Whitehorse Peak: The Grey Riders, #1

Copyright © 2013 P.G. Badzey

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9971397-3-0

For Siobhan

For her faith and encouragement, no matter what else got in the way.

Novels by P.G. Badzey

The Grey Rider Series

Whitehorse Peak

Eye of Truth

Helm of Shadows

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge the following people for their invaluable assistance in making this first novel come to life: Dora Badzey, for providing the editing expertise garnered in over 30 years of teaching English and Literature; the good people at Wavecloud for the fantastic cover art; Gene Badzey, for his meticulous proofreading skills;Veronica Badzey, whose professional background in typesetting and publishing saved this author's sanity, and C. Dale Brittain, for her friendship and patient, expert advice. Thank you all and God Bless.

Song of the Grey Riders

Seven they are, the Riders Grey,

who come to serve the Holy Way.

Seven they are of varied flight,

on winged steeds of dark midnight.

The Riders Grey, the warriors brave,

who seek to stem the Evil Wave:

One with sword from dwarves of old

and one fair maiden with hair of gold.

To aid the ones who follow the Three

comes another of the Silver Tree.

One with hawk of sharpened claw,

one forest guide of Christian law.

One small and swift, silent and light;

another the same with magic bright.

North they go to face Cold Fire

to battle the dragon and quench her ire.

When ogre's rage meets its end,

then does their true quest begin.

In tower cold and cavern deep,

the Diamond Eye they now must seek.

For good or evil all must choose

or choosing none, their lives to lose.

When gold to red at passage end,

then halfling toy upward must send.

Golden sorrow, heart's true Love,

pray to God in Heaven above.

That she may see, and all may learn,

what Truthful Eye cannot discern.

Holy relic, giver of life,

meant for tresses of carpenter's wife.

Ancient Evil, Good to slay,

seeks to thwart the Holy Way.

Relic's might of love is wrought,

so evil's will avails it naught.

One Dark Rider fights seven of Grey,

yet Queenly Crown shall win the day.

Seven they were, from varied flight,

on winged steeds of dark midnight.

Seven they were, the Riders Grey,

who came to serve the Holy Way.

MAPS



Chapter One- Fire in the Forest

When the birds stopped singing, Dar Cabot knew something was wrong.

He frowned, reached back over his shoulder with a gloved hand and drew an arrow from the quiver. Nothing stirred.

Still, he waited, eyes roaming the forest. Something caught his attention. A trail of footprints marched ahead of him over the soft earth.

Someone small and heavy...

He knelt. Two arrows whizzed overhead and thudded into a tree next to him. He dropped to the ground and rolled, holding his bow and arrow close. His back struck another tree and he scrambled up, whirling around to the other side.

Heart pounding, he waited, feeling the metallic taste of adrenaline in his mouth. Something rustled in the bushes to his right, about thirty feet away. He peered around the tree.

Two stocky, bandy-legged creatures with simian features and short horns stalked out of the underbrush, their curved bows with arrows at the ready.

Goblins! This close to town…

Dar loosed his arrow, catching one archer in the chest. The goblin jerked backwards and thumped into the moist earth, to lie still.

One down...

The remaining archer fired at Dar. The shaft hummed past. Dar slipped around the tree, hearing the rush of booted feet on the pine needles. He dropped his bow, reaching for the sword strapped on his back.

He had no sooner drawn steel than the goblin leaped out at him, saber and dirk stabbing.

Dar turned aside the sword and kicked the dirk-hand away. He swung at the goblin's head. The goblin ducked and stabbed at him again, but he dodged and thrust. Steel rang on steel.

The goblin broke away and stalked left, saber and dirk carving small circles in the air. Suddenly, it jerked a foot upward, kicking earth and leaves in Dar's face.

Dar crouched. A blade whistled over his head. The dirk came next and he parried it, then thrust upward. The sword-point ripped through leather and mail and the goblin went limp.

Dar jerked his weapon free and whirled, spinning low to the ground, heart pounding.

A bird chirped from its perch on an aspen tree and a few insects scuttled away in the undergrowth. He waited, eyes scanning every shadow. A squirrel poked a curious nose out of a large hole in the side of a nearby oak, beady eyes watching Dar. It took a tentative step, then raced out on a branch.

Dar sighed and relaxed. A slight breeze caressed his face and he used the corner of his tunic to wipe off the sweat.

He shrugged off his backpack and pulled out a waterskin. The water felt cool, washing the dryness from his mouth and throat. He held up a hand. It wasn't shaking now.

All that training really does work… I have changed.

He remembered the jesting comments from some of the townspeople and knew they didn’t consider him to be any different.

Oh look, there goes the man who’s going to protect us from Evil Wilderness Things, Alex the carter had remarked before he left. His apprentice guffawed behind him.

Fought any dragons lately, Dar?

He didn’t really blame them. Free-lance mercenaries were people who came and went from Forester, larger-than-life figures with exotic tales and more exotic magic. They weren’t hometown boys who’d once been toddlers wandering around in diapers. Most thought taking the free-lance was the pastime of idiots: years of training for a chance to get killed at an early age.

He pulled out a tiny gold medallion on a chain from between his shirt and armor. The ensignia of a rose below a mace winked back at him in the sunlight, above the inscription Servus Sancta Kira.

One day, all this will help me find you...

He eyed the dead goblins, pursing his lip. Speaking of finding out things...

He stood and wiped his blade on a goblin's cloak, then replaced his weapons. He turned the body over.

Half-monkey features stared up at the sky, red eyes lifeless. Small, dark horns protruded from a shock of bristly black hair and the jaws hung open, revealing yellowed but sharp fangs.

Dar shook his head, feeling a faint sickness in his stomach. Past encounters, usually in the company of his mentor, let him see death in its finality, but he still felt an emptiness and nausea, even for a creature of Darkness.

He inspected the other one, looking over the armor, the boots, and the weapons, searching for something that could identify them but their black, studded leather armor held no symbols or markings. Dar frowned. Goblins prided themselves on identification with their blood-clan.

Now what in the world are they doing this close to town, attacking people?

He knew goblins hated humans, but they also tended to shun areas near large settlements like Forester. He straightened and looked out at the quiet forest with narrowed eyes, then down at the place where he had seen the first goblin. Judging from the broken twigs, bootprints, and scuffed rocks in their wake, their trail would be easy to follow. Dar could see why these creatures were better suited to underground warrens.

He stood for a moment, debating with himself whether to find out where they came from or go back to town. He really should be getting back, but then...

He shrugged. What the hell, why not? This should be of interest in town ... besides, there's got to be a reason for this.

Dar fitted another arrow to his bow and, with a wary eye on the forest around him, began to follow the tracks.

***

Gorlak crouched under the bush, still as a stone, waiting for the two tall young men to pass, hefting their heavy wood axes. Their voices rang out as they strolled the narrow path, late afternoon sunlight streaming down through maples and aspens.

Gorlak's eyes locked on the men and he flexed his fingers over his saber handle.

Damned Ghai-zhal. Think they own the world, do they?

His chances of getting off a thrown weapon into one man's back were good, but the other one might escape and alert others. There would be time for all that soon enough.

The two humans continued on. Gorlak faded back into the shadows. The dimness cast by the towering trees made him feel hidden and safe. Large ferns and bushes clustered near the trunks, providing plenty of dark places.

When the Ghai-zhal were out of earshot, he remained a moment, watching them stride towards the huts and houses clustered together in a clearing farther down the path. A few trees stood between the structures, providing some measure of shade. Behind many of the buildings, Gorlak spied blocky kilns of red brick.

He whispered a curse, squinting against the sunlight that washed the village square. Full daylight hurt his eyes.

He saw two smiling young women greet the men. Gorlak faintly heard their voices and caught fragments of their speech. Humana was very different from his own tongue, but he could understand some of their words.

...should see what little Kala brought home this time...

A trio of laughing children pursued a dog between two huts, casting up a cloud of dust that drifted down around the men and women. A small boy ran up to one of the women and held onto her leg. Gorlak spat on the ground in disgust.

Now was the time to move. He slipped back through the trees towards the hill. On the way, he passed three others of his band crouched in the bushes with spears and crossbows ready. They glared at the village and its occupants. Gorlak knew they were just as eager as he, but wouldn't dare attack without an order. He would slit their throats.

Picking his way through the trees and undergrowth, he emerged at the top of the hill where Lady Aalre waited with a guard detail among a thick stand of doriff trees. Despite their relatively short height, doriff trees provided good cover and shade with widespread branches and plentiful leaves. If it weren't for the thrice-cursed sunlight, he might have liked the place.

His eyes alighted on the woman and his throat tightened.

Lady Aalre was one of the Urmum, or Elder Children - an elf, born in sunlight and clean air of the forests. She stood slightly smaller than the women in the village but moved with far more grace. A green dress clung to her lithe, supple figure, a slit in the side of the hem revealing her smooth leg and a doeskin boot. Golden hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a delicate, heart-shaped face and bright amber eyes. She fingered a silver wand in her belt, looking down through the thick foliage at the village.

By contrast, Gorlak was a Za'arak, known to other races as a goblin. He wore the garb of a warrior, a leather jerkin reinforced with metal plates protecting his vitals. Two daggers and a hand-axe hung at his belt, complementing the saber on his back. He stood only about four and a half feet tall, a foot shorter than Aalre.

Gorlak suppressed the urge to growl. Next to the dwarves, goblins detested elves the most of any creature that lived on Damora.

His eyes alighted on the round medallion resting against Aalre's dress, between her breasts. It depicted a fanged, horned visage leering out from a background of pink, purple and red. Gorlak's chieftains and the Ghai-zhal sworn to the cult of Ja'al wore similar ones, showing their dedication to the Manipulator Church, worshippers of things of Shadow and Evil.

His eyes narrowed. That symbol meant he and she should be allies. He snorted.

He accepted his allegiance to the Ja'al for the wealth and power they promised. She, on the other hand, had abandoned the faith of Verian, elven god of the forests, and taken the side of the Shadow. Gorlak did not know why nor did he care. In his eyes, she was a betrayer and not to be trusted.

She seemed only a disgustingly innocent and sweet elven maiden when she first appeared as their commander. More than forty goblin fighters lurked there in the forest with her, yet Gorlak knew she could kill a third of them by herself and escape the others easily if she so wished.

Gorlak approached and bowed low, every muscle in his body tight.

Great Lady, he growled, his tongue pronouncing the words in Humana with difficulty. She insisted on using that vile tongue of the Ghai-zhal, partly because she didn't speak much Za'Arak and none of her platoon spoke the Elder Tongue.

Aalre tossed a vagrant lock of honey blonde hair from her face and smiled sweetly down at him. Ah, my faithful Gorlak! How did your scouting fare?

He straightened. "We have counted all the Ghai- ...humans in the village. There are score and eight. Seven whelps. No soldiers. Only one old woman. She looks like mage."

Aalre smirked. Of course there are no soldiers. Westhaven is an artist’s community and the nearest town is at least a day away. They consider it an escape from civilization to be out here, relying on their small size and unimportance to protect them. After all, they have nothing here that anyone could want.

She raised an eyebrow at Gorlak. He snorted and she laughed softly, a merry, silvery sound he had learned to fear.

Fools, he said, raising a finger to scratch at a scar on his face.

Without turning her head, she addressed the other goblin leaders. Team Sergeants, Strike Teams One and Two, prepare for the main assault. Team Three will split and circle north and south. Attack at your convenience, but be certain everyone is in position first. Make it fast and make it thorough. After all have been eliminated, Search Teams One and Two will get to work.

She glided up to a doriff tree and examined a low-hanging leaf, shredding the soft leaf with her fingernails. The other sergeants, goblins like him, waited. Gorlak could feel the tension in the air.

I do not need to remind you of the penalty for failure, she said, Lord Halkith will be most disappointed in a shoddy job. If we are to succeed, no one on the borderlands must know why we are here. Understood?

The goblins bowed and left in a rustle of underbrush.

Gorlak exchanged a glance with Sergeant Avkar, who shrugged. Lord Halkith, their liege and a High Priest of the Ja'al, made it quite plain that obedience to Aalre counted the same as obedience to him.

But that was not bad. If it got Gorlak and his cohorts what they wanted, so much the better. Working for Halkith meant conquest, wealth, food, slaves, and easy living.

Gorlak stood next to Lady Aalre in the forest gloom and watched with her, avoiding looking directly at the sunny areas. His duty was to keep the scouts next to the Lady, in case they were needed for emergencies.

Black-armored goblins filtered through the trees downslope, two lines of them curving to the right and left. In a short while, Lord Halkith's plan would be set in motion.

Those fools will never know what hit them...

***

Dar paused, leaning against a wide-boled spruce. The sun drifted ever lower in the sky and now he was closer to the hamlet of Westhaven than Forester. He began to wonder if it was nothing more than a wild hootling chase on the trail of a pair of lost free-booter goblins.

He sized up the terrain. He remembered the little hollow off to his left and the jumble of rocks next to it.

He clambered over the boulders and hunkered down on the earth under the wide leaves of a tanrin bush. A few birds flitted in the branches of a maple overhead. Sir Tan had trained him in areas such as this.

The thought of his teacher and mentor brought back a memory from two months ago and he grinned.

Why are you doing this? Sir Tan had asked him suddenly in the middle of archery practice.

Dar sighed. Sir Tanner Collins had a way of doing that, taking Dar off guard so that he would forget what he was doing. Dar thought he himself pretty good at catching people unawares, but Tan was a master.

Doing what? Dar had asked, lowering his bow.

This, Tan said, waving at him and his equipment, then at the forest. All this training. Why?

Dar ran a hand through his hair. Er... well, to protect the people of the Realms, serve my God and His Church...

No! No, no, no, Tan shook his head, irritated. "Not what it said in the books. What's your reason?"

Oh, that, said Dar, waving a hand, Well, I just like to kill things and take their money. And I can meet women.

Tan pressed his lips together and fixed him with his one good eye. Dar's return grin faded. He was going to be running five miles with a fifty-pound pack if he didn't watch his step.

He sighed and looked at the forest floor, then into Tan’s eye. I want to see people raising their children without fear, right here in Forester. No more burned caravans. No more school-kids vanishing in the night, no more lost trappers or miners in the forest. I seem to have a talent for guiding and tracking and I'm needed here.

Sir Tan grunted his approval. He scratched his face next to his eyepatch. That's more like it. All I want is the truth from you, boy. Be honest with yourself and remember why you're training.

The old knight put a boot on a nearby rock. "I didn't pick you out of twenty candidates to hear my own words right back at me. You've got to make up your own mind. Yes, I know you have something on your mind concerning your grandparents, but only you and I and a few other people know about them and what they were looking for. Family quests aside, you've got to think on what's right, find out the truth of why it's right, and then do it."

Sir Tan, you sound like a paladin.

Aye! the old knight exclaimed, punching him in the arm. And if you've any sense, you'll think like one. A paladin is a holy warrior sworn to uphold the laws of God and never back down to evil. Don't forget your own Lord Nolan here in Forester, or King Philip in Oakmoor. They're paladins and fine ones at that.

Well, Dar said, rubbing his arm, That isn't going to help me right now. What use is this training and my talents if I can't help anyone?

Tan gave an explosive sigh and shook his head. Don't be so damn impatient! People find out about those who take the free-lance, whether they're scouts or healers or warriors or mages or whatever. Believe me, you'll get your chance. Now let me see you put that arrow in the center of the target this time, not the tree trunk...

That conversation had seemed so long ago, but in reality, he had graduated at Eastertide, only three weeks past.

He made sure nothing waited for him out in the brush. The footprints took a meandering path through another hollow and he followed, leaping over rocks when he had to, alternating between watching the forest and checking the earth. After skirting the edge of a brambly thicket, he came to the edge of a shaded clearing and slowed.

More tracks joined the ones he followed- several more.

His eyes ranged all around the shaded, open spot under the towering pines. Two, four, ten...

A pass around the edge of the clearing revealed a large number of tracks heading northwest.

Dar touched the bootprints in the earth. Two goblins he could handle, but this... he stopped counting at thirty-five. He saw evidence of at least that many goblins here, probably more, judging by individual tracks and other signs of their passage.

This close to town.

He wiped sweat from his brow. At least thirty-five or forty... Holy Mary, that's four attack teams...

He looked up at the woods. A bird flitted across the branches, but the rest of the forest looked peaceful.

Was this a search party? An ambush for one of Forester's patrols? Or worse, preparation for an attack on a caravan or a village?

He knew what the forces of Darkness could do. People traveling the northern border of the kingdom of Deran used Forester as a crossroads, a resting place and a small trading center. Dar grew up hearing his father's dire warnings about children who dared to venture out beyond the city limits after dark. Sometimes, even wily trappers and strong woodsmen vanished without a trace.

He straightened. Finding the other tracks made up his mind for him. News of this had to get back to the town guard. They wouldn't be able to move until late the next morning and would take a day to get there, but he had to tell them what he had found. This had to be investigated.

He turned south-east, towards Forester. It was getting late in the afternoon.

A faint odor reached his nostrils. He sniffed the air and stopped. His brow furrowed and he looked to the northwest.

A thin column of smoke snaked up into the blue sky. He estimated the distance to be about another five miles, through rough terrain.

A hollow feeling started in his stomach. That was near Westhaven.

Steady now. They burn brush out there once in a while. Not so unusual to see smoke in the forest.

He stood for a moment, watching the tendril of grey grow thicker against the blue sky and feeling the tight spot in his innards constrict more. His heart beating a little faster, he took off at a loping run through the patchwork of sunlit forest, heading back to town.

Chapter Two- All Quiet on the Frontier

Finally.

Eric Indidarc leaned on his spear and stood still for a moment to catch his breath. After an entire day of hiking from the last village, a place aptly named Wit's End, he looked at the town of Forester.

He surveyed the packed dirt road that stretched ahead of him to meet the wide, open gates of a walled fort about a mile away. The late afternoon sunlight washed a reddish glow over a scattering of homes and a hundred-yard wide expanse of cleared ground ringing the walls. People trudged down the path towards the fort or the houses, carrying bundles or pushing handcarts. In the fields, others carried baskets or herded animals towards squat shelters.

In all, Eric guessed about forty or so structures occupied the area around the fort, the majority of them as close as possible without encroaching on the cleared area. Each farm covered about eight or nine acres, the borders clearly marked with stone walls or wooden fences. The homes and the town reminded Eric of chicks clustered next to a mother hen.

Thin rivulets of now-cooling sweat ran down his body under the chain armor and tunic. Eric ran a hand through his short-cropped blond hair, examining the fort's defenses. A bath would be nice.

Twin gate towers, twenty feet high, framed a single steel gate and portcullis. No moat encircled the walls, but the cleared space around the fort looked daunting enough. Archer’s holes glared down from the walls.

You'd get creamed trying to set a torch to the walls with the field of fire available...

He estimated the town within the confines of the walls to be about two miles across in the shape of an odd, seven-sided polygon. He turned to his traveling companion. Not exactly a metropolis, Buck.

A tall, rangy human tramped up the small rise next to him and stood huffing for a few seconds. Sandy collar-length hair was tied at nape of his neck. A longsword and dagger hung from a wide leather belt and the tip of a short bow protruded over one shoulder. Chain mail covered a broad-shouldered, slouchy-looking figure, protecting chest, trunk and legs. The edge of a round metal shield peeked out from behind his backpack, reflecting the dying sunlight.

I just hope there's a tavern worthy of the name, Buckminster Bydecy answered as he stamped his scuffed boots and beat the dust from his cloak. And a few women to help pass the time. Grey eyes roamed over the scene below.

Eric chuckled. Well, I'm sure there's a tavern at least. Come on. It'll be dark in an hour and I hear they button up these frontier towns as soon as the sun goes down.

Buck eyed the farms. A little small, aren’t they? I mean, you’d need a lot more land to feed a town of this size, wouldn’t you?

City boy, aren’t you? Magical augmentation is common nowadays. Wizards use spells to increase the yield per acre.

Buck shrugged. If you say so. Let’s get in before I fall over from thirst.

They trudged down the main road, passing between several houses. Chickens scattered at their approach. A tall, thin farmer straightened from filling his wheelbarrow, dark eyes curious. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, watching until they had passed by.

Closer to the town, Eric noticed more details. His eyebrows rose.

The tall trees he noted earlier were seven in number, placed where the walls formed an angle.

That’s why the place has such an odd shape.

Whoever built the town used the biggest, sturdiest trees in the area as his wall-towers. Ladders went up the sides of the trees to broad wooden platforms. Eric spied a few helmeted figures in armor carrying bows, moving about among the leafy branches. The gleaming point of a ballista bolt poked out from under the leaves of the nearest tree.

Three guards in neat red and blue livery stopped them at the gate and asked them their business.

Just passing through, replied Eric with a smile.

The weathered-looking, bearded sergeant sized them up with a piercing gaze and a grunt. More free-lances? Well, you'll find there's a few rules here. No magic, no fighting, no public drunkenness, and no molesting the townspeople. There's a list of town laws outside each tavern. You can read, can't you, elf-boy?

Eric stifled his irritation. Of course I can read, Sergeant, he replied. "And don't worry. We really are just passing through."

Buck gave the guards a wide smile and followed Eric inside.

When the guards were out of earshot, Buck shook his head. "Can we read? Where the hell has he been? All free-lances can read. It's one of the first things you learn, even if from some backwoods warrior. And weren’t you trained by a wizard?"

Eric shrugged, then smiled and clapped his companion on the shoulder. Yes, I was. And I'm only half of an elf-boy anyway, my mother's half, but I'm too tired right now to make an issue of it. Let's find that tavern.

The pair continued down the street. Short wooden buildings lined the road, chipped signs declaring their purpose: here a seamstress, there a blacksmith, there the general store. A gang of dusty children darted in and out of hiding places among the barrels and boxes piled up in an alley, yelling and laughing at each other. An elderly couple ambled down the street on their left, the woman leaning on the man's arm for support.

Eric glimpsed a church steeple behind a row of houses. He smiled to himself, remembering the reaction of the pastor in Wit's End when Eric joined the congregation for Mass. Though uncommon, he knew there were enough Christians among the Elder Children and their kin in large cities to not even cause comment, but in small towns it was rather rare.

At the end of the main road through the center of the fort, he got a better look at the manor house, just beyond what looked like a carved fountain and an open courtyard. He was surprised to see neat homes with well-tended gardens and iron fences along side streets.

Big enough to be safe and small enough to be comfortable. The perfect place to get started. No one knows me here and no one from father's 'business' would bother with it.

There! said Buck, pointing and picking up his pace. Eric followed him towards a one-story structure with grimy windows. A broad, peaked roof shaded the front of the building. Two old men sat in battered chairs on the wooden porch, grey smoke from their pipes curling upward in the afternoon air or wafting into the rough pine boards of the wall behind them. A weathered sign swung in the light breeze, decorated with the faded figures of a man and a bear wrestling. Eric squinted to read the words The Pit.

He and Buck stopped by a wooden board next to the entrance. True to the gate-sergeant's word, a parchment declared the local strictures and rules, along with notices of employment, items for sale, and a few writs of warrant for criminals-at-large.

Buck perused all the papers carefully, even the writs of warrant. Eric looked at him sidelong.

So what do the rules say about those women you were looking for? he asked.

Buck started. Oh, uh, well...bawdy houses are illegal here. He gave another homespun grin. Damn law. I'll have to wait until the next town.

Eric gave him a cheerful smile. Don't get your hopes up. I saw a law just like it in Wit's End. That's probably a local version of a royal edict.

Buck's face darkened and he muttered something vulgar about prudes and what they could do with their laws. Eric laughed and walked in past him.

The Pit was, like its name, musty, dimly lit and a little grubby, but not unpleasant. Rather, it had the air of a well-used living room in need of a good cleaning. A large fireplace dominated the left wall. Two pitted shields hung over the mantle; one bore the symbol of a cracked skull and the other of two crossed spears.

Eric's eyes widened a little. Troll and goblin tribal shields... capturing one of those was not easy.

Directly opposite the front door, a huge bar stretched almost the entire length of the back wall. It was so large it took three bartenders to keep things running. Long shelves slouched against the wall behind the bar, crowded with bottles, pots, and drinking vessels, looking as if they would collapse any minute. A door hung halfway open on each side of the shelves.

Eric stepped to the side to get out of the doorway, sensing Buck moving aside with him. Three burly humans headed past them towards the bar, clad in homespun brown clothes and smelling of fresh-cut wood.

Booths occupied the right side of the room. Eric wondered if he had enough coins to reserve one. A few lanterns hung from hooks in the high ceiling beams, providing a little light for the patrons in the booths. Tables and chairs crowded together in the great open space between the booths on the right and the fireplace on the left.

Hung the lanterns high enough, Eric mused. Wouldn't want an errant fist in a brawl to start a fire.

Behind the bar, a glass ball emitted enough light to illuminate the whole room. Eric's senses tingled as he detected magic.

He waved a hand and whispered a small word. The sphere flared with a faint blue glow. He noted a similar glow on the dagger at one barkeep's belt, on an axe strapped to the back of a bearded dwarf at the bar, and on the ring on a finger of an elegant-looking lady in a booth, accompanied by four swarthy and shifty-eyed guards in dark leather armor. No less than three swords, two suits of armor, and another ring glowed in his sight, all property of a group of three women in another booth.

Eric pursed his lip.

Merchants, caravan guards, dwarves and few elves swirled around the tables and bar, carrying their drinks or heading to take seats in the alcoves or at tables. Sprinkled among them were more mundane-looking people, probably shopkeepers or the like. Three slim, golden-haired young women in faded but neat blue dresses darted from one area to the next, carrying steaming platters of food or trays crowded with frothy mugs.

What we need is a guide, Eric thought, trying to pick out an empty table. Someone who knows the area.

A male halfling sauntered in, dark-haired and wearing brown trousers tucked into black boots. Black eyes glittered as he looked around the room in undisguised appreciation, eyeing the magical light over the bar with interest. A broadsword hilt hung at his hip and a leather jerkin protected his upper body. The halfling's head came up about as high as Eric's stomach.

Eric watched him. The halfling Republic of Evendale shared a border with both Deran and the Elven Empire of Terenai, to the south.

The halfling stopped at a table to speak to a young man hunched over a pewter flagon. The human waved at the chair across from him. The halfling vaulted into a seat and began a conversation.

Eric blinked. He hadn't noticed the human before, but he might be someone of interest. He looked the part of a free-lance, broad-shouldered and wiry, with brown hair. A dark brown tunic covered chainmail armor and a handaxe hung at his belt. A camouflage cloak draped his shoulders and Eric spied the hilt of a sword over the man's left shoulder.

Eric nudged Buck. Look.

Buck finished paying a barmaid for an ale. He took a long sip from his tankard. What? he asked.

See the halfling? He might be a possibility. The guy he's talking to might be a local.

Buck took another swallow and smiled, giving the tankard an admiring look. Now that's an ale!

Eric cleared his throat.

Buck sighed and watched the pair in question. So there’s two people over there. How can you tell who's the local?

Eric pointed. Watch all the caravaners. They're checking out everything, especially the magic light behind the bar. The halfling's doing the same thing. The human isn't. He's been in here before, and I'd guess frequently. We should watch them for a while.

Buck cast a glance at the other people in the room, then back at the pair at the table. I’m tired of standing. Let's go talk to them.

Eric reached out to stop him, but missed.

Oh well, he sighed, following Buck to the table.

These seats taken? Buck asked.

The human and halfling looked up, startled.

The human overcame his surprise first. Go right ahead. There'll be few enough of them soon.

Great! said Buck. He grabbed a chair, turned it backwards and draped himself over it.

Eric rested his spear against the back of another chair and slipped into it. Thanks. I'm Eric Indidarc and this is Buck Bydecy.

The human's dark brown eyes met Eric's. Dar Cabot of Forester. This is Connor Lomin of Oakmoor. He's...an agent.

Eric nodded. Dar was a local, and this Connor person was a newcomer, from the Deranese capitol.

The halfling was quite the traveler if he had gone to the big city and then to this small town. And an agent? In many societies, it meant spy, bounty hunter, or investigator. In others, it was the same as a thief.

Buck drained his mug. He thumped the vessel down on the table with a satisfied grin.

That'll cut the dust just fine, he declared.

Dar saluted him with his own mug. Best ale on the borderlands.

Connor's black eyes measured Eric and Buck. He looked into his own mug. Traveled far?

Eric exchanged a look with Buck, then shrugged. I'm not sure how far Buck has traveled. I almost fell over him on the road about five miles out of Wit's End. Saved his bacon from a bunch of wolves.

Buck laughed, a loud, hearty sound. Saved my bacon? I seem to remember tossing my food to them to give us enough time to climb the tree.

Really? Eric looked at him in mock astonishment. And I suppose it was someone else’s spear that got one of them before it could bite your hand off.

You're a warrior, Mister Bydecy? Dar asked.

Buck grinned. Trained in Tyler, Astarel at Joko Roundtree's Academy. And it's just Buck. He turned to look for a waitress.

Dar nodded. And you Mister Indidarc? Your people are adept at magic.

How polite. No country bumpkin this.

Eric grinned at him. It's just Eric. And yes, I have Elder blood, but only from my mother's side. I'm a mage and I was trained as a scout too.

Interesting last name. Eric could