The Ambergosa Forest gave away little as summer surrendered to autumn

The Ambergosa Forest gave away little as summer surrendered to autumn. The evergreens remained green. The sparse grass remained golden brown. Needles still crunched underfoot. Small game still scurried from human contact. Only the gold in the aspen leaves told the tale of winter's pending arrival.

In the heart of the great forest a large and formidable woman crouched next to the smoldering remains of a cook fire. Her blonde hair ended at her waist in a thick braid, weaving its way between the silver spikes in her black leather armor. Next to her lay a long javelin, and on her back rested a great two-handed sword. She studied the embers; checking for warmth, or any non-burning remains among the coals. Then she inspected the abandoned campsite, looking at the split hoof tracks that blanketed the clearing, and tracking them to the direction that they exited the campsite. The branches of a nearby fir tree rustled slightly allowing a smaller woman to pass through. She had a curved sword in her right hand and a wooden buckler strapped to her left arm. A slight breeze pushed her thin brown hair across her face as she approached the crouching giant.

"The horses are safely downwind." The smaller woman said to the other woman. The larger woman picked up her sword and stood to her full height of seven feet.

"Six orcs, no mounts...as near as I can tell. They should be just over the next rise. I can take the bulk of them, Sonja, but I will need you to cover my back. Are you up to a fight?"

"We have seen their disrespect for the past four days, Spike," the smaller of the two answered, "I cannot permit it any longer. Our errand may be urgent, but this diversion is a worthwhile one."

Sonja's lithe frame appeared frail and helpless, but her green eyes told a story of determination. They set off to the north at a cautious pace following the trampled grass that marked the orcs’ path. Ahead of them they could hear splashing, and grunting. On the trail lay the mutilated remains of a doe and her yearling: killed for sport, not for food. They crept to the high bank of the river and saw the six orcs stabbing at a buck mule deer that had apparently broken its leg trying to escape its tormentors.

Spike stood quietly, took careful aim with her javelin, and let it fly. It sliced silently through the air, and found its mark in the buck's neck; putting the deer out of its misery. The orcs looked to the high bank in shock, and Spike gave her war cry as she jumped down among them with her huge sword in hand. Sonja followed behind her in a less grandiose manner with her curved sword. The two women stood back to back and went to work.

Orcs had reputations as savage fighters and senseless hunters. They appeared to be men from a distance, with dark skin covered with coarse hair. Their heads looked like a wild breed of swine: tusks, beady eyes, and pointed ears. Spike swung the great sword in huge arcs, mowing those in front of her down as though she were harvesting hay. Sonja's sword moved in and out deftly, carving and slicing those who were foolish enough to step within her reach. In a few short minutes all but one of the ugly orcs lie dead. That one ran in fear downstream.

Sonja raised one hand slowly to point at the fleeing orc. She uttered some words under her breath, and swung down with her hand until it struck the water. The water where the orc ran suddenly came to life, pulling the twisted humanoid down and drowning it. Sonja said a prayer of thanks to Naya of the Waters, and started back to the horses with Spike.

“The morning is still upon us." Spike said casually, as if the massacre had never happened. "We should be in the village of your dream by nightfall. I am sure that it is the one they call Vilberg...where the roads cross."

"Then may Vespa of the Winds be at our backs, that we may travel swiftly and safely this day." Sonja's eyes looked sad, mourning the loss of the deer to her beloved forest. She said a silent prayer to Soultaker, and mounted her dappled gray gelding. Together they rode northeast, avoiding the killing grounds.

High in the Allapache Mountains, nestled in a valley crowned with sharp granite, an ancient group of monks had built a modest monastery to the Kord. Made of uncut stone from the valley, it was neither pretty nor impressive. Inside its walls, kneeling in prayer, a wrinkled old dwarf cried to his god. His tan robes marked him as a novice acolyte. The ashes on his face marked him a penitent. His tears cut trails the ashes, following the natural wrinkles of his face. The cell, in which he lived and prayed, had minimal furniture. In accordance to his faith, no symbols marked his walls, for no man knew the face of the Kord save the great Prophet.

The door behind the novice monk opened, and two priests in full robes blocked the light from the hallway. The novice finished his prayer, and stood to face the priests. No one spoke a word as the priests washed the ashes and tears from his face. When the cleansing finished, they led him down the hall to the small chapel. The monastery's full complement of ten monks and five priests had assembled in the pews. At the front of the chapel, in his whitest robes, the Father Abbot of the monastery awaited the novice.

"We find Tragg son of Bronn to be clean of mind and body. We present him to thee, who represents Kord." The priests who led the novice intoned.

"Praise to Kord." The gallery whispered.

"My son, Tragg, be of good cheer. As a duly appointed representative of Kord, and the Father Abbot of this holy place, I accept your cleansing. Come and stand before me."

Tragg stepped forward, and stood before the Father Abbot with his head bowed. He stood still as the Father Abbot stripped him of his tan robe, and replaced it with a white one. The Father Abbot knelt down, unhitched the dwarf's sandals and washed his feet. Then he stood and anointed Tragg's head with olive oil, and finally embraced him.

"Take your place among the brethren, Brother Tragg." The Father Abbot said.

After a hymn, the congregation split, leaving Tragg alone with the Father Abbot. The Father hung his ceremony robe on a hook behind the altar, and sat next to the dwarf.

"Did you not hear? I said be of good cheer. It is not every man who can cleanse himself and enter the priesthood. You have succeeded fully. How can you be so downcast on such a wonderful occasion?"

The newly made priest sat silently for a moment, gathering his thoughts. After releasing a sigh he looked up at the Father Abbot.

"I have spent ten years in these mountains. Before that, I lived among the Tsilbaum. For eighty years I have warred and plundered as a soldier among them. I do not know if ten years of fasting and praying and studying atones for eight decades of killing. I know that Kord forgives us and loves us, but my faith lacks the strength to understand."

"Kord never asks us to understand his ways. He only desires that we defend His word and follow His prophet. Even holy men have had to fight wars. The killing matters less than the reasons behind the killing. Far to the east, across the Great Blue, lies Stone Mountain. In that fortress the holy men wear swords and protect the ways of Kord. Are they less holy because they carry swords? Is their ordination powerless? No. The need for the sword is greater in the land of the Prophet than in our land. Some day you may conduct a pilgrimage to the Great Mountain, and you may see for yourself why the world only needs one god. Until then, just believe in Kord, and he will validate your belief."

"How can I test my faith? How can I make it grow into knowledge?" Tragg wondered aloud.

"Last week a pigeon arrived from the brothers in Vilberg. They seek help in a way that I can not provide. They need a holy man, wise in the world, strong of arm, and able to help restore a righteous monarchy. Go to them, my brother, and test your faith with an errand of mercy. You must arrive at the Inn of the Lone Wolf on the night of the equinox. You will receive more instruction there. Until then, pray and believe."

"Father Abbot, when did you make your pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain?"

"I traveled to the Holy Mount after my ordination to this post, more than thirty years ago. I have something that might comfort you during your errand. Come by my cell before you leave." With that, the Father Abbot left Tragg to his thoughts.

Tragg sat in the chapel for some time afterwards. Many more tears came to his eyes as he pled for understanding. For Tragg, faith could not make up for his terrible past.

Though still early, all of the homes and store fronts were closed up tight. Only two buildings had light in their windows, and both were taverns set at opposite sides of the street. One had a sign with a large pine and a man sleeping at its base, and the inn across the street depicted a wolf baying at a full moon. He chose the latter and entered, leaving his tired mount for a skittish stable boy to care for. Once inside, he pulled down the hood of his dark cloak, revealing the fine features of his elven face. His silver hair shimmered in the lamplight of the common room. He took in the scene of the common room with his lavender eyes...observing the quiet reverence that underscored the uncommon stillness of the town.

"Will ye be needin' a room?" A gruff voice, that did not belie a hearty welcome, cut through the quiet of the room. The voice fit the man. A large man with a bushy, graying beard stood at the door. Whether to welcome or deter was yet to be known. "I be Simon, keeper o' the inn."

"Yes, for the night only." The moon elf answered.

"Sit yerself at yonder table in the corner, and I'll have me brother bring ye some broth. And so's that the gossip don't getting out o' hand, what be yer name?"

"I am Aldarys, of the Moon Isle."

"That be obvious." Simon grumbled as he turned towards the kitchen. His grumbling faded like a stubborn storm at sea.

Aldarys took his seat in the far corner, and waited for the promised broth. While he waited he took out a crumpled parchment and read:

TOWN OF THE CROSSROADS

LONE WOLF INN

MIDNITE OF THE EQUINOX

-ISPEN GUIVER

Aldarys knew that it could not be Ispen Guiver, not after so many centuries of silence. Although his race had a reputation for being long lived, common knowledge said that Ispen Guiver died during the persecutions. Many a wizard died in those days due to the wrath of Pedron Light. Ispen Guiver's name the most noted of those lost during that dark era. Still, a summons from the tower after 800 years...

A draft of cold air brought Aldarys out of his reverie as two more travelers entered the inn. By their looks, they too were strangers. One was an incredibly large woman. Even Simon looked up to her. She had long blonde hair past the small of her back, and she wore black leather armor studded with silver spikes. She was definitely an Amazon. Her companion was a small, wispy sort of woman of the Woodfolk. Though she had a scimitar at her belt, she bore the unmistakable look of a druid on her face. In the quiet common room they both looked very out of place. Simon directed them to an isolated table opposite of Aldarys. The two women took their seats as another bushy man (presumably Simon’s brother) dropped off a bowl of steaming soup and a stout mug of ale to Aldarys’ table. Moments later another man, no less big and bushy as the other two, dropped off two bowls of soup and mugs of ale for the women. The three of them ate under the watchful eye of the regular patrons, as if no one had ever eaten broth before.

After finishing the meager meal, Aldarys moved over to the newcomers and introduced himself.

"I am Aldarys of the Moon Isle. I would imagine that you are here because of Ispen Guiver?"

"I am Spike of the Amazons, and I know of no Ispen Guiver." The large blonde answered. "I am traveling with my friend, Sonja of the Woodfolk." Sonja bowed at the introduction.

"With all due respect, I am sorry. I only observed that the two of you are quite out of place here...as am I. I was hoping that you, too, had urgent business at the inn tonight. If you will excuse me..."

As Aldarys turned away and headed back to his own table, the two women bowed their heads together in quick, hushed discussion. Finally, Sonja spoke.

"Hold for a moment." Her soft voice caused many eyes to look towards her. Sonja blushed for a moment, and continued, "It seems that we may have something to discuss after all. Please sit with us."

Aldarys returned to the table with a slight smile on his lips. He sat, and waited for the women to speak.

"As I said before," Spike began, "I am of the Amazons, and my companion is of the Woodfolk our peoples have united in the Ambergosa Forest. A fortnight ago the High Peru of my village sent me out to meet with Sonja and conduct her safely to the town of the crossroads and deliver her to the Lone Wolf Inn. I have fulfilled my mission, but I will not leave until I see my friend safely to her forest again."

That said, Spike sat back and gnawed on a bread crust.

"Not long before I met Spike, I had a dream of this town...of this very inn. I knew that it was a summons, but from whom or for what I cannot say. I admit that this journey has been one of curiosity, if not necessity. But tell us, Aldarys, how have you come here?"

"As I alluded to you before, I come by summons from Ispen Guiver...." Aldarys began.

"Ispen Guiver is dead, elf." A man form a nearby table cut in. "He has been dead for centuries."

The interloper moved to the table shared by Aldarys, Sonja, and Spike. He pulled out a chair and sat lazily, perhaps drunkenly. He leaned forward, giving all a good look at his mischievous face. His eyes were dark, and he wore a van dyke oiled to a point at his chin.

"Excuse my intrusion, but I could not resist overhearing your lovely conversation. Really, Woodfolk, Amazon, and Moon Elf...it was much too diverse not to eavesdrop. Still, Ispen Guiver is dead, I can vouch for it."

The three stared at him coldly. None even attempted to take his bait.

"You see, I have been to the dark lands where his tower once stood. I have rummaged the rubble that remains. I even took the privilege of gathering a few souvenirs. I can assure you, no one survived the persecutions...least of all, Ispen Guiver. So it could not have been he who sent dreams or summons. You have been fooled into an idiot's game."

"MacInavesterson! You'll be havin' two seconds to be puttin' yer knives away, or I'll kill ye where ye stand!" Simon stood at the back with the other two equally large and hairy men.

"Please, Master Simon, excuse my friend." Sonja cut in, "She is not used to tolerating the antics of drunken men."

"I'm sure that ye and yer friend had little to do with this one." Simon answered. "But to be sure, she'd best be puttin' her dagger back where she found it."

Spike looked at the three men in the back, and the one man in front of her. After short consideration, she stepped back and returned her knife to its sheath in her belt.

"Relax my good fellows...its all part of the act." Mac smiled, but his eyes still meant menace for the Amazon woman. "I did promise a show for my food and drink. I ate, and I certainly did drink...so on with the show!"

The tense mood slowly faded as the promise of live entertainment sunk in on the crowd. By now the common room had filled up, though it remained somber, and the men and women who braved the night wanted to be entertained.

"I am MacInavesterson, or Mac for those not in the mood for a mouth full." Mac stepped forward, and bowed to the crowd. Spike returned to her chair, and stared icily at the bard. Mac continued his introduction, producing a set of colored balls, and set them to dancing in a lively juggle.

Aldarys turned back to Sonja and Spike. "Whether Ispen Guiver is dead or not, I fully expect something to happen at midnight tonight, or I'll be gone at first light."

As midnight approached the common room crowd showed more spirit than earlier in the evening. Mac had moved from juggling colorful balls to shiny daggers. The knives floated in the air above the drunken juggler. The small crowd oohed and ahhed at the appropriate times, encouraging the knives to go higher and spin faster.

Aldarys, Spike, and Sonja sat quietly in their corner table, waiting for something more significant than a drunk throwing his knives in the air. A few others had come to the inn. Most were locals. A short and crusty dwarf had entered and took a lone table. He glared at anyone who dared to look his way, and seemed more interested in keeping his beard out of his broth than accepting company.

When midnight struck on the inn's big clock, the three brothers emerged from the kitchen. Simon barred the front door, and the other two covered the kitchen entrance and the stairs. Mac, though besotted, had the where-with-all to stop juggling and sit down. He even managed to keep silent. The local patrons closed the shutters, and the room fell completely silent.

One of the locals stood from his seat at the center of the common room. His hooded robe hid any identifiable features about his. One could say that he was tall and had quite a lengthy beard that flowed out from under his cowl.

"Let us bring the Master!" The tall bearded one shouted over the humming and chanting of the room.

The room resonated with the hum of the chanters. Some began to strike the tabletops with their hands or bowls creating a syncopated rhythm to accompany the chant. They all swayed slightly and called out in the strange tongue of the ancients: the tongue of magic.

The dwarf in the corner did not join the chanting. He stood, and backed himself in the corner while making the sign of the mountain over and over. Mac clapped in time with the beat, and enjoyed the sounds of the summons. Aldarys understood the significance of the ceremony. His people were the keepers of the ancient lore, and even he knew some of the power words of the ancients. He was by no means a magus, but he knew enough to keep himself alive. Sonya's face revealed her mixed reactions. She knew little of the ways of magic. Her power came from the earth itself, and she relied on it as a fern relies on shade and water.

After a few minutes of the raucous chant, a ball of light formed in the front of the room. The dwarf pulled a long polished stone from his belt, and held it out as if it would ward off evil spirits. The others just held their breath as the light continued to grow and condense. Finally, as if with one last burst of effort, the light flashed and solidified into the form of a man.

"I am Ispen Guiver, whose body was banished but whose soul lives on. You have been summoned by diverse means to undertake a glorious quest. The Brothers of the Tower will assist you as a far as they are able. Listen to them, and follow your hearts..."

The light dimmed and vanished, and the essence of Ispen Guiver was gone. The humming of the chanters ceased as well, and they all slouched into their chairs as if that single moment of magic cost them all that they had to offer. Simon raised the bar on the door, and Matthias opened the shutters once again. The leader of the Brothers left his seat in the center of the room, and approached the table where Spike, Sonja, and Aldarys sat. Mac pulled a chair over and sat with them. The dwarf even joined them without invitation.

"I am Vlan Hamner of The Tower. I welcome you to Vilberg." He said by way of introduction. "We sent out many different kinds of summons in the past season, but few have answered the call. The Brothers of the Tower extend our gratitude."

With that said, Simon and his brothers emerged from the kitchen with plates of food and mugs of steaming, mulled wine. They placed the generous portions in front of those gathered at the table, and left without so much as a "by your leave." Moments later they issued forth from the kitchen with more food for the Brethren in the tavern.

"The food is fine, and I thank ye for it," said the dwarf as he gnawed on a turkey leg. "But I'll be needin' to know what in The Rock is goin' on before I's be agreein' to anything. Just so's that we're clear on one thing... I don't like nothin' of this magic."

"To be sure, Fellow Tragg, I understand your reservations about magic. We only resort to such drastic use of the power when absolutely necessary. Tonight was such a case. As followers of Ispen Guiver we hold ourselves duty bound to assist those in need and to keep the balance of good in the world. This country has a need, it has had a need for twenty years, and we would commission you to fill that need."

"Explain your cause, and let us choose as individuals if we will unite." Aldarys said. The rest of the group nodded in agreement. Mac took a long drink from his mug of ale.

"Twenty years have passed since this country has seen a king. When the Dintmoor line ruled, we enjoyed great prosperity and peace. Now we face economic ruin and war from the west. Some of the nobles have asked us how the line can be restored. The only way to restore the Dintmoor throne is to locate the heir... young Darius. Through the crystal we know that he roams the forests near his old home, Dintmoor Keep. We fear that some spell holds him tightly, for we cannot see him directly. Many rumors persist, but few people survived the attack that destroyed his father's kingdom."

"He had a mark behind his left ear. All of the Dintmoor's heirs have the mark of the griffin branded on them before their fifth winter solstice. He had seen twelve winters when his house fell. We can offer you no more help, but the Brotherhood feels that the answers lie in Dintmoor Keep. Also, Simon and his kin were once a part of the Royal Bodyguard. They were present the night that great evil came to this land. They will provide what information that they can for you." Vlan looked on the doubtful faces of the group at the table. "This quest may not lead to riches, but it will help rebuild a nation and restore good in this part of the land. I am sure that the people who undertake this quest and succeed will be remembered in tales of glory. Those of you who wish to begin the journey, meet in the common room tomorrow morning. Simon will take you to the old road that leads to the keep. Good night."

With that said Vlan rose and left the inn. To Aldarys' surprise, the common room was empty. Simon barred the front door after Vlan took to the night, and began putting chairs on top of the tables.

"Matthias will see ye to yer rooms. Get some rest, the forest ain't tame no more, and the road will be hard." As if to punctuate his last statement, the guests heard a wolf howl in the night.