by Lexy Wolfe
Sulnar’s voice turned serious. No, we will not go away. You were abandoned once. We are not going to abandon you now or ever. Even if you want us to. With a groan, Tiwaz dropped her head onto the bed. The goddess chuckled. You do realize the only reason you owe me anything at all is because you have been adamant in refusing charity. Without your conscious agreement, I had to abide by what you displayed normally about such matters.
“There is no such thing as charity,” Tiwaz stated in sullen tones. “Even when nothing is demanded as payment, eternal gratitude is expected. ‘You ungrateful wretch! After what I did for you once.’” She shook her head sharply after the mocking mimicry of others she had heard. “I have seen it! Better to have a tangible payment and be done.”
I see. You are neither entirely correct nor wrong in your belief. True charity should have no expectation of gratitude, but few are able to not desire something for what they give another. Tiwaz narrowed her eyes at the medallion in suspicion. Rest assured, beyond the debt you owe me for removing the glyphs, none of us have any expectations of you. No demands. You are free to choose to do as you wish. Worship us or don’t. It matters not. Our faith in you is as sure as Thrahx’s. We will still watch over you.
The former gladiator sat up, picking up the green-eyed medallion, regarding it in silence. She draped it around her neck, tucking it in her tunic with a resigned sigh. “So help me, if I have any reason to regret this,” she grumbled, “I will find some way, somehow, to make you regret it. And I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Doom. That’s all!” She tucked the ruby-eyed dragon coin in her vest pocket before heading to the kitchen to prepare supper.
Behind her, the lid to the carved box shut gently, the latch swinging up into place. Just as he does everything only for you, child.
IN A SMALL, isolated garden within the Dragonway temple’s compound stood a white marble fountain depicting a dragon caught gazing to the sky about to take flight. Despite the glaze of ice that coated the smooth stone, water bubbled out of its mouth into the pool at its feet.
Tiwaz sat on a bench beneath the delicate branches of an ornamental tree, the sun glittering off the coating of ice. Despite the clear sky and brilliant sun, the bitter cold refused to lift, keeping the ice sheath coating each branch and twig from melting.
Bura’an joined the young gladiator, sitting beside her at a respectful, nonintrusive, but still intimate distance. He regarded the flowing water for a time before he broke the silence. “It warms my heart that you have joined your pack in coming here, Daughter. But I am surprised you do not join Thrahx Vaug for lessons in literacy.”
“What good would it do me?” she responded tonelessly. “Do you think I should write my opponents to death in the arena? Perhaps read them into a coma. That would be more effective. Those scrolls Doom practices reading aloud are painful to listen to.”
The high priest smiled, shaking his head. “It is not all so bad. Besides, it might help you someday.” She looked at him sidelong, expression skeptical. “Would you trust someone else to read or write for you if your friends were not there?”
“Gareth,” she stated pointedly, “is not my friend. I don’t know what he is to me. But I do not know him well enough to trust him and call him friend. The wolflen do not read nor write save for Shaman and Pack Leader. They do well enough without it.”
“Give Bard Tavarius a chance to earn your trust, Daughter,” the high priest requested, keeping his tone mild. “You might be pleasantly surprised to discover that you are not as alone with your challenges as you believe yourself to be. I am sure he would be happy to tutor you himself in the art of reading and writing.”
“I can’t.” Barely audible, she whispered, “Writing confuses me. I see things twisted, backwards, upside down…or all three ways!” She sighed, looking away. “I am too stupid to read.”
“On the contrary,” Bura’an countered gently. “What you describe happens to many people, of many races. Often, it is those most intelligent who suffer this. Tavarius is well known to keep the confidence of all those who request it. He would not allow anyone to know how…challenging it is for you.” Noting the reluctance on her expression, he said, “At least, keep your options open.”
She relaxed ever so slightly. “I will do that,” she relented. “Keep my options open.” She looked down at the dragon coin in her palm, her leather glove hiding it from the priest. “Have you ever spoken to your gods, Father Bura’an?”
“Of course,” he replied. “I came to the Dragonway as a young boy and had prayed to them every day. Sometimes, I believed I heard them whispering back. Not everyone did.” He tilted his head when she shook her head sharply. “You mean, as though they were in the room with me?” He chuckled. “I think everyone does now and then. I do when I am thinking aloud.”
“Do they ever answer you?” she wondered.
Bura’an stared at her for several moments. “You do not seem the sort to ask frivolous questions, Daughter,” he said slowly. He paled when she held out her hand, the coin gleaming in her palm. He brushed his fingers across it, closing his eyes. “Where did you find this, child?”
“In my hand,” she replied. He frowned at her with the disappointment of a father for a child’s flippant answer. “When Doom and I were traveling north, I got very sick. A wound I had turned bad because I neglected myself. Doom had to leave me to find herbs to help break my fever and stop the infection. While he was gone, I dreamed that a man that sounded like a dragon I met in Dragons Gate came to watch over me.” Bura’an’s eyes grew wider as she spoke. “When I was talking to the dragon in man form, he said he was a god, but I thought he was just being arrogant. Dragons are like that…I think. That’s what I heard, anyway. I’d found a red crystal when he left in Dragons Gate, but this was in my hand when I woke up from my fever.”
She confessed with a mild sense of guilt, “I tried to throw the medallion you gave me into the waterfall. But I found it in my room again and Sulnar spoke to me. I…think. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t fevered that often, but—”
“Child,” he interrupted, a tenor of urgency in his voice as he took her hand in both of his. “This is not a normal medallion. But… You could not know.” He took out his own medallion, a little larger than the one she wore. He pointed out the elegant curls that decorated the left and right edges of the disk. “The coins and medallions are symbols of their temples of origin, made by the hand of its high priest. Each temple has its own design. If you look at Bard Tavarius’ medallion, you will see his looks different from mine, because he became a follower at a different temple. But this one.” He touched the edges. “It has none.”
She drew out her medallion, comparing the two. “Maybe the smith who created it forgot to put it on?” she hypothesized. “Doom has two that are like this,” she stated, emphasizing the coin in her hand, “but the dragon eyes are different. One is diamond, one is emerald.”
He shook his head. “You do not understand. Even the central temple had a design that identified it. You see, when a high priest is named, they do not only inherit the memories of all those who came before them, but the imprint to make these. The process is…well. It is complicated, but while a goldsmith might be able to mimic the appearances of the temple emblems, they cannot recreate their essences. Any who accept a temple medallion will know if there is another temple medallion near because they resonate when they are displayed in close proximity to each other, so each bearer knows the other is a true member.”
“That is all they are for then?” she wondered, meeting his eyes without her usual hostility. “If a goldsmith can make something that looks like them, why would you need to make them at all?”
He smiled. “No, they are for much more.” He looked to the statue in the fountain a moment. “Before the cataclysm that broke the connections between the temples, each devotee chose a single god to dedicate themselves to. Unless the god made it known they were claiming someone for their own, of course. After the cataclysm, and then
the war with the high elves that broke the world, it became…” He frowned, searching for the words so she could comprehend. “The reason any temple is considered holy ground is they have been blessed by the god they serve. You can pray anywhere, but it is most strong within their domain. It is the difference between speaking to someone standing next to you versus speaking to someone across a field. The fractures between the lands make prayer away from holy grounds or items like trying to speak to someone on the other side of the mountain.”
She looked back to the medallion and coin. “This allows you to speak to the gods as if you were in the temple, no matter what,” she stated more than asked. She rubbed her thumb across the ruby-eyed dragon lightly. “What does it mean if there are no markings besides the dragons?”
“Those without any marking came from the hand of the god they represent.” He indicated the coin. “Veridian the Ruby-Eyed himself placed that in your hand. That is the only way you could have received it.” He added in a quiet voice, “Keth and Sulnar occasionally give their coins to those they consider special. I have never heard of Veridian doing so before you.”
Tiwaz looked from Bura’an to the coin. “Oh.”
KERK LOOKED UP to the door as he dunked the hot metal he worked into a trough of water. “You look like a lost pup, bard,” he pointed out blandly. “And here I thought everyone was happy spring has finally arrived.”
Gareth smirked a bit as he ambled over to the side and hopped up onto an empty workbench along the wall. “With Doom and Tiwaz off hunting with their wolflen friend, it’s too damned quiet. It is making me itchy.”
“And the town’s too small for you to cozy up to any of the pretty young things to distract yourself, huh?” The blacksmith laughed heartily at Gareth’s expression. “You know you should be careful what you wish for and enjoy the peace and quiet, lad. Wanting things to be ‘more exciting’ often leads to more trouble than it’s worth. Especially up here in the north.”
“You’re being superstitious,” Gareth began when the frightened squeals of young children interrupted, followed by the slamming of doors and window shutters going up the street. Ian ran to the door and looked outside in curiosity. The boy’s body language spoke volumes. “What’s the matter, Ian?”
“There’s a giant out there!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “He is even bigger than Doom!” He pointed unnecessarily towards the cloaked, colossal figure that walked the main road through town.
Kerk punched Gareth in the arm hard enough to make the bard utter a pained exclamation. “What did I tell you?” He waved towards the figure. “Go on. You deal with him.”
Gareth blinked at the man. “You want me to…?”
“You are the one who wanted excitement.” Kerk turned back and picked up his work, snapping his fingers for Ian to man the bellows. “Far be it from me to dash a young man’s dreams when they’ve been answered with such elegance.”
“Oh, ha ha. You are funny,” Gareth retorted sourly, ignoring Ian’s giggling. The bard took a deep breath and strolled out to intercept the stranger who had stopped to consider all the shuttered shops during midday. The appearance of affluence in the stranger’s well-made clothing decorated with delicate, ornate hand-stitched designs in gold thread along the cloak’s edge surprised him. “Hey there, stranger!” he called cheerfully. “You seem lost. Can I give you some directions so you can get on your way?”
The giant turned, reaching up to lower the cowl of his heavy cloak to reveal a handsome face. Were it not for his inhuman height, Gareth would not have questioned the fellow being one of the human race. Intelligence sparkled in the depths of his blue eyes as he looked Gareth up and down. “Is this Bralden?”
“It is indeed,” Gareth confirmed. “A small, quiet village with little of value to anyone.” The bard looked the giant man over, noting the various items he wore. “Especially to magic users. I believe you took the wrong fork in the road.”
“If this is Bralden, then I am not lost.” His clothing spoke more of his affluence and mysterious origins as a slight shift of his cloak revealed more. “I am seeking a hunter-fighter pair. Go by the names Doom and the Warrior. Do you know of them?”
“Doom and the Warrior? Oh, that’s quaint. Someone is trying too hard to sound clever,” he drolled. “But no. Never heard of them. Might try three villages over and down some. They like kitschy, clever things like that over there. High elves, you know. Think they’re all witty.”
The giant’s lip curled in a humorless snarl and he turned away, heading towards the Wolfs’ Den with a purposeful gait. Gareth frowned, watching him duck into the building. He headed back to the smithy. “I don’t know who he is, or what race he is supposed to be, but I’m pretty sure he’s some sort of magic user and he’s looking for Doom and Tiwaz.”
Kerk frowned at that. “You thinking he’s a bounty hunter for their former master?”
“I hesitate to jump to conclusions, but…I think it’s wiser to err on the side of caution.” He looked at Ian’s wide eyes and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Don’t worry, we won’t let anything bad happen.”
The blacksmith made a musing sound. “Should warn Tiwaz and Doom about him. Knowing the lass, she’ll likely want to go toe-to-toe with him. Rather not have to rebuild Bralden again.” Gareth arched an eyebrow, the smith waving off the unspoken question to the word ‘again.’ “I’ll tell you about it later. Damned magic users don’t tend to be patient sorts. Need to figure out how to get word out to them before Bralden ends up being razed to the foundations because he’s not finding them fast enough.”
Gareth considered, then snapped his fingers. “The wolflen. They will be able to find them.” He grabbed his cloak, putting it on as he headed out.
SUNLIGHT FLOODED THROUGH the window, splashing across the face of the bed’s over-sized occupant. With a grunt and groan in complaint, the gigantic visitor to Bralden levered himself out of the far-too-small bed. He swore when he hit his head on a ceiling beam. “Remember, Simpkins, this isn’t the ship,” he chastised himself. “They are used to shorter sorts here.” He threw on trousers and tunic, then sat down on the bed with care. It creaked loudly under his weight. He nudged a small bundle of cloth on the tiny nightstand. “Come on, wake up, Mya.” A tiny wind sprite woke up, stretching with a yawn as the glass-like being became more opaque.
He looked towards the window with a sigh. “Gods’ sake, what does it take to draw these two out?” Unfurling iridescent, dragonfly-like wings, Mya fluttered up to the massive man’s shoulder. She sat there, affecting the posture of a well-bred, affluent woman. He looked sideways at her. “No, I will not do anything to harm anyone in this town just to draw them out. You have noticed our shadows following us everywhere, haven’t you?”
Mya flew off as he stood to finish dressing. “I have never seen anything like it. Everyone knows wolflen are xenophobic. Humans are rarely any more accommodating to those of other races than wolflen. But here, they stalk me side by side. I expected to leverage their hostility. Not run up against cooperation. Completely throws off my plans.”
The sprite flitted to hover in front of his face. He irritably brushed her aside. “You know very well why this pair. My seer said I need their particular flavor of skills. He cinched his backpack closed, put it on, then put his cloak on. He slanted a glower at Mya as he worked the elegant clasp. “Yes, I am sure they are the ones I need. Elyssia’s gift to see through the veils of the fractures has never steered me wrong before and her vision this time was exceptionally clear.”
He grunted at the sprite’s exasperated gesturing. “I was paid half up front for this task. Sure, it’s enough that I could be tempted to retire. I’m not giving up good coin just because a few naive, simplistic rustics are being difficult.” He opened the window, looking at the small wind elemental. “Now go on and keep an eye out for me. I don’t know what these two look like, but I’m pretty sure they’re going to stand out from anyone else here.”
Walking down the stairs, Simpkins kep
t a hand up to keep from hitting his head on ceiling beams. He dearly wanted to pause, to take a moment to stretch when he got into the main room of the place, especially after a long, uncomfortable night in quarters too small for his eight foot frame. But the room was filled with men and wolflen, and every pair of eyes turned to fix on him when he appeared.
“I suppose I can do without breakfast,” he muttered under his breath, striding to the double doors. The moment he stepped outside, he let the doors shut and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he straightened and stretched…
…and got hit with a glob of gooey, mud thick with clay on the side of the face. “Go away!” a child’s voice demanded. The gigantic man looked incredulously to see a cluster of wolflen and human boys and girls. The others echoed him, throwing clumps of dirt, handfuls of mud, and pelting him with a few rocks and sticks. “We won’t let you hurt our friends!”
With diminishing patience, Simpkins endured the swarm of children attacking him. But when a boy ran up to kick him in the shin, he’d had enough. He grabbed the child by the back of his shirt and held him up like one would hold a pup by the scruff. Children shrieked in fright and scattered in terror. Methodically wiping mud from his face, he leveled a narrow look on the child. “Do you know what I do to brats like you?” he demanded.
“Do anything, and I will ensure you can never do it again.” Cold steel had nothing on the chill edge to the woman’s voice that made the hair on the back of Simpkin’s neck stand up. He turned sharply and found himself unable to do more than stare at the woman glaring at him. Dimly, he was aware of the demonic looking thing and the wolflen flanking her, but the woman exuded a presence he could not turn away from. “Put. Him. Down.”
Tracker darted forward to catch the boy when Simpkins, forgetting to lower his arm, released him from four feet in the air. Ears twitched back, the wolflen growled with bared teeth as he backed away, keeping himself between the stranger and the child.
