3. The Memories of Wilhelm Cypress

The Memories of Wilhelm Cypress


  • Ghost of the Living

    He stood among the pines and tamarack and watched her from a distance. Wreathed in the concealing foliage of the trees, he was safe from her eyes, so long as he didn’t get too close. Nevertheless, he was close enough that he could see her as she walked toward the town, and his eyes spotted her figure easily; he had been watching for a long time.

    Not just here, but elsewhere, in distant lands and on long, broken roads. He had followed her for many miles. He couldn’t even remember for how long.

    He lived now much as an animal lives, from day to day, with little consciousness of the time’s passing. There were days and months when he ranged far afield, tending to the earth, actively maintaining the balance of nature where excessive order or chaos might disrupt. But he always seemed to return to her trail, as if her path marked his own, as if they were two stars destined to move in tandem, without reason or purpose, never apart, but never really together.

    He had written to her many times, but inevitably had burned each pathetic note. Whereas once he thought himself a poet, he new recognized that his own lack of talent with pen and ink would forever limit his horizon. To him words were just a means, as the proverb says, “to show the sun with a lamp”, and never was this more true than with her. The problem was, his prose style was overly awkward and sentimental. His words dripped from the pen not like warm honey, but like chunky melted goat cheese onto stale bread. Any attempt at expressing his memories of her would be inadequate, no, more like excretory. And he had no desire to desecrate the near-religious image she had left impressed within his mind.

    Did he love the real Jade, or simply what he imagined her to be? He had first seen her standing on a rock outcropping under the crescent moon. The bow in her hands shone silver in the starlight, like a second moon against the night sky. Her hair had tumbled down her back like black silk, and her bodice had barely covered the round fruits of her bosom. In that moment, he had earnestly believed then that neither heaven nor earth could have conceived a more beautiful, delicate, or gentle soul.

    More recently, he had seen her descend like vengeance itself upon a camp of brigands and assorted thieves. There must have been twelve of them, all armed with rusted blades and armored in assorted leather and mail, and she in just a simple doeskin frock. What had worried him was not her safety, but the cold efficiency with which she killed all twelve. She had moved like a scythe through grain, spraying blood across the road with brutal, sweeping strokes of her sword. In the end, not a drop had spilled upon her own garment, except for on one soft moccasin, which she had daintily wiped on the corner of a dead man’s cloak. Such passion, love, and cruelty, all mixed in the same vessel.

    Some part of him longed to drink from that vessel again. But aside from his fear of her mysterious and unquenchable rage, there was also the matter of loving an immortal. Whereas age and sun had now etched their lines upon his features, she the elf still looked the picture of a teenage girl. Whereas he had faded from the world of humans and elves, becoming little more than an observer and custodian of plants, she continued to burn ever brighter, and more lucid, like a comet-star that ever approaches, and never recedes. His death was less than a century away, but how long would she live beyond him? He new he should have never approached her, never expressed those sentiments which still lingered. It had been a mistake from the beginning. A delicious, terrible mistake. And yet, if he could do it over again, he would. A thousand times over again.

    He watched her enter the gates of Norwick, gracing the ever present stew-pot rabble with a rare smile as she passed. He wondered whether he could bridge the distance that had grown between them.

    The sun was slowly descending behind the horizon. A lone horsefly buzzed around his ears and he snapped at it irritably with sharp canines. When he looked back in her direction, she had disappeared into the town walls. Where he stood there was a blurring and shifting and a faint light, and now a nighthawk soared quietly into the air, circling for a better view.


  • New content in the previous post, which chronologically precedes this one, even though the writing is more recent. This post has been bumped down to position it in the right place.

    The Blue Rose

    Wilhelm stood in the Nars pass and looked up at a low, gently sloping rock formation. The land around him was mostly flat, green grassland and rolling hills, scattered throughout with massive boulders and isolated stands of timber. A creek ran nearby, issuing from a small lake to his north. The sun slanted low on the horizon. It was late afternoon, and the harsh light of day had grown soft.

    At present, however, Wilhelm was oblivious to his surroundings. His eyes were fixed on the rock formation, on the lone and lovely figure of a dark haired woman standing on its summit.

    He was sure it must be Jade. Her armor had changed, and her hair was longer than he remembered. But there was no mistaking that strong, slender frame and that elegant greatsword on her shoulder. How many elven women carried such a blade? How many such women dwelled in these harsh northern lands? He could think of only one; it had to be her.

    “Jade,” he asked softly? Her name escaped his lips absently, inadvertently. He had not meant to draw attention to himself, but rather had betrayed his own presence in a moment of distraction. He felt a twinge of apprehension as she turned to face him.

    It was her. He felt himself freeze inside. He felt chills on the back of his neck as her gaze fell upon him.

    She wore armor enameled in subtle greens and browns that blended well with her surroundings. Her armor did not appear to be of elven design, at least not to his (admittedly untrained) eye, but it conformed to her shape perfectly. It was something new, something different, a replacement of the banded mail she used to wear.

    Her hair was full and luxurious and black as ink spilling down her shoulders, flowing in the languid breeze. Her face was fair, lighter than he remembered, but her emerald eyes were as stunning as before. And her expression was proud, almost imperious as she looked at him now.

    Their eyes locked, and he felt suddenly that the world was unreal, like he was captive in some clever illusion, some creation of his own fantasy. He grasped for words, but did know what to say, could not conceive of out how to conduct himself, could not fathom how to approach her after all the years gone by. He just stood there feeling helpless and inarticulate. And slowly, strangely, a sensation crept over him, of being detached from his own body, looking down on the both of them from a distance above.

    Second passed awkwardly, feeling like minutes. His fingers flexed nervously. He wanted so badly to say something, to say the right thing to her, if only he knew what that was.

    She smiled at him then. The proud, imperious warrior vanished in an instant, replaced by the vulnerable warmth of a young woman. There was genuine affection in that smile, real humanity in those fair elven eyes.

    He smiled back, feeling like an idiot, still frozen in his tracks.

    She surprised him then. She had always managed to surprise him. Thank the gods she knew what to do. She came running into his arms, and instantly he was himself again, with her lips planted firmly on his, her slender elven form pressed against him. He crushed her to him, despite the armor, and relished the pain of her steel-clad form against his.

    It was the right thing, just perfect. There was no need for discussion, no thicket of words to get in the way, just him and her and their enduring, inexplicable love.

    He pulled her close, and she clung tightly to his embrace. And he felt as though time had contracted, as if he was standing on the threshold of a yesterday from years ago.

    They exchanged the usual pleasantries, hardly hearing the words: where had he been, what had she been doing. They gave vague explanations, not really hearing them, not willing to waste precious time on the past. There was only now, only this wonderful, exquisite reunion.

    They walked hand-in-hand, down from the promontory, and wandered by the creek, looking ahead at the small lake to their north. She laid down her greatsword by the stream, as if relinquishing a heavy burden, and turned to gaze into his eyes. And he knew that she was his, and he was hers again, and he would never walk away from her again. But something inside him could not rest easy.

    “Jade, I am so sorry, I . . .” he began, and then paused, trying to think of what he could say.

    She turned away from him and moved to the edge of the creek, taking up her sword. And then she ran, north toward the lake.

    He chased her, still in shock, not really trying to catch her, just following. She didn’t run far. She stopped when she reached the lake’s edge, looking out over the water.

    “You killed me,” she said. It was not an accusation, just a statement of fact delivered in an even tone.

    Wilhelm swallowed. “I know,” he said.

    Slowly, she turned, drawing her greatsword, Shen Enai, from its long scabbard over her shoulder. Her eyes were flat; she did not even look at him. Instead, she held the blade before her, point upraised, her gaze following its length.

    “I should kill you,” her voice was distant.

    “I know,” he said again. And after a moment, “But . . . would that heal you?”

    Her posture softened. The blade slowly fell, its point lodging in the soft soil between them.

    “No,” she said. “It would only kill me again.” Shen Enai slipped from her fingers to lay in the grass, forgotten for the moment. She looked at him then, her eyes vulnerable.

    “I would rewrite history if I could . . .” he began. He groped for an explanation.

    “No, Wil.” She approached him, embraced him, rested her head against his chest.

    They kissed again, and then again. He held her for along moment. It felt so good to hold her again. She was so very special to him. He wanted to hold her forever, to keep this moment and all the ones before it suspended in time and perfect memory for the rest of his life. Alas, that life is a quicksand running through our fingers, and we are slowly descending into its depths.

    As he held her, he saw in the grass next their feet a small bush with tiny blue buds, some of which had just begun to open. He gently extricated herself from her embrace, bent down, and picked a pair of stems from the bush. Each stem was topped with a single, small blue rose.

    It occurred to him then, in another surreal moment, that he had never before understood the metaphor of the blue rose. Romantic poets from ages past had idolized the blue rose as the symbol of impossible love, of the hubris and the longing for something beyond the reach of mortal beings. He had never known love as something hopeless, something unattainable. But in that moment, he knew that all love in some sense reached for the impossible, that all love aspired to exceed the limits of ordinary life, if only to keep as permanent that which is fleeting.

    “These are very rare,” he said absently, tucking the stems into her hairclip. She smiled faintly, one hand touching her hair, feeling the position of the flowers. She straightened them, securing the flowers in place.

    “You look ridiculous,” he grinned.

    “I know,” she said, a faint smirk on her lips. “Come, I have something to show you.”

    They walked away from the lake, heading northwest. She nearly left her greatsword behind, lying in the grass, so unlike her. They went back to retrieve it, and then she lead him away. Eventually, they came to a waterfall, lovely and luminous in the fading light of evening.

    They hiked to the top of the falls and looked down on the pool below. The shape of the falls, its volume and current, reminded him much of the old waterfall in Norwick, the place where he had first caught her attention, or so he believed. A lone tree stood at the top, and butterflies flitted and circled among the little flowers in the grass. The little blue roses were all around them. He had never seen so many in one place.

    “Our waterfall is gone,” she explained. It seemed impossible that a waterfall could disappear, but he had already seen for himself what had become of the old Norwick.

    “But we can always come here now,” she said. “We will always have this place.”

    He looked at the meadows around them, felt the cool breeze, and listened to the rushing murmur of the falls.

    “I love you, Jade.”

    “I love you . . .”

    He laid her down in the grass, then, and pulled his fur cloak over them. They stayed the night there, no camp, no fire. Just the stars above, the rushing water, the cold night air and the heat under the fur cloak, like a furnace through the night.

    Later she slept briefly, curled against his side, and he stared up at the stars. It reminded him of another night, just weeks ago, when he had looked out at the stars from a mountainside, reflecting on the interplay of memory and dream.

    And another memory came back to him, of a night in the Boarshead Inn. They had rented a private room, just for the two of them, a luxury in those times. The next day he had noticed where her fencer’s grip had left dark bruises on his biceps.

    It was so wonderful to see her again, like no time had passed. He felt just as much in love with her as he had ever been. He was so fortunate to have met her, felt so glad to have her back, in whatever way she would allow.

    The experience of seeing her again was . . . thrilling, exquisite, wonderful. It is fascinating the way that the mind builds constellations out of connected events. She had become a beautiful constellation in his mind. Absolutely scintillating, sparkling, laced with color and emotion, never to be explained or understood, and he didn’t mind.

    He pulled her close, buried his face in her night-dark hair, in the scent of the blue rose, and closed his eyes. He did not sleep, just drifted on the edge of the unconscious, waiting for her to stir him again.


  • The Claws of Malar

    He landed back at camp in an old oak tree and returned to his human shape. The world blurred and faded to darkness as he slipped from his avian form, then blossomed into clarity again as he reclaimed his human body. He felt drained and exhausted. The efforts of the morning had depleted his energy, both mental and physical, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up on the soft forest floor and close his eyes. It worried him, however, that two of the Malarite priests were unaccounted for. Perhaps they had been destroyed in the meteor strike, or perhaps they had found some way to escape. There could be no way of knowing.

    Whatever the case, it was time to break camp and head north. His friend and confidant in Peltarch, Ethan, had reported seeing Jade there, and he was anxious to find her again. Perhaps he could hide himself in avian form and sneak a peek at her. There could be no harm in a little discreet voyeurism.

    He surveyed the camp and considered packing up. He had few enough possessions. His knapsack remained propped against a log by the fire-pit. His tent was still standing, and inside were his cloak and bedroll and a few other personal effects. He untied the flap to his tent and ducked through the opening.

    Inside the tent he found his cloak and his bedroll, rolled them up and bound them with twine and stacked them under one arm. He would prop them by the fire beside his pack and then take down the tent. He ducked back under the flap and emerged into the late morning air.

    They were waiting for him in his camp. The same two druids he had first encountered, the two he had privately named Scar and Cudgel, the one for a rather obvious facial feature, the other for his distinctive choice in armament. The two dark druids were badly burned and covered in dust, their hair hanging lank and greasy, their expressions grim.

    Wilhelm dropped his cloak and bedroll in surprise. For a moment he froze, unable to move. In that moment was his undoing; the followers of Malar were expert hunters.

    Cudgel had his weapon ready to hand. He raised it and pointed at Wilhelm, like a mage pointing a wand.

    “Grealach,” an unfamiliar word in druidic, it had the ring of command.

    Two black shapes uncoiled from the shadows beneath a nearby oak. They sprang at Wilhelm. A pair of jaws clamped around his right bracer. Another pair of jaws pulled at the fringe of his tunic, unbalancing him.

    From the corner of his eye, Wilhelm saw Cudgel advancing, the gnarled club, studded with metal rivets, pulled back to strike. He was vaguely aware of Scar chanting a spell, although he could not make out the meaning of the words. Frantically, he tried to tear himself loose from the wargs. He ripped free from the one pulling at his tunic, and circled to his left, clockwise, wrenching at the warg on his arm. The beast hung on, its teeth sunk deep into the hide bracer.

    The chill of magic washed over him, a holding spell of some kind. He felt the spell wrap itself around him, clinging to the outer edges of his concentration, sinking its hooks into his mind. He pushed it away, and it vanished, little more than a cobweb.

    He ducked under a swing from the club, raised his left hand, and brought it down hard on the back of the warg’s neck. The beast snarled in a pain and released his right arm. Wil pivoted to meet Cudgel, to face his attacker. He caught the second cudgel strike on his left bracer, a crushing impact that sent pain lancing through his elbow.

    The wargs were on him again, worrying at his ankles, dragging at his tunic, pulling him off balance. He felt another spell wash over him. He pushed it away with more effort this time.

    He slipped his head and shoulders back and to the side to avoid another strike from the cudgel, but he was too slow this time. The last inch of the club just grazed his the left side of his face, but it was enough to crack his cheekbone, knocking him to the ground. Instantly, the wargs were at him. He managed to cover his head and throat, as best he could, while they tore at his hands and forearms.

    Another spell hit him, and he felt himself freeze in place. Cudgel stood above him and raised the club overhead. A fourth and final swing, and the world went black.

    A frigid splash of water in his face brought him awake. At first he could see nothing but a blur of firelight. But he was immediately aware of an excruciating pain in his shoulders, and the sensation of hanging, of swinging gently on the end of a rope. He tried to move his legs, but that only made the pain in his shoulders worse, so he kept still and waited for his vision to clear.

    Gradually, he could make out the natural stone walls of a natural cavern. There was a small amount of light filtering in from the cave mouth, which was little more than a narrow, horizontal crack in the stone, about twenty yards distant.

    The pain in his shoulders was incredible. He looked up. His wrists were bound together, and he hung from a hemp cord secured to the cavern ceiling somewhere in the darkness above. Off to his right, two familiar figures squatted by a small fire, one of them heating the tip of a long dagger in the coals.

    “He’s awake,” said Scar. Cudgel glanced over his shoulder at Wilhelm. Both men had cleaned themselves and bound their singed hair. Their burns had been healed, and they were whole and healthy again.

    Not far from the fire, Wilhelm saw two black shapes, darker than the shadows in the dim cave-light, lying among the stones. Cunning yellow eyes reflected the fire.

    “We know where to find your little elf.” The one Wilhelm called Scar stood up from the fire and walked over to him.

    “Not so tough as you thought, are you, druid?” Scar observed. “Let’s see, your hands are bound, and you are tied to the rocks above, so there will be no shapeshifting. And your mouth is gagged, so there will be no spell casting, either.” The man had a thick accent that Wilhelm could not quite recognize.

    “So it would seem you’re in a bind, no?” said Scar. He extended his left hand, without looking, and accepted the dagger from Cudgel, holding the red-hot point before Wilhelm’s eyes. Without further ceremony, he stepped up to Wilhelm and plunged the blade into his chest.

    Wilhelm screamed, or rather tried to scream, as pain overwhelmed him, but his mouth was filled with course cloth. He kicked and twisted in his chains, but to no avail. The pain was excruciating, unbearable, and yet there was no escaping it. After thrashing for a moment, he stilled, exhausted, swinging slowly in the air, blood running down his torso.

    Scar smiled with faint satisfaction and pulled the dagger free. Wilhelm gave another muffled scream, but Scar simply turned and reclaimed his position by the fire.

    Wilhelm could only watch as his life’s blood poured out of him, running down his chest and legs, pooling under his feet, which hung mere inches from the floor. He began to feel dizzy from the blood-loss. A great sadness filled him, and he thought how close he had come to finding Jade, how he would never see her again.

    Soon, however, the flow of blood diminished to a trickle, and puncture wound seemed to mend. Within a matter of moments, the dizziness passed, and the pain subsided.

    Scar stood and approached Wilhelm again. He inspected the wound on Wilhelm’s chest, and then thumped it with the back of his hand.

    “All better,” he said, giving a mirthless smile. “Our brother, Reghar, wore a ring of regeneration. A symbol of strength that he had earned in service to his god. You stole it from him when you cut off his head and looted his body like a common brigand. We decided to let you keep the ring. It seems to be serving you quite well, though by the time we are finished you’ll wish you could simply die.”

    Scar took a pair of gloves from his belt and slipped them onto his hands, black gloves with red fingertips. Wilhelm watched as the druid’s gloved hands blurred and shifted, transforming into a short, jagged set of claws. Scar held his hands in front of Wilhelm’s face, the claws where fingers should have been, the claws of Malar.

    “Physical torture is the lowest and simplest form of revenge,” he said, slowly flexing the claws. “But it is also the most fleeting. To harm the body is to inflict a transitory wound. Once the body dies, the soul departs, and all of the body’s pain is as nothing. No, to inflict a lasting injury, one must do violence to the heart of a man, to the soul itself.

    “And of course, we know exactly how to injure you, Wilhelm Cypress. We know exactly how to do violence to your soul. It is much the same as any man. To destroy that which he most loves, and to make him the instrumentality of that destruction.

    “Our employer told us a great deal about you and your little elf . . . what do you call her . . . Jade? What a lovely name. I’m sure you love her very much, just as we loved our brethren, whom you murdered from afar.”

    Wilhelm thrashed again in his bonds and managed to kick weakly at the scar-faced man. His tormentor evaded, flashing a mirthless smile, and Wilhelm succeeded only in aggravating the pain in his shoulders. Silent tears ran down his face.

    “That’s right, you understand now. We have heard that she often walks near a waterfall in the hills on the western edge of the Nars grassland.”

    He gestured to Cudgel, who still squatted by the fire. “My brother is quite skilled with traps and snares. We will bring her here, to join you. Perhaps we will hang the two of you, side by side, to keep one another company for awhile. Of course, she will not be wearing our brother’s ring of regeneration. And so I am certain she will expire long before you.”

    Wilhelm hung as if lifeless. It would do no good to struggle. It were better to seem broken, defeated. And in truth, that is what he was. There could be no escape here, and no rescue. He could only hope that Jade would somehow slip their grasp.

    “Such a pity,” Scar continued, gloating. “The fey are blessed with long lives. To take the life of an immortal seems such a waste, wouldn’t you agree. And to think, she would have lived, had you not interfered.

    “In three years time, we shall return for you. Three years, one for each of the brethren you have killed. The ring should keep you alive until we can fetch you back again. By that time, I am sure you will be quite mad.”

    A shadow filled the opening of the cavern, like a sudden cloud covering over the sun. The light cave-light dimmed and flickered, was reduced to firelight, as something filled the crack at the entrance.

    And then the light returned. Whatever it was, something large had squeezed through the horizontal crack that defined the cavern entrance and had entered the wider cavern within. Gradually, Wilhelm became aware of a low humming sound that filled the air. He couldn’t remember hearing it before, but it sounded like a hive of bees, though muffled and indistinct.

    The two wargs, vague shadows in the cave light, rose to their feet and growled. Their low rumbling reverberated through the closed space of the cavern. The two priests of Malar also turned away from Wilhelm and faced the entrance. Cudgel drew his namesake weapon. Scar half-crouched, his clawed hands tucked forward in a grappler’s stance.

    “What is the meaning of this?” the voice was familiar, feminine. Wilhelm fought for clarity through the haze of pain and grief that now filled him. “Please restrain your pets, I did not pay yellow gold to be mauled by my own employees.”

    “Laekash,” Scar spoke a word of command, and the two wargs ceased their growling, lowering themselves to the earthen floor once again, though keeping a watchful eye on the figure near the entrance.

    “How have you come here?” asked Cudgel, breaking his silence for the first time. “How have you followed us?”

    “I have not followed you,” said the intruder, “I have followed your captive.” The voice was very familiar . . . could it be . . . Gerda? Wilhelm could scarcely believe his ears. Gerda had hired these men? Her next words resolved any doubt.

    “I am his Archdruid,” she said, “I know where he is at all times.”

    Wilhelm hung very still in his bonds. He tried to see Gerda in the darkness, could barely make out her bulk, her shape, but the light in the cave was poor, and his vision was still blurred with tears. A long silence followed, interrupted only by the crackling of the small fire.

    Finally, Scar spoke. “He is ours now. He killed three of our brethren.”

    “Is that so?” asked Gerda, her tone incredulous. “Three of your brethren? I hired only the two of you. You were to perform a simple errand. I was unaware that the assistance of andy brethren would be involved.”

    “It was not a simple errand,” said Scar. “The bitch was difficult to find and has friends in this region. And she is dangerous, a veteran, and well-armed. And her friend here tried to kill us and claimed three of our brethren in the process. You did not warn us that he was an elder druid.”

    “You were supposed to avoid him,” said Gerda sharply. “Why did you not simply follow my instructions?”

    “You’re not listening, bitch,” said Scar. “He found us. Came upon our camp this morning out of the woods. You said he wasn’t dangerous.”

    Gerda moved deeper into the cave, and Wilhelm could see her more clearly now, as she came into the faint radiance of the fire. She was massive for a woman, larger than most men, lean and muscular as any warrior, and her half-orc features were grim and shadowed, almost monstrous, in the cave-light. The low, muffled humming noise grew louder as she approached.

    “He is quite harmless,” she said. “You must have done something to provoke him.”

    “Oh, really?” said Scar, his voice rising. “Perhaps the fact that you sent us to kill his bitch? Do you think that might have set him off?”

    “Not kill,” Gerda said, her voice soft, almost incredulous, “divert. Are you really incapable of following any of my instructions?”

    “Well, she’s going to die now,” said Scar. “Of that you can be certain. And we expect full payment, like you promised, or you will be hanging right beside him.”

    Gerda smiled in the firelight, showing the full length of her tusks.

    “Oh, do try that, little man,” she purred. “I would enjoy that if you tried.”

    After a tense period silence, she continued.

    “And your plans now?” she asked. “You will kill him for revenge, I presume, and then the elf?”

    “Something like that,” said Scar. “Just have our payment ready when we return.”

    “Very well,” said Gerda, nodding her head. “I will leave you to your work.”

    She turned and moved back toward the cave entrance. Wilhelm saw her heavy, two-handed falchion slung across her back. As she neared the entrance to the cave, she paused.

    “Oh, just one other thing,” said Gerda. “You’re fired.”

    There was a ripping sound, the tearing of fabric, and the low buzzing noise suddenly sharpened and expanded, filling the cave with an almost deafening roar. An instant later, the wargs began to yelp, and the two men began to curse and flail. Wilhelm heard a rasp of steel.

    Wilhelm then understood the reason for the cursing, as he felt a hot, agonizing sting against his leg, then his stomach, then his arm and face. The cave was swarming with bees.

    There was a thick, wet crunch, then another, and suddenly the wargs were silent. And then Gerda stepped into the firelight, her heavy falchion in her hand, the blade dark with blood.

    Scar leapt at her, his claws raised to rake at her face. Unfortunately for him, however, her reach was longer than his. She stiff-armed him in the face, and he fell onto his back, scrambling.

    Cudgel had pulled his club from his belt and was backing into the cave. Scar scrambled beside him. The bees were everywhere, though, and neither man could focus sufficiently to cast a spell. Both were lightly armed, helpless against the falchion.

    As the two men backed into the cave, Gerda advanced. She drew abreast of Wilhelm, and he could see that the bees had stung her as indiscriminately as everyone else. Thick, swollen stings covered her skin. One of her eyes had begun to swell shut. With a monstrous roar, Gerda charged the two men.

    They stood no chance. Neither carried a weapon that could compete with her falchion, and neither could cast spells in the middle of a swarm of bees. Cudgel’s cudgel was severed clean through. Gerda’s next stroke took him at the intersection of his neck and shoulder. He dropped to the ground in two pieces, both twitching.

    Scar managed to scramble around her while she was dealing with Cudgel. He ran for the cave mouth, stumbling through the firelight. But Gerda was faster. She lunged after him, caught him by the collar with one hand and swiped him across the back of the head with the pommel of her falchion.

    Amazingly, he rolled to his feet, making one last desperate lunge for her eyes. She stepped back deftly and parried. Her falchion took his hand at the wrist. He staggered to his knees, cradling his forearm in his opposite hand, staring in shock at the severed stump. Gerda took the opportunity to separate the other hand, as well, then took the head.

    The Claws of Malar lay lifeless on the cavern floor.

    Some time later, Wilhelm and Gerda sat outside the cave, on a mountainside in the Giantspire mountains. The steep, grassy slopes were littered with a patchwork of talus and boulders, and the wind pulled forcefully at their cloaks. For Wilhelm it was gratifying simply to be outside and free again. Two new warg hides, freshly tanned, were laid out on the ground, weighted against the wind with heavy stones.

    Gerda lit her pipe with an ember she carried in a horn. She passed the pipe to Wilhelm, and he took a long, satisfying draw. He cupped the bowl in his hands, enjoying its warmth in the bracing mountain air. He gazed out over the valley below.

    “I understand your motivations,” he said at last, “though I cannot help but object to your methods. That said, I do not hold you accountable that the rangers you hired were Malarite priests. You could not have known that.”

    “No,” said Gerda, running a comb through her long, black hair. “Their kind conceals itself very well.”

    She paused a moment, then continued. “I just want you to understand that everything I did was done for the group. There is nothing that I would not do for our Circle. It is the only thing that matters to me, the only place I have ever been . . . accepted.”

    “I know that,” said Wilhelm. “Your intentions were . . . ,” he trailed off.

    “You must also understand,” Gerda went on, picking up the thread of conversation again, “why I have was unable to accept your decision to leave. You say that you are leaving because you love this elf-woman, because you are in love with her. But . . . I cannot be certain what that means. I have never experienced that for myself.”

    Wilhelm glanced over at her, but her eyes were fixed on the valley below, staring into the distance.

    “The close bond we share in the Circle, as brothers and sisters of nature, is all the love I have ever known. No man has ever praised the beauty of my eyes or hair, nor asked me to lay with him and share his bed.”

    Gerda tapped her chin thoughtfully with the ivory comb as she looked down into the valley. After a moment, she began brushing again.

    “You must admit, I am not the ideal of human beauty,” she said at last. “But I am not certain I would wish to experience this kind of love you have described. It seems a most painful and tragic thing.”

    Wilhelm nodded, thoughtfully. “You are right on that account,” he said. “It is not something that one chooses, I think. It is something that happens. In some cases, it is a blessing, in others a curse. To be honest, I don’t know which applies to me.”

    Gerda smiled faintly and stood. Wilhelm stood and faced her, returning her pipe, which she accepted without comment.

    “I thank you for saving me,” he said. “You were most formidable.”

    She chuckled. “Conditions were ideal,” she said. “A small space, and two poorly armed spell-casters. It was like spearing fish in a barrel.”

    “For once that analogy actually fits,” replied Wil.

    “You are always welcome among us,” said Gerda. “And I am . . . sorry. I clearly have much to learn, not only about being Archdruid, but also about being . . . well, human.”

    “You are forgiven,” said Wilhelm. “You have earned that much, at least. And these events had the feeling of . . . fate. I suspect we could not have avoided this passage, even if we had foreseen it. We have destroyed an entire band of Malarite priests. That is something.”

    “Aye, that is something,” Gerda grinned.

    “You should know, however,” continued Wilhelm, “That I am unlikely to return. Something tells me I shall live out my days here in the north.”

    “Farewell, then,” said Gerda. “You know where to find if the wind should change. May Silvanus protect you always.” She shifted then, blurring into her avian form. In moments, she was gone, a great, golden eagle soaring over the valley floor.

    Wilhelm gathered up the warg hides, and then followed in her example. He shifted into his avian form, and winged away to the south, toward Norwick. He was undoubtedly late checking in with Ethan, and he desperately wanted to find Jade.

    By the time Wilhelm reached Norwick, he had become thoroughly enraptured by his falcon form, and his human cares seemed far behind him. He played high on the winds, exhilarating in the feel of the air rushing through his feathers, the joy of spiraling upward to great heights, the thrill of diving for prey, the freedom of being alive and independent and high above the world. He watched the small creatures crawl on the lands below and wondered how he could ever have lead such a pedestrian existence. He longed to remain in the high places, among the winds and the clouds.

    He flew on past Norwick and into the Nars Pass, enjoying the cold northern air off the mountains. He saw a hawk there, hunting low over the trees and trails and meadows. The intrusion annoyed him immensely, and he struggled briefly against the urge to swoop down upon it, to rend with claws and with rip head from body with bloodied beak.

    It was in that precise moment, however, just as he was about to plunge into a dive, that something important caught his eye. He wasn’t certain exactly what it was, wasn’t sure why it seemed important, but something inside him was profoundly unsettled. He circled lower for a closer look.

    A lone figure stood on a rock promontory in the pass, a feminine shape with long black hair flowing in the northern wind. Something about that midnight hair, something about the way it moved, drew him closer. He could see the glint of metal, the length of a greatsword upon her back. And then suddenly he was diving, plunging to the earth. He could feel himself changing shape almost before touching down.

    In his excitement he botched the landing, fell down hard in his human form. The impact was jarring, a flash of pain, and he tumbled to the ground.

    He picked himself up and fought a sense of vertigo and looked around to get his bearings. He was in the Nars Pass, somewhere north of Norwick. He could see a figure in the distance, standing on a lone rock formation, looking off to the west. The sight made his breath catch. It could only be her. His heart thudded in his chest, and he felt knots in his stomach. He walked slowly to the west, picking his way on bare feet among the rocks and the brush. At last he arrived at the gentle slope of the rock formation and looked up at the figure above him.

    His voice trembled a little as he spoke. “Jade?” he asked softly.


  • Tooth and Claw

    Wilhelm rose at dawn and emerged from his tent rested and relaxed, savoring the cold bite of the morning air. He had slept in his hide armor and felt stiff and sore, and he spent a few minutes stretching, attempting to loosen the knots in his muscles. New armor always required a break-in period, usually a matter of months. Until that time had passed, one was bound to feel sore in the mornings. Nevertheless, when traveling in rough country, it was best to sleep in one’s armor, to wear it at all times, until it became like a second skin. Narfell was the very definition of rough country.

    He ate a cold breakfast of dense bread, dried meat, an apple, and a small piece of hard cheese. Ordinarily, he would have wandered over to the elven camp to take advantage of their hospitality. However, on this particular morning, he was eager to find news of Jade. He set out immediately to the east, looking for the two men Sally had mentioned the previous evening, hoping to reach them before they broke camp.

    He made good time, and he soon caught sight of their camp through the trees, just beyond the edge of the Rawlinswood. They were camped on the open plains of the Nars grasslands, well clear of the dense tree line that marked the border of the forest, where only a few stray trees dotted the landscape. They had two horses and a pack mule tied to stakes in the earth, and the animals were grazing idly on the lush grass. The two men were in the process of breaking down their tent, working in silence, abstaining from the usual banter common among travelers.

    Wilhelm watched them for a moment from within the cover of the forest. They were course looking men, fit and muscular, with full beards and long, braided hair. They wore long chain-mail shirts belted at the waist over rough-spun tunics and woolen breaches. One had a light cudgel studded with metal rivets that hung from his hip by a loop in his belt. The weapon looked fast and lethal, effective against lightly armed opponents. Both wore long daggers at their belts along with smaller skinning knives. There was a quarterstaff strapped to one of the horses. Wilhelm assumed it belonged to the other man. He noticed that the latter had a long, ugly scar down the side of his face.

    Based on their weapons and armor, Wilhelm reasoned that these two men were probably priests of some kind, or possibly rangers, followers of one of the many natural deities. The metal armor combined with the modest weaponry was a dead giveaway. Mercenaries would have carried swords or axes, and arcane spell casters would have worn robes. Wilhelm wasn’t sure why the natural religions frowned on effective weaponry; that made absolutely no sense, but it was a fact of life in Faerun that seemed to persist for no reason whatsoever.

    Wilhelm stepped from the trees, and gave a shrill whistle, waving at the two men from a distance. The men ceased their activities and looked in his direction, but they did not return his wave. He walked toward them across the grassland, unarmed and nonthreatening, shouting a “hello” as he moved closer. Still they didn’t answer.

    After a moment Wilhelm approached to within a comfortable distance for talking. He stopped there, perhaps fifteen yards away.

    “Greetings,” he offered. “Sorry to intrude this morning.”

    The two men exchanged glances, and then looked back at him, saying nothing.

    “I’m camping over yonder,” he pointed off to the south, toward Norwick. “I heard you fellows are looking for a friend of mine. I happen to be looking for her too. Thought we might share information.”

    The two men glanced at each other again, and one resumed packing their gear. The other, the one with the cudgel, regarded Wilhelm coolly.

    “Who are you?” he asked.

    “My name is Wilhelm, Wilhelm Cypress.”

    The scar-faced man ceased his activity and stood, turning to face him. Both men suddenly looked tense.

    Wilhelm held up his hands in the universal gesture of innocence.

    “I’m just looking for my friend,” he said. “I heard you fellows were looking too. She’s a moon elf that carries a greatsword, goes by the name of Jade. I just wanted to know if you had any leads.”

    The cudgel-bearing man shook his head. “No,” he said. “We don’t discuss our business with strangers.” He inclined his head in the direction of the forest. “Why don’t you head on off. We don’t need company.”

    There was an uncomfortable silence. Wilhelm considered the situation. After a moment’s pause he spoke again.

    “The lady is a close friend of mine,” he said. “What exactly do you fellows want with her?”

    “Like I said, none of your business.”

    This last response precipitated another awkward silence in which nobody moved for a long moment. Finally, Wilhelm tried again.

    “It’s not that I mean to intrude,” he said at last. “It’s just that the lady is my business, at present. That means that your business and my business somewhat overlap.” He gestured with his hands, laying one atop the other. “See?” he said. “We have a common interest. Wouldn’t you agree?”

    The man put a hand on his cudgel.

    “No. Now, like I said . . . piss . . . off.”

    Wilhelm tilted his head to one side. There was a third moment of uncomfortable silence. “Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen,” he said at last, softly, almost to himself. He began a chant in druidic that would bind the men where they stood.

    The two men reacted instantly, with the reflexes of skilled fighters, trained to work together. The cudgel-bearing man rushed at Wilhelm, not even bothering to pull the cudgel from his belt. The other, the scar-faced man, began a chant of his own. Wilhelm was surprised to hear druidic, though in a dialect that was unfamiliar. He recognized the chant as a summons of some kind, but could not tell what would actually be summoned.

    Wilhelm nearly finished his chant, but Cudgel crashed into him, knocking him to the ground and disrupting the spell. The larger man, clad in chainmail, rolled over and past him, and both landed sprawled on their backs. Wilhelm, armored in the lighter hide, was faster to his feet.

    He resisted the urge to tackle Cudgel. In a grappling contest, Wilhelm would have the advantage, his lighter armor providing greater freedom of movement, while the other man would be carrying a heavy weight in chain. However, Wilhelm still had to worry about Scar and whatever thing the man had just summoned.

    He backed away, looking for the summoned creature, and saw a black warg with yellow eyes, its fangs bared and muzzle dripping. Scar began a second chant, this time a binding spell of some kind. Cudgel was pushing himself to his feet, reaching for the weapon at his hip.

    He had underestimated these men, and in a minute or two they would probably overwhelm him. He needed to extricate himself from the situation.

    He shapeshifted, moving from human to lupine form in an instant. For some druids, the shapeshifting process was slow and difficult, even painful. But Wilhelm had practiced the art of shapeshifting for decades, and for him the process was swift, silent, and as natural as breathing. His body and clothing blurred and wavered, seeming to lose focus, then shape, then color, dissolving into a dense cloud of smoke. And then the process reversed itself, the cloud coalescing, color and shape resolving, and at last the focus sharpening to perfect clarity and detail. Where once a red-haired man had crouched on the ground, there now stood a large and powerful wolf, its gray fur streaked with russet.

    Scar continued his second spell, and Cudgel pulled his weapon from the loop on his belt. The warg leapt at him. Wilhelm sprang away and bolted for the tree line.

    He had chosen his lupine form, because the wolf was his first and most familiar wildshape, and because wolves are fast runners. He had hoped to be away, to lose himself in the woods, in a matter of seconds. He hadn’t considered the warg though, which was on his heels in an instant, teeth snapping at his hamstrings.

    He zigged and zagged, trying to gain some distance on the warg. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other two men shifting shape was well. Both took form as dark wargs, black as night with yellow eyes, and turned to join the chase.

    Their ability to shapeshift meant they were both druids, a disturbing development. In addition, their choice of form had betrayed their alignment. The warg was an inherently evil creature, black hearted and vicious, and no druid with a compassionate soul would ever considering assuming that form. In fact, Wilhelm’s former circle had taken to wearing warg-hide cloaks, each druid proudly displaying the wargs he or she had slain as initiation into the circle.

    He had no time for such ruminations now, though, with three wargs close behind him. Wil turned sharply again, nails digging at the grass and soil. He opened up and sprinted for the woods, his whole body compressing and expanding with each bound. In that moment, despite his desperation, he felt the thrill and joy of running as only a wolf or a dog can feel. The power of his body and legs, the world flashing by, nothing could catch him, and nothing could escape him. The world was his.

    Behind him, he heard the wargs lift their muzzles and howl at the open sky, the deep, rough howl characteristic of their breed. A moment later, in the distance, they were answered. Two voices to the distant south joined the chorus, the same rough howl, and then one more voice to the north, closer by. A pack of five, Wilhelm was badly outnumbered. They might only be wargs, companions to these two druids. On the other hand, all five might be druids. In that moment he became genuinely worried. Only the Rawlinswood offered any hope of refuge.

    Wilhelm reached the woods and continued running, darting and weaving among the trees. He leapt a fallen log, scrambled over a deadfall, and twisted through some bracken, but the summoned warg stayed close on his tail. Wilhelm was fast and comfortable in his wolf shape, but the animal behind him was a natural warg, inhabiting its native body, and thus far more adept. Wilhelm kept the lead only by virtue of being larger and stronger, and therefore more powerful with each bound. The other wargs began to lag somewhat behind. Clearly the druids were not as proficient in their chosen form.

    A few moments later and Wilhelm gained a reprieve. The summoning spell ran its course. The natural warg wavered and vanished in a puff of smoke.

    It was all the advantage he needed to break away. He required only a small lead, a little gap in time, in which to change his form again. He shifted for the second time, into a small wren, and darted into a thicket. He worked his way through the thorns and the fine branches and then out the other side, flying low to the ground, vanishing through the trees. In thirty or so yards, he lighted behind the trunk of a tall tree and then flew straight up, rising high among the branches, where he could remain concealed among the leaves.

    As quickly has it had begun, the chase was over. His pursuers could spend the rest of the day in the Rawlinswood, hunting every bird and squirrel, and they would still never find him.

    They understood the situation, as well. The two wargs stopped and sniffed the air and then turned around, loping back toward their campsite. Wilhelm followed from a discrete distance, reflecting on his circumstances.

    He had badly underestimated the two druids, a foolish mistake. Years of living an easy and peaceful existence had dulled his survival instincts, had blunted his suspicious nature when dealing with other humans. To make matters worse, they had now called their pack, and they would be joined by their animal companions, or possibly even other druids.

    The real problem, however, was that the men who had assaulted him would still be looking for Jade, and he did not know why. He suspected they had an employer, somebody who had hired them or at least directed them to find her. Furthermore, he knew they were of an evil alignment, not only because they had attempted to murder him, but because they had assumed warg shapes in his pursuit. He guessed that had been a blunder . . . few would openly take shape as a warg on the plains in broad daylight, where others might see. In a moment of crisis they taken the shape most natural to them, a shape they would have no doubt preferred to conceal.

    Of course, Jade was resourceful and had formidable defenses of her own. But if these men ambushed her while she was unarmed, they might well succeed in subduing her, possibly even killing her, especially if they attacked with summons and spells.

    Wilhelm continued to follow the men in his avian form, a small, inconspicuous bird in the treetops, silent and nearly invisible. He considered his next actions. It was not enough to protect Jade against these two men. He needed to know who had hired them. And he needed to find out why they were seeking her. There could be any number of reasons. Jade had lead an interesting and colorful life . . . there was no telling what enemies she had made during the last few years. These men were his only source for answers.

    When they reached the edge of the treeline, the two druids shifted shape again, resuming their human forms, and stepped out into the grassland of the Nars plains. Wilhelm lingered behind, remaining within the shelter of the trees. He needed to consider his approach carefully before confronting the men a second time.

    He watched from the safety and concealment of the trees as the two druids returned to camp. Their horses and pack mule were gone, no doubt having panicked and run in fright from the sudden appearance of wolf and wargs.

    The two men nevertheless resumed breaking down their camp. Scar gathered the bedrolls and various scattered belongings, while Cudgel stacked the tent frame and rolled up the oilcloth covering. In time, a warg emerged from the Rawlinswood to the north and loped casually toward the campsite. The very sight of such a creature gave Wilhelm the chills.

    The warg reached the camp and then blurred and shifted, taking shape in human form–another druid, tall and dark-haired in leather and chainmail with a long slender scimitar slung across his back. The three men greeted one another, and a brief conversation ensued. One of the druids pointed off in the Wilhelm’s direction, toward the Rawlinswood, no doubt recounting the tale of the recent encounter. The same druid then pointed northward, and all three turned and looked in the same direction. Wilhelm also turned and followed their gaze. Although his eyesight in this form was not exceptional, he could see the horses and mule in the distance, grazing on the grass, their leads hanging lax on the ground. The animals had not run far.

    Wilhelm flitted down from the tree and flew a short distance back into the woods. He resumed human form and seated himself at the base of a tall oak tree, considering the problem he had encountered. Who were these druids, and why were they looking for Jade? What did they want from her? What deity did they follow, and who was their archdruid? He only knew they were enemies, that they had allied themselves with some dark and twisted god.

    He also knew that, once these men left his sight, he might never find them again. A druid was impossible to track, even for the most skilled of rangers. A druid could pass without trace through any kind of terrain, could assume any shape, become any creature, could travel by wing as a bird or by water as a fish. They could speak with the animals, even the plants, and given half a chance would disappear, vanish without a sign.

    Of course, people had a way of showing up eventually, if you knew where to look for them. They had habits of returning to the same places, seeking the same pleasures, mingling with the same friends. The problem was, these men were complete strangers. He knew nothing of their backgrounds, their habits, or their interests.

    He must do something now, must strike while the enemy was gathered. If he let these druids slip away, he might never have another opportunity to apprehend them. He might never even see them again. And, if they got to Jade . . . she would have little or no warning, of that he was sure. These were not the type of opponent to strike from the open. They might poison her food, or lead her into a trap . . . the possibilities were endless. It had been sheer luck that he had found them, and he must not allow the opportunity fate had given him to slip away.

    Of course, direct confrontation with three, possibly even five, druids without a clear estimate of their power was risky, probably suicidal. Even if they were all novices, they would be casting five spells to his one. And the two with which he had already interacted were not novices. They had exhibited, at the very least, the ability to shapeshift. That ability alone which implied a substantial measure of power.

    The essence of any viable strategy would to be to interfere with their spell casting ability. If they could see him, and could target him with spells, he would quickly be overwhelmed, one way or another. On the other hand, if he could disable their magic it would not matter how much power they possessed. A druid without spells was essentially helpless.

    Wilhelm sat against the trunk of the oak tree, his mind turning the problem over and over. Precious seconds slipped away—his adversaries might leave at any time—but still he could not devise any semblance of a workable strategy.

    At last, he surrendered to the impossibility of the situation. He cleared his mind and shifted himself into a kneeling posture, placing his hands on the leaves at the base of the tree, working his fingers down through the dry leaves and into the damp mulch and soil below. He felt the cool moisture of the earth against his palms and fingers, breathed in the scent of rich, dark soil. He listened to the faint whisper of the breeze, the rustling of the leaves in the trees, the calls of songbirds. He felt the gentle, fleeting caress of the breeze against his face. He lingered there a moment, soaking up the sensations of the natural world around him, letting his human self, his calculating mind, gradually subside. Slowly but surely, the man that was Wilhelm Cypress faded away, until there was only the whispering presence of the earth, and nothing more.

    Wilhelm was not a man who worshiped the gods of Faerun. Of course, he could not deny their existence, for he had seen their priests work incredible miracles. But he had great difficulty with the idea of investing his faith in a group of quarreling, petty, power-mongering deities, each of which constantly strove for status among and above the others. They struck him as essentially human, only more powerful, and he did not like the idea of bowing to any man. Rather, he believed there must be something greater, some high and singular power from which all divinity drew its essence. For him, that power was most clearly and directly experienced through contact with nature, with the raw and elemental powers of the earth and oceans and sky.

    In this respect, Wilhelm was unusual among druids. He was a mystic, an apostate, estranged the circles of orthodoxy, excluded from many of the most sacred rituals. However, in the past few years, he had begun to discover some unique advantages. He no longer needed chants and prayers, the flailing of arms and fingers, to access his magic. Rather, he found that he could draw the magic from the world around him, focus it through his own mind and body, and release it back into the world in altered form, all without word or gesture. It was not always a power available to him. His concentration had to be near-perfect.

    After several minutes of deep meditation, he gradually allowed to his conscious mind to coalesce. He did not reconstitute it entirely, however. Instead, he held himself in a suspended, halfway between waking and dreaming, his mind coherent but diffuse, like a lantern in the fog.

    He laid belly-down on the ground and half crawled, half slithered to the edge of the treeline. He looked out onto the plains and saw five men standing in a circle. Five druids. They stood tall and still, eyes closed, deep in some communal meditation. He slowly pushed himself to his feet. At this distance, hidden among the foliage, he was unlikely to be noticed. He watched them for a long moment, but they did not move. They must be gathering their power, linking their minds, possibly even communicating with their Archdruid.

    He had already considered that trading spells against five druids would be suicide. There were so many vectors of attack, so many different elements to shield oneself against, not to mention summons and missile weapons and possibly even death-magic.

    He glanced down at his body, sheathed in wool and hide. Though not visible under the leather, he was strangely reminded that his upper arms were banded with tattoos in the form of blue lightning. A foolish mark of vanity, a vestige of his youth, from a time when his talent as a druid had first emerged, and he had thrilled at the power of calling down lightning from the heavens. But he had something better now, something far, far more powerful.

    His mind reached out with his mind and magical sight, seeing beyond his normal range of vision, stretching beyond the reach of mortal eyes. His mind’s eye searched the heavens, strained against the blur of magical sight, grasping for something impossible that he barely understood. At last he found what he was searching for, a hard gray stone, floating somewhere in the far heavens, somewhere dark and distant. He called to the stone, sent it a summons, pulled it with magic, through a hole in space and time, drawing it into the sky above.

    He felt it appear above, knew it was there before he saw it, felt it racing toward him. And then he spotted it in the sky, a tiny dot, a pinpoint of white light high above. He divided his focus then, split his attention into two halves, one half focused on the white dot above, the other focused on the earth at the center of his enemies, striving to connect the points, to fashion a link between the heavens above and the earth before him.

    The dot grew closer, brighter, larger. Blue green fire and a trail of orange flame. For a moment, a strange howling filled the air, and beneath the howling a harsh crackling and hissing sound, like flesh in a fire. The druids looked up in alarm, their concentration broken, but they were too late. One of them threw up his arms, a weird light in his hands.

    For one, fleeting second the meteor was a bright ball of light in the sky. In the next, it slammed into the ground at the center of his enemies, and the earth seemed to shatter with the impact. The noise was deafening. The shock wave lifted Wilhelm off his feet, gentle as a feather, and then hurled him back through the trees. He slammed into the bole of an oak, the jarring impact, the splintering of bone.

    A wave of dirt and debris washed over him, peppered him with gravel. Dirt and dust filled the air, and he coughed, trying to clear his lungs, his diaphragm twisting and throat stinging. He had bashed his head against the tree, snapped his wrists and elbow.

    The healing chant was on his lips, automatic, and healing magic washing through him. The instinctive surge fear and adrenaline coursed through his blood. He felt shaky and exultant at the same time. He pushed himself to his feet, whole and healthy in an instant.

    Out on the grassland, through the haze of dust and smoke, he saw a circular ridge of earth around a deep crater. Flames licked at the grass near the edge of the crater. Of the five druids, two were sprawled in the grass, some fifty yards away, unmoving and probably dead. A third lay twisted on his side, covered in dirt and blood, struggling and failing to climb to his feet. Of the remaining two, he saw no sign. Perhaps they had been vaporized in the explosion.

    He wasted no time, jogged out onto the grassland, to where the wounded man struggled. He kicked the man in the face, sprawling him on his back, unconscious. He then inspected man’s injuries, which were already beginning to close and mend. The man was bearing some kind of magic item that empowered him to regenerate, to passively heal his injuries at an accelerated rate. Given enough time, even a mortal wound would mend.

    Wilhelm rolled the dark-haired man on his stomach, and lifted the long, slender scimitar from over his shoulder. He detected no magical aura on the weapon. He looped the scabbard over his own shoulder and drew the blade. It was beautifully wrought and balanced, a masterwork scimitar. He knelt down on one knee, raised the scimitar high over his head, and decapitated its former owner. Then he stood and casually kicked the head away from the body.

    “Regenerate that,” he muttered.

    He repeated the process with the other two bodies, and then carefully looted all three, taking their gold and jewelry, anything that might serve as a magic item.

    On each the bodies he did find, he discovered a pair black leather gloves with fingers tipped with red. When he slipped a glove on one of his own hands; it blurred and shifted, much like a druid’s shapeshifting. Within a moment, his fingers shorted and shriveled, turning into a row of short, jagged claws. Claws of Malar.

    He peeled the glove from his hand, and gathered them all together. Three sets of the claws. Three priests of Malar. He tucked them into his belt to be destroyed later.

    He then shifted into his preferred avian form. Once, it had been a red-tailed hawk. Over the years, however, he had gradually come to prefer the peregrine falcon. The falcon was a smaller bird, faster and more maneuverable, far more effective in avian combat.

    He caught an updraft and surveyed the area from above. No sign of Scar and Cudgel. They had either disintegrated in the blast or escaped him. There was nothing to be done but resume his search for Jade, find her and warn her that danger was approaching. He would also need to warn the elves that priests of Malar had invaded their forest. He circled once more and then turned west, back toward his camp in the Rawlinswood.

    As he disappeared into the distance, two large, black ravens emerged from the treetops. They circled the area once, briefly, and then turned into the west.


  • Old Embers and New Flames

    Evening deepened in the Rawlinswood. Shadows lengthened and the air cooled quickly beneath the trees. The creatures of day slipped into hiding, secreting themselves away in nests and burrows, and the creatures of night emerged. Nighthawks swooped above the treetops, foxes prowled in the undergrowth, and insects began to chorus among the branches.

    Deep in the woods, in a remote clearing near the druid grove, Wilhelm Cypress stood by the fading remains of a dying campfire. He wore a dark, warg-fur cloak around his shoulders for warmth, and he stared intently into the glowing coals.

    The last embers of the fire shone softly in one of several permanent camp sites near the old druid grove. Each site featured a fire-pit dug into the earth and ringed with stone, so that a man-made blaze would not inadvertently spread and bring disaster to the region. Each fire pit was surrounded by a few short logs for sitting and cooking or telling stories by the flames.

    During the dry season, the area around the grove was carefully watched, and only those who were known to the local druids, and the elves living in the Rawlinswood, were permitted to camp there. But the druids were mostly vanished, and given his lengthy absence, Wilhelm had expended some effort in trying to reassure the elves that he belonged there . Not even his ceremonial staff of Quercatha Ter had been sufficient to pacify them without further explanation.

    Fortunately, some of the elves had remembered him, and he had been allowed to make camp near the sacred trees. He had a spacious oilcloth tent, which he had purchased from the elves in exchange for medicinal and healing services, and a makeshift rotisserie over his fire, although he had kept this particular fire quite small, using it solely for ceremonial purposes. He stared now into the fading embers, looking for the future in the wavering light of the coals.

    He had never actually seen the future in the coals, as some druids had claimed to have seen, but in the past he had experienced intense visions. And sometimes those visions had lead him to valuable insights, to solutions to some of his most difficult problems. It was necessary to get the light just so . . . and this fire was almost at the perfect point.

    Wilhelm reached into his pack produced a bundle of dried sage, bound with twine, and a braid of sweetgrass. He crouched by the fire, still limber despite his years, and thrust one end of the sage into the red-hot coals. He waited for the flames to catch, yellow and orange licking among the bluish-gray leaves, and then drew the sage forth, holding it before his face, tilted at an angle, watching the flames grow and spread. After a moment he blew out the flames, and the tips of the leaves smoldered, releasing a thick, pungent smoke. He walked around the perimeter of his camp, spreading the smoke through the area, driving away the negative energy that might disturb his visions. He repeated the process with the braid of sweetgrass, leaving a sweet, mellow scent in the air.

    Satisfied for the moment, Wilhelm seated himself on a log by the fire and turned his eyes back to the coals, considering his situation. He had plenty of rations and dried fruit, and a modest but ample supply of gold coins. Otherwise, he kept few possessions: only the clothes on his back, the materials for his camp, and the contents of his pack. In Norwick, he had purchased a simple but serviceable suit of hide armor that still chafed him in a few crucial places but otherwise fit well. Under the armor, his skin was protected by a layer of quilted wool, padded leggings, and a tunic with a hood that sheltered him from the elements. Over all of this he wore his long, warg-fur cloak, so dark gray it was almost black. The cloak covered him completely, soft, shadowy, and luxurious in the night air.

    Despite wearing armor, Wilhelm still carried no weapons. It had been many years since he had needed to defend himself from bodily harm. Gerda and his Circle in the south had relied on their followers for protection. They had enjoyed the support of rangers and forest folk who depended on the druids for counsel, for the restoration of blighted crops, for healing and medicine. Besides, Wilhelm’s disposition had changed over the years, and his spirit had aged and mellowed. He no longer actively sought trouble, and it rarely came seeking him. A druid had many ways of keeping safe; a few wise precautions could keep him well clear from the difficulties of the world.

    His life of peace was now evident in his appearance, written in his form and features. He had allowed his reddish-gold hair to grow quite long, far longer than during his previous years in Narfell. It fell almost to his waistline, and he wore it bound in two braids wrapped in gray fur, one down each shoulder. His frame was lighter, too, less bulky than in years past, but still muscular. And of course there were the faint lines around his eyes, laugh lines and crows’ feet, and signs of worry on his brow.

    Wilhelm reached under his cloak and found a pouch of tabac, the last of his own potent crop, and a small pipe carved from ironwood and polished to a shine. He filled the pipe, clamped the stem between his teeth, and lit the bowl with a splinter of wood from the fire. After some time, he began to feel quite mellow, and the shifting heat and gasses in the coals of the fire began to assume recognizable forms. He could see a herd of running elk, a flight of geese, a pack of wolves snapping at the heels of a black-tailed doe, bringing her down, tearing at her hamstrings . . . he shivered. . . a waterfall and a field blue roses . . .

    Somewhere among the trees, an owl shrieked.

    Wilhelm lifted his eyes from the coals and laid his pipe on the log next to him. He rose swiftly to his feet and backed away from the fire, receding into the shadowy world of the forest at twilight, his cloak blending perfectly with the shadows, concealing his human shape. He pressed his back against the bole of an old oak, and then slowly turned his head, eyes straining to see through the dim light of the late evening. He stayed absolutely still, listening carefully to the emerging sounds of the night.

    There was something about the forest at twilight that always made him uneasy. It was an irrational, instinctive feeling that had lingered in him throughout his life. Some part of him felt that a person could stroll with ease in the woods by day, but they were unwise to venture there by night. It was all very well to imagine that trees and flowers and forest creatures were friends, but he there were trees with thorns and flowers with poison, and the forest creatures that frolic by day must go to ground at night.

    In some corner of his mind, the woods loomed close and ominous at night. The trees stood somber and quiet, silhouetted against the fading sky like sentinels, tall with menace, mute with disapproval. By day their leaves provided shade and succor from the heat of the sun, shelter from the wind. But by night they could only sigh and murmur their secrets, while their roots turned the heel, and their twisted limbs blocked the way, caught at clothing, clawed at skin. In the dark they crowded together, formed a labyrinth, a twisting maze of misdirection, in which the familiar became foreign and the way was easily lost.

    What is more, Wilhelm reflected, a person’s perception of the forest necessarily changed. They could no longer see the individual trees, and so perceived the forest as a whole. They were forced to confront the realization of just how vast and ancient the woods really were, how small and fleeting their own life was by comparison. The forest endured, just as it always had, down through the dark ages, and the little lives of men would vanish like drops of dew shaken from old branches.

    Wise men sought shelter and company in the woods at night. They ventured abroad by daylight, when the illusions of certainty and benevolence were in full flower. By night they huddled together for fire and friendship; those were the means by which they survived the dark.

    Thus, Wilhelm felt a surge of relief when a familiar figure stepped into the light of his fire. He recognized her immediately, an elf-maiden from the camp nearby, one of the younger of the scouts and rangers. He had not heard her approach, had not seen even a flicker of motion in the trees. She had revealed herself deliberately by stepping into the light. Wilhelm appreciated the courtesy. She seated herself by the fire, perched lightly on one of the fallen logs that had been fashioned into a seat.

    Wilhelm returned to the fire then, his footsteps audible on the dry leaves of the forest floor. The elf-maid rose respectfully as he approached. She had long, scarlet hair, lovely in the firelight, bound in a golden circlet. She made a small bow as he drew near.

    Wilhelm nodded in return. He had seen this elf-maid before, although they had never spoken. She was a young ranger by the name of Sala’hra’el, known for her talent in tracking and archery.

    “Greetings, holy one,” said Sala’hra’el, her eyes downcast. “Please forgive my intrusion.”

    “No forgiveness needed,” he replied. “I was just reflecting on the value of good company. Please, call me Wil.”

    “I am most honored,” she said. “May I sit with you?” She gestured to the logs arranged around the fire-pit.

    “By all means,” said Wilhelm. He resumed his previous seat, and took up his pipe from the log. He refilled the bowl and lit the tobacco anew, passing the pipe to Sala’hra’el. “Ah, could you help me with your name again?”

    “My name is somewhat difficult for the human tongue,” the elf-maid conceded. “The humans who visit our camp refer to me as ‘Sally’.” She accepted the pipe as if handling a venomous scorpion.

    “That would perhaps be preferable,” said Wilhelm. “Please understand I mean no disrespect. However, the last time I tried to pronounce the name of an elven acquaintance . . . it did not go well. After a few attempts, she begged me to stop trying.”

    Sally put a hand to her mouth, restraining a giggle. “It is of no moment, holy one,” she said. Even in the dim light of the fire, Wilhelm could see her blush. “Please, forgive my amusement, I mean no offense.”

    “None taken,” said Wilhelm.

    The elf maid took a light draw from the pipe, handing it back to Wilhelm. She coughed lightly and exhaled, clearing her throat. “Most interesting,” she said. “Does it always burn the throat so?”

    Wilhelm chuckled. “You don’t draw the smoke into your lungs,” he said. “Just into your mouth. Like drinking water through a reed.”

    “Ah,” she said. She shifted her weight on the log, her long, smooth legs gleaming in the firelight.

    “You’ve never smoked a pipe before,” noted Wilhelm. “I see that I am corrupting you.”

    The elf-maid nodded. “Young maidens do not partake of such things in the camp. It is considered . . . masculine and unseemly. Only the elder males . . . Oh, I am sorry!” She put her hand to her mouth again.

    “That’s alright,” said Wilhelm, waving one hand dismissively. “I think of myself as masculine, and I doubt that I would rate as old in your world.”

    She held out her hand, “May I try again?”

    This time the elf maid took a bold draw, and blew out a thick cloud. The warm air above the coals lofted the pipe smoke gently into the night sky. She held the pipe in one hand, head tilted as if listening.

    “Ah, what is the purpose?” she asked, finally. “First, the smoke has a nice flavor, but now my mouth tastes like ashes. No offense, holy one.”

    “Call me Wil,” repeated Wilhelm. “And to answer your question, there really isn’t any point. It’s a pointless activity for old men with too much time on their hands.”

    “Oh,” she replied, her brow furrowed in thought.

    “But please,” he encouraged, “Try a few more pulls. You might find it enjoyable.”

    Wilhelm added some wood to the coals, allowing the flames to build. He was puzzled as to why the elf-maid had come to visit him, although he certainly appreciated the view. She had long, luxurious scarlet curls that spilled all the way to her waist and emerald green eyes that glittered in the firelight. She wore a short skirt of some diaphanous material that clung superfluously to her upper thighs, covering little of her actual legs and offering Wilhelm the prospect of a glimpse at the rare red moss no doubt flourishing there in the shade.

    He wondered if she’d ever tried dwarven spirits. He had a small flask somewhere in his pack. He opened the top flap, rummaged inside for a moment, then caught himself and stopped.

    In life, some pleasures, some great pleasures, had to be foregone. It was as shame, really; he always did have an admiration for red-heads. But he couldn’t risk spoiling his possible reunion with Jade. Besides, Jade had charms of her own. Her eyes were a far deeper, richer green than Sally’s, and her legs . . . well, he had many fond memories of watching her run.

    Sally tried the pipe a few more times, but finally passed it back to him. They sat in silence for a few moments, listening to leaves rustling in the trees, the crackle of the fire, the low chorus of crickets and other insects. Among humans the silence would have been awkward. Among elves a silence was natural and easy, like a breath in the conversation.

    Sally broke the silence, gently and with perfect timing, like a leaf landing on the still surface of a pond.

    “I am accompanied by friends,” she said. “They have been keeping watch while we talked. Might they join us here, by the fire?”

    “Uh . . . by all means,” he stammered. “They are most welcome here. Besides, there is no need to stand watch. We are in your woods, after all. And I have sentries of my own.” He gestured to the trees around them.

    “The owl we heard earlier?” asked Sally “I wondered if that was your companion. You moved away from the fire when it called.”

    Wilhelm nodded. “Not my companion, exactly. I just make a habit getting acquainted with the locals wherever I travel. Owls have good eyes in the dark and excellent hearing. One could not ask for better neighbors in the woods at night.”

    Sally smiled. “Her vision was very good. I was doing my best to sneak up on you.”

    “No doubt you would have succeeded.”

    Sally gave a short whistle that was the perfect imitation of a nightingale, and two more elven rangers, one male and one female, emerged from the darkness into the light of the fire. The male was dignified, strong and regal, and the female was mature and beautiful, at once conveying the impressions of wisdom and immortality. Both had the red hair of the wood elves, and both moved with the grace and fluidity that only the fair folk possessed. They seated themselves off to one side, lounging with their backs against the bole of a wide oak, their arms linked, whether as friends or lovers, Wilhelm could not tell. Like Sally, they were dressed for leisure in attire that would have shocked most humans, but somehow for all that retained their absolute dignity. Sally introduced the couple to Wilhelm, though their names were long and difficult for Wilhelm to understand.

    “They are not as comfortable in speaking common,” said Sally.

    “Then I shall put them at ease,” Wilhelm said. He filled the pipe for a third time that evening, lit the bowl and offered it to the newcomers. They glanced at Sally, who gave a nod of approval, and then the male accepted the pipe and tried a long draw. There was a rapid conversation in elven, most of which Wilhelm did not understand. However, he caught a smattering of words, enough to recognize a generally favorable reaction.

    Sally spoke briefly with the elves, and then turned to Wilhelm. “He said that the leaf is very unusual but very good,” she said.

    Wilhelm grinned. “It is from my own garden in the south.”

    The elven gentleman tried to pass the pipe back to Wil, but he held up a hand in refusal. He had smoked enough for one night. He decided to help the conversation along.

    “I am honored to have the company of the fair folk this evening,” he said, gesturing to all of his guests. And then to Sally, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

    Sally hesitated a moment, as if considering her words, and then spoke.

    “There have been strange events in the woods of late,” she said. “They began with the last turning of the moon. We have heard strange noises in the night, bestial sounds that no animal would make. And a traveler nearby was . . . murdered.”

    Wilhelm raised a brow. “Murdered?” he repeated.

    Sally nodded. “It is an usual time, a time for caution. I just . . . I saw you in the camp the other day, and I thought you should be warned.” Her eyes lingered on his face . . . her gaze soft, her pupils dilated in the firelight.

    Just what he needed.

    “I know that you are looking for a lost lover,” she added quickly. “That is such a sad story. It made me feel such an ache for you. Do you really think she may try to kill you? She must have truly been in love.” She coiled a lock of hair around one finger, her gaze directed boldly at him.

    Wilhelm studied the ground for a moment, resisting the urge to burst out laughing in exasperation. He reached into his pack, drew out an apple, and bit into it, making a loud crunch.

    “No . . . ,” he said. “No, I do not. Tell me about this murder.”

    Sally glanced at the other two elves and then turned back to Wil. “The murder was, most unusual. The body bore many wounds, claw marks, like the mauling of a wild animal. There were . . . different kinds of marks. Some were like . . . so.” She held up three fingers and a thumb, curled like the claws. “Like the claws of an eagle.”

    “Mmm hmm, talons,” said Wil. He munched loudly on his apple, and tried to keep his eyes away from Sally’s legs.

    “Others were like . . . so.” She held up four curled fingers. “Like bear or big cat.” She paused. “And the neck,” she said, twisting her head to the side, “Broken . . . like so. But no bite marks of cat or bear.”

    “So this body,” offered Wilhelm, “Had injuries inflicted by both talons and claws. And the neck was broken, as if by the hands of a strong man. So, you suspect . . . a druid? Or perhaps a ranger and their animal companion? Or perhaps a summoner . . .”

    Sally raised one finger, “But what animal does not bite? All animals with claws do bite: bears, cats, wolves. The claws are for running and catching, but the teeth are for killing. What has claws but does not bite?”

    “That’s a good question,” replied Wil. “I would still consider the possibility of a group of assailants. Rangers with animal companions. I am reluctant to believe that druids would be involved in a murder.”

    The elf maid bowed her head. “I understand, holy one. It is most frightening. You should not be camping alone in the woods, even with friends to watch over you.”

    “You are kind to consider my safety,” said Wil.

    “My parents have a pavilion in the camp, one with many silk pillows . . .”

    At this point the etrielle, leaning against the tree, silent thus far, interrupted the dialogue. There was another rapid conversation in elven. Wilhelm’s elven was extremely rusty, but he caught a few words, including “brazen”, “parents”, and “shame”.

    Sally lifted her chin proudly, and turned back to Wil.

    “You must forgive us,” she said. “My companions are more . . . conserva . . . conservationist, than I.”

    “You mean, traditional?” asked Wilhelm.

    She nodded. There followed another short exchanged among the elves. Sally sighed and turned back to Wilhelm.

    “It seems we must be returning to the camp,” she said. “There is one last thing I wished to tell you. Two human men are camped just east of here. They are strangers to this land, foreigners from the south. Their accents are harsh and their ways unusual. I spoke with them briefly; they did not seem friendly.

    “I bring this to your attention, holy one, because they inquired about a certain elven woman. They described her as having long, dark hair and carrying a greatsword. I know that you have inquired about this same etrielle in our camp. It would seem that you and these men are seeking the same quarry. They might be able to help you find your lost love.”

    Wilhelm’s brow furrowed. “Did they give any reason for why they were seeking her?” he asked.

    The elf shook her head. “I am afraid I did not inquire. I told them I had no knowledge of her whereabouts, which was true.”

    “Did they wear warg-fur cloaks?” he asked, “Like mine?”

    “They wore fur cloaks, but . . . different from yours. Theirs were fashioned from the hides of bears.”

    “I see,” mused Wilhelm. “Well, I shall have to visit these fellows in the morning. I am curious to see what they want from Jade. They do not seem the type of company she would keep. You said they are to the east? How far?”

    “About half a league that way,” Sally pointed northeast. “But, I wish you would stay away from them. They have the look of mercenaries or murderers, and you would do well have caution.”

    “I’ll think about that,” said Wilhelm. “Thank you for your visit.”

    Sally stood and walk around the fire, kneeling on one knee in front of Wilhelm. She placed on hand on his thigh.

    “Before I must leave,” she breathed, “there is one question I would ask. This etrielle of yours, does she mind to . . . share?”


  • A Quiet Homecoming

    Wilhelm’s return to Narfell was quiet and essentially anonymous. He and Ethan approached together from the South through the Rawlinswood, along a winding dirt track that barely qualified as a road.

    The first few weeks they had traveled on foot, but eventually they had hitched a ride on a wagon train, where the services of a healer and a bard were always welcome. They paid their way in services rather than coin, Wilhelm tending to horses and sick wagoneers alike, and Ethan providing song and verse around the campfires at night. It was altogether a pleasant way to journey, far better than walking for leagues and leagues.

    While they traveled, Wilhelm had listened to stories of Narfell, of how the land had changed during the intervening years of his absence. Apparently, dramatic events had unfolded in that time. The town of Norwick had been destroyed in some type of cataclysm, but the Uthgart clans, ever stubborn and resilient, had simply moved a short distance to the north and prospered like never before. The local economy now flourished on trade with Peltarch, providing a rich source of timber and artisan crafts. The town’s borders had grown, the amenities had improved, and the entire community was well fortified with earthworks and a timber stockade.

    The town was so completely changed, in fact, that Wilhelm had taken several days to get his bearings. He had walked around and marveled at the new buildings, all the unfamiliar people and the new sights and sounds. Norwick was a bustling town, alive with energy and industry. By contrast, he could remember a time when the town was little more than a dirt road and a water well in the middle of a grassy field, surrounded by a few farmhouses, a tavern, a chapel, and a merchant or two. He chuckled softly to himself, remembering the time he’s spent an afternoon clearing rats from some merchant’s shed. What had been the man’s name? He could not even recall. But there had always been more rats. That old man must have put himself in the poor house trying to keep the shed free of vermin.

    It was on the afternoon of his second day home that he remembered he was supposed to keep a low profile. If Jade was in the area, he didn’t want to bump into her on the streets. That would be awkward to say the least. He had spent a lot of time thinking about her on the road, planning what he would say, rehearsing various lines in his mind. Time after time, he played out their meeting in his head, but nothing sounded quite right. What could he say after all this time?

    Of course, all of his speculation rested on the assumption that she was even in the area. First he would have to find her. There was a strong likelihood she had left the region, in which case her trail was probably cold and his chances of finding her minimal. Nevertheless, he planned to ask around, to seek out old acquaintances and talk with them about where she might have gone. Failing that, he would make the rounds at the taverns and the guild halls, maybe visit the Phoenix Guild, and learn if anyone had seen someone matching her description. His one advantage was that her physical description was quite memorable. A moon elf living among humans with striking green eyes and carrying a greatsword over her shoulder . . . there were few enough of those around.

    He was particularly worried that she may have settled down with another man or elf. It was an odd notion, really, something that was difficult for him to imagine. It seemed strangely wrong or discordant somehow in his mind, and it left him feeling somewhat apprehensive. But on the other hand, after seven years it was perfectly reasonable that Jade would have moved on. The last thing he wanted was to intrude upon a happy and well-settled life.

    And so Wilhelm wandered Norwick for a few days, keeping himself relatively concealed in his cloak and hood, talking only to a handful of strangers, and avoiding places he might be seen. Instead, he sent Ethan asking around for a few old friends, and of course Jade herself. But it seemed that everybody had moved on.

    Finally, he sent Ethan north to Peltarch to continue the search, while he himself withdrew into the Rawlinswood to the old druid grove to consider the situation further. He began sinking into a kind of low malaise, unable to summon much interest in the world around him. Perhaps after all this time she was truly gone.

    He returned to Norwick periodically, as planned, to check for messages. And then one day, a message came, penned in Ethan’s hand on a small piece of parchment.

    Met a fellow in the commons. Asked about a moon elf with a great sword. He asked if I was referring to Jade! He seemed to know her, and had spoken with her recently. But evasive. Told him I was a friend of a friend, would like to speak with her, staying at Mermaid.
    -E.

    Wilhelm’s stomach tied itself into a knot. He wanted leave right away, fly to Peltarch, find her and talk to her. The need to see her again after all this time was sudden and palpable and almost overwhelming. But he fought himself and suppressed the urged to go running to Peltarch. He was not a young pup anymore, chasing butterflies and rabbits like Gerda had suggested. He would handle this with some degree of restraint and consideration for Jade. He purchased a small piece of parchment and penned his reply.

    Well done, friend. Please speak with her, and learn her mind. Let her know I am here if you think such a thing prudent. I am relying on you in this most delicate matter. I will be forever in your debt.
    -W.

    Wilhelm dispatched the message to Peltarch and returned south into the Rawlinswood, feeling better than he had in weeks.


  • Second Thoughts and Severed Ties

    The remainder of the night, and into the morning, he walked along the rocky trail, little more than a goat track, working his way across the cliffs to the ridgeline above. And as he walked he began to reconsider his decision to go seeking after Jade.

    It was a foolish decision, he decided. What had he been thinking? Would he abandon his life, his friends, people he cared about and who cared about him? Would he walk out on a life and friendships he had cultivated over many years? All for an apparent “vision” that was little more than a memory that had resurfaced in his dreams? He might well have been sleepwalking. It was beyond foolish; it was insane.

    The more he thought about it, the more his pace slowed. What, exactly, did he expect to find? He had no idea whether Jade was still alive. And even if alive, she would undoubtedly be changed by the passage of time. She might have no further interest in him, or she might have taken a new lover or husband. She would undoubtedly still harbor some anger over their separation, so many years ago. There was no way of knowing what he might encounter in Jade. Coming back into her life would reopen old wounds for both of them.

    By sunrise Wilhelm he had ascended the cliffs, working his way up through a narrow draw and then to a game trail along a ridgeline. Hunger crept upon him, and he stopped to break his fast. He laid his pack down against a fallen log and seated himself beside it. Rummaging for a moment in his pack, he drew out a waterskin, some dried apples, and a lump of venison jerky. He considered his situation as he gnawed pensively on breakfast.

    To search for Jade again was a profound risk. Not only to himself, but to her as well. Was he willing to undertake that risk on her behalf? Would she not have come searching for him, if that were her desire?

    On the other hand, inaction was a choice unto itself. By leaving Narfell and its surrounding lands he put himself beyond her reach, more or less. By remaining here, he would be making the choice to maintain that separation, which implied some risks of its own. For one, he would be risking the possibility that Jade would think him indifferent to her, that she would form the wrong conclusions about him, simply because he was not present to communicate his true feelings.

    He took a long drink from his waterskin and looked out across the canyon. The mountains on the opposite side were now plainly visible in the morning light. They were carpeted with thick stands of pine and fir.

    There were, of course, other factors to consider. He had good friends now; he belonged to a whole circle of druids and wide network of their affiliates. He had important social connections that he would be leaving behind, neglecting in his absence. They would understand his decision, of course, and they would support him. But while he was gone those ties would gradually begin to wither away.

    At the very least, his friends, his Circle, deserved more than a note scribbled in haste on a handy scrap of bark. That was the old Wilhelm returned, not the person he was today. That was a person he had stopped being many years ago, a person who had harbored unspoken avarice and ambition, who had practiced deception against enemies and friends alike. In leaving under such terms, he would be doing the same to his friends today that he had done to Jade so many years ago. It was not the right way to leave.

    He took a long drink from his waterskin, and then stored it away. Water was scarce at these heights. He stared for a long moment at the ground, and looked at the world around him, as if seeing it for the first time. Reddish-brown pine straw carpeted the ground, dotted here and there with pine and fir cones. Wildflowers grew in bunches, seemingly distributed at random: red and orange paintbrush, lush nightshade with its violet blossoms, little miniature sunflowers standing knee-high. This was a dry wood, a place that subsisted on relatively little rainfall. It was nothing like the verdant green of the Rawlinswood, with its tall crown trees of oak and elm. Strange as it seemed, he really missed the Rawlinswood.

    It would be embarrassing to go back to his present circle of friends. But that couldn’t be helped. They would wonder at his erratic behavior, just leaving in the night without a word. They would probably tease him, might even think less of him, and rightfully so. Still, it was better to endure some teasing than to walk out on people who cared for you. But he had to talk to them at least, to open up and discuss his dilemma, to hear their thoughts and advice.

    Slowly, shoulders bowed, he took up his belongings and made his way back down the track, back toward the cave. They would undoubtedly have struck camp and moved on, but he could probably catch up to them on the trail.

    He moved quickly back along the trail, back the way he came, as the sun rose higher in the sky. It was hot along the cliff face. He was grateful for the soothing breeze that ebbed and flowed from time to time. In due course, the trail descended to the canyon floor and tracked alongside a rushing creek. It was some time before he caught up with his friends, his Circle.

    After awhile, however, he glimpsed them through the trees ahead. He hailed them with a shrill whistle and they paused, turning to watch him approach. They wore a mixture of smiles and frowns, expressing their relief at seeing him again, their worry at what may have befallen him. When he finally caught up, he was greeted with hugs and claps on the shoulder, some playful jibes and jests. But most of all, they wanted to know why, why he had left in the night.

    Gerda, in particular, wore a look of concern. The Archdruid studied him with an expression of careful speculation, as if she were seeing him a new light. As the greetings and the jests subsided, she fixed him with a serious look.

    “There is something you wish to discuss with us, brother Wilhelm, is there not? Would you like us to convene a counsel here to address the matter?”

    “Very much, Mother,” he replied, giving a nod of the head. “I returned to seek the counsel of the Circle. There is something I need to talk about, something of great importance to me.”

    They were six in all: two elves, two humans, a half-orc, and of course Wilhelm himself. The half-orc, Gerda, was the tallest by far, standing six feet, four inches, with long, luxurious black hair. They moved off the trail to a nearby meadow, and soon the group arranged themselves in a circle, seated in the grass. Most sat cross-legged and straight-backed in their smoky, warg-hide cloaks, but Ethan, a red-haired moon elf, lounged on his side, seeming out of place among the druids.

    Gerda called the counsel to order, and recited the purpose of their gathering. This was but a small Circle, a spontaneous gathering among traveling companions. But the presence of the Archdruid lent some formality to the occasion. Wilhelm hadn’t anticipated that.

    “Brother Wilhelm has asked the Circle to hear him,” Gerda announced. “ He has a personal matter needing our counsel, and I bid you all give him your earnest attention and your most sage advice.”

    Ethan yawned extravagantly. Gerda glanced in his direction, and managed to suppress a faint smile. Jerod and Elsa, the humans, chuckled softly while Elsa rolled her eyes. Wil relaxed somewhat at the display of levity.

    “Wilhelm, why don’t you go ahead,” offered Gerda.

    Wil cleared his throat.

    “Last night I had some dreams,” he said. “They were . . . disturbing. I’m not sure how to describe them, but I can tell you that they stirred up some memories of my past.”

    He paused, uncertain of how to continue.

    “All of us had lives before coming to the Circle,” he said. “And we have learned much those lives in the time we have spent together. You all know that I once lived in a place in the far north, called Narfell, and once belonged to another Circle there. You know about some of my friends and activities, that I spent some time studying at a bardic college in Peltarch, and that the person I am today is the direct result of those experiences.

    “However, there is an aspect of my life that I haven’t shared with anyone in a long time. There is a part of myself that has been hidden away, buried in memory, and in many ways lost until now. I honestly hadn’t even thought to discuss it. I thought it was completely behind me.”

    “And now, that has changed,” said Gerda. “You have dreamed of the past, and the past has returned.”

    “Yes,” said Wilhelm, “that’s exactly right.”

    “Well,” she asked, “Would you like to tell us what that is?”

    Wilhelm nodded his head.

    “I think that I would,” he said.

    And so he told them about Jade, about meeting her in the Rawlinswood, about how she had rallied the town of Norwick to save him from a bandit lord, how she had been his friend and constant companion and the love of his life for years. He told them about Devon, the Red Wizard and about Steel Zweiander and Kanen and Jubei. He told them about the little cottage they had owned among in the Gypsy village, and then about the long absences, the slow and painful and inexplicable drifting apart, the painful final days of their acquaintance. He told them candidly about the love he still felt for Jade, that strange, deep pool of emotion he had discovered again. And finally he told them about the dreams and the memories of the night before, and the vision of her emerald eyes by the campfire. He admitted that he had left, then, gone in the night to find her in the north, if she could in fact be found.

    As he talked, he watched the reactions of his friends. Elsa wore a sad smile, her eyes misted with half-formed tears. Her husband, Jerod, looked confused, bewildered. Alanna, a moon elf, frowned at him with disapproval. Gerda, the Archdruid, was unmoved, her eyes clouded with worry. Ethan, lounging in the grass, looked bored.

    Elsa spoke first.

    “I think you should go to her, Wilhelm. The Circle will understand. We of course love you, and we want you to be happy. You love this woman, don’t you?”

    “I . . . I think some part of me still does.”

    “Then you need to find out what happened to her. At least to have some . . . finality. And maybe the two of you can start a life together” Elsa looked at her husband, Jerod, and all eyes turned to him. Jerod blinked and hesitated a moment.

    “Well of course I agree with Elsa,” he added, somewhat hastily. “I’ll be honest, I . . . wouldn’t know what to do. But we support you in whatever you decide. You must chose your own path.”

    “Is there anyone else?” asked Gerda. “Alanna, what have you been thinking?”

    Alanna frowned.

    “How old is Jade?” she asked.

    Wilhelm reddened slightly.

    “Well, ah, I don’t exactly recall . . . I’m not certain that question ever came up.”

    Alanna arched one eyebrow, and gave him a sidelong look.

    “You don’t know her age? You lived with this maiden for however long, and you never learned her age?”

    “Well, ah, we didn’t really celebrate birthdays, and uh, it just didn’t come up.”

    “Well, I can tell you a few things,” said Alanna. “She is most likely very young. It would be highly unusual for an elf maid of middle years to fall in love with a mortal. And it is almost always discouraged. She is likely less than two or three hundred years old. And she will live for centuries longer. You left her once, and that hurt her. But if you return to her, and you remain together, then it’s almost certain you will die before she reaches middle age. All you will accomplish is to hurt her twice. Do you understand what that would mean to her?”

    Wilhelm nodded his head thoughtfully and studied the grass in front of him.

    “We do not bond easily, and we do not forget so easily as you humans. I have known others of my kind who have loved humans, and it has always ended in heartbreak.”

    Across the Circle, Gerda was nodding.

    “My concern is not for the elf, maid,” she said. “My concern is for this Circle and the druids in it. My concern is for you, Wilhelm. It is clear to me that this elf woman is very dangerous to you. She has a hold over you, a power that is pulling you. To have such strong vision, after so many years, I would not discount the possibility of clairvoyance, of some psychic link between you. Why it has manifested now, I do not know.

    “But even without such a link, she has another power, perhaps equally potent. She has the powers of sympathy and guilt. It is clear you have a great sympathy for this woman, and you feel a heavy weight of guilt over your actions in the past. These are powerful emotions; they can be used to manipulate and control you, just like pulling the strings on a puppet. Even now, she reaches across the miles and the years and pulls your little strings, and you come running like a trained . . . Forgive me. I only wish to help you, son. My words are harsh, but they are not meant to injure. Will you not reconsider this wild chase?”

    There was a long moment of silence. Wil just stared at the grass in front of him.

    “What you say is partially true, Mother,” he conceded. “Jade and I were exposed to some powerful magics in those days, and our bond was . . . remarkable. There could be some lingering clairvoyant link between us. It’s also true that I feel guilty about what happened. I would rewrite history if I could. But I would not say that I pity her. Her fate could, after all, be happier than mine. I simply do not know.”

    “But you do not believe, son,” Gerda responded. “You do not believe that her fate was happier than yours. Otherwise, you would not be having this urge to go chasing after her. And let me present something else for your consideration. What about your progress as a druid? Can this elf maid of yours be drawn into the Circle? She sounds more a mercenary to me. She has a killer instinct, an appetite for violence. You must not expose yourself to that. The two of your are not compatible.

    “At this phase of your life, you should be cultivating your inner tranquility, strengthening your mental focus, and deepening your understanding of the powers resident in the earth. But instead you will go chasing after a pretty pair of eyes, a lovely ornament for your arm? You have the potential to be one of the strongest druids our Circle has seen in generations. Even today, even I your Archdruid could not best you in single combat. Why are you not leading this Circle yourself, Wilhelm? Why are you chasing a butterfly, when the pups are hungry and the hunt is calling you?”

    Wilhelm nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. Then he looked up and looked Gerda in the eye.

    “You are right, Mother. Jade has always made my life more complicated. She has always threatened my tranquility, and she has distracted me from my meditations. But she also saved my life . . . I don’t know how many times. I can’t explain it . . . it’s not rational. This is just something I must do. For better or worse, I must know what has become of her, try and heal what injuries I have opened.”

    Gerda regarded him sternly.

    “This is a selfish, decision, Wilhelm,” she said. “You are not a young pup anymore. You are one of us, and you owe the Circle a duty of loyalty. We will not stand in your way; each druid is free to chose his or her own path. But we will not accompany you, and we will not bestow our blessing.” She shot a meaningful look to Elsa, who averted her gaze.

    “I’m sorry to hear that, Mother.” Wilhelm’s voice turned cold. He stood and shrugged the warg-fur cloak around his shoulders. “I don’t expect you to understand. I only wanted you to know my reasons.”

    Wilhelm turned and walked away, back through the meadow toward the trail. Nothing further would be said. He would go north and do what he must. After that was done, perhaps these ties could be healed.

    He paused by his pack, which he had leaned against an old tree. He rolled up the warg hide cloak and tied it to the pack, and then settled the pack comfortably against his shoulders and hips. As he started up the trail, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned.

    It was Ethan. His red hair was tied back with a thin leather strap, and a lute case was slung over one shoulder. He smirked a little Wilhelm regarded him.

    “Seeing how I’m not an official member of the Circle,” Ethan began, “I think I’ll tag along with you, old boy. You’ve just become a lot more interesting.”

    Wilhelm couldn’t help but shake his head, laughing softly.

    “That’s fine,” he said. “It’s a long walk. I could use some entertainment.”

    Together, they started back along the trail, heading north into the mountains.

    As Wilhelm and Ethan disappeared into the woods, Gerda turned her attention to Alanna and the others.

    “Alanna, I trust you and I are in agreement on this?” she said. “This woman must not be allowed to interfere with Wilhelm’s spiritual development. The Circle needs him, and he needs the Circle.”

    Alanna nodded. “I am as concerned for her as for him. But yes, Mother, I wish there were some way this could be averted.”

    Gerda took out a small, yellow comb and began running it through her long, luxurious black hair. It was unusual hair, remarkably soft and radiant for a half-orc. She cared for it meticulously. She paused a moment, an tapped the comb against her jaw-line.

    “Perhaps there is a way,” she said. “Perhaps we can make it easier for him.”

    “Alanna,” she said, looking the moon elf, pointedly. “I trust you have heard of this place, this Narfell? See if you can find the woman and reason with her. Perhaps she can be influenced, or at least intimidated, into making herself scarce.

    “Also . . .” she paused, thoughtfully. “We may need to find some way to sever this psychic connection, if indeed there is such a thing.”

    “I can find her, Mother, but I am not certain what I should tell her . . .” Alanna trailed off.

    “Just find her for now, Alanna, and see if you can discern her intentions. Study her and learn what she is like. Use all of your powers and resources. If you think it worthwhile, reveal yourself and reason with her as one elf to another. I will gather the Circle, and we will take care of the rest, if necessary.”

    Alanna bowed her head.

    “Yes, Mother.”

    “And one other thing, Alanna.”

    “Yes, Mother?”

    “He will most likely proceed on foot, as he prefers his human form, and Ethan cannot shift. You should leave your belongings here and travel by wing. Make sure you find her before he does. Others will be along shortly to deal with the rest. I may even attend to this matter personally.”


  • Memory and Dream

    He walked through summer grass toward the sound of rushing water. A mist covered the ground, and he felt strangely disoriented, like someone lost in a foreign land. But the land felt familiar, smelled familiar, and a recognizable hint of cold lingered in the air. He was somewhere in the north, the far north, somewhere foreign and familiar all the same.

    His feet carried him through tall grass with pale blossoms that brushed against his knees as he walked. The sun was easing toward the horizon far in the south.

    It was then he saw the waterfall, the place where it all began, with its lone tree at the top and butterflies circling its crown. The sun shone down on the green grass meadow around the tree, and he walked over near the top of the falls and lay upon his back on the grass.

    The sky was a perfect blue, pale at the zenith and deepening to royal at the horizons. He could see the faint outline of a moon, even in the late afternoon light, and a few wisps of cloud moving in the periphery of his vision. He lay like that for awhile, feeling as if he were adrift on the winds above him.

    And then suddenly she was standing over him, a trace of smile on her lips and a spark of amusement in her eye.

    “I thought I might find you here,” she teased. “You know the roof needs patching in our shack.”

    He smiled up at her.

    “You are so lovely, Jade,” he said. “You were born with those emerald eyes, weren’t you?”

    Her brow creased, ever so slightly.

    “Have you been drinking at the Boarshead, again? With that bard?”

    That bard. She only referred to Reggie as “that bard” when she was peeved.

    “Whisch one?” he smiled, slurring ever so slightly.

    She nudged him in the ribs with the steel toe of her boot.

    “It doesn’t matter which one,” she said. “Answer the question.”

    He reached up to her with one hand, his fingertips brushing her waist, her hip.

    “I’m sober,” he said. “Why don’t you lay with me and float across the sky?”

    She snorted derisively, and walked around, above his head, beyond his field of vision. He craned his neck to look for her, and turned on his side, but she was gone.

    “Jade?” He looked around. He climbed to his feet and brushed himself off, bemused. Over the low roar of the falls, his ears picked up a faint splash and a peal of silvery laughter.

    He walked to the precipice, and saw her down below, her armor piled on the bank of the stream. In the fading light, she was floating on her back in the spray of the falls. How had she gotten down there so fast? The outline of her figure stirred him.

    He made his way down the hillside adjacent to the falls. The descent took some time, as the ground was damp and the rocks were slippery. By the time he reached the pool where she swam, he was breathing heavily and his mouth was dry.

    "Jade?" his voice sounded dry and cracked, and far too young.

    "H-How long have you been standing there?" She seemed surprised to see him.

    He cleared his throat, licking his lips to quench their dryness, "Too long, I'm afraid . . . I could not resist but stare in awe of your beauty."

    She sank into the water, concealing her lithe form. Goose bumps stood up on her shoulders and neck.

    "So…do you always peep at women bathing in the river?"

    He tried to smile, harmlessly.

    "Since when do you bathe in the river? Since when has there been a woman with such undying, pure beauty in my midst?"

    “Your eyes burn like emeralds set in silver flame," he reached for her hand, and she for his.

    She laughed then and splashed him in the face, darting away beneath the waters.

    “Not today, Wilhelm” her voice off to his left, and her throaty chuckle, so seldom heard, only when she was doing something wicked.

    She stood naked on the bank, her wet figure, slender and curved, glistening in the light of the sunset. Her bow was in her hands, drawn taught to the corner of her mouth.

    She made a little kiss, and the bowstring sang. An arrow sprouted from his chest, blood red fletching, the same color as his blood pouring down his body, spreading in the pool.

    He sank into the waters, and the light shone perfectly clear, like a bright summer day, all the way to the bottom. As he settled into the pebbles and the weeds, something caught his eye, something bright and silver. He reached out . . . he could almost touch it, almost slip his finger through the little circle . . . But he breathed in water and began to panic.

    He continued to panic as the bugbears crashed toward them. Just him and her, in the deep woods. He was bleeding from two arrow wounds, and she had a nasty gash across her thigh. How she was still standing, he didn’t know. But time moved with honey languor, as she threw aside her bow and pulled the greatsword from over her shoulders.

    They fell back against the stone wall of a ruined tower. He felt dizzy and slipped to one knee. He was finished, but she interposed herself in front of him, between him and the beasts.

    The greatsword moved like quicksilver, too fast for his mind to follow, as if animated by elven magic. Blood was spraying everywhere, and the beasts were screaming their deaths. He took another arrow, somewhere in the shoulder, but he barely felt it through the numbing veil of shock and blood-loss. There were just too many of them, and they were all around. It was only a matter of moments. He began to see points of light dancing before his eys.

    “Wil, please!” her cry pierced his confusion. He saw her stagger under a glancing blow. Another inch to center would have snapped bone.

    He began the chant without thinking. Strange syllables in a language he barely understood rolled from his tongue in practiced order and cadence. Light blossomed between his hands, and he raised his arms high overhead, drawing vapor from the sky, drawing heat, drawing light. Gods send it was enough.

    The world around them cracked, exploded. A thousand jagged bolts searing around them. His vision burning out, and his ringing. All around, where once they had enemies, there were only bodies and smoke, the pungent smells of ozone and burned flesh.

    They spent the next two days hiding in that ruined tower. In part hiding from their enemies, in part just hiding from the world. The first day they devoted to sleep and healing their injuries; the second day they devoted to each other. The rain leaked down through broken top of the tower, and they laughed together, as if nothing else would ever touch them.

    He could smell her perfume as he awoke.

    Wilhelm rubbed his eyes and sat up on his bedroll, reaching for a waterskin. The light was dim in the small stone chamber, and the wind howled outside. Around him, he could see the slumbering forms of others, wrapped in their cloaks and blankets, their shadows wavering in the torchlight. A flurry of snow gusted into the opening of the chamber, and the torches guttered and flickered.

    He rolled to his feet, his back sore and his thoughts morose. How very surreal to have these dreams, after so many years. How unexpected, to touch those memories like they were only yesterday. To think of Jade was to contact a very old and very unusual place in his memory. There was so much he would change if he could. So much he would go back and change, if he could only do it again. So much he wanted to tell her.

    He stood upright, stooping under the low cave ceiling, and stepped off his bedroll, feeling a shock of cold against the bare soles of his feet. Almost an afterthought, he picked up his dark, warg-fur cloak and draped it around his shoulders. Silently, he padded toward the mouth of the cave.

    So much he wanted to tell her. But most of all, something simple. That he had really loved her. It sounded so mundane that way. What he had felt for her was something extraordinary, something profound and vibrant and deeply enduring. Even today, a decade later, he was engraved with images and emotions that could never be erased.

    He had thought he was just playing at magic, dabbling at spellcraft and illusion. But never did he expect the magic he would find in Jade, a beauty and a mystery that would surpass all else, a torrent of frost and fire, of life and love.

    He stood at the cave mouth now, looking out at the mountains and the stars. Beneath his feet, just inches from his toes, the cliff face was a sheer drop, thousands of feet to the canyon floor below. The moon above shone full in the sky, providing ample light with which to see the shadowy, massive shapes of peaks and ridges. The wind buffeted him forcefully, threatening to push him back into the cave.

    Looking out at the moon and stars, the rough shapes of stone against the sky, he thought of her that night in the Rawlinswood. She stood on that rock slab by the lake, under younger stars, under a younger moon, a lovely, lethal silhouette against the sky, her elven bow like a second crescent moon.

    He had grown to love her so much, and had wanted her so badly. He had craved every little note, every word he might receive from her. How he had longed for those quiet moments together, just the two of them, that exquisite and playful intimacy. How he had longed to get the armor off her. And yet it was always there, that sharp-edged plate and blade. And she had receded from him like a mirage, like a ghost in the woods, always around the next tree, across the next river. Born away on winds and currents he would never understand. He had tried to hold her, but it was not meant to be, not that way.

    The wind pushed him again, hard against his side, and he teetered on the precipice. He braced one hand against the low roof of the cave; with the other, he held his cloak around him. He stared out into the night, seeing only the past.

    It was strange how those days of his life had made such an impression. Months and years had gone by that meant less than those days. He had known other lovers, and was sincere in his passion, but they had all faded in time like dross in the sun. Perhaps only the true gold keeps its luster. Or perhaps the ideal endures only when imperfectly realized and held apart from the indignities of everyday life. He did not regret those days, not at all.

    What he did regret is that, in the end, he was the blade that cut her. He was so sorry about that. Perhaps it had been inevitable. Perhaps they had been driven apart by forces and needs that neither of them could understand or control. That did not make it hurt less.

    He suddenly wondered where she was. Was she alone in the world? Was she still alive, or had the world gotten the best of her? Or did she have a family now, and a little house of her own, and children tugging at her apron strings? The thought of her in an apron would have made him laugh, once.

    He suddenly wanted to find her again. They would never be as they were once, young and green and new to the world. They would never blush again at the first touch of a new kind of love. But he wanted to know that she was well, to feel that fire that radiated from within her. To know that he could reach her, and that she was still strong, and that despite everything she still loved him too. She was all that remained of those good days.

    Wilhelm turned and looked at the cave behind him. These were fine people, like a family to him. They were a good pack, but they were not enough. Being with them was not truly living.

    The vision struck him unexpectedly. Emerald eyes glittering in the light of a camp fire. A stare holding him, the wavering flames and heat. The catch in his throat, the ferocious promise in her gaze.

    He reeled and staggered as a wave of vertigo crashed over him. His footing slipped; the wind pulled his cloak and nearly carried him into the night. He caught himself barely in time, and staggered back into the cave, held himself, hands on knees until the dizziness passed. He drew a few deep breaths.

    Quietly, he gathered his belongings and laid them at the mouth of the cave. He paused only to pen a brief farewell on a scrap of willow bark.

    And then, at last, after all the years, he shouldered his pack and bedroll, and walked out to the narrow ledge, finding the path leading up into the mountains. And then north into the night, north to find the trail, to find her again, if such a thing were more than a memory made into a dream.