The Prince of Tabor: The Brotherhood of the Black Arrow, #1

By Dr. W. Penn White and Kevin G. White

Many centuries before the age of Man, as the ancient chroniclers tell, labor, the second greatest kingdom on earth, was under siege. The king had died in battle, and the queen had died in childbirth. As the enemy was closing in, the infant heir escaped far away to the tiny hamlet of Streamside. Brought up there in a boisterous tavern by his brother Jacoby, Young Nathaniel could not know that the trumpets of war had again sounded and that a greater army than ever, its leaders bent on revenge and world dominion, threatened a vastly weakened Tabor. He would be forced onto a quest of unparalleled magic and danger by forces unknown to him. Hellbent on world control, evil necromancer Crepitus sent assassins to Streamside, forcing Nathaniel and his brother into a fight for existence and a struggle to regain his birthright and save his kingdom. It is an epic fantasy of immense sweep set in the misty beginnings of the world and tells of the struggle of one young man, facing War and Magic, to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dr. W. Penn White
• Release date: Jul 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987092026

Dr. W. Penn White

Dr. White is a physician and artist who lives in Fairhope, Alabama. He practiced Gastroenterology for almost 30 trs. before retiring to concetrate on writing. He enjoys painting, biking, hiking and just being outdors. He lives with his wife and two miniature schnauzers

Book preview

Map Of Curth TalamKing Ice Beard

One

THE REVELATION

He would die if they caught him. The old man half ran, half slid down the snow-covered game trail, trying hard not to fall. He had to warn them, to get the news out to protect the prince. His heart raced with the pace and his chest heaved with exertion. Adrenaline kept him moving as he heard howls and yells from the creatures behind him. As he rounded a curve in the path, he slid to a stop by a small oak and held on for support. I’m too old for this, he thought, as he panted for breath like an overheated dog. He balled his fist and mumbled to himself 887 years is just a spring rooster.

The enemy didn’t know of his exact location, of that he was sure. But he worried the two groups searching for him might catch him, one made up of mountain goblins, the other human wolf men called Lupine Rangers.  They would join up soon, all extraordinary trackers, and his chances for escape would be drastically diminished.

He wouldn’t stop again, and pushed off the oak and continued to scramble down the game trail. The information he had gathered about the coming danger was too important. He must press on, no matter the obstacles.

The path was narrow and treacherous, winding along the edge of a high ravine. He moved as fast as he could, chest burning from the thin cold air. Hurry. Hurry, was all he could think. The enemy was moving south, and every soul in their way was in terrible peril. He had to get them word.

He had been trailing the group for several days before stoppingthe previous night. The old man had long years of experience hunting and tracking prey. They called him by many names: Old One, the Aged One, the Green Traveler, but most knew him just as Traveler. He appeared old in his human state, with grey-white facial hair and beard and a long braid of white hair hanging down his back. He always wore a green tunic, under which he hid a shirt of Lla’dir Ellyn, Elven mail, and he often had his pet raven, Bromme, perched on his shoulder. He used a long wooden walking stick and carried a short blade in his belt. The only distinguishing mark of his true nature was the leathery bronze skin and his eyes. His eyes were slightly wide apart, a deep golden color, piercing and bright as the morning sun. His pupils were linear slits, like a snake, giving him an unnatural reptilian aura. Few knew the secret of his origin or history, and he’d left fewer still alive to speak of it.

The group he followed were goblins, at least twenty, lead by bigger things. He had followed their footprints in the snowy trail until they finally stopped late in the night. The moon had been mostly full which made getting close to their camp without being seen difficult. He had moved stealthily, making no sound as he approached a large clearing in the wood. A goblin sentry stood just beyond the tree line ahead. The old man belly-crawled behind the guard who had his back turned. Like a specter, he rose silently from the forest floor. He covered the goblin's mouth with one hand and drove his short blade under his ribs with the other. The goblin let out a muffled groan in surprise, then slumped to the ground. The old man left him where he fell, blood pooling around him. It was risky, but time was short, and he needed to get closer to see what the sentry was guarding. He quietly moved forward, as silent as a drifting cloud. At the edge of the clearing, he quietly climbed a large sycamore to see and hear better. As he ascended a vile nausea swept over him, and he was bathed in the stench of death and decay. This was no battlefield, and he saw no dead bodies. Yet, malevolence radiated from the center of the lea, bringing with it a nauseating sickness. He wanted to retch but swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He settled in and witnessed the meeting of the evil ones.

In the clearing center two enormous creatures stood warming by a crackling fire, which brightly lit a ten-foot radius. First was a hairy beast with a wolf’s head, its rugged mesomorphic form portending massive strength. Grey fur, streaked with white, covered his face; he had a long snout and a crescent scar over his left cheek. He was well over 6 feet tall and wore dark chain-mail under a tunic with the mark of the Black Paw. The old man had seen it before, the insignia of the Lupine Rangers, a mercenary tribe of warrior wolf-men, known for their vicious and predatory nature. Blood Coat, their notorious pack leader, was legendary for being a rapacious killer, making the Lupine Rangers one of the most feared groups in Curth Talam.

Next to him, and two heads taller, was an enormous, hulking man, with hair of white silver, and a long beard braided in three chains. He was herculean, even bigger than his compatriot, with bulging muscles punching out of his white bearskin vest. His legs were the size of tree trunks and covered in spotted seal skin. He wore heavy black boots. His only weapon was a large ax forged into a screaming face; mouth open in a death howl. A tattoo of three red stripes on his forehead marked him as Ice Beard, clan chief of the Ice Giants.

We are here, but where the demons is He? the giant asked in a rumbling voice.

One can smell his rot a bow shot away, growled the ranger. But I can’t see the monster.

The third figure stepped forward with an odd gait, staying just on the edge of the shadows. He was tall but thin, his wiry frame lined with lithe muscle. He wore a black vestment, half covered by a cloak marked with runes and a blood-red skull. His head was too large for his body. Straw-colored hair stuck out in all directions from under a black top hat. His face was indistinct, like melting wax that never set, and his eyes were an unforgettable, bright orange with an intensity that burned. Traveler knew him—the malignant, undead lich-mage from the Crypt Burrows to the north, Ravenite! Even from fifty yards away, Traveler’s skin tingled and burned, reacting to the vileness spreading from the creature. Even with his innate magical defenses, the old man’s stomach turned. He listened quietly, hoping to hear them before nausea overwhelmed him.

Getting impatient, Blood Coat? came a condescending voice half hidden by shadow.

My men are eager for the kill, Ravenite. And so am I, the wolf man growled. He didn’t bow, an intrepid glint in his yellow eyes.

And you, Ice Beard?

I’m here, Lich. And my giants are ready, bellowed the giant. But before I commit my warriors to your plan, I want what you promised. The undead sorcerer’s eyes burned bright.

Demanding as always! And foolishly arrogant. But I am generous tonight. I promised you revenge, and your blood vengeance will be satisfied. He paused, then continued, Just remember, I alone know the secret to destroy the kingship of Tabor. I can give you that gift, or deny it. Don’t forget.

Ice Beard felt the blood rush into his head. Who in Loki’s name did this stinking scarecrow think he was, wizard or no wizard? It was my father, the King Snowfist, who had died in the fields of Tabor 20 years earlier! King Aarmon of Tabor had struck him down like a coward, mortally wounding his father with a brutal stab to the back, while his father was engaged in fighting two others. Ice Beard had been only ten when the news reached the Frost Mountains. He felt King Aarmon’s sword rip into his own heart at the news. His father had taught him the old ways of the Ice Giants, and the mysteries of the Frost Mountains. He was his mentor and his friend, and suddenly he was gone. The hole left in his life and his heart was immeasurable. That’s when he vowed the blood oath, Di’oth’u Cru’el, in front of his mother, the tribal elders, and the entire clan, to avenge his father, the king. His blood revenge would only be complete with the annihilation of King Aarmon of Tabor’s bloodline. That alone was his mission, his destiny, and no sorcerer would deny him.

His fury, a trait of all Ice Giants, surged through him like a wildfire on dry timber, and he pulled his ax to cut down the mage. But a flash of orange came from the eyes of the lich, swallowing the giant in a gripping light. Ice Beard felt the tremendous power squeeze him, like a massive hand crushing the air from his lungs. He tried to cry out, but no air could enter his chest. He dropped the ax as he struggled to breathe. Ice Beard reached out to strangle the mage, but he had no strength and fell to his knees, his lips turning a dusky blue. This was powerful magic, and Blood Coat stood mesmerized as the giant fell helpless to the ground.

He decided quickly, stepped forward to intervene, urging reason. Lord Mage, the giant’s a fool, yes, but needed. One must admire his blood passion, …and those of his warriors.

The invisible grip on Ice Beard’s neck lessened and as air rushed into his lungs, he gasped and coughed, holding his throat. Stars were in his eyes, and the giant’s head hurt as though struck by a club. The mage stepped close to him; his face no longer formless but now a skull, still carrying half rotted flesh. His lips never moved, but Ice Beard heard him whisper, Don’t test me again.

The lich mage waited a moment for the giant to stagger to his feet, still breathing hard. Now gather your warriors together. We march on the City of Spires at the new moon. I will send word where we are staging. He turned, And giant, send a warrior south to find and slay the prince as I promised. My incantations reveal he’s in the hamlet of Streamside, hidden by an old Taborian guardian. Then like mist, he disappeared into the shadows.

Traveler had heard enough. He hurriedly climbed down the tree as silently as possible. In the darkness, he didn’t see the rotten branch under his foot until it gave way from his weight. Snap followed seconds later by a hard thump. He struck the ground hard and wheezed as it knocked the air out of him.

Blood Coat’s head turned at the sound. Intruder he growled. FIND THEM! he roared in wolf-speak. From the shadows, five large wolf men appeared. Known as Grau Mantel, they were tall and muscular, with gray coats and long fangs. The rangers disappeared silently into the forest. A hobgoblin sergeant stepped forward, almost as tall and burly as Blood Coat, one of many the mage had brought with him from the Burrows. Before he could speak, Blood Coat cut in, his voice laced with disdain, Spread out and support my rangers, if you can keep up. The hobgoblin’s eyes flashed anger, but he knew better than to face off with Blood Coat, known for his mercurial and often bloody outbursts. He nodded, and ran off into the shadows, calling his men as he ran.

Traveler got to his feet quickly. He could speak Goblin and Wolf, and knew his only chance was to run like the wind. Goblin soldiers, not known for their speed but well known for their tenacity, would be close behind. And where were the rangers? He had no guess and tried to focus. He thought if he could get through the deep trees to the game trail, he could escape. A heavy snow, quickly hardening in the frigid atmosphere, had started and was made worse by a howling wind. Traveler’s race had excellent night vision, and he had no trouble seeing the trail through the gusts of snow. He slipped and slid over the recent ice, avoiding rocks along the uneven path. He periodically leaned heavily on his walking stick, desperate to keep his feet under him as he scrambled down the path. Goblin voices rang out both from behind and to his left, two groups following him, the number he couldn’t discern among the myriad of shouts. He heard howls from behind as well; the rangers tracking him closer and closer. The edge of the ravine was to his right, the valley hundreds of feet below. He rushed on despite the risk, clambering over the slippery terrain down the mountainside. It was then he made the mistake.

He turned his head slightly left, hoping to guess how close the enemy was on his tail, when it happened. The old man’s foot caught on a rock and slid over ice, and he tumbled head first down the trail. He landed hard on his left shoulder, swallowed a howl of pain and slid five feet over the lip of the path and down into the ravine. He felt only air under him as he tumbled over the edge. After he sailed five feet, he landed in a heap, the back of his head crashing into rock and ice. Pain seared through his brain at the impact. I’ve failed. I’ve failed ran through his mind as the world turned black.

A Ranger, and a great hobgoblin, came up the trail and kneeled low. The wolfman sniffed. The intruder had definitely come this way, but this is where his scent ended. He scanned the trail for imprints. Being a Dokklupus had its advantages, one being he could detect tracks on any surface. He saw where his quarry had slipped, and guessed he had plummeted over the edge of the ravine. He peered over the edge but the swirling snowstorm blocked his view. Dead for sure, he thought. Other Rangers arrived, and growled, What findings, Muso? The big Grau Mantel straightened and said in common tongue for the benefit of the hobgoblin, He went over. Take three soldiers and scour the trail edge, just in case he lived.

Traveler's eyes opened to the pale golden light from sunrise, filtered through a layer of snow covering his face. His head thumped as if Thor’s hammer was pounding it. He was dizzy but tried to sit up. Halfway to sitting, he was rocked with pain shooting through his shoulder like a knife. By Odin’s breath, he groaned and fell back onto the thick snow. He panted as his body shuddered with aching pain. After some calming breaths, he tried again, but this time rolled onto the other side and up to one knee. The gray sky swirled, and green bile rose in his throat. Time passed until finally his head cleared enough to stand. But when he did, nausea surged from his twisted stomach, and he retched again and again until he was empty. He fell back on one knee. By the Gods, how could I have been so foolish? he said aloud. Traveler desperately needed help.

He could see he had landed on a narrow, snow-covered shelf, which stopped him from falling off the cliff face to certain death. The old man could smell the sweat-filled odor of his enemies still in the air. They were still searching for him. He closed his eyes, chanting in a whisper on the wind. Slycomdum adyryn neidr est. carried on the winter breeze, over and over. Finally, the wind returned to him, Cyrrad. Soon after, the soft rustling of belly scales alerted him of the beast’s arrival. Not three feet above him hung a massive blue-black snake, undulating its head and slithering nearer. Its color was that of a dark thundercloud, its body so thick Traveler couldn’t reach all the way around its girth. Much of its long body hung suspended over the edge of the trail lip above him, its muscles tense under the riveting scales. Ssofran, he whispered, caressing the rough scales. The indigo snake’s head was as large as a shovel, and the old man embraced it like a long-lost comrade. The snake gently opened its jaws, gripping his arm and lifting him carefully back to the ice trail. He landed as soft as a kiss. A helmeted goblin, back turned to the pair, was three hundred yards down the trail. The snake looked questionably at his lord, expectantly. Have as many as you can hold, my friend, but focus on the wolf men. It will give me time to escape. But beware the tummy ache they bring! said the old one. The indigo snake rubbed Traveler’s leathery hand with its muzzle and peered at the old man, golden eye to golden eye. Ssofran. Thank you, dear friend, he whispered. For a moment Ssofran’s ruddy, leather skin flashed scales of iridescence. But there was no more time to waste, wobbling slightly, Traveler got his bearings and sloshed down the snowy trail. Before he’d gone ten feet, he heard a gasp, as a flash of black caught the goblin ahead by the neck and pulled him into the brush. He lifted his head and sniffed. There were still other enemy nearby, but to the east. Traveler knew his ally would cause enough turmoil to give him an exit. He could make it, he thought. He hobbled on, struggling to stay on his feet in the heavy snow.

Two

THE VISION

The vision shouldn’t have paralyzed him, for he was a tall, strong, dark-haired ex-warrior. He was lying in his rough bed, mattress full of straw, unable to do anything but breathe. He tried to toss the quilt back but couldn’t. His arms wouldn’t move, so he could only stare. He hadn’t seen Queen Elana since she had died in childbirth 20 years before, but there she was at the end of his bed. She was once a ravishing beauty, with long ginger hair and ivory skin. She had married the much older King Aarmon of Tabor when just 17. Jacoby had felt an immediate pull toward her. Her beauty and wit were captivating, her compassion for her people irresistible. As Captain of the household guards, she had grown to trust his advice, rely on his tenacious desire to protect her, and even call him a trusted friend. But seeing her now tore at his heart. She was now a corpse covered by a tattered burial gown. What hair she had left was gray and matted with dirt, and her sky-blue eyes were now hollow black orbs. He was awestruck, but he knew it was she. Lady Elana, he gasped. His heart pounded in his chest as the shock gripped him. The Queen just stood there, tapping her skeletal finger against the bedpost without speaking.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Finally, she rasped, Jacoby. Oh Jacoby. How far we have both fallen... He couldn’t move, his heart both torn from sadness and on fire with fear. Cold sweat trickled down his face in dark silence. Nothing to say to your Queen? Where did my warrior go? An innkeeper, really? You’ve grown soft since we last spoke. she mockingly chuckled. But you always protected me, so the Gods allowed me to warn you. Evil is rising, Jacoby, and living your oath to me is more urgent than ever!

He could still hear the words he’d spoken to her, tumbling out from his broken heart. Yes, I promise. It was the same day the capital of Tabor had almost fallen, and King Aarmon slain by Jacoby’s act of disloyalty. In the heat of battle, he had received a message to come urgently; the queen was dying. The news shocked him; his deep affection for the queen forced a hard choice. Fight on at the king’s side, or hasten to the castle, knowing his response might endanger the King. His heart made the choice for him, for deep inside he knew he loved the queen, not just the deep love of an admiring subject, but love unrequited. He would do anything to aid her, to be with her, even betray his duty to the king, if asked. His heart racing, he rushed to the women he treasured. This isn’t real! She can’t be dying! He swore as he whipped his mount, riding hellbent back to the castle. When he arrived, his heart shattered. The Queen was pale and appeared asleep, except for the ever-growing bloom of blood on her bedsheets. Tears filled his eyes, shoulders slumped, as he rushed over and knelt by her deathbed. She had born a son earlier that night, a healthy lad, with ruddy skin and startling green eyes, with a brown birthmark the shape of a clover behind his left ear. Jacoby would never forget that mark, both a symbol of the royal family as well as a knife that cut deeply into his soul. She had hemorrhaged after the birth, and the midwives failed to stop the bleeding. We can’t stop it. The Gods have spoken, the elder midwife had told him. She will cross to the underworld soon. He sobbed, caressing her pale hand in his, soft as her newborn babe’s, and made a promise he would forever uphold, but a choice he would always regret……. She had begged, Take my son to safety, Jacoby, and protect him. The air froze, her hand ice, as she whispered those words, then breathed her last. His heart cried out, the loss slashing his heart like a saber as he rose to his feet and moved to the crib. He just stared at the sleeping babe, unable to think or feel, hands trembling, tears rolling down his cheeks. At that moment, he hated the child and wanted nothing more than to cast it from the battlements for its role in killing his love. But then, the child looked at him with his forest green eyes, and his anguish lessened. She’s a part of him, he murmured to himself, his numb mind giving way to clarity. In that moment, he realized his renewed purpose, and as he swore, he would give his life to defend the child.

Then he heard the shrill horns signaling ‘retreat’ from the battle raging outside. The sound jolted him from his thoughts, just as a courier raced in, The King is dead! The King is dead! he screamed, eyes bulging and lips trembling. So, his betrayal of the king was complete, and soon there would be an inquisition, and soldiers to arrest him. He had to act swiftly, and get the child out of the city before it fell to the enemy. He pulled the Queen’s wet nurse, Mare, to the hallway, and said urgently, You heard the Queen’s request. Gather the child while I get supplies. We must leave the castle at once! The shocked woman, not much older than Jacoby, just nodded, eyes wide. Mare loved and admired the Queen like a sister, and her loyalty forced a heart-wrenching decision. I will do my duty, my Lady, she whispered under her breath as tears rolled down her cheeks. She ran to the castle nursery and picked up her own child, whom she had named Nathaniel, and raced back to the Queen’s bedchamber. No one was there, all having left in panic when they heard the King had fallen. She placed her own child in the crib, replacing the royal babe. You will be my Nathaniel now, she murmured as she carried the infant prince to safety, tears pouring from her red eyes. Then she turned, after one last look at the crib, and hastened to meet Jacoby.

Chaos reigned in the city, as word traveled of the loss of both monarchs, of the retreating army, and the continued battle. Citizens panicked, fearful the city might fall, they began fleeing the city. Meanwhile what was left of the army took to the walls to continue fighting. Jacoby, after first covering his uniform in a dark cloak, collected Mare and the babe, and they slipped away unnoticed in the flood of refugees escaping the attack. They rode south for almost

a week, following the Black Owl River southward, hiding by day and riding only at night. Jacoby knew Mare’s ruse, and the ongoing battle for the city, had bought them time. But how much? I must be vigilant, for they will hunt for us, he worried. Jacoby would have to always be on guard, always prepared, for that day.

On the eighth evening, they stumbled across a skiff abandoned on the river bank, which improved the speed of their escape. Jacoby was constantly vigilant, expecting Taborian guards or bounty hunters to be on their trail. Mare, we must act like a married couple wherever we go. He told her one night after another day of sculling. We must keep to ourselves and say nothing of our past. It’s the only way to stay safe. She nodded, but looked regretful, as she held the babe close. Her decision to leave with Jacoby had inexorably changed her life, erasing her past as if she didn’t exist until that moment. Now, all she had was a future, one as a new mother with a man she barely knew. But she had little Nathaniel, the name of her grandfather, who raised her after a goblin raid orphaned her. He had been a strong and honorable man, always kind and understanding. Now she had her own child to raise, and she was determined to raise Nathaniel to be like him.

After two weeks they landed in a small river village in the free lands south of Tabor, named Streamside. Jacoby bought an abandoned inn on the edge of town, and over time, he and Mare rejuvenated it into the most popular tavern in the county. Jacoby watched and waited, always wearing a short sword under his apron in case hunters from Tabor appeared, but they never did. Despite these successes, there was also tragedy. Mare died suddenly just 5 years later, leaving Jacoby alone to raise the child. Her loss broke him, but he did his best to raise Nathaniel alone.

Tap Tap Tap.

And now the Queen returned from the grave to remind him of his promise. He repeated those words now. I promise.

Tap Tap tap

Jacoby’s eyes fluttered, jerking up in bed, eyes wide. Sweat drenched his sheets, and his heart beat wildly. He rubbed away the sleep dirt from his eyes and blinked. Nothing. No rotting corpse at the end of his bed, just the bare walls of his room. Thank the Gods, it was only a dream, he thought, as his heart rate calmed.

Tap Tap Tap

The noise made him jump in the bed like receiving a jolt. What the demons? he hissed to himself. Someone or something was at his window shutters. He sighed deeply, rubbing his face again hoping to clear the fuzziness of half sleep.

Tap Tap Tap

What in Thor’s name! He spat as he pulled himself out of bed. The stone floor was like ice, and he let out a grunt as he moved to the window. Perhaps it was one of the community cats who came searching for handouts from the Sleeping Dragon Inn kitchen. But no, his room was on the second floor. No, not a cat. Perhaps a bird? Or a branch from a nearby tree? Jacoby opened the shutters, and there hopping along the sill was a large raven. The bird fluttered its inky wings closer, its black eyes boring through him. Jacoby was speechless, until to his surprise, the raven pecked his hand. By the Gods, he yelped, stinging pain moving down to his wrist. His eyes were momentarily blinded as the bright morning sun reflected off something around the bird’s neck. His eyebrows met as he studied the bird, realizing he carried a dragon-shaped medallion as a necklace. Attached, was a rolled parchment, which Jacoby removed.

Jacoby, source of the darkness found. Danger coming! Beware! T.

Jacoby had first seen the dark clouds over the mountains months ago, starting as just a hazy, dark line. But slowly the line crept into a purple storm bank, carrying with it lightning and gusts of wind. He could smell the dampness coming, felt the chill of some malicious power behind it. The wind had kicked up, with gusts that tore down branches like giants moving through a forest. Lightning danced from the cloud bank at night, and he could see powerful lights in the mountains. Most of Streamside ignored the changes, writing it off to an unusually bad winter season. But Jacoby felt the malevolence and found his mood becoming pricklier by the day. When other signs started, lambs stillborn, cows that lost their milk, Jacoby warned the community that this was more than seasonal change, but few listened. That’s when Traveler arrived at the Sleeping Dragon Inn.

Jacoby had bought the decaying inn in the small hamlet of Streamside almost twenty years ago. He hid his real identity, pretending Mare and the child were his family. Jacoby never spoke of his past, and there were rumors and innuendo concerning his roots. Eventually, he won over most of the skeptics in the community with his friendly manner, disarming smile, and devilish good looks. Standing over six feet, he was broad-shouldered and handsome, with long brown hair, a chiseled chin, and sky-blue eyes. He became known for his hospitality and unique acceptance of outsiders, a policy frowned upon by some in Streamside. Jacoby never turned away guests; either they paid or worked off the debt. His staff was a hodgepodge from all over Curth Talam. His manager was a hobbit named Grullach Furr, a shrewd businessman, mostly honest and a true friend. His barmaid was an elf, rare in these parts, named Allai’nn Fi’ann, and was the most beautiful lass in three counties. Nathaniel, now seventeen, bussed tables and helped the stable boy, Clancey, a local farmer's son, with livestock. Over time, he made the inn into a well-known rest stop for locals and travelers alike. But it took only 5 years for tragedy to strike. Mare, wet nurse to the prince, died suddenly of a fever, leaving Jacoby to raise Nathaniel on his own. He never told Nathaniel, or anyone, of his origin. Deep in his heart, Jacoby carried the crushing shame of his decision, but reminded himself it was for Nat’s own safety.

What the Gods does this mean? Jacoby swore as he read the note again. It was just like Traveler to send a cryptic message. The old man could never seem to speak clearly, and to Jacoby’s frustration, often answered in riddles. A week before, the old man had visited the inn. As usual, he entertained the crowds with wild, half-believable tales of his wanderings. Another mead, my lassie, he drawled to Allai’nn, in-between tales of witnessing unicorns or aiding a remote fiefdom. By the end of the night, he was so drunk he passed out by the fire. Jacoby was removing an empty stein of ale from the table nearby when Traveler, snoring loudly, fluttered his eyes open. The old man mumbled some words Jacoby didn’t recognize, lolling his head back and force. Stop! No, please… his hands balled into fists, sweat beading on his forehead. Jacoby shook the old man awake, and he startled awake, eyes wide. You were having a bad dream. Jacoby said.

Gods help us…, he murmured. The changes. The evil is spreading.

You had too much mead, old man, Jacoby said kindly, grasping the old man’s shoulder reassuringly.

No. It was the Norns. They speak to me through dreams. Have you witnessed the changes? Traveler said, now more awake.

Like an impending storm coming from the north? Jacoby asked, unsure of where this was going. Winter will bring those and snow with it.

No, this is different, my friend. Look closely, the clouds only move in one direction, portending something much worse, I fear. The old man raised himself from the chair and looked seriously at Jacoby with his snake-like eyes. Jacoby felt a prickling at the back of his neck and heard the concern in the old man’s voice.

On the morrow I go to the high mountains above the Wolf Wood to find a clue to the source.

Jacoby shrugged, Let’s hope it’s just a Winter storm. But inside, his stomach twisted, for he had feared more. He had noticed the cloud bank, sensing a malevolence in the wind. Could the old man be right? He had to consider Nathaniel and the others. He shook his head, and said, I’ll prepare the supplies you’ll need for the journey tomorrow. Best get some rest now. Jacoby said with a hard stare. You will let me know what you find?

Traveler nodded his head, brows still knotted as if wrestling with a challenging problem. He climbed up the stairs, moving slowly from weariness. As he moved, his bronze skin changed in the torch light, turning a chimeric rainbow for just a moment. Jacoby’s eyes widened, and a spark of awe crackled down his spine. Whatever Traveler was, he was much more than a kindly old storyteller.

Three

JACOBY’S JOURNEY

The rain started slowly then quickly came down in sheets so thick Jacoby could hardly see ten feet in front of the wagon. By the Gods, rotten luck! he said to himself. He had risen before the dawn light, hitched the two withered mules to the wagon, and prepared to head to the closest large town of Glen Water 50 leagues east of the Sleeping Dragon Inn. The tavern needed supplies, and he took the day's ride once a month. The day had begun with the usual dark clouds and rare sunlight, but within an hour into the trip, the wind kicked up and rain battered him. He pulled his rain cloak a little tighter over his neck, hoping impossibly to keep the biting chill of the wind and rain at bay. The previous morning's message weighed heavily on his mind. First, the dream of Queen Elane had unnerved him. Then, the note from Traveler made his jitters worse. Could it possibly be true, he wondered? And if so, what threat was coming? Where? How many? The warrior, long forgotten, came to the forefront of his mind. How do I defend against the unknown? he thought. One madman? Several? An army? The futility of the question hung in the air and he chuckled to himself and shook his head. The old fool is getting to me."

He remembered the conversation with Grullach and Alai’nn the night before. "We need to prepare for whatever