When Tyr and Jacqueline fled from the Shadow Court freehold they escaped on a random trod, unsure of where to go next. They ran as far as they could that night, fearing the Sidhe sorcerer could have reopened the trod and followed after them. After a day and a night of travel the pair felt that they were safe so they slowed their pace and tried to take stock of their predicament.
While not lost in the dreaming, they were unsure of where to go next. The Oath that had bound them until this point was fulfilled; Cassidy and all the others were avenged. So they fell to talking of returning home and seeing Novanglia again, despite all the complications. They spent the remainder of the day gathering food and resting from their long ordeal, knowing that the trek home might be arduous indeed.
However it came to pass that the Sidhe had indeed sent riders after them as soon as he could open the trod so as to silence them from ever revealing the location of the freehold. Nick was still recovering and had no idea about the acts of the Ailil. By the time he awoke it was too late to stop the pursuers. The riders came upon the camp of Tyr and Jacqueline just after nightfall, but a timely squeak from Puck alerted the two that their enemies approached with stealth in the night.
Ten Shadow Courtiers leaped from the darkness with bared blades and hungry eyes. His heart heavy with the seeming death of his last remaining old friend and worst betrayer Tyr drew his sword but did not call upon it to change to a chimerical blade. Instead he clove the first, a Redcap, almost in half and instead of seeing the face of a nightmare he watched as the light in the eyes of a sixteen year old boy fled forever. Lady Jacqueline thrust with her own chimerical sword, wounding a Goblin badly. But she saw that numbers would overrun them soon enough. A chimerical arrow had pierced her arm and she bore a few other hurts.
She began to cast a spell to try and find a way out, an escape of some kind. As she looked up she saw Tyr savagely beating a Sidhe in dark green armor. His sword was buried in a still struggling Ogre’s chest, pinning it to the ground. She saw that her Troll friend had madness in his eyes and blood ran from more than a dozen cuts. The smell of cold iron was in the air as one or two of the foes flashed pointed knives of a dull metal. Tyr stood his ground, placing himself between as many of them and him as he could. His shield was rent and battered, a spear lancing through it. Then she realized that the point was still in Tyr’s arm. She grabbed Puck out from under a Redcap’s boot and struck him on the helm with her pommel. He staggered back, reeling from the blow. A thrust through his side with her blade dropped him to the ground, but left him living.
Tyr had let the Sidhe fall to the ground and called his sword to his hand. The Ogre found that he could move and tried to stand- only to discover that the weapon had been the only thing holding his insides inside. He gasped and choked as his own blood asphyxiated him. Half the Shadow Courtiers lad unmoving or wounded but half still remained. Tyr backed toward Jacqueline as their enemies circled. He was weakening quickly as his life leaked away slowly. He turned to her with a face that would accept nothing but assent and told her to run, as far away and as fast as she could on one of the horses of the Shadow Court. He put a bloodied hand upon her shoulder and swore that he would meet her again where it all began on Midsummer’s Day, no matter what. He would find her. She looked as if to argue but he turned from her and staggered toward the courtiers. They moved a little back but as he fell to one knee the surge forward like a wave. But he was feigning his plight and met their line with a sweep of his sword. Jacqueline turned from the screaming and leapt upon one of the milling horses with a dark green saddlecloth. She felt arrows whistle past her face and one strike her pack, but then she was clear and racing down the Silver Path. Of her fate Tyr knew not but he intended to take every last one of the bastards with him.
He called on the knowledge of the sword, on his own store of memories, and therein found what he sought. Naming the words in ancient tongue of the Sidhe he called upon the terrible power Dragon’s Ire. So he battered and cut and slashed at the remaining Shadow Courtiers, heedless of his own body he hurled himself at them time and again until in the end there was but one left who was running for his horse. Tyr caught him and together they tumbled off the Silver Path bouncing and falling for what seemed like forever. Tyr knew only darkness and a horrible feeling of nakedness after that.
When he awoke, the Troll lay in a small hut covered in a hand-stitched blanket. Tyr realized at once that he was in the Near Dreaming here. That this place, the hut, was a glen or freehold. The colors were too bright and the light softer somehow. His Fae senses told him that this was real but the human half let him know where he stood. He quickly took stock of his situation. His armor was lying at the end of the bed, as was the soulsword Schylding in its plain worn scabbard. Both were polished and mended better than they had been in years. The smell of a cook fire burning just out of sight tempted him to rise but the pain in his sides and chest was too great. His head felt heavy and he shivered as if cold. A small balefire burned low across the room.
A slow lilting soprano humming came from one of the other rooms. It seemed to warm him in a way the fire could not have. Footsteps on the bare floor alerted him to the approach of what he assumed to be the singer. Indeed an attractive woman, a Kinnain by the way she seemed at home here, walked into the room and carried with her a bowl of steaming stew which she offered to feed to the wounded Troll. Tyr ate hungrily, barely holding back his questions. At last he finished the final drop he was fed and asked the woman where he was and who she was. She told him that her husband had found him lying in a gully, with another beside him. The other was dead, and by his colours Unseelie of some Noble House. She told him that he was in the forests of what he would know as Maine and when he was well he could take a Trod to one of the southerly freeholds. But for now her husband, a knight, would want to meet him, after he and a squire returned from hunting.
In a few hours Tyr was comfortable with the beautiful dark haired lady, whose name was Meerlinda or simply Mira, and she coaxed him to talk of himself. He told part of his story without the names, and asked after Jacqueline but the woman only listened and replied that she knew nothing. The husband returned home then with his squire, a Sidhe dressed in excellent but worn clothing and a Boggan bearing a stout bow and dressed in woolen gear. The three sat with Tyr for a while telling stories and Tyr expressed his gratitude to them over and over. He found himself liking the Sidhe named Bran, as the man was very affable for a noble. The y spoke of their similar interests in tales and language and history. They both knew much of war and weapons it seemed. But Tyr grew tired and at last they all retired for the night.
The next day the Sidhe left early to patrol the lands. His Squire was out on errands and the lady Mira came to sit with Tyr, who could almost straighten up in the bed. The drink, which the lady gave him that morning, was full of herbs and made the pain less great. But it also made his head light. The tiny balefire of the freehold hut burned just a few feet away and seemed to shine all the brighter after the potion was drunk. He continued his tale and she listened with growing interest. She sat next to him upon his bed and fed him broth in between stories as he spoke. He dozed off at some point, the drink finally overwhelming him, only to awaken with the homecoming of Bran. The night passed as the one before, with dinner and talk. More and more the Sidhe seemed to the Troll like a man he could trust and befriend as he had Jacqueline. Tyr began to feel better and by the next morning could sit up and hold his books and pen.
That day Mira came to him again and sat upon the bed and fed him soup, though he protested he could feed himself, she insisted. Then she sat very close and asked from him another part of the story of his travels. So he spoke until he grew tired and fell to napping. And the Sidhe came home and dinner was had. And talking and some singing and Tyr felt happier than he had in a long while. Before they all retired Meerlinda sang a song which made Tyr to think of home and friends. He cried then, and Bran rested his hands upon his shoulder and even the gruff Squire seemed to feel something. At last the Troll was laid to bed with the help of the Sidhe and the Boggan. Tyr awoke to find he could stand almost without the help of the bed and even manage a few steps.
Mira came to him after Bran had left and beseeched him to finish the story. They sat on the bed and he told the last part but before he could finish he found that Mira was asleep and had laid her head on his shoulder. Not wishing to disturb her Tyr got out his book and began to study when suddenly Bran came home. The Sidhe looked distressed, and truth be told even angered, to see his guest with Mira laying on him. She awoke then and promised her husband that she had simply fallen asleep. But he laughed and sat down. From the other room came the Boggan, who had watched all unseen. He told Bran that the Troll was guiltless and indeed had kept the lady entertained with stories while her lord hunted and patrolled. The Sidhe nodded and turned to Tyr. He explained that it was his custom to test some of his visitors’ virtue. For a prophecy of his Soothsay arts had told him that he would one day meet a guest who would be his to take and train as a Squire and then a knight. Tyr looked at the Boggan but the older Fae simply laughed and said that he was the Lady’s Squire and not Sir Bran’s. The Sidhe asked Tyr if he would wish to learn what Bran had to show him. The Troll agreed and Bran named him his Squire and showed him a writ from a nearby court acknowledging his elevation. Several familiar signatures were on the page. Some he and Jacqueline had helped along their road. Bran confessed he knew whom Tyr was the entire time but wanted to see if the Troll was all the stories claimed.
It was then that Bran told Tyr of whom he now served. That Sir Branthwyn ap Scathach served his Lord, a Liam Count, in secret. He was protecting the northern borders from Shadow Court’s fouler servants when he found Tyr. He had felt the fulfillment of the Oath the day before, and his arts told him he needed to travel and aid someone in desperate times. Tyr knew only the few tales told of the Scathach, how they had stayed to guard their homes and hearths when the other Sidhe had fled. How they were fell warriors and woodsmen. But also of how kind they were. Tyr knew at once why he liked this Bran so much. The flash of remembered and shared pasts hit him hard. They had been friends before, mentor and student. Now again they were together.
Over the course of the next year Tyr, under his mortal name of Ashe, trained in secret with Bran. He learned about what it meant to serve someone just. He learned why he should have been championing the weak and the commoners, not out of anger or hate, but because it was right. Because someone had too. And he felt the grip of Banality loosen on his heart for the deaths he had caused.
In winter a terrible horde of beasts assailed the Liam Count’s freehold and castle. It was assaulted for weeks and when the defenders despaired of ever seeing victory Ashe and Bran led a force of commoners to help the Count. Both did such deeds that day that they were rewarded with gifts of great value though their names were kept secret. Sir Bran was made an advisor to the Count and given a part of the balefire which burned in the Count’s freehold to bear to his own and thus strengthen it with strong Oaths. The Troll was made Sir Ashe the Grey and as a knight-errant was allowed to leave his master’s service. But he remained well into the Spring and the beginning of summer. Until his old oath to his dear friend Jacqueline called to him. And the chance to see Eloise, his dear niece two years grown. And as if to press home the point, he heard of a feast and party being held at Caer Asterlan. So he gathered his armor and his grey cloak, knitted by Mira herself with little wards and protections interwoven, and lastly the soulsword of his ancestors Schylding and left for Novanglia and home.>
Story by Scott Coutcher