3. The Last Skald

The Last Skald


  • He came home glad to be there and welcomed by his family. The heaviness of his soul was lightened by the smiles of the children and the taciturn but loving greeting from his wife. "Took your own time coming home."

    He sighs and hugs her close, breathing in the smell of her hair. "Old Thom is dead."

    "Who is Old . . . oh, the Red Tiger Skald? Didn't you say you trained with him?" She looks up to him and sees pain.

    "We trained together. Used to battle drums and endurance chants far into the night. When we were younger we would make a point of getting together just before midsummer, to prepare for the death chants."

    "To get drunk, you mean."

    "Well, that too." He admitted. "It was a chance to touch base with another skald. To compare notes and tales. To remind each other of what we were."

    "What killed him?"

    "I don't know. I played on the border of the Red Tigers for three days. Long enough for them to send for him and for him to drum a welcome. Nothing except fool goblins and the occassional bugbear." He looks to the roof of the tent. "So I started to cirlce their land. Tigers are sticky about territory so unless I was invited I could not go in to find out what was going on. I followed the markers and drummed a ring around them, thrice, as called for in the old ways."

    "And they did not answer?"

    "I was followed, watched. But nobody welcomed me and no drum replied. There is NO way Thom would have ignored me . . . even if there was a war on. We are heralds and the old ways require a response, but I got nothing. Only answer is he is dead and didn't manage to train a replacement." He slumped down onto a pile of furs and tossed his travel pack to the corner then bagan to take off his boots.

    "So now what?"

    He leaned back and gestured for her to join him on the furs. "Three things. But only one of them is important."

    She lay down to lie next to him, every movement that of grace and strength. "Three?"

    He ticked off his fingers. "One, I continue to train the lad, so the Ways do not die with me, because right now I am the last skald. But that is not the important thing."

    She knows that gleam in his eyes and smiles quietly. "Two?"

    "I wasn't answered on their territory so I am making them come to me, now. I went and burnt three of their territory markers and replaced them with drums. They know it was me, now they will come looking for me to decide if it war . . . if they would not meet in peace then I had to force the other. But that isn't the important thing."

    "You have challenged the Red Tigers and that is not the important thing?"

    "Nope."

    She looks into laughing eyes and sighs. "Three?"

    "We have the tent to ourselves and I asked some of the women of the camp to feed and watch the kids for a few hours. THAT is the important thing." he swept her into his arms and rolled further into the mass of furs.

    "You are a . . . " The rest of the sentence was smother with kisses and soon the sounds of sighs and chuckles.


  • 😞

    Edit: In fact MND, if you're reading this, please bring back Llach. What you did with him was incredible.


  • The Battlehorn of the Manticores cleared the hill and looked about. The warriors were finishing the last of the orcs and did not need his music to 'clean up'.

    "It will take some time for the orcs to come back from this loss" Yerot said, squinting into the sunset. "But we best hurry it up, looks like a storm is coming down out of the mountains."

    Sytur frowned and looked over his shoulder. In the distance a rumble rolled in the dusk air.

    "See? Thunder already." Yerot nodded as he cleaned his blades.

    "You need to learn to listen more if you are ever going to be a Battlehorn. We have heard that rhythm before and it is not thunder. Sort the echoes and listen again, and think."

    Another peal rolled across them, a low tremor that made the pebbles dance on the ground at their feet. Yerot looked down at the pebbles in amazement. "Well it almost sounds like something I heard, but just once." He looked up to the sky, trying to remember, then his eyes went wide and he looked to Sytur. "No drum is that loud, not even the speaking drums you told me of."

    "No drum on this plane is that loud." Sytur agreed. "But we all knew he was going to die. I am sure he has earned a few favours over the years and called one in to drum the storm for us. To make sure we were paying attention."

    "Paying attention to what?"

    "I swear, you have all the tuned senses of a deaf mute mole. Look at the sunset."

    "I did, nice colour to it."

    "For a man who can evaluate a battle before the first arrow flies you are remarkably dense. I have two questions for you to ponder. One: since when does the sun set in the North?" Sytur continued on ignoring the stunned expression on Yerots face. "And Two: I am sure if you think very hard you will remember that EXACT colour, just think a wee bit up from the breasts."

    The blood rushed out of Yerots face and then back in a flush. "She's coming?"

    "He asked us to train her, if she came looking for us. I think it is quite considerate of him to give us a bit of advance notice, don't you? Now here is what you are going to do. You are going to pack a running bag and your horn and you are going to head North to meet her. If ANYTHING happens to her in our lands I do not want to be the one to answer for it, do you?"

    Yerot opened his mouth to reply but the thunder drowned out whatever he was going to say. So he answered with a nod and sprinted towards the camp to get a light pack and the requisite travelling supplies.

    Sytur looked back to the fading colors on the mountain range and whispered. "She will be well received, Nars. You have our word on it."

    m


  • ((This is long overdue. I have a few other stories of Jerr and Growt that are yet to be told, but this one was screaming at me to finally finish and post it today. So here goes. I hope it makes sense to those that knew Jerr and Mare. I hope it brings a bit of IC closure to the groups that wouldn't know what happened to Jerr. It was likewise hard to write. I don't think MND will mind me posting in his thread. I have emailed him this as well though. T))

    The woman sat in her cold camp. She knew he was nearby. She’d heard his drumming. The always soulful and melodic sounds of his beating seemed mechanical and rote these days. Still she kept her cold vigil near enough, but never too close. It was too painful for them both. Sometimes she would bring food, ale or wine. When they ventured nearer a town she would restock. These days she was able to carry more than he. So her supplies always lasted longer than his. She didn’t mention the strength spells used to carry more to keep him comfortable longer. He didn’t ask how she always had so much of the foods Amith would frown at. What difference did his belly make now though. Let him get round if the fire would let him. It wouldn’t. They both knew it wouldn’t. They pretended.

    His smile “You are spoiling me. You know I am not allowed to eat these things.”

    Hers “Well we just wont tell Mother. Besides when we head back home you will have plenty of time to lose the weight again.”

    The lies told to make each other feel better hung between them. They both knew there was no better. No miracle cure to be found only time passing and the inevitable.

    The fire was taking its toll. He’d burped fire for a while. This was the best time. He no longer looked burned his hair grew again. In the woods and wilds he bleached it less often. It always surprised her to remember he wasn’t really grey. It was good for a while in that space of time. Then you could tell that the fire was burning inside. Small things at first, the changes in his playing and singing were the worst though. Still he played the sun up and down each day.

    He’d wanted to be alone and so she had moved off. She followed him very loosely trying to give him whatever he needed for whatever time was left currently that was space.

    Looking up into the night sky she wished on the shooting star for the miracle, the thing to end his suffering. Another prayer offered amongst the many from that first day of knowing unto this one. She saw the dragon take flight. She hoped he had finally decided to hide from the pain in dragon form, but the song he sang as he flew … it wrenched the heart and she knew. She didn’t want to know. She kept vigil all through the night, long after she’d lost sight of the glorious red. A cold vice of pain and regret constricted her heart while hot tears streamed down her cheeks. It felt like her tears were washing away all warmth. The longer it stretched that he didn’t return to land the deeper the cold settled. Surely he would be back before dawn to sing the sun up? It was like a rain soaked cloak leeching all hope and warmth from her.

    She left her camp in the predawn hour trusting her elven eyes to get her to his camp in the slightly less dark light. She arrived at his cold camp just as the sky was turning to a pearly grey everything looked normal in the predawn light. His drum was left though. She looked skyward again searching for the dragon surely heading home to drum up the sun. Nothing not even the speck of a bird on the horizon that she might pretend was Jerr returning to his camp. She waited until the last possible moment for his return before singing the sun up with his drum. Her eyes scanned the horizon still looking for the form of the red while she sang. She sang a song of thanks to Lathander for another dawn. She sang a song to Bahamut asking him to look over Jerr if he yet lived as a dragon. Her final song she sang to Uthgar asking him to watch over where ever Jerr was flying to.

    Still the cold cloak of the knowledge she was denying hung about her leeching all hope from her. Jerr had once told her he was destined to die in the sky. Surely that isn’t what happened. If not that then what? Her mind spun unable to come up with any other explanation. He wouldn’t have left the land not unless he was dead, never willingly.

    She looked through the camp searching for some clue. She looked into his tent and saw his tribal clothes neatly folded and next to them his Phoenix leathers. He had always shooed her away from them and the other items. She knew that they were special. She also knew that if they were there intact he couldn’t be dead. With a whoop of joy she scooped them up to hug them to her. It was then that she knew beyond a doubt that he was gone. Grief congealed in her sinking into a hard pit and the cold knowledge that had haunted her settled into one irrevocable fact. As she touched them they began to crumble. Disintegrating before her eyes into a pile of odd bits and dust. The badge, the rod and the leathers, all three useless now. There could be no surer sign.

    Jerr was dead.

    She would never see her father again. There would be no more morning songs together after talking the night through. There would be no more skaldic training. Amith would already know. Amith might be dieing already from the loss of her mate. There would be no comforting from Amith assuming she could even find Amith in the post war mess. She collapsed clutching the small camp pillow and keening until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

    When she woke she carefully collected everything of his that was there. She scooped the bits and dust into a bag to give back to the Phoenix people. She rolled up his bedroll and carefully packed away his tribal belongings. She found his keys to the master quarters and the college. Lastly, she carefully tied his drum to her hip. She didn’t care if she looked stupid carrying two drums of such similar design.

    Her journey home was slow. She had packed her own camp progress was slow. Stopping in Peltarch she left the college keys on a desk with a brief note that Jerr had passed and a new Master should be found. Lightening her pack she left a few things in the chest in her room. Otherwise she didn’t stop to make sure people saw the note only moved off south to search out the remains of the Featherlights. Pausing in Norwick to hand the bag of bits and ash to the hin Ginger and a note for the red cloak Growt before moving on again. Her journey moved on further south looking for the remains of the tribes or the skalds that had come to visit Jerr when he was first returned alive.

    That was how Mareann Jerrsdottir left her home for parts unknown. Maybe to return in time.

  • M

    😢 Beautiful ending.


  • I've really enjoyed reading this whole story as you've written it. Always sad to see it end, especially as it filled me in on so much of a really enjoyable character that I so rarely got to see in game.

    I believe how hard it is to write. I have tried to write something similar and it's been sitting unfinished so I appreciate the time and thought that went into this.

  • S

    😢 touched the heart. sniffs

  • The Halfling Defence League

    whipes away the tears after reading the post.

    -Iria


  • 😢

    hugs miss you MND a lovely post, but such a sad ending.


  • He finished the evening song and stood in the gathering dusk as the echoes came back off of distant hills. The beats were perfect, honed over decades of practice . . . and they were wrong. Alone he bowed his head and wept, the drum dropping from numb fingers.

    "Sounded pretty good ta me." A voice commented softly from behind.

    Jerr tensed as he turned slowly. The old man was well weathered, not a city dweller but one who spent a lot of time in the wilds. He held no weapon and was sitting by near the small camp the skald had made for the evening. Years of experience lead him to guess Druid, though there was nothing to prove him right or wrong, yet.

    "Oh it was right, note wise. But . . . "

    "Something was missing?"

    "Once in a bar there was a device the gnomes made. It would play music if you fed it a coin. The notes were right but most folks would rather hear a bad player over a machine playing."

    "More to music than notes and beats, eh?"

    Jerr eased down gingerly, nodding. "I used to have that, too. But now I feel like I am just some wind-up machine. All the notes and no . . . " He struggled for the right word.

    "Spirit"

    Jerr nodded. "Spirit, soul, heart."

    The old man squinted at him, looking deeper than the face Jerr presented to the world. "Fire has gotten to the last level. You still have enough of yourself to notice what is going on. On the bright side, when the fire runs out of fuel, you won't care anymore."

    Jerrs eyes snapped up to the old mans. "On the down side, I won't care because I won't be me anymore."

    "There is that." The voice agreed thoughtfully.

    The darkness was making the camp all shadows with only starlight and a sliver of moon to light the camp. The old man was sitting still enough to be almost invisible save for the glint of starlight in his eyes.

    Jerr looks at the still shadow and asked. "Not sure I know who you are, sir. But you seem to know a fair amount about me."

    "Heard ya play often enough." The old man said agreeably. "And if you puzzle it out, you'll figure out who I am."

    Jerr chuckled. "I do like puzzles. So you know about the fire?"

    "Aye, and the choices you have to make. Was wondering if you had come to a decision yet."

    Jerr looked up at the stars and sighed. "Not sure I have enough of me left for a decision. Or the ability to decide for myself."

    "You can decide, lad. I will help you if you need it."

    Jerr's eyes widened as he considered that. A star shot across the night sky as he continued looking up. "Way I see it there is only one path I can claim right now. To keep burning, nothing else is open to me."

    The slince filled the clearing on the hilltop for a hundred heartbeats. "That is one way of looking at it." The voice said in the darkness. "But you could also hide from the flames by becoming a dragon. You know it won't hurt then."

    "I thought about that. But then I wondered. Would I be leaving myself behind? Could I stay me or would I just become the fire that burns me. I think it would be surrender to the flame, not victory over it. What would be left might have my memories. . . but would it stay me?"

    "No, lad. You got that one right. The dragon would claim your name, and for a while you might manage to use the memories to keep the semblance of your spirit alive. But you would not be you."

    "I won't take the thrid path. I won't kill myself. And I know that charging into a battle I can not win is a form of suicide. It tempted me for a while but those who know me would know it for what it truly was."

    A small laugh filled the air. "No, never figured you for a quitter, but you were right to list it as one of the choices. Be honest with yourself."

    Jerr sighed. "Lying is easy for some. Just not for me."

    "That is why your music was so good, you know. You used honesty and love as a melody. Folks hear that, between the beats."

    Jerr hung his head. "So I won't kill myself or aid in my own death, but I don't want to burden others with watching me lessen day by day. Though most folks don't see it."

    "More than you think, do, lad" The voice was soft. "They see you losing bits of yourself. You have no idea how much they have tried to find answers to your problem. None at all."

    "So I drum on the hills, spend less and less time with them . . . " Jerr whispered softly. "I cannot stand to see the pain in their eyes."

    "I know, lad, I know. So what are you going to do?"

    Pain, anger, sorrow, grief, love, desperation and elation flooded through the skald as he stood. He rose in the cold camp and when he reached full height he kept going up, skin shifting as wings flooded out behind him and the camp was visible to his new eyes. The old man on the ground looked up at the great red dragon above him and waited for an answer.

    Jerr looked about and sighed. "You were right, Mica . . . my lord, I know I have not performed well of late . . . I apologise . . . I have not the right to ask anything of you . . . to even speak to you . . . "

    The old man stood. "You earned that right long ago. The debt does not fade with time."

    "You said you would help me down the path I chose. So I could stay as I am?"

    "Your choice."

    Jerr stretched his wings and revelled in the strength he felt.

    Then the wings folded by his side. "Nars, I am the land and I have sung to the spirits of the land all my life. The greatest fool ever I would be to turn my back on the spirits in the end." He begged . . . "saying goodbye?"

    "No, I am very sorry . . . but who would you say it to? Who would you tell that you loved that does not know it?"

    Jerr nodded the great head slowly. "Let me see the land, one last time. Please?"

    "Fly, you fool." The man grinned.

    With a snap the wings filled with air and the red dragon climbed high up into the sky. He roared out flame above the land of Narfell and smiled as he did so.

    "I won't come back down, for I have never left the land, and the land can never leave me."

    "Of course not." Uthgar whispered in his ear for it was time for the songs to be sung in the lands beyond.

    If you thought this was an easy post to write, you are dead wrong.


  • They sat on the edge of the cliff, legs swinging off the side as he stared out over the pass. A distance from all the problems around them, the changing face of the Gypsy Camp, the glacial progression of the J'Nast forces. The dark evernight of Norwick. Or the Ouroborous that was Peltarch, eating itself while the predators moved closer.

    "So there it is. I don't burn when I am that size." The fat man looked sideways at the young redhead and sighed.

    "Thats great, pops, so your cured?"

    No, as I retuned to this the heat built up again. I talked to a fire elemental and he said the fire is atteched to my flesh and bone. That the Dragon is not exactly my flesh and my bone so I can escape the flames, if I am willing and able to leave this form behind."

    "So what does it take to change you?" She still was smiling at his reprieve.

    "Mare, you don't understand. Even the fire shows. I am not me when I am the dragon. I wouldn't be sure I could stay me, keep what and who I am intact. And I'm . . .a red. Like Rass." The last part was almost whispered.

    "But you'd live, pops. With no burning."

    Jerr sighed. "What sort of life would it be? I'd have to leave all of yo behind. The kids, you, Amith. I'd find some lair and sleep there? Roll on what little I can recover or gather from the battlefields."

    "Pops," Mare struggled to try to get it into his head. "talk to Ma. See what she says."

    Jerr looked at her and shook his head. "You know what she is going to say, don't you."

    She nodded, looking out over the pass. "I bet nobody who knows and loves you is gonna say different. But you'll have to find that out for yourself. All that aside. You don't know how to make the shift anyways, do you?"

    "No, it happens when a lot of power is arrayed before me or in the air around me. I still have my memories, I still know who I am, I just am . . . bigger."

    Mare giggled. "Bet that N'Jast skald wet his pants when you did that."

    Jerr guffawed. "He was good, I'll give him that."

    Mare tapped Jerrs leg and laughed as well. "Maybe where he comes from. But not here. He was good, but not good enough."

    "Speaking of which. I need you to help me make a speaking drum. I have some people I need to talk to and some of them are on the far side of the lines." he pointed west.

    "Show me how, pops, just show me how."

    Chatting as they stood he lead her into the woods looking for just the right log.

    Soon enough drum beats echoes through the hills and pass. Those who knew, understood the messages sent.

    j


  • He lay curled nearby, snoring softly. She caressed him, crystals of ice forming where she touched that swiftly melted on contact with his skin. He hadn't dyed his hair in a while and the blond roots shone like gold hidden beneath snow.

    Tears come easily to a water elemental and she let them drop on his face, trying to ease his pain. He grumbled but did not wake and the tears swftly dried.

    "A small mercy, at least he does not burn on the surface anymore" A voice from the doorway said.

    She looked up to see Fire flickering as he looked down on the man and her. "So he is getting better?"

    "No. He and I spoke for quite a while before he came to see you this time. He allowed me to enter him to see what was within. It was . . . not good. The man has been burning so long he only flinched a bit as I touched him."

    "What did you find? Is it one of your kind enslaved? He told me that he was worried that . . ."

    "That one of us might be getting hurt while killing him. Yes, that is why he asked me to touch him. They all are good people here, but what kind of man worries that his killer might be getting hurt?"

    She sighs. "Killer?"

    The flames bob. "What has been done to him is an abomination and not one of our kind. The fire is burning down to his core. It has left his skin and now is within the flesh. Then it will go to the bone."

    "And he dies?"

    "No. that is the not the core of a mortal. After the fire is in his bones it will go to his true core. The thing they call a soul will burn till there is nothing left of him for the gods or devils to claim."

    "Soulless, like us. Not good or bad, just is."

    "I tried to speak to the burning within him but it is not a true flame. It is a spirit flame. I spoke to him about it and he. . . "

    "And he made some joke, right?"

    Again the flames bob. "No anger, no begging. He just laughed and took the news. Asked if I could tell how long he had before the fire got to his bones."

    "How long does he have?" She rested a hand on his shoulder and the sleeping man shivered as ice spread across his back.

    "With your help, longer. But you know everyday is pain for him. He may not burn on the outside, but that does not mean the flames are gone. You have to decide if we are doing him any favors by extending his life."

    She looked down on the sleeping skalds face and sighed. "It is what HE wants. How can we deny him a chance?"

    "You didn't hear me then. He has NO chance. None. He is dying and there is not a damn thing we can do about it, except change the timeline." The flames flared angrily and heat washed the room, melting the ice on Jerrs back. The water elemental grimaced as she steamed and gestured, cooling the room once more.

    "I apologise. It is just he has always been one of the ones to come visit us, even before he needed to. He brings me gifts, small woods or flammable fluids."

    "He brings me waters from lakes and streams of his lands." She whispered. "And it was he who had Haesphatus open our doors so we could move about a bit more freely."

    Quiet filled the room for a space as they watched him sleep then fire drifted back to his own room and she sat beside the sleeping man, her tears cooling his face.

    j


  • He slowly slid his knife with the grain and sighed. "Damn." It had dug too deep again and another staff was ruined. Jerr wiped a rag across his forehead and stepped back from the workplace to sit in a stream and cool down. His memory flashed to long ago, Cotton and Kaona, teasing and playful, washing his hair for him in this very stream. He missed both of them but the more he thought of it the more glad he was that the water was cold, then and now.

    "Skald." The voice was unfamiliar but Jerr knew the accent and stood slwowy, pulling on a charred robe. He turned slowly to face the Featherflight scout.

    "I greet you. I offer food water and warmth by the . . fire." He gestured to where a small bit of food and a canteen sat near the campfire the woodmaster used to cook his noon meal.

    The formalities were soon out of the way and they sat by the stream, Jerr keeping his feet in the flowing water. he found that this kept his fires low and the cough was slowly clearing. "What news from the Featherflights?" Jerr asked.

    "We have had visitors to the camp. To see us, not the Heyokarr."

    "Oh? Would I know these visitors?"

    "They were stumpies." Jerr winced at the derogative term but did not interupt. "One was named Dwin."

    "Ah, and he came to you, not summoned your people to him. Good, he is getting better."

    "He knew the manners and spoke well for an outsider. . . . "

    Dwin sat and took the bite of food and a swig of ale offered before any more speaking was done. As he took this moment he looked aorund the fire and wondered. All of the males here were young, even by human standards. None of the men whom he had dealt with before were present. "Where be yer eldas? Where be the head shaman?"

    "These are the elders." She spoke from beyond the fire, but her voice crackled across. "The ones you dealt with have met with misfortunes."

    "Misfortunes?"

    "Drow, for the most part." A handful of crossbow shafts fell to the ground, spilled out like some sort of augery. "Hunted and killed. We are a young tribe once more, though not of choice but of consequence."

    Dwin looked out beyond the light and saw that few were the men in the outer circle. This was a tribe that had been hit hard, first with the plains wars and now by drow. But there had been little drow activity reported in Norwick of late. . . why here?

    "Dere be other dangers beside th Drow. A dark force is buildin in da warrens down in Rawlinswood."

    "Our deepscouts, the Feathershadows, have said as much."

    "We be gittin ready ta fight an try ta erase the buildin danger, but ta do so leaves our back open."

    One of the stronger looking lads murmered. "Skald says: Bare is the brotherless back."

    "Aye, an ee is right. I ain't askin ya ta commit or stand guard. But if Oi know that there be eyes in the woods. Arrows ready, then maybe I can go inta those warrens a little more . . . focussed." Dwin hesitated, gauging his crowd and decided. "Oi won't insult ya with money. I ask this as a favor. Between neighbors. While I am away, can you keep an eye on me home?" The weight of the arrowheads was heavy in his pack. The extra pouch of gold hung by his side. But the mention of Jerr had brought back memories of how the skald acted, what he valued. If this was a generation of lads who listened to him . . .

    The tribesmen whispered but the broad-shouldered one who had spoke before was the one who answered Dwin. "As a neighbor, could we do less? We will not commit what few we have to a stand-up fight. We cannot. But you have friends, and eyes in the forest. We wish you a good flight to your target and a safe return to your quiver."

    "So we will be in the woods to the south. It would do us good to have battlesong available if our bows are needed."

    Jerr looked down at his toes and smiled. "Can I be any other place than there? I am your skald and there I shall be, though stand not too close in case my smoke gives away my position."

    The warrior stood and smiled. "There are none of us who would not stand by you, skald. For we know you will stand by us. Could we do less? Fly true."

    A moment later he was gone and Jerr stood and went back to try to make another bow.

    j


  • The view from the tribal gate was obscured by the mists of the river passage. But that did not stop the scouts further out from seeing the entourage approaching. Featherflights had been detailed to the gate watch more often than not and they saw what was coming . . . and smiled. What they did not do is send any word deeper into the camp.

    Women in red dresses swept through the plains and scavengers and oversize carrion bugs were driven back as the smaller group moved along. The women did not come close to the gate but the message was there just the same.

    It was not as though they were needed. Almost everyone in the inner group looked very competent in their own right. Except for the burning man who staggered and coughed but kept coming, smoke trailing off of his robes. He dunked himself in streams and gasped thanks before rising and continuing on refreshed and extinguished.

    When they came in sight of the gate they paused. Jerr looked up at it then down at his Mare and Amith. They stood on either side of him, ready to catch him if he fell, though nothing had been said. The other three skalds followed behind and watched both the family and the reaction of the guards at the gates as they opened the way and entered the tribal camp. The archers, all Featherflights by their tattoos and tribal markings, nodded respectfully and grinned at the thought of what was to come. They frowned to see the damage that Jerr bore and hands tightened on weapons as they looked past the skald and set their eyes on their duties to guard all within.

    Jerr stood straighter as he passed them, stifled a cough though it made his ceremonial robes smoke and steam. He went through the inner camp to where the Heyokarr chief stood. Surprise showed in the chiefs eyes as he looked to see them approach but it vanished with a cunning flash and he opened his arms wide.

    "We thought you dead and gone, skald. Or so injured that you would retire to live with your . . .women. Come, be not a stranger. Eat, drink, be warm by the . . ." he tossed more wood onto the bonfire that was already roaring . . ." Fire." His eyes glinted in the burst of flames as he watched Jerr stagger back from the heat. "You look frail, sit close and warm yourself . . . Old man"

    At a gesture room was made by the fire, but not in the traditional spot of honor for a tribal skald. Tradition had the chief flanked by his shaman on the right and his skald on the left. The space made for Jerr was on the far side of the fire. A tankard of warm milk and a bowl of porridge was set beside him as young warriors chuckled and elbowed each other.

    Mare watched this, her face white with a cold fury. She looked to see that Amith had one hand on her greatsword and was measuring the distance to the chief through the fire. Mare looked about and chose her first target as well but in looking she noted the one person standing behind the chief, back in th shadows. Too slight for a tribesman, cloaked and hooded this one stood stock still. She looked closer but then returned to matters closer to hand.

    Hand. Jerrs reached out and touched Amiths, lifting her fingers from her hilt. "We are guests." He whispered. "Please don't." He looked through the flames and with a stronger voice he answered the chief. "I bring my Truewife, a daughter, and skalds from the Lowlands as guests."

    The Chief nodded to the skalds, ignoring the women. "Looking for work in the mountains? Have the Lowlands already disposed of men mired in the past and in traditions designed to hold back the progress of the people?"

    "No." Sytur answered. "We still keep to the Old Ways. We Came because we had heard rumours that your tribes were losing their skalds. That soon there would be no songs in the Highlands. We were glad to find that we were mistaken."

    "It will be true, soon enough. And we need no help from your people. Ours will be a new kind of music. That of deeds and of progress. Not of histories and rules. Well made alliances and a taking back of what is rightfully ours. This is a new day, a new era for the people. When you return to your chiefs down below tell them THAT. Tell them the time is coming again for the Nars and for the Tribes." He paused, his eyes bright with his vision of the future. 'If you dare. For to tell them of our progress will be to tell them of the things we have chosen to leave behind. Like your kind."

    Jerr sat and watched the chief through the flames. The flames flickered in his eyes as he took this in. "I have not been left behind, yet. My chief. I am not dead. I am not forgotten." He stood. "Till the day I die and the gods take me . . . I am here."

    "Till you die. But how long will that be, old man? What duties can you perform for us even now? Look at you. Can you lead us in battlesong? Or will you sit in a cold corner of the camp and leer at women a fifth your age? What use are you to us? Go, GO! Go to your comfortable beds in the cities and towns. Go hide behind the women who shadow you, protect you." He looked in scorn at Amith and Mare. "Your very choices of marriage insulted the People. You chose to marry outside. As if none of our women are good enough for you. You and that Shaman, Kerrith. It is you who left us, long ago, with your dreams of the bigger world. of THE LAND. It isn't the land you should have focused on, it was the people. Our People."

    Jerr staggered and then straightened, his left arm was on fire, flames licking up the length of it. But he didn't even look at it, his eyes still on the chief. "You still don't get it. It was never either/or. The people ARE the Land. Nars is all of it. Not just People, not just a plot of dirt. The spirits of the people live and breathe, here. RIGHT HERE." His voice suddenly rang out filling the whole camp. "We are the Heyokarr. But we are also the Nars. Featherflights, Red Tigers, all of us. NARS WE. You talk of breaking free of the chains of history. I speak of returning to our glory as a cohesive tribe. You treat the Old Ways as though they slow you down. For me they are the foundation that holds us UP. We have the same goals, Bjorn. We just see different paths to that goal. But there is one thing, one place were we have a vast difference."

    Taking a breath Jerr stepped into the fire, to cross to where the chief stood. His clothes flared and burnt from his body as he kicked logs to the side and tread on the glowing embers. "If you ever EVER belittle my family, my wife, my children again I will see you fall. All you work to build will be ashes. A tribe is family, never forget that." He staggered and swayed. Mare and Amith circled the fire and took his arms, Amith draping a cloak across his bare shoulders.

    The chief watched as they led him back ot the other side of the fire and snorted softly, trying to convince those around him that he was not impressed. "Threats from a toothless lion." he said under his breath but he could feel his heart still pounding and wondered if he could have stepped into that fire.

    "No." Swaervors voice was low and melodious but it cut through the undercurrent of conversations. "This man is not a skald of the Heyokarr." he pointed to Jerr with his staff. "As is right in the Old Ways, we skalds have consulted and this only makes us even more sure. It is our decision to make . . . Jerr is no longer the skald of the Heyokarr."

    Mare looked in horror to them. "He greeted you! Guested you. And this is how you repay him?" Her red hair tossed in the light of the fire as she advanced on the trio. "You are not worthy to sing morning song with him, you are not worthy to even be present when he drums!"

    None of them made a move as she strode forward though Yerot tensed and looked from her to Jerr and then to Amith who stood by her husband one hand on his arm and the other on her hilt once more. A glance across to the chief showed him grinning at this sudden turn of events. Inside Yerot smiled then flicked his gaze to the shadowed figure even further back and frowned.

    Swaervor stood before Mare and looked at her, with a wisp of a smile on his face. "This is not a betrayal, child. Far from it." He raised his voice. "The skald Jerr is no longer Heyokarr. As is the written in the Old Ways he may be removed from that office by a triumverate of skalds and we have made that decision. It is our decision that he is in name what he has been for a long time. We Name him Skald of the Nars. Let runners go to the tribes of the Highlands, we will carry the word back to the Lowlands that this man is of all tribes. He is not to be claimed or owned by one or another. All should Honor him and greet him as one of their own as he is Nars Skald. His home is the Land, let each tribe set a place for him. His family and tribe is All of us." Swearvor slowly knelt looking up to the staggered Jerr. "We had to come, to see and know for ourselves. You do not have a choice in this matter and for that we apologize. It is a heavy burden we place upon you. If you wish, Yerot will stay as your apprentice and take a place in the tribe of Your choosing."

    Jerr looked from Swaervor to Yerot and then all around him. He let out a breath full of smoke. Standing clear of his wife he limped forward till he stood behind Mare who was still facing the trio of Lowland skalds. She felt his hands rest on her shoulders and he kissed the top of her head lightly. "I already have an apprentice."

    He then slowly walked away from the fire, away from the tribe of his youth and out into the night. From the darkness the Featherflights cheered the passage of their skald but from around the fire was the stunned silence as the Heyokarr try to decide whether they wanted what they had striven for, now that they had it.


  • Jerr coughed and looked up. Amith dropped his axe in his waiting hands and growled. "You promise."

    "Yes dear, not for Kossuths, not for fire priests. To go to the tribe."

    "You keep this promise, old fool. I have errands to run but I am trusting you"

    Jerr smiled up at her and whispered in elven. "I will obey."

    The elven woman left after reaching out to touch his cheek gently then slap it lightly. "Old fool."

    He coughed again, letting free the ones he had been smothering while she was here. His bandages were smoldering with the effort and he knew this would be a bad bout.

    Mare found him closer to dead than alive, the axe turning in his hands. "Good." He coughed, "I wanted to talk to you before we left."

    She quietly checked his bandages and shook her head. He was very hurt right now but he was acting like it was a normal day. Smoothly she sank to the ground next to him and waited.

    "You had some questions. and have had them since I had my visitors. You want to ask them or let me guess?"

    She looked at him grinning and took a deep breath then let the questiuon out in a rush. "I got the feeling you aren't supposed to teach women. It left me wondering if that is why you never taught me."

    "Jerr shook his head. "No, it is your age, dear."

    "But I will live longer than a human."

    Jerr shook his head quicker. "No, I crossed the line about whether to teach women a long time ago. I taught you the sun songs, Nicahh the death lays. But to be a skald . . . I was trained right from when I was learning to walk and talk. Being a skald is a path you start on right from the start."

    "By that logic I should be a whore, and I am not."

    Jerr coughs through his laughter. "I don't think that ALL paths are started at birth. Aside from that you have no idea how proud I would be of you as an apprentice. But there is the tribe. They don't want skalds anymore. So I would have been training you for . . . well . . . it would have seemed to be for my own ego. But I have a question for you, now. I am going to face the tribe. Will you walk with me?"

    "Of course pops, I don't trust those bastards not to stick an arrow in you. You got to let me try to heal you up some though. So that they don't see the extend of the damage." She looked around as though expecting a sneak attack at this cold camp.

    Jerr straightened and slid the axe to one side. "The three in the camp below will also be coming with us, as witnesses." He looked at her with his eyes as serious as she had ever seen them. "When we walk I will bae asking a favor of the skalds, if you allow me to. I will ask that if I fall and you come to them asking, they will train you as a skald."

    Mare looked at him. "If I do this am I making your life better by carrying on your work or worse by breaking what should happen with what is?"

    He leaned back and watched her eyes. "Take a moment and ask yourself the question, tell me what you believe the answer to be."

    She considered that for a moment, her eyes not leaving his. "I think that you wouldn't have come to this offering if you weren't sure you wanted to follow through with it, but that you want me to be sure it is what I want."

    He smiled widely. "That's my girl. Now I need to change before we head out.

    She nodded and checked her own weapons as he slowly slung the axe across the burns and jagged cuts running down the length of his back. His wince didn't slow his movements but her heart cried out to see the pain he was in. "What do you plan on saying to them, pops?" She asked quietly as he rose and started towards the way down off of the cliff.

    "It depends on how I am received. But have I ever struck you as the kind of man to quit and leave quietly?"

    Mare fought back the smartass answer that leaped to her lips and followed the old man down off of the cliff. As they went to his tent the he made her groan with his sense of humor which was just as filthy as it ever was. Mare rolled her eyes and watched as he pulled on a ceremonial robe in his tent in the camp. What was more telling was that he had had to brace himself before even entering the tent and had rushed out to catch his breath. Panic was more visible on his face at the prospect of being inside than pain was when his own arm flared up.

    They had hurt him in so many ways.

    Territh and Tiang (Ting) Joined them on their walk. Then they were joined by the lowland skalds. Other than the question Jerr formally put to the skalds the talk was of inconsequential things such as lap dances and Tings taste in men. The other skalds watched as Tirreth blasted a small group of Hobgoblins out of their path, none of them missed the shudder that Jerr had when the flames lanced out to destroy the creatures. Nor the fact that his leg started smoking till he kneeled for a moment in the deeper snow to the side of the road. Mare helped him up and the continued on.

    They passed through the crossroads and Jerrs head keep turning, looking, searching. Mare did not ask who or what he was looking for, she knew. What she didn't know was where Amith was. She told him of Oceans plan that had brought the lowland skalds to the pass. The skalds all listened and nodded. Jerrs' blush was hidden beneath the burns but they heard him mutter 'hiding behind womens skirts again'.

    Yerot surprised them all when he spoke up. "Where is your fathers home?"

    Mare looked back at him and shrugged. "He has none or many. Depends on what you mean. He is an elder in the Gypsy camp and has a tent there. But he also has a room at the Sisterhood where he cares for his children."

    "I thought he had no blood children left."

    "Like me, there are other adopted children." They turned onto the long road and started curving south when the distant sounds reached them. Pots, pans, hands clapping and voices singing the morning hymns. Looking up they saw people lined along the archers ridge, crowding the legion guards there. Mare looked up and smiled. "There they are. That explains where Amith went, doesn't it pops? Pops?" She looked to see her father standing, staring at the cliff and crying openly.

    "All of them?" Yerot looked to the crowd in wonder.

    "All of them." Mare murmered as she took Jerrs arm. "Come on Pops, you don't want to be late for your funeral."

    The crowd swelled behind them as farmers joined the chorus on the ridge and waved their support. Women in Sisterhood robes moved ahead of the small party and the path to the tribal camp was quiet and unencumbered. The lowland skalds exchanged glances and nodded. It was as they had thought.


  • ((Much Kudos! Should I be upset that mare is being given credit for Ocean's plan? No. Will ocean if she finds out? Hell yes, the only thing bigger than her perform skill is her ego 😛 ))


  • Amith was finally off to the house getting supplies and Mare was asleep. Jerr sat on the cliff edge and looked up to the moon, almost full. Two more days and his deadline would be past. The chief would declare him dead and move on to his New Ways and new vision for the tribe, having cut free the anchor to the past that theskald was. He looked down off the cliff and thought of all the times he had wished for death, for release from the flames and shuddered. He could hear voices in the lower camp echoing up. Odd accents, even for the polyphonic land of theNarfell pass. He shrugged and coughed, a bit of smoke coming out of his lungs.

    One of the boys of the camp scrambled up the hidden access and ran to him. "Jonni sez there be strangers asking after you. They talk funny. He wants to know if you are expecting visitors."

    Jerr looked down at his hands and frowned. Amith had hidden his axe, because he wanted to go south to find the Kossuthans. His armor was in the tent, under Mare and he wasn't going to wake her. "What do they look like?:" He asked hoarsely.

    "One of them is carrying a brass horn bigger than me. Another has a armor that is covered in little dangly bits. The last looks damn cold cause he ain't wearin much more than normal clothes and dey look all soft an fuzzy." The boy squinted trying to see the visitors in his mind while he described them. "Usual weapons cept the blue one has a bow that is twice da size o any I seen here. An the fuzzy guy has a staff of a weird sort of wood with drooping branches coming off the top of it. Like a ladies hair."

    "Colors?" Jerr asked pulling on weighted gloves and tugging his whip free of its place in his pack, setting it to one side.

    "Blues, green and the fuzzy one is in light browns."

    "No red? Show them up." Jerrs whip hissed across to knock the flap closed on the tent, hiding Mare. The boy ran off as Jerr focused on the now and his temperature began to rise.

    The three arrived and looked to see the skald sitting with a tent behind him. There was no fire nor even signs of where a fire might be laid but the smell of smoke and cooking meat filled the air. It was the one in the tan 'fuzzy' clothes who spoke first, inDamaran. "We had heard from traders that you were dead. It is pleasing that this is not so."

    Jerr sat unmoving and asked. "I do not know you, how is it that my life would be of interest to you?" His Damaran was an older dialect of the tribes.

    The Bowman in Blue smiled lazily. "I am Sytur, Battlehorn of the Manticores. This, " He gestured to the green clad man beside him. "Is my apprentice Yerot." The man in green bowed respectfully and said nothing.

    "And I am Swaervor Water-singer of the Otters." He shook his staff and a soft wind made it whistle slightly.

    Jerrs eyes had widened as they introduced himself and he shook his head slowly. "I . . i . . I offer you food and drink, if you need fire . . " he chuckled and winced, "it will come soon enough. But I welcome you to my camp.

    They all took a sip of his canteen that he passed over and a bite of his rations before sitting. Swaervor was the last to sit and he did so with a slow dignity and grace that spoke of a lifetime of training. Jerr could see that the staff he carried was still living wood and the tendrils dangling off the top moved against the wind, occasionally. There was a minute of silence as theskald and his guests took their measures of each other. Sytur was strong, his forearms spoke of a life with a bow and such a bow it was, Long and of a supple dark wood that glistened with an inner sheen of natural oils. The quiver was half again as long asJerrs and no doubt held arrows that matched the bow in size and make. The horn at his side was long and straight and may have held some common heritage with an elven hornJerr had once owned and played. It was carved with runes and images of battle and had seen many a dent and scar in its day, like its owner. Yerot sat respectively just to the left and back a pace from the circle the other three made. His belt held a double set of short swords that some might laugh at, but notJerr, who had also noted how quietly the apprentice moved across the camp. Swaervor was wearing what Jerr guessed to be sealskins, light brown and tan he would be nothing but a shadow in the muddy waters of a river.

    Skalds. Battllehorn, Water-singer, call them what you will, these were men from the lowlands, and skalds.

    In the same time they looked at their host, faces unreadable as they took in what they saw, and knew. The skald of the Nars was human . . . or was born one, of the Heyokaar tribe. He was reputed to be over 90 years old now yet the man that faced them looked like a very burnt and damaged younger man. Heavy set and bandaged loosely with charred rags he sat still with a dignity that spoke of decades of experience. As he removed his gloves they could see that is hands were burnt the most yet there was a drum sitting nearby that showed both blood and soot on it. He was reputed to be an axeman yet none was visible although an elven bow and a whip lay close to where he sat. The burns across his body looked fresh, though they had heard tell of the battle more than a week ago. It had taken this long to find where he was, a youngHin had almost eagerly given them directions to the gypsy camp. The members of the camp had been guarded and watchful of the strangers when they had told of the purpose of their visit. Which was both as it should be, but not here. He was not with his tribe, recovering. There was no sign of shamans or healers yet the man was obviously injured seriously. The single tent behind him could at most hold a few people. There was something wrong far beyond just the injuries the man had.

    Swaervor spoke first. "You are Jerr of the Heyokarr. Yet we hear that you also serve as skald for all the highland tribes. Is this so?"

    Jerr nodded slowly. "Thom of the Red Tigers died some seasons ago. My son, whom I was training, has also walked the final path. TheFeatherflights were hoping he would be theirs, one day. I have no apprentices though I did what I could to keep the histories alive."

    "You taught women." The voice was mild, neither accusing nor encouraging.

    "A Near-wife learned the death lays. An adopted daughter, the sun hymns. I taught women, yes."

    Sytur leaned forward. "A women can sing the deathlays? Unheard of. Impossible."

    "She is all that and a quiver of arrows." Jerr chuckled. "I stand by my decisions and make no apologies for them."

    Swaervor nodded. "Nor should you." he looked to Sytur and murmered, "Even a bent stick . . . "

    " . . . is an arrow if all else is gone." Sytur leaned back nodding.

    "HEY!"

    All hands did not move though each man suddenly knew exactly where his and everyone elses weapons were as the womans clear voice echoed in the camp.

    Mare slapped the tent flap aside and came out to stand with her hands on her hips. "Who are you calling a 'bent stick'?"

    Her red hair shone like a quicklsilver fire in the moonlight and her eyes blazed with challenge. She walked up to sit in exactly the same position behind Jerr that Yerot was behind Sytur. She moved with a dancers grace and a bit of a hip sway that was a challenge to the mens club that sat before her. She looked at Jerrs back and winced, seeing that some of the bandages were smouldering. He shook, smothering a cough and she knew he was fighting the fires within, again. "I sent the tales south with the traders. You took your own sweet time getting here, too. Jerr is going to be declared dead by his chief in two days. We got lucky and rescued him from his captors . . ."

    "Who are dead?" This was the first time Yerot had spoken and his voice was like the whisper of a blade leaving its sheath.

    "And ashes." She nodded. "They burned up where they lay, with no help from us."

    The newcomers looked at each other and shook their heads. "They will be back, then." Yerot said, finally.

    "Didn't you hear me? Dead, burned, nothing left." Mare said.

    "The Kossuths have a spell. Firebird . . . "

    "Phoenix" Jerr corrected.

    "Yes, phoenix. They prepare for their deaths and if they fall they rise from ashes they have prepared back at their temple."

    "Good." Jerr said flatly. "I have some unfinished business with them." As if on cue his right arm started to flare up until the bandages had burnt off and his skin writhed in the flames that came from inside. Jerr shuddered and smiled through the pain. "And warmth by my fire."

    Mare started to explain to them but she saw that none of the others had any move to help or even one of surprise. So she watched them from her place behindJerr and listened.

    "We have seen that spell before. It is a curse. Its duration is usually longer than a man can live, though many take their own lives." Swaervor looked into Jerrs eyes and nodded. "But not you. You have your own fire, and now you know you have something that needs doing. You may burn, but you will not burn out."

    Jerr straightened as the Water-singer spoke. His eyes burned with an inner fire that had nothing to do with a curse. The arm lit the area with flames but they could see that the pain was not reaching the man, now.

    Yerot looked from Jerr to Mare, behind him and nodded. His pain was hurting her as well, though he would be blind to it, for the moment. Her face was sharp and drawn as she sat, taking in it all and brushing a stray orange lock of hair out of her eyes. She would make a goodnearwife, one who already knew the duties of a Battlehorn. But she would not look his way, her eyes were always on her father or Swaervor . Yet hers had been the plan that sent the rumors and messages south. What power did she have in this northern land to be able to plan and execute such an audacious endeavour? His gaze switched to the older man and the light from his burning arm put the edges of his face in jagged relief. Yerot knew that the flames burned as though the arm were resting in a campfire yet the skald sat still and only the occasional wince told of what he must be feeling. She was the fox but the man would be the old wolf, or was it dragon? Either way, ifYerot ever had to battle these two he would strike the man first and try not to present a vulnerable side to his cub.

    As though she felt his eyes upon her Mare looked Yerot up and down and shifted slightly. It was probably coincidence that it presented both her cleavage AND her weapon to better view.

    Yerot prayed he would never fight against these two.

    Swaervor looked to Jerr and asked. "Will you heal here, or go home?"

    Jerr whispered "What is home?"

    "There comes a time when the singer is rejected, the song old and out of tune with the times. We are the conscience of the tribes, their contact with who they are. Even if they wish to be someone else we are there to keep them both anchored and flowing in times river. That is one of the great times of testing. Does the conscience or the tribal 'wants' win?" He looked toJerr and spoke with great passion. "You are not a weak man. You would have been dead long ago if you were. But this is not about strength, it is about staying power. Can you stand alone, before your tribe when they wish you were no longer there?" He paused and looked into the flaming eyes of theskald. "It is your decision. You judge only yourself in this."

    "Then why are you here?" Jerr whispered.

    "Times like this belong to more than one tribe. Whatever you do, whatever you decide, will be taken home by us, sung to our own tribes and kept in our histories." Sytur intoned. "For that is our way."

    "It is the Old Way." Jerr nodded.

    The three visitors stood, dusting themselves off. "We will find a place to sleep in your camp below. If you wish to talk listen you have but to send word and we will come."

    Jerr stood and hobbled forward for a moment. "Don't leave just yet. Stay for sunrise. Sing with . . . us." He waved forward Mare who carried both her drum and his. His was wrapped in wet rags that he slowly unwound, looking to the horizon the whole time. The others stepped up behind him readying their own instruments. Jerrs drum rang with the first strike and the hymns to Lathander, Tempus, and Uthgar echoed out across the pass. The skills of the five musicians blending to make the Gods pause for a moment and look down . . .

    and another day began.

    in a quiet darkness

    one voice muttered a curse.


  • The first few days after he was rescued were a blur of pain and bandages. His skin was charred and crips and removing bandgaes often re-opened the damage. The flames that leaked out of his skin burned bright, as though a fire raged below the surface.

    So they took him to the pixie roost and there he sat. Some friends came to visit, all wnated to use healing magics on him but after the first time he warned them off. Amith had cast a healing spell and the backlash of fire had hurt her and Mare quite severely. Jerr seemed no better, no worse but to heal him was to release the fire within and endanger the healers.

    His voice was gone . . . screraming for days on end will do that. But he managed the occassional joke for those who came by and he was never alone. Amith was near, cooking one recipe or another as was Mare. They told him edited versions of news of the land. Amith left great blanks in stories that a child could see. Mare was a bit more imaginative but he could hear that the world was changing as he healed.

    Seer came by and he, chuckling, asked that she not use him as a vision fire. He caught her just as she started to lean in and laughed as she leaned back, slightly abashed.

    Telli dropped by with a plant reputed to help burns and it did. The normal healing properties did not set of his inner fire and slowly he gained ground. He shared the chocolates she left with his nurses and started trying to regain his voice. Drumming was too hard as his skin would crack if he moved woo quickly.

    Members from the camp below would hear his voice, in the middle of the night, sometimes singing, more often crying or whimpering. But he was getting better, slowly.


  • The brothers half led, half carried Mica back to the Sisterhood. His eyes were fixed on nothing but the pain of what he saw was easily discerned. The women of the sisterhood gathered round him in the weaving room and he sat, staring at a candle flame for a time before explaining.

    "Da is trying to distract them, lead them away. That is how they wound up in Peltarch. He hates the city with walls but all his crying of high walls made them think that was where he had an attachment. They know better now. He got a little rest and a little stronger but they found the book in the college . . . and they know more, now.

    "They know that he has a family . . . and they will bring him here."

    "Good." Amith spoke the loudest and the fastest but she was not the only one to do so.

    "No, Ma. Not good. If Da figures out where they are taking him . . . he'll do something desperate. Anything to keep them from coming here. I saw it a long time ago but I didn't understand. He will shift so he can die and they won't bother the coming. I saw it Ma, him dying a dragon but I never realized he would die because he was a dragon. I saw but I didn't get it till now. We have to stop him . . . before he hits the crossroads. Da has been along the roads so often he will know where he is, even if they are still torturing him."

    Nicahh whispered. "They'll want him to know, won't they?"

    Mica nodded. "They'll make sure he knows . . . and what will happen when they get here." His eyes snap back to the flame of the candle. "If you make plans, don't do it near flame. People can see through flames. The Seer can and so can the ones who have Da. To talk in front of a flame is to maybe talk in front of them. But they can listen to me all they want . . . I am only saying what they already know."

    Amith looked to the candle flame. "Hear me if you can. He dies and you will not outlive him. My husband. MY HUSBAND."

    The candle flame winked out . . . as though hit by a strong wind.

    Mica looked at it and then at Amith, lit by a high narrow window, she was the image of an ancient elven goddess. "They heard you, Ma. They heard you."


  • After a while the pain is there but you almost reach a state of peace with it. Except these people were very good at what they did. Sometimes the flames were pain, other times they were healing him. And he never knew what was coming next. His mind drifted from the charred husk that was now his body . . .

    She dug the knife into his arm and twisted it. The pain was there but the cut healed behind it. All the time she had watched his eyes. She had atught him a lot about pain . . . .

    Further back he watched as Sy stripped the skin from Nahwen, one strip at a time. He held her hand and winced in sympathy as she tried hard not to cry out. He had gone first and she had been here for him, there was no way he would leave her here. The pain in her eyes screamed though no sound was heard.

    Closer to the now was the feeling he had had in Sharns cave . . . . NO! Away from that thought away away . . .

    In the cauldron he whimpered and slumped.

    On the docks Mica also slumped and started to cry. His brothers rushed to him. All he could gasp was "Take me home. Please take me home. I am sooo sorry Da . . . "


  • Nicahh ghosted through the gates behind Mareann and Amith, a shadow barely noticed by the most keen eyed of the Featherflight guards. They nodded and chuckled as the Heyokaar next to them stayed blissfully unaware. Mare and Amith were as different as could be in their passage through the camp. Amith glided straight ahead, looking neither left nor right till she arrived at the chiefs house. Mare's head was constantly on the move, looking all around noting the difference in the blending of the two tribes and how the camp was laid out. Nicahh evaluated the camp and swiftly found the old woman she had dealt with once before.

    "Where is your husband." she asked after being greeted and offered a small strip of bread and some water.

    "He has gone, hunting accident in the winter. Drow found him alone and left him with a new headdress." She rested her hand on a skull to one side which was marked by a ring of crossbow bolt holes.

    Nicahh looked at it and her face became a mask of calm. "I am sorry, I did not know."

    "The skald was . . .sleeping . . .his wife told us. We buried him, quietly." The last word was whispered in sorrow. Nicahh nodded, knowing that deaths were usually sung.

    "Were the drow found?" The question had a casual tone.

    "No, they hit several times in the past six months. The old bowyer master was found staked out and used as target practice. Crossbows." The old woman spits and rests her hand on the ringed skull, it seems to give her peace. "They are targetting our old, we have lost many."

    "Both tribes?"

    "No, the Heyokarr are a younger group, more warriors and fewer hunters so they did not have the old to lose. The new chief, he is young, strong and wants the same for his people. That was why he challenged the skald-chief and that is what he is pushing for. Racial purity, strength, youth. He speaks of New Ways."

    Nicahh sipped the water and thought on this.

    Amith stood before the chief waiting. He looked at her and then at Mare, face still tracked by tears.

    "Yes?" He grumbled.

    Amith held up a hand before Mare could say anything and continued to wait. Fixing the chief with eyes that had watched children born, grow, die. She looked like she could wait forever.

    Mare, after a moments pause nodded and settled into a more comfortable stance and waited without saying a word.

    Time passed.

    But age of an elf and the patience of a fox trumped young ambition and the need to be doing, growing. "Very well, sit warm yourself, drink and eat if you want. You are guests." Resentful, said but said and Amith nodded and sat, motioning for Mare to do the same.

    "So, why you here? The skald too lazy to come himself? Or is he hiding behind your skirts now?"

    Amith took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I have been told my husband is missing. He vanished while drumming a spirit walk."

    The chief looks about. "Well that is odd. I don't know of any tribesfolk planning one lately."

    "He sang for my daughter, adopted." She gestures to Mare.

    "A skald sings for the tribe, Your husband sang for anyone, he was little more than a bard"

    Mare started as though he had slapped her but she kept silent, eyes beginning to burn with anger.

    "He was drumming the spiritwalk for my daughter, unguarded. Just as he was unguarded when he called the dead." It was not quite an accusation.

    "He found womens skirts hide behind, just the same. He grew beyond the tribe. It started when he married outside the people and has ended with his death."

    Amith leaned forward. "I no said he was dead, but that he was missing."

    "Yes, yes," he waved the difference aside, "we will wait the requisite time before declaring him dead to the tribe. But in truth he has been dead to us for a long time. Our tribe," at this his voice raised and the women knew he was speaking to all present, not to them. "Our tribe is taking new ways, not anchored by archaic traditions and men who slow us and tie us to a time best forgotten. They lived for 'The Land'. But I am here to stand for 'The People'. Are we to stay here, in a grave of dust and tradition? Are we to be the forgotten people? NO! The land may be ours, but only if we have the strength to step up and take it. In honor of the time now passing, we will wait the days and seeks. We will bid farewell to the last of the elders of the tribe. With him die many things, most left best forgotten. The only irony is that he will die unsung as with him the death lays have also gone."

    Her voice was not bardic trained but it did manage to fill the area. Nicahh stepped out and singing the death lays, starting at the very beginning. Mare took up the rhythm on a small drum modeled after her fathers and the sound grew. The chief frowned to be upstaged but he knew batter than to interrupt. One look at the people gathered around nodding and listening, leaning forward to hear each name told him this was a good time to step away from the fire, ignored. Nicahh and Mare sang and drummed for an hour, driving the point home before Amith rose and left the fire, the other two ladies followed her and the music drifted from the camp, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence.