Lord, a name he obviously recognized.
“Rangers?” he chirped. “Rangers of Avalon.” He made a warding sign and mumbled a silent prayer, drawing a laugh from all three. The rangers were spoken of often throughout Calva, even as far south as Rivertown, but they were a mysterious group of mighty warriors, and superstitious farmers were quick to fear that which they could not fully understand.
“That we be!” said Andovar, dropping from his horse into a low bow. “And I am Andovar.”
“Nobility!” the flustered man replied. “And the lass?”
“Rhiannon of Avalon,” she replied. “Pleased we are to look upon yer mighty bridges, and upon the likes of Gatsby of Rivertown.”
Her kind words flustered the plump little man even more, and he fumbled with his helmet, trying to get the thing on properly. “If only we had known,” he wailed. “We would have prepared a celebration. It is not often that we see the likes of rangers and children of Avalon”—the last words held an obvious hint of suspicion—“in Rivertown. My apologies that we were not properly prepared.”
“None be needed,” Belexus assured him. “We are simple travelers and no more, come to see the western fields.”
“Not many would agree with your estimation of yourselves,” said Gatsby. “But if you insist. Let me offer you a tour, then, as is the custom and the pleasure of the citizens of Rivertown.”
“Accepted,” Belexus replied, and they let Gatsby lead on. Many hours would pass before the hooves of their horses found the open road again, for their guide’s knowledge of the history of the Four Bridges proved immense indeed. He recounted the Battle of the Four Bridges in vivid detail—which Rhiannon did not seem to enjoy, though she could not turn away—and told them of the seasonal caravans from Corning and the other western towns, on their way to market their crops and other goods in Pallendara, ten days’ ride to the east.
“Rivertown’s all a-bustle when the caravans come through!” Gatsby exclaimed. He pointed to a huge unplanted field just north and east of the settlement. “A thousand wagons put up there, the last rest on the road to Pallendara.”
The four of them standing in the sunshine that fine summer morning could not know it, but when next the wagons rolled through, they would find no rest.
Thalasi walked out to the front of his charges, flanked by Burgle and his other commanders, to consider the new development. This army, like his own, was comprised entirely of talons, smaller and more lizardlike than their mountain kin, but unmistakably of the same seed. And unmistakably gathered for war.
Most rode swift lizards, saddled and armored, and all carried crude but undoubtedly wicked weapons.
Five large creatures, the chieftains of the group, walked out from the ranks to face the Black Warlock.
Thalasi then noted the distinct separations in this new army’s ranks; they were separate tribes, and had not joined often, if ever. Yet they came to greet him.
He smiled at the extent of his power. His call had carried far, he believed, for he had not expected the talons ofMysmal Swamp, out from the shadows of Kored-dul and his continued influence, to be so easily assembled.
How powerful he had become!
But then the largest of the opposing leaders spoke and destroyed the Black Warlock’s delusions of grandeur.
“Man!” it grunted in open rage, less familiar with words than its mountain-bred counterparts.
Thalasi understood its confusion and threw his hood back to reveal the glittering black gemstone that marked his identity. Still, these creatures apparently did not recognize that evil mark, for a large group of them immediately took up the chant that had served as the liturgy of their entire existence.
“Men die!”
“Do you know who I am?” the Black Warlock roared, and the sheer strength of his dual voice drove the five leaders back a step. But mighty, too, was the ominous chant, growing
“Rangers?” he chirped. “Rangers of Avalon.” He made a warding sign and mumbled a silent prayer, drawing a laugh from all three. The rangers were spoken of often throughout Calva, even as far south as Rivertown, but they were a mysterious group of mighty warriors, and superstitious farmers were quick to fear that which they could not fully understand.
“That we be!” said Andovar, dropping from his horse into a low bow. “And I am Andovar.”
“Nobility!” the flustered man replied. “And the lass?”
“Rhiannon of Avalon,” she replied. “Pleased we are to look upon yer mighty bridges, and upon the likes of Gatsby of Rivertown.”
Her kind words flustered the plump little man even more, and he fumbled with his helmet, trying to get the thing on properly. “If only we had known,” he wailed. “We would have prepared a celebration. It is not often that we see the likes of rangers and children of Avalon”—the last words held an obvious hint of suspicion—“in Rivertown. My apologies that we were not properly prepared.”
“None be needed,” Belexus assured him. “We are simple travelers and no more, come to see the western fields.”
“Not many would agree with your estimation of yourselves,” said Gatsby. “But if you insist. Let me offer you a tour, then, as is the custom and the pleasure of the citizens of Rivertown.”
“Accepted,” Belexus replied, and they let Gatsby lead on. Many hours would pass before the hooves of their horses found the open road again, for their guide’s knowledge of the history of the Four Bridges proved immense indeed. He recounted the Battle of the Four Bridges in vivid detail—which Rhiannon did not seem to enjoy, though she could not turn away—and told them of the seasonal caravans from Corning and the other western towns, on their way to market their crops and other goods in Pallendara, ten days’ ride to the east.
“Rivertown’s all a-bustle when the caravans come through!” Gatsby exclaimed. He pointed to a huge unplanted field just north and east of the settlement. “A thousand wagons put up there, the last rest on the road to Pallendara.”
The four of them standing in the sunshine that fine summer morning could not know it, but when next the wagons rolled through, they would find no rest.
Thalasi walked out to the front of his charges, flanked by Burgle and his other commanders, to consider the new development. This army, like his own, was comprised entirely of talons, smaller and more lizardlike than their mountain kin, but unmistakably of the same seed. And unmistakably gathered for war.
Most rode swift lizards, saddled and armored, and all carried crude but undoubtedly wicked weapons.
Five large creatures, the chieftains of the group, walked out from the ranks to face the Black Warlock.
Thalasi then noted the distinct separations in this new army’s ranks; they were separate tribes, and had not joined often, if ever. Yet they came to greet him.
He smiled at the extent of his power. His call had carried far, he believed, for he had not expected the talons ofMysmal Swamp, out from the shadows of Kored-dul and his continued influence, to be so easily assembled.
How powerful he had become!
But then the largest of the opposing leaders spoke and destroyed the Black Warlock’s delusions of grandeur.
“Man!” it grunted in open rage, less familiar with words than its mountain-bred counterparts.
Thalasi understood its confusion and threw his hood back to reveal the glittering black gemstone that marked his identity. Still, these creatures apparently did not recognize that evil mark, for a large group of them immediately took up the chant that had served as the liturgy of their entire existence.
“Men die!”
“Do you know who I am?” the Black Warlock roared, and the sheer strength of his dual voice drove the five leaders back a step. But mighty, too, was the ominous chant, growing
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