Chapter 5

Oddly, the fear of running out of money during the long overland journey soon proved to be a chimerical concern. If anything, their coin purses just seemed to grow fatter and heavier with every stop that they made along the road!

Right from the very start, Oddtus had made some sort of deal with a westward going caravan heading towards the big walled city of Apeleia (Applewood) offering to share his 'two personal guards' to help guard their caravan, for just a minor payment. With the fears of bandits in the area, the rumors of trouble to the north of Crystal Lake and the impending transfer of many of the regions soldiers and guardsmen, the traders accepted his offer with alacrity and some large silver crowns were quickly produced for each of the lads. Rowan thought he saw the flash of a gold mark or two go into the Foole's hands as well, if but for an instant. Soon the young lads found themselves riding as guards at the front on either side of the first wagon of the convoy, trying to look alert and belligerent.

The plan had been for the caravan to speed south down the lake road and reach the walled town of Lacestone sometime late that evening, camping at its gates safely until dawn, but the mid-summer showers of yesterday had turned the brown dirt into mud and more steady rainfall early that afternoon also slowed the wagons pace even more. Quite a few nearby villages could be seen just off of the road while they were near Haldyne, but after a few hours there was nothing but thick forest to be seen on their left as they travelled. Much as Frigrast the trading factor in Swanford had accurately warned, the tree-line here was quite close to the road, well within easy range of even a short bow. The wagoneers and the merchants grumbled much about this and one trader mentioned that he had petitioned the Duke about this very problem several times, but he had never received any sort of response, let alone any promise to remedy the problem.

Boyle, being an experienced horseman, rode lightly upon his mount and seemed quite at home in the saddle. Having spent almost none of his life on top of any horse, Rowan couldn't decided which problem was worse — that his butt was now quite sore from his inexperience with riding, or that he thought he sometimes saw shadowy faces in the trees watching them, or that he was too far away to converse normally with his friend Boyle, except at a shout across the lead wagon. Still this was another new experience for him and he slowly began to feel and move along in concert with the saddle and horse underneath him. His clothes were wet to the skin and he belatedly decided that some silver spent for a good oilskin coat that he could wear in the saddle ... and a broad hat that would keep the rain and sun out of his eyes might both be excellent expenses once he reached Lacestone, a town supposedly about the same size of Haldyne, which also acted as the regional fort for the smaller villages in the area.

As they travelled that afternoon, the warm late summer rains fell harder and the road turned to mud under the wagon wheels and often the front wagons had to slow down or even stop to wait for the later following wagons to slowly catch up. The trees here along this stretch also grew even closer to the road, near enough that Rowan was sure he could easily hit the nearest thick clump of trees with a small rock. No wonder the merchants and traders were frightened!

While being tired, sore and rather annoyed, he remained quite alert and he wasn't completely surprised when an arrow suddenly zipped right past his nose from some as of yet unseen archer hidden in the thick cover of the nearby trees. Other arrows soon followed from other hidden bowmen that concentrated their fire upon the lead wagon, seeking to slow or disable it, to trap and halt the entire caravan.

Unluckily, one of the lead horses was hit hard upon one of its flanks and it tried to bolt with terror until in its panic it had tipped its wagon over onto its right side in the muddy ditch right next to the muddy roadway. With the rain now coming down harder and their primary goal of stopping the caravan achieved, the bow fire now ceased as their bowstrings started to became wet and unusable and a ragged line of bandits armed with swords or short spears soon appeared out of the tree-line charging the column of stalled wagons hoping to seize and plunder their trapped prey.

Rowan muttered to himself as he gathered his courage to attack. "Well ... this is what I've been paid for ... to handle things like this, so I might as well stop worrying and see if I can frighten this rabble off before anyone gets hurt." His mount, being a trained cavalry horse, was quite used to this sort of situation and being of a rather excitable nature anyway, it made the decision to 'charge' several moments before his inexperienced rider had even considered the notion of kicking in his heels on his aggressive and overly enthusiastic mount.

It was not a particularly auspicious cavalry charge for either of the lads. Rowan was caught quite off-balance and unprepared when his mount reared up for a moment before galloping off toward the foe and he soon found himself propelled off the side of his mount entirely and into the mud of the road somehow landing down face first in the mud. Boyle, albeit a far better horse-master, had received no prior training with using arms while mounted and quite missed entirely the first two ragged bandits that he tried to skewer with his long spear. Fortunately, their mates at the caravan had enough problems of their own dealing with panicking horses and they were now hastily grabbing weapons of their own rather than stopping to berate their less than veteran guards.

Rising up from the mud, Rowan was quite sore, angry and thoroughly embarrassed ... and pissed off beyond words. To match his mood, his now drawn sword exploded into a savage orange flame surrounding the blade and with hardly a single thought he sliced entirely in half the first bandit that reached him. His companion faired only slightly better as Rowan's infernal sword sliced entirely through the weak metal of his parrying sword blade and cut deeply in the shoulder and chest of the unfortunate man, who soon bled quite out in just a matter of moments.

Terrified at this mud-covered terror wielding a flaming sword, the bandits all broke and retreated back for the safety of the woods and Rowan was more than happy to let them escape. Looking around at his feet he just saw blood, just like he had that sad terrible day last month. Once again the red blood covered wet green grass, but all too soon it was washed away in the rain ... but the memory of the two dead bodies by his feet remained with him for much longer.

Boyle, now spurred to greater measures of martial might, at last cornered one of the fleeing bandits and halted his mount with the spear pressed up tight against the man's throat.

"Shall I show him mercy?" Boyle yelled to Rowan, who did not answer but instead was abstractly considering the color of the red rain-washed pool of blood mixed with rain water at his feet. The flames slowly died out and his sword was returned to its sheath, which had formerly belonged to his dead friend, the always dutiful Lieutenant Robrick, who had been slain by the Daemon. His sword, broken by the creature's impenetrable hide, left an empty scabbard, and his commander Captain Thierd had presented it to Rowan, in memory of the brave Lieutenant. It fit perfectly, as if it had been always been intended for this task. It was a good practical sheath for his infernal magical weapon, without possessing overly much decoration; a scabbard of function and practicality, and Rowan now wondered how many times during the rest of his life he would have to again draw this great and terrible weapon in anger. Seeing the blood on the ground in front of him, he thought that perhaps even once more would be a time too many.

"Please, in the name of Árfæsliss, give me mercy, I beg of you!" The frightened bandit said as he knelt in supplication to his captor. At the mention of the Goddess of Mercy, Boyle lowered his spear but did not entirely put his weapon away.

"Who are you and what are your deeds that I might offer you mercy from death, or a life spent as a slave laboring at the Duke's pleasure?"

"I am Loren, formerly husband to the fair Sara, who has gone to the Shadowlands at the hands of a boarman, and father to two young sons, Nehman and Dillar. It was for their sake that I took to the iron-road, the path of banditry, as our village home near the Brittle Mountains in the north was sacked by Boar-Men and our escape further hindered by the wicked night-folk, who sought to steal what little else we still possessed. To further add to my needs, I have recently accepted the protection of a young woman who in better times I would ask to swear the consort-oath with, should I prove able to provide for her as the step-mother to my young sons."

Boyle pondered at this, quite uncertain now as what to do. Clearly the man was ragged and thin with hunger, but the law was firm that all bandits must be either killed or sent into servitude for life. This might be justice, Boyle thought, but it was certainly not mercy. Fortunately, the wise gléaman was soon at his side and knew exactly what to do.

"Summon your concubina, the woman you claim as your common-wife and your children, are they nearby in the woods?" The man nodded and called for them and after a few moments of indecision and fear, they came to his side.

"Young mistress," The Lore-Master sternly asked, "your protector is in great peril of his life and freedom. Would you share his fate and accept his consort-oath and join your fate with his?" She fearfully nodded and took her lover's hand, his small children standing frightened at her feet nodded as well, as they clung to her skirts.

"By my grant-oath I shall declare you two to become husband and wife and to care for each other within the Duke's peace, should you swear to forsake the iron-road forever and return to your homes to fight against those that have burned your dwellings and despoiled your lands."

The former bandit willing agreed to these oaths and in a few minutes the Lore-Master witnessed and accepted their vows and released the young family to their freedom.

"I thought only priests could accept a trothing-oath." Boyle asked with curiosity later.

"Don't I directly serve a God? Gléagerád, the God of Mirth and Wisdom. Doesn't that make me a priest as well? When I play a tune I am not making a prayer?; when I sing a song to an audience am I not doing his will by singing a hymn or reciting lore as if in a church? When I juggle, do handstands or flips while telling silly jokes as a happy gléaman or as a foolish joculator, am I not directly serving my God and acting upon his behalf to bring mirth to the world?"

"I would guess so." The puzzled lad decided.

"Indeed. Mine is a stern duty on his behalf, to laugh when I would rather cry; to sing when I'd rather drink flowing wine instead; and to do stupid pratfalls when I'd rather be boning a comely maid-in-service. O! The life of the travelling Histrio is a hard and uncertain one ... but the rewards are worth it!"

The caravan, delayed by the muddy conditions of the road, repair of the overturned wagon and the injuries to several of the horses, camped for the night on the open road and made their destination, Lacestone by the middle of the next morning. The trio was gladly admitted to take their dinner at the large central cook fire that night, and if anyone had anything remotely snide or clever to say about the young lads initial difficulties at the start of the battle, not a hint was uttered. Once, a young horse groom did start to make a joke about another young man's first efforts to learn to ride but his elders quickly shushed him and told him to save the efforts at humor for the gléaman, who never failed to disappoint an eager audience and exploit it, and soon the camp was quite a merry one with all of their misfortunes quite forgotten. The sight of their young caravan guard driving away the band of bandits with a sword that burst into orange blaze of fire was a sight that they would never forget!

The caravan and their guards separated ways once the threshold of the city gate was crossed, but not without promises of words of reference to the other caravan masters that they passed for the lad's good service. Indeed, within several hours the story of a brave young warrior facing off an army of bloodthirsty veteran cutthroats with a flaming sword was soon making the gossip rounds in the town marketplace.

Faced with waiting for nearly a full day before another western going caravan could be joined, the trio separated for the afternoon to rest and spend some of their hard-won coins. Rowan soon placed the few pence and farthings that he had found in the two dead bandits purses into the hands of a few needy beggars in the marketplace, and with the assistance of a barefoot poor lad he soon found an appropriate outfitter that for a reasonable cost in silver provided him with a good leather coat and a heavy wool hat. Another expense of several shillings bought him an excellent leather pair of riding boots. A thicker pair of pants better suited to riding completed his purchases and he returned to their inn well-pleased.

The gléaman's promise of a good night's entertainment, as usual, guaranteed them all a dry bed in the stables and meals at no charge. Boyle was already cheerfully tending to several rather neglected horses there, giving these as well as our own mounts, an expert currying and brushing. After their complimentary evening meal that night in the inn, the talented Foole earned himself another flood of silver as he performed to the inn-keepers delight to a full and happy house. Rowan and Boyle kept quiet and maintained a low profile at the back of the tap-room and they made fast friends with a young tap-maid who kept their blackjacks full ... and probably filled from a better barrel of stock than the inn-keeper would have preferred that they drink from.

If Rowan pretended to notice later in the evening that his stout friend had disappeared along with this very amenable maid for some exchanged comfort outside near the jakes hut, he paid no mind to it. Later when his friend returned, his clothes a little disheveled and with a smile than ran from ear to ear, the two just exchanged silly grins and gently bumped their leather blackjacks together in salute. Boyle had always had the far easier touch with the ladies, despite his broad round face, tall thick shoulders and slow drawl of speech. Or perhaps because of them. With his kindly face and a gentle voice he could charm a bird down from the trees, and he always apparently treated his lovers kindly and never took any temporary attachment overly seriously. Back in Swanford, Boyle had a stable of at least five young ladies that each wanted to be his sole love, and somehow the cheerful lad kept the all of the women happy and each amused in turn, somehow without unpleasantness. Rowan had always wondered why his friend never made any long term attachments but his friend would just say that he had never yet met the right girl at the right place or at the right time. Still, he rarely lacked feminine attention or comfort for very long.

Rowan, who was a little taller and most definitely more muscular of build, was also much quieter and far shyer of disposition, and his own attempted imitation of his friend's amiable cheery grin did not seem to affect young women, especially in their small-clothes, the same way. He was best at being strong and silent and letting his past lovers, like Cedany, approach him first. Besides, even a long full month after her death, Rowan was still pained at the loss of her and he was not yet inclined to take any temporary comfort or start any meaningless dalliances.

However, five days later at Roper's Ford on the Bekingham River, a certain determined young lady had some very different ideas.

The two day journey from Lacestone to the walled city of Apeleia, now mostly called Applewood, had gone extremely smoothly, with relatively good weather, dry and smooth road conditions and no security threats to the new caravan they had agreed to accompany. The word had indeed spread quickly of the lad's prowess at defeating that earlier bandit attack, and they had even received an additional 'risk' bonus in good silver from the concerned teamsters and trade factors. Boyle was now joking that the caravan guard business was a pretty nice and lucrative occupation, and it was even better that he could still spend his days with horses, albeit now riding them instead of feeding, grooming and shoeing them.

Hoping to catch a ship leaving west across the lake for Tellismere, they waited for several days in the city, enjoying the sights of the second largest city in the Duchy before giving up and accepting hire with another caravan leaving for the walled town of Glideuch, just across the western side of the river. Despite the fact that from a tall tower both the city and town were within in sight of each other across the Bekingham River, the currents here where the river flowed out of Crystal Lake were considered too swift and hazardous for most commercial small boat or heavy ferry traffic, especially heavily laden wagons. The nearest safe crossing was a day's travel south down the river road to Roper's Ford, where the river current south was slow enough to allow a ferry to safely transport the caravan wagons across.

The skilled gléaman had raked in another small fortune during his stay in the city, entertaining at several of the finer inns, and he was in a fine humor when the caravan left the city westward and then continued to follow the road along the river south, past the great ruins of a colossal bridge that had once apparently crossed the river near where it flowed out of the great lake. Today he rode up in front with the two lads who were guarding the front of the caravan

"That was once a mighty bridge indeed!" He muttered with a deep sigh to the curious lads. "Alas, the skills no longer exist that could rebuild it today, or if they did, the will to use them once more in such a mighty effort is certainly no longer there."

"Who built that bridge? It was certainly was a great undertaking ... and how did it fall into ruins?" Boyle asked.

"The twboren, the second-born created this marvel in their early days over four thousand years ago on behalf of their elders the dragons, that their kin and servants could safely cross here, for this channel of the river near the lake has always been hazardous. The Dweorg, Ylfen, Flotylfen and Arth-Lyften were all still very young races, eager to help their elders for the first and perhaps the last time ever. War between them began not a human generation afterwards and nearly all that had been created together was then destroyed, to be lost forever. Perhaps if the first-born had treated their younger kin as brothers and less like bondsmen or slaves, then that awful conflict could have been avoided."

"I've heard of the races of the dwarves, who live in total seclusion mostly below the great central mountains, and of the elves, who are said to still lurk in the furthest remote and forbidden forests, and that both now have little to do with men, but who were the other two races that you spoke of?" Rowan enquired.

"Ah, the race of sea-elves, like their shy woodland relatives, enjoy the solace of privacy and are little ever seen by the surface world, although it is said that a few of the bolder Corælyn sea captains have some limited trade with them. They fared poorly during the Dragon War and are said to still be relatively few in numbers. They also bear much resentment to their fellow surviving races, blaming their allies for the great misfortunes that they suffered during the long war. Of the race of the proud eagle-people, they suffered perhaps the worst misfortunes of any of the other races. They were said to be a very pompous and arrogant race, only little better regarded than the dragons, whose conceited manners they aped all too successfully. Only their most remote aerie-cities survived the first devastating assaults of the Dragons in the earliest days of the war, and it could well be said that the great war may have resulted largely from the enmity that those two flying races had for the other. It was only when the war soon turned to near certain and total annihilation for the Arth-Lyften that the rest of the second-born came to their aid in the war, albeit with some considerable reluctance. In a few high and very remote mountain places, their survivors yet live, but they are the most paranoid and secretive of all of the children of the Gods and I've heard that they are still a most arrogant and prideful race that regards men, and the other last-born races as utterly beneath their notice."

"You've mentioned the last-born before, who else, other than the race of men was created?" Boyle asked.

"It was only when the Gods feared that the Dragons would at last win and defeat the exhausted, devastated, demoralized and nearly annihilated races of the second-born, that the last races were created. First, in near desperation, Ámyrðria, the Goddess of Lies & Weal either created or summoned the infernal race of Daemons to assist them, but many believe that these wicked folk played both sides for advantages and their own benefit instead. They were certainly not good, valued or even useful allies, and many terrible and wicked things were done once they were loose on this world. Then, in dismay at the treachery of the Infernals, Aðbaernesa, the Goddess of Decay, Death & Rebirth, in her utter despair, created the Eorfleode, the brutal race of Boar-Men. I think I can now understand the misery and anguish that she must have felt then, and her feeling of utter desperation; she sought in haste to create a strong and powerful race that was yet dim-witted enough to be controlled so that the second-born could be saved. Alas, they too were only reluctant warriors for the Gods and soon they sought their own best advantage and in the end they openly joined with the dragons, causing a near total collapse of the remaining forces for good. It is said that the Goddess later renounced her protection of that race, but they still worship a dreadful male aspect of her, Ingui "The Boar that Destroys".