by Emmet Moss
“I trust your mother approved of your journey, lad?” Corian asked, wrapping an arm around Alessan’s thin shoulders.
“Yes, although she did need some persuading,” he answered. “She asked me to pass on a greeting, and wanted me to inquire as to whether or not you would be dining with your entourage at the Black Boar this evening?”
Corian laughed heartily at the question. “She’s quite the businesswoman, your mother! You can tell her I will most assuredly be dining in her fine establishment tonight, although it will be a solitary venture. Vellix and Valorius will not be joining me.” Glancing towards a tall stack of chopped wood, Alessan spied the merchant’s two aides piteously dragging heavy stumps over to a patiently waiting Lumber.
“Some penance was required after yesterday’s unfortunate incident,” Corian added.
“I see,” Alessan replied softly. He continued to watch the miserable servants. He reflected on how often he had been on the receiving end of numerous insults while he laboured in the yard of the Black Boar. It would serve no purpose to celebrate their foolishness. Nodding as if in approval to his reserved reaction, Corian Praxxus motioned towards the entryway to the meeting hall.
The building served as the main hub of the camp. The Lumbers of Oakfeld Patch had decorated the hall with trophies earned by their many triumphs throughout the years. Large branches whittled by skillful artisans were mounted on the walls. Artwork portrayed Lumber legends hewing enormous trees, and carvings depicted the woodsmen as shining heroes of righteousness battling the dark, twisted trees of the ever expanding forest.
In the middle of the hall lay the Burning Hearth, a fire lit over four generations earlier and kept alive at all times with timber from the Aeldenwood. The tradition had its beginnings in Sycamore Grove, and soon carried forth to all Lumber strongholds. The eternally burning fire was said to represent the Great Wood’s unrelenting march across the land. The Hearth was surrounded by long rows of tables where the men sat drinking and eating. The pungent odor of onion and potato stew, a Northern Council staple, drifted from a large pot bubbling over the fire. Captain Pragg sat in one corner with officers clustered around him, each one competing for a moment of his time.
Alessan looked towards the far end of the hall, his eyes settling on an ancient stump. The front portion of the old tree had been carefully removed, and the wood below polished to smooth perfection. Even at this distance, he could make out a number of the names burned into the wooden remains. Stunned, he was unable to breathe for a moment. At his side, the hefty merchant raised an eyebrow.
“You alright, boy?” Corian asked curiously.
Struggling to regain his composure, Alessan replied shakily, “I apologize, Sir. I’ll be fine.”
Patting him lightly on the shoulder, the merchant from Innes Vale smiled sadly. “I understand, son. Your father must have been a great man.”
‘Sorrow’ was Oakfeld Patch’s grieving tribute to their fallen heroes. When a Lumber died in the Aeldenwood, his name was inscribed upon the large stump in the meeting hall. Whether slain by denizens of the forest, or by the trees themselves, they were forever immortalized in the body of their enemy. It served as a reminder to all that the forest was an adversary never to be trusted.
“My father died near Burnt Elm” Alessan replied sadly. “His name was inscribed by my mother at that same camp. ‘Anguish’ is the name of the trunk that bears his name. Whenever I see a tribute, it’s hard not to remember him.”
They took a seat at the head of a long table near the Hearth, sitting in silence for quite some time. Corian Praxxus did an admirable job of looking in every direction but that of the solemn Lumber tribute. It took the arrival of a serving woman to return the merchant to good humour.
With food ordered, Alessan dismissed his solemn memories and looked expectantly at the wealthy man seated across from him.
“Why am I here, Master Praxxus?” he asked.
“All in good time lad… all in good time,” Corian responded. “For the moment, enjoy the warmth of the Hearth, and the drinks our barmaid has brought us.”
“I really can’t afford it, Sir,” Alessan replied sheepishly. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of the prominent merchant, but his mother had no coin to spare for him as he hustled out of the inn earlier that morning.
“Bah! Your meal is on me, Alessan. You saved me quite a tidy sum, and it would be rude not to repay the kindness. You know, we merchants of the Vale aren’t always what we are made out to be.” He winked and took a long swallow of his bitter ale.
“I will admit, your generosity is surprising,” Alessan answered cautiously, wiping foam from around his mouth on to his sleeve.
Corian chuckled. “I’m as greedy as the next man, but I’m not ashamed to repay a debt. Now eat up. We will talk of business only after you’ve told me more about your town and the history of these great lummoxes called Lumbers.”
Alessan spent the meal regaling the merchant with tales of his life and the daily trials encountered by the inhabitants of Briar. He avoided any mention of his father, preferring to recount the legend of Bael of the Axe from his sister’s song the previous evening. He followed that with the story of Gort Greatwood, his favourite since it was first told to him as a small boy.
“The Greatwood family has been around for generations and they’ve had more than their share of heroic axe wielders. But their greatest descendant was Gort. He carried a double-bladed axe, a gigantic weapon if the stories are to be believed. The day before his passage —”
“Passage?” Corian interrupted.
“Passage to manhood. It’s a solemn ceremony that bestows the blessings of the gods into the steel of the Lumber blades. A young man, all alone on the night of the first full moon of the year, must take his axe into the very woods he will soon hew and ask for a blessing. It is said that the Gorimm are responsible for the magic that keeps the Lumber axes from ever breaking. The legend says that on the day before his passage, Gort found a large piece of silver, a moon stone perhaps, carved a recess into his axe shaft, and added the strange ore to his weapon. After his night in the forest, the axe he carried contained the purest silver, and the steel blade would glow softly even in the deepest darkness.”
“Sounds like a mighty weapon indeed,” the merchant commented.
“I believe it was!” Alessan avowed. “Many say it was magical and made Gort special, but his bravery made him legendary. In those times, a fourth Lumber camp was said to have existed far to the south of where we stand. Birch Copse was swallowed by the Aeldenwood, but in Gort’s day he was based at that very stronghold. There had been a resurgence in Gath activity that year, and more than a few of the men treaded softly throughout both the day and night. Strange disappearances from the homesteads had riled up the inhabitants; gruesome murders had left only bloody trails into the surrounding woods.”
Alessan continued, “Families began to flee the safety of their homes, and the stronghold was said to have been full near to bursting. Gort and a few of his stout comrades planned to put an end to the Gath menace. Leading the men out to his own homestead, they waited patiently for the creatures to arrive. Four days would pass before the Gath struck the farm,” Alessan paused for a moment and looked across the table with a puzzled expression. “You do know what the Gath are, Master Praxxus?” he asked.
“Aye, I’ve heard of them; nightmarish creatures, terrible to behold and bloodthirsty to boot. Children’s tales if you ask me, Alessan.”
“Say what you want, Sir, but some would have you believe that they have returned to wreak havoc under the eaves of the forest. Or maybe they never truly left…” Alessan whispered.
“You tell a good story, lad, so finish it. Enough with this nonsense,” Corian frowned, but Alessan noticed a moment of hesitation lurking behind the man’s eyes.
“An epic battle raged around the homestead. As night fell, on
ly the bright beacon that was Gort’s great axe guided the Lumbers in their fight. The Gath were felled in obscene numbers, their bodies dismembered by the strokes of his men. As night deepened, Gort realized that the Gath’s numbers would soon overwhelm his small band of survivors. Realizing that the creatures were attracted to the mysterious light of his axe, he made the ultimate sacrifice. Asking his remaining comrades to move inside, he barred the door to his humble cabin and ran into the surrounding woods.”
Alessan paused and continued somberly, “The survivors of that day recounted his last hours. For a long time the glow of their friend’s axe flitted among the trees, dealing death with every blow. The terrible howls and shrieks of the Gath rang out in the night. Near the break of dawn, a bright flash tore through the clearing where the men were barricaded in defense. With the flash came a sudden calm, and all sounds of the battle mysteriously vanished in a sudden wind.”
“When morning came, no Gath remained near the house. Of Gort Greatwood, only his body was found. He lay surrounded by Gath, all horribly burned and slaughtered. No wounds marred his body, and he lay there as if only sleeping after the hard battle. To the dismay of his companions, no breath remained in him.”
“A man to be well remembered,” Corian stated. “And the axe? Where is it now?”
Alessan shook his head slowly before continuing. “Therein lies the greatest mystery. You see, his beautiful axe was never found. Many believe it was destroyed, while some worry that the Gath have kept it these long years somewhere deep within the Aeldenwood, a trophy to remind them of a hated enemy.”
Clapping his hands in delight, the merchant congratulated Alessan on both his telling and the tale itself. Embarrassed by the praise, Alessan mumbled a quick thanks and buried his face in his own mug of ale.
Eventually Corian sighed and dug into one of his belt pouches. “Well, it seems the pleasantries are now out of the way, and it’s down to the business at hand.” Revealing a small leather sack, he tossed the bag on to the table. Hearing the unmistakable clink of coins, Alessan raised his head.
“Payment for your services,” Corian said. “It should be more than enough to recompense your mother for her loss of labour today.” Seeing Alessan’s look of suspicion, the Innes Vale merchant opened the drawstring and poured the contents upon the table. “Go ahead, count it if you wish.”
Having worked in the Black Boar for the better part of his life, Alessan could see that a small fortune lay upon the hard oak boards. Drawing a deep breath, he looked at Corian and asked, “And the service you require, Sir?”
“Young Master Oakleaf, I wish to go into the Aeldenwood. And for the money on this table, you’re going to take me.”
A registered company will be limited to a maximum of two hundred and fifty soldiers, of which only two hundred can be on active duty at any given time. The finalized roster, to be submitted at a formal Ca’lenbam, must include any company members slated for training. Rosters can, and will, be inspected throughout the yearly summer campaigns.
—Mercenary Code of Conduct
Chapter IV
Seracen Pass, Protectorate
Gavin Silveron walked slowly through the Fey’Derin encampment. He was pleased by the efficiency of the men, as they had followed his orders without fail. The camp remained on full alert, and the previous evening’s battle seemed as though it had never taken place.
Tents were pitched in two neat rows and horses were cobbled in the rear. The main supply wagon, full of foodstuffs and expensive smithing equipment, was situated in between the officer’s tent and his own private quarters. To the untrained eye, nothing seemed amiss. Any skilled scout who approached the site might notice the absence of a main cooking fire and the regular gathering of soldiers huddled around it. Instead, two smaller fires burned sparingly, one at each end of the tent lines. They were kept low so as not to needlessly blind the watchmen as they surveyed the perimeter.
From his vantage point on the western side, Gavin could see that only four men sat watch around the flames. The rest of the guards were sleeping until watch change. Shrugging off a chill, he paused and exchanged pleasantries with a number of sentries near the forest line. They were not surprised to see their captain up wandering this late in the night. In fact, they would have been more concerned had he not come by to share a steaming mug of tea. Gavin’s restless nights were common knowledge among the Fey.
It had been nearly two years since the dreams had started, and with them came the nightmares. For months he had struggled to find peace after the setting of the sun, to no avail. The dark visions were interspersed with strange hallucinations almost impossible to describe. Although the company was aware of his troubles, only the officers knew the toll they had taken on their captain.
The nightmare was a recurring one, exact in every detail; every sound, every feeling, every object; all the same, no matter how often he experienced it. He would wake within an ancient forest, and sense that the trees themselves pulsed with a feeling of dread. As he walked through the imposing wood, his hands would brush up against the gnarled bark of any tree he passed. Intense feelings of loneliness and sadness would overcome him. These emotions were so poignant and melancholy that he could never suppress the tears. Such was how the vision always began, with that walk through the dark forest, his mind awash with the heartbreaking sentiments contained within those ancient trunks.
Although burdened by such suffocating emotion, he did not fear for his safety as he strode through the matted leaves that covered the forest floor. Only when he spotted the shadows darting at the edge of his vision, did his heart begin to beat rapidly. Twisted creatures roved the interior of the woods, slowly gaining ground as he raced through the tangled trunks.
Desperately hoping to escape his pursuers, he already knew the outcome of the chase before it began. A glimpse of the hunters confirmed his terrible fear; that it was the Gath that baited and followed him. The first claws would tear at his legs while their fangs dug deeply into his back, sending him sprawling to the ground. He could clearly remember the smell of the foul breath emanating from the beast perched upon his prone body. Grinding his face deeper into the earth, it choked the life from him as it tore his flesh.
And yet each time, as pure terror threatened to overwhelm his senses, he would glance to his left and spy a very different creature hidden in the shadows of a nearby tree. A thin figure, with dark eyes gleaming like twilight stars. Those eyes seemed to burn a hole in his mind, uncovering hidden secrets, his greatest fears, and his darkest desires. Suddenly, he would wake up covered in a thin layer of sweat, his heart throbbing in his chest, and a scream caught in his throat.
There was no doubt in his Gavin’s troubled mind that in his dream he walked under the eaves of the Aeldenwood. With the fall of the High King, the lands of Caledun had experienced drastic changes. Gone was the ancient race of tree-tenders, the guardians of the Aeldenwood - the Gorimm. With the ancient guardians of the forest gone, it had given birth to creatures of horror and destruction. Without the guidance of the vanished people, the borders of the Aeldenwood grew rapidly out of control; a condition that worsened every year.
That vanished race, said to have once been beloved by all peoples of the High King, had been the caretakers of nature. Small in stature and of noble bearing, the histories spoke of their long silver hair, and bright welcoming smiles. They lived in the woodlands of Kal Maran, but often visited the cities of humankind. They were long of life, and had experience beyond measure. They were great craftsmen, architects, and practitioners of magecraft. They had often acted as the diplomatic voices of reason during the years of the great wars in the north. It was said that the High King’s closest advisor and chosen confidant, had been one of the Gorimm.
History recounted that shortly before the death of the last High King, the Gorimm had retreated to their forest, forsaking those they had once nurtured. Many believed tha
t the elder race had served its purpose and had elected to disappear into antiquity. Others believed that the decision was not of their own choosing.
In any case, Gavin Silveron thought, not a single Gorimm had been sighted in two hundred years. The strange people now resided only in shattered Caledun’s fairy tales, with few drawings and paintings remaining of the elder race. Ancient relics said to have belonged to the Gorimm now gathered dust in temples, libraries, and houses of nobility. They were now but a wonderful tale to excite children as they dozed off sleep.
Pausing and waving at one of his men as he walked towards his tent, the captain of the Fey’Derin could not help but wonder, as he often had over these last few months, if the shadowy figure in his dreams could be one of the fabled Gorimm. He also questioned why he might be dreaming about them and was alarmed by the implications.
Shaking the disturbing memories from his mind, Gavin walked the perimeter of the camp. Pausing on the outskirts within shouting distance of the sentries, he gazed wondrously at the night sky. On such an autumn evening, so perfectly crisp and clear, he could lose himself in the silent beauty of the stars. Rare were the evenings that allowed such a peaceful and majestic view of the sky.
Just a few hours earlier he had led his men into bloody battle. How ironic that he, a man of violence and war, could find such solace in the tranquility of a starry night.
“Our ancestors look down upon us this night, Captain,” came a gruff voice from over his shoulder.
“Yours do, my friend,” he answered as his weathered lieutenant moved up to stand at his side.
“You would be surprised then, Gavin, were they to watch over you, the Drayenmark?” Caolte asked. Gavin had long professed to have forsaken any belief in the old gods. “I brought you some tea. Drink it. It will help settle your mind.”
“I think there is little that will calm my thoughts tonight. I can’t shake my dream any more so than I could the last time. It lingers…” Gavin answered.
