his head back out just in time to see a young man rushing to join the others before the strange woman.  He was still pulling on a tunic as he came.  His build was thin, but he was definitely one of the golden-haired Barbarians.

So that’s the son of Bellicose.  Curesoon whispered to himself.

Suddenly, in that same moment, a deep growl abruptly arrested Curesoon’s attention.  Turning very slowly, he found Boarsbane’s white teeth bared in a snarl inches from his face.  The wolfhound had bided his time, and now his master was not there to call him off.

Frozen, Curesoon did not even dare to breathe.  Boarsbane snapped his teeth together in a quiet bark that was designed to threaten without awakening his lord.  The bard could feel the huge hound’s hot breath in his terrified face.

Oh!  Don’t be such a bully!  A small voice interrupted the tense moment.

Both Curesoon and Boarsbane turned with a start to see who had spoken.  They found a beautiful little girl with golden hair watching them both with a stern look upon her tiny face while her eyes glow like fiery embers.

Hearten!  Curesoon sighed with relief.  Thank the King of Heaven you’re here!

Boarsbane, on the other hand, let out a growl that sounded more like a grumble of disappointment.

Sorry, but you can’t bite him.  The little girl replied with a tilt of her small head that reminded the bard of a mother scolding her child.

Glancing up at the bard, the wolfhound made another common dog noise.

The little girl shook her head while the color of her eyes shifted to a soft purple light.  I promise you – Curesoon is a kind and gentle man.  He means neither you nor your master any harm. 

The hound lowered his head, let out a puff of air from his big black nose.  This time, Hearten only responded by putting her tiny hands upon her hips and frowning up at Boarsbane.  At this, the huge dog quietly trotted away as if she had forced him to be satisfied with her assurance.

Noblins are wondrous creatures!  Curesoon laughed.

Hearten smiled sweetly while her eyes turned a cool green color.  I know you told Fain he couldn’t come, but you never said anything about me.

Curesoon grinned.  I have to admit, after having that monster’s teeth inches from my face, I feel I may have been gravely mistaken when I told your brother he couldn’t come.

Yay!  A voice suddenly squealed from the edge of the forest, and immediately, Fain bolted out from his hiding place and ran up to the bard and his sister.  He gazed up at Curesoon with wide golden glowing eyes.  So, we’re going on another adventure, then?!?

Curesoon smiled and then rolled his blue eyes.  Not tonight!  Tonight, we sleep.  He grumbled and then opened the tent door to invite them both inside.

Fain grinned happily as he skipped into the tent.  I knew you were going to need one of us to keep you safe, but both is even better!

Well, you heard him!  The bard laughed, and with a curt nod, reaffirmed his invitation to Hearten.  We are about to embark upon another adventure, and this time, it seems you’re coming too.

Hearten’s large eyes glowed with the same golden hue as Fain’s, and with an equally cheerful expression, she scampered inside after her brother.

Hesitating, Curesoon glanced back at the strange lady one last time.  She was leading the warriors in some kind of slow-moving exercise.  The bard shivered and quickly ducked into his tent.

Sunrise came far too quickly, and it was not long after that the camp was hurriedly packed into six wagons.  After breakfast, while the Barbarians made ready for their journey, Curesoon visited the farmer who lived across the road.  The bard had left his pony and the donkey, Dawdle, with the farmer since there was very little pasture within Miremurk.  Thus, he went to gathered the old pony and his cart from the cheerful farmer.

How many children have you now?  Curesoon asked the younger man as he watched Fain join three boys as they played the Game of Stones in the dirt.

Guileless paused, took off his straw hat, and ran his hand through his wild curly red hair.  Not finding the answer immediately, he started counting on his fingers while whispering their names.

His pregnant wife strolled up and let out a jolly giggle.  The one kicking me just now will be our seventh.  She answered for her husband and then handed the bard a parcel wrapped in wax paper.  A bit of cake for you and the Forest Children.  She explained when she saw the questioning look in Curesoon’s eyes.

Did someone say ‘cake?!?’  Fain eagerly asked as he glanced up from the Game of Stones.

You just had breakfast!  Curesoon laughed with disbelief. 

It was not long before the bard had hitched his pony to his cart, and she was pulling them back to the Barbarian caravan of wagons.

Now you two remember that you’re pretending to be normal children around the age of three.  Curesoon directed the Noblins.  That means little to no talking, and don’t look at anyone directly – keep your eyes down lest they see them change color.  Also, we can’t have them asking too many questions about Miremurk, so we’re going to let them believe you were staying with the farmer while I explored the swamp.

The Forest Children nodded seriously with indigo eyes.

When the bard pulled his cart into the train of wagons, the knife juggler smiled.  What lovely children!  She blurted out but then caught herself while looking around at her fellow warriors.  Left them with the farmer while you got lost in the bog, huh?  She added with a mocking laugh.

To avoid lying, Curesoon only shrugged while Fain and Hearten kept their eyes upon their tiny bare feet.

You’re smarter than you look.  She replied with one last chuckle and then walked ahead.

Thus, they began their journey, but only an hour had passed when Fain sighed miserably.

Are we there yet?  He groaned impatiently.

It takes four days upon this road to reach the harbor in Silverkeep, so no.  Curesoon answered with a smirk.

I’m bored!  The Noblin complained.  Can’t you start telling stories?!?

I’ll start when Bellicose calls for me and not before."  The bard declared stubbornly.

Great!  Fain grumbled under his breath while glancing at the fancy wagon that rolled along in front of them.  I think he and his son both went back to sleep.  With that, the Noblin sighed impatiently again and rested his small chin in his tiny hands.

Prologue Three

A Tale on the Way

Another hour passed, but for Curesoon it went by far too rapidly.  He spent the time trying to decide what story he would tell when he was called upon, but nothing was coming to mind.  Glancing around at his companions, he tried to guess what would be interesting to them.  However, one question kept interrupting his thoughts.

How did I come to be surrounded by Barbarians yet again?!?  He pondered with a growling sigh.

The bard took out his half of the contract and unrolled it.  Studying its tiny perfectly drawn letters, Curesoon’s lips formed the unspoken words.

If we survive the journey…

Sighing miserably, the bard glanced down at the two Noblins in the bed of his cart.  They had fallen into deep slumber amid the rocking motion of their vehicle.  It amazed Curesoon how easily the forest children could sleep no matter where they found themselves or what predicament entangled them.

Turning his eyes away from the sleeping Noblins, the bard began to glance around at his newly met companions.  First, he studied the old warrior who sat backward in his wagon facing Curesoon.   Bellicose was slumped over snoring loudly, and only his left eye was closed while his hollow eye socket gaped.  As before, this reminded Curesoon of Fervid the Ancient.

Next, the bard looked over at the younger man who also rode in the war-chief’s wagon. This was the son of Bellicose, and near him lay his bow and quiver.

What was his name again?  Curesoon wondered quietly.  He had tried to learn everyone’s name at breakfast.

The war-chief’s wagon was being driven by an old dark-skinned slave with white cottony hair and a matching beard.

His name is Sage.  The bard recalled with a smile.

He found this to be ironic because the old man was also the troop’s cook, and judging by the two meals he had shared with them, Sage added the spice he was named after to every dish he prepared.

Curesoon moved his gaze over to study the light-skinned slave girl as she quietly strolled next to her master’s wagon.  It seemed odd to Curesoon that the old warrior tolerated Tetchy’s insolence.  In his experience, Barbarians were not usually so tolerant.  In fact, they were typically overly harsh to those servants who did not quickly and quietly obey.  This was one of the many reasons that the bard was not fond of their race.

Boarsbane gleefully trotted along beside the girl, and even on all fours, the huge hound’s gray head came to her chin.

Turning from them, Curesoon looked at Ire.  The huge man was stomping along next to the bard’s cart while gripping its side with one massive hand like a child walking with his mother in the market.

Though he was enormous, something about the man’s face told others that he had a simple mind.  He almost always wore a slightly silly smile, and for this reason, it was hard for Curesoon to believe that he was a warrior like the others.  However, the war-hammer and the mace that hung across his broad muscular back hinted that he could be just as dangerous.

Moving his eyes from the large man, the bard next looked upon the sword-master, and Hauteur was quick to glower back.  There was no doubt that his pride was still smarting from their exchange the day before.

Not wanting to cause any further injury to the sword-master’s bruised ego, Curesoon quickly turned his gaze upon the fat warrior-monk, and though he was also a Barbarian standing taller than any Common-man, he was the shortest of the warriors.

Podge.  The bard recalled the man’s name.

As the monk huffed and puffed in his struggled to keep step with the others, he leaned heavily upon his glossy black quarterstaff.  The ebony staff was tipped with a silver cap that bore the likeness of twelve knights standing shoulder to shoulder around its circumference while the top of the cap was crowned with the nude image of a beautiful woman.

Beside the monk strode the red-headed master of daggers.  The woman wore a sly mischievous grin upon her beautiful face, and as she walked, she balanced one of her many knives upon the tip of her forefinger.  With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it into the air, and after it flipped several times, she caught it again upon one of her other fingers.  This she continued to do for hours while in a full stride, and never once did she drop her dagger or cut herself.

Her name is Avaritia.  The bard whispered with a smile.  Physically,