Winter in Asólade

by GMKeeper

Set on the island of Hârn, this is the story of how the Asólade Adventurers met. The world of Kèthîra is available from Kelestia Productions.

1. Snowstorm

1. Snowstorm

'A long, long time ago, before the Westerners and before the Foulspawner, the fields and forests of Asólade were part of a land named Tarwyn. The Princes of Tarwyn were wise and brave and strong. They counted the elves in the west and the dwarves in the north among their friends.

'This is true, though I see you don't believe me. Listen carefully, children, and remember. I will tell you the stories of Tarwyn, Pagostra, and Káldôr, for those are also the stories of fair Asólade.

'In those olden times the elder folk were often seen in the lands of the Princes of Tarwyn.

'There were many Princes of men, and their principalities were scattered between the elven forests of Eváel, the great dwarven city of Kiráz, and the hidden halls of the mines of Ázadmêre. In those days the Realm of Eváel was the greater part of Hârn, for the elves roamed far beyond the forest of Shâva. Tarwyn was a prosperous realm, at peace with its neighbours. The cattle were fat, the trees bore fruit for fully half the year, and the rivers were so full of fish that you could lift them out with your bare hands.

'The elves, who call themselves Sinái, rode with the Princes of Tarwyn and taught the first princes how to care for the forests. The people of Tarwyn were shown the true way, to take only what they needed, no more. This was the law of Tarwyn; this is the law of Tarwyn. It was in those long-ago days that the Princes created the Commoners, the Verderers, and the Agisters to ensure that the laws of the forest were upheld. The Commoners have rights, the Verderers responsibilities, and the Agisters duties. These are sacred, unchanged, and unchanging. We must follow the old laws, and respect the forests.

'Those times of peace and prosperity ended, alas. Because the easterners came.

'After many years of battling the invaders, the Sinái became weary of war, and so they withdrew to the oldest of their forests—great Shâva—where they dwell to this day. The western barbarians poured across the lands. In many places new Kingdoms were created from the ashes of the old, but Tarwyn endured.

'For a while, there was peace of sorts, but worse was to come. In the Felsha Mountains—which lie to the north, beyond the lands of the barbarian Kath—an evil wizard schemed and plotted. This was the Foulspawner, Lothrim!'

Tammas tale-teller bent his knees, lifted his left shoulder, hunched his back, and curled his lip. He cackled, and some of the younger children squealed and pushed themselves away from him.

'In his dank underground retreat, the evil sorcerer Lothrim plotted his conquest of the world. The Chelni—who still dwell in the Gap of Chelna—and many of the other barbarian tribes were eager for blood, and so they joined him. But Lothrim wanted more—he wanted to rule over all Hârn, and so made plans to create an unstoppable army.

'The Foulspawner travelled deep underground, to the darkest corner of the deepest dungeon in his lair. In this place, which had never seen light of day, Lothrim piled up the bodies of children murdered by the vile Chelni, and the tree-dwelling Kath. When this foul heap of flesh and blood and bones reached the highest point of the ceiling, he cast a great spell, the spell which named him forever. Pulling the darkness from the dungeon, he forced it into the mutilated bodies. And this is how Lothrim created his Foulspawn: vile, stinking, child-sized monsters full of darkness; these demons shun the light of day, but in the dark of night they creep about, looking for children to steal.'

Tammas made a grab for the six-year-old boy sitting in front of him. The terrified boy squealed, and scrambled backwards, knocking over the girl, Lysha, who was sitting behind him.

'So Tarwyn, along with the other principalities along the great rivers from the Ósel to the mighty Kald, were attacked by Foulspawn. It was a terrible time, for the mighty dwarven city of Kiráz fell to the onslaught of his army of night demons. The dwarves—who call themselves Kúzhai—vowed vengeance. They pursued Lothrim and his Foulspawn through the Felsha Mountains, finally defeating them at Sirion. But, although they won that final battle, the Kúzhai lost many of their number. The surviving dwarves fell back to their final stronghold, the mines of Ázadmêre in the Sorkin Mountains. There, they shut themselves away in their underground halls.

'Lothrim vanished; not dead, but entombed alive by the Kúzhai, or so it is told. But his Foulspawn—who are called Gârgún in the dwarvish tongue—remain. With their master gone, they grew and spread like a fever, like the Red Death, and the lands fell into chaos. The Gârgún, and the barbarians, remnants of the Foulspawner's armies, burned and killed. It was then that the many Princes met, and joined their realms into four Kingdoms.

'So Tarwyn became Pagostra, but even those four kingdoms did not last. Four became three, then two, and then finally one, the kingdom we live in today; the kingdom we call Káldôr. But the Kings of Káldôr have often squabbled and the dynasties have fought amongst themselves. Now old King Miginath sits in his great castle in Tashál, and rules over all. People say he is wise, and he may be honourable but, unlike the Princes of Tarwyn from long-ago, he is no great warrior.

'This Asólade, our homeland, is the last shattered remnant of Tarwyn. The old Princes are long gone, but the Commoners of Tarwyn remain, and the people of Tarwyn remain. We were here before the vile, half-human, Pagaelin conquered the lands south of the Osel, before the Kath crept out from their trees, before Káldôr existed, before Pagostra existed. We were here before the tribes. We came with the Elder folk; we are among the first of the island of Hârn.

'Remember this, remember your ancestors, and make them proud!'

'Lysha!'

Her mother's shout brought Lysha al Rakath from her remembrances of childhood tales and back to the bleak and frozen present.

'You're letting the oatcakes burn! One job! I gave you one job, and you can't even do that. I swear that one day your mind will float straight out of your head.'

'Sorry, mother.' Leaning forwards, Lysha poked at the oatcakes with the wide wooden spoon. Her first attempt was a complete failure, and she broke the cake. After glaring at her eldest brother—Uthber—who was laughing at her, she concentrated on carefully turning the remaining cakes. As she tried to keep an eye on them, she glanced across at her rheumy-eyed father. Although he lay shivering on a makeshift cot next to the fire, he managed to give her a brief smile. She smiled back, but he once again lapsed into the racking cough that had kept him in his bed for three days. When he finally managed to take breath, his chest rattled. Lysha watched her siblings as they shivered and pretended that she hadn't seen the fear in her mother's eyes.

In the vast world outside the cottage, the storm raged. The timbers of her cruck-framed home creaked and groaned as the winter wind roared angrily. The sturdy daub and wattle structure was resisting the assault, but the heavy burden of snow was enough to make almost any building complain.

The snowstorm had howled down from the north eight days earlier, depositing a thick layer of fat and fluffy flakes as it went. At first the villagers had fought back, clearing paths and trying to continue as normal, but the storm had overwhelmed them. After the first two days they simply hid from it. This. the winter of the seven hundred and nineteenth year as Túzyn reckoned, wasn't merely the harshest Lysha could remember, it was the harshest her father could remember.

Outside the cottage the snow was now almost two feet deep, and it was still snowing. Every building in the village of Yâlen was sealed and shuttered against the weather. The snow was piled high on roofs and mounded against walls; it had already filled every crevice, and now it was growing in stature. Lysha remembered her last glimpse of the distant hills. It seemed likely that every village in Asólade Hundred was similarly snow clad.

Inside the cottage, the seven residents squatted around the fire pit. Everyone was wrapped in blankets. Father continued to cough and splutter as he struggled for breath, Mother stirred their meagre pottage, and Lysha's younger brothers and sister huddled together for warmth.

The soldiers the family had recruited in their annual battle against the winter—their carefully stacked piles of firewood—were falling rapidly under the storm's onslaught. The few logs in the fire pit flamed fitfully. The battle against the bitter cold was never ending. If the weather did not break soon, it was likely that someone would have to risk a trip into the woods to collect dropwood.

Cutting trees was, of course, forbidden by Royal law—more importantly it was contrary to Medrik's law, and the ancient laws of Tarwyn. Fortunately, nature had a way to provide. It was almost certain that the heavy snow creating the family's discomfort would also have brought down some large branches, possibly even an entire tree. The law was clear; only guilded timberwrights, or the miners' guild, could fell trees. Fortunately, the law was equally clear about fallen timber—dropwood. All dropwood belonged to the villagers, no matter its size.

Trapped in the cottage, Lysha decided that, if wood were needed, she would volunteer to collect it. After gazing into the glowing embers, she turned her attention upward. There, wood smoke swirled in the rafters as it sought freedom through the smoke hole directly over the fire pit.

'By the goddess, Lysha, watch the cakes!'

The oatcakes were now burning on the other side. Lysha hastily reached into the skillet and tried to turn them. She broke another.

'Scoop them, don't poke at them,' her mother scolded.

The family's enforced enclosure had brought with it petty sniping and moodiness, and the angry retort forming on Lysha's lips would undoubtedly have led to yet another argument. Fortunately, her words remained unspoken. Someone began hammering at the cottage door.

Lysha was on her feet in an instant. She removed their meagre draught-proofing measures, sweeping aside the worn old blanket hanging across the door, and kicking away the rags stuffed along the gap at its bottom. Lifting the wooden latch, she pulled the door open and walked into the corridor that separated their living room from the barn. Whoever was outside was now pushing at the outer door. It was to no avail, as the door was firmly barred from the inside.

The foot of the door was crudely sealed with soiled straw from the barn on the opposite side of the corridor. It provided good, if rather smelly, draught proofing, and it was moving. The visitor wasn't knocking, Lysha realised; whoever was outside was kicking at the door.

Suddenly wary, Lysha reached for the knife at her belt. In this weather it was best to be cautious. It might—as she'd assumed—be a neighbour desperate for assistance, but it could be bandits or, even worse, the savage beast-men from across the river.

'Who's there?' Lysha shouted.

'Yeoman Rakath, your Lord requires service of you.'

Recognising the peevish voice of Petry al Oland, Lysha hastily kicked the straw aside and pulled open the door. Petry pushed imperiously past her and strode into the cottage. With him he brought the biting wind and a flurry of snow. Lysha pushed the door closed, re-secured it, and kicked the straw back into place. Petry stamped his snow-covered boots on the packed earth floor of the cottage.

Lord Yâlen's man-at-arms was about the same age as Lysha's father, but years of eating at the Lord's table while doing as little work as possible had thickened his waist and shortened his breath. Petry's woollen hood and his cloak were encrusted with falling snow. His breath came fast, and his face was red from a combination of exertion and annoyance. After a pause to give Lysha a contemptuous glance, he strode into the living room and stood as close as possible to the fire.

Satisfying herself that the outer door was sealed and barred, Lysha followed Petry into the cottage's living room and closed that door too. The man-at-arms was still shedding snow from his back; his arrival had brought both cold and tension into the cottage.

Everyone in the village knew Petry, and few liked him. Over the years he had become more body-servant to Sir Danard's son, Sir Alarn, than man-at-arms to Sir Danard, the elderly Lord of Yâlen. Lysha had never seen Petry practice with his weapons, and her father had sometimes whispered that Petry's main duties were to make sure someone else did the work he'd been given. He was notorious for passing any unpleasant or difficult tasks he'd been tasked with to one of the village's two yeoman clans.

Lysha wondered why Petry had arrived at her father's house. The village's other yeoman, Rathan al Baldin, was Beadle for the fief. Even in this weather, Rathan was expected to ensure that the peasants were working, though there was very little to do.

Rathan and his family were, Lysha assumed, sheltering from the blizzard like everyone else. When the storm had started two of the sheep pens had been damaged, but the weather was so foul that repairs were impossible. Both Rathan and the village reeve had agreed to abandon the attempt. Everyone had brought their livestock into their homes; the repairs could wait.

'Yeoman Dikel,' Petry began. Her father nodded, and then coughed into a rag. 'Our Lord has the chills…' Petry continued. There was fear in the man-at-arms' eyes as he stared down at Lysha's father.

'As does my husband!' Lysha's mother interjected.

'Yeoman Rathan is also malingering on his cot.' Petry looked increasingly worried. 'But our Lord may die. The Lady Maris requires that you leave for Novélim immediately. You must fetch their Peónian Priestess, she is skilled in the healing arts. She must come and tend to our Lord.'

Lysha's father wiped his nose, and struggled to sit.

'You must go, and you must go now!' There was a palpable sense of desperation in Petry's demand.

'My husband can barely stand,' Lysha's mother was forceful in his defence. 'He cannot go.'

'I'll go in his stead,' Lysha volunteered.

'You?' Petry turned, dismissively looked Lysha up and down, and began to assess her eldest brother.

'I am the eldest, Master Petry,' said Lysha, drawing herself up to her full height. At five-and-a-half feet, she was as tall as the man-at-arms, and carried considerably less weight. 'My father is ill, so I will carry out this duty for clan Rakath. But Jédes town is closer, why must I go to Novélim?'

Although Lysha asked the question, she already knew the answer.

'Sir Terrys, Lord of Novélim is liege to Sir Danard. The outlander Constable of Jédes is not! Hamnis, Ebaséthè of Jédes is no healer, as everyone with a brain knows!' Petry snapped. 'Lady Maris insists that Mother Bredyth, Priestess of Novélim, be fetched. She is the only one who can help our lord. Those were our lady's instructions, to me. Do not presume to question the orders of your liege, girl!' He glanced at Lysha, and then at Uthber. 'If your father is unfit, then...'

'Why us?' asked Lysha. 'You are...' From behind Petry, her mother's glare seared a warning, and Lysha bit her tongue.

'You volunteered, girl! I will return to the manor and let my Lady know that Clan Rakath will undertake this duty, and that the priestess will be back here by the end of the day. Ready yourself quickly, and present yourself at the manor. I will await you there.' Smirking, Petry pulled up his hood, picked up a hot oatcake from the skillet in his leather-gloved hand, and strode from the cottage without bothering to close the doors.

Furious, Lysha silently cursed his retreating back as she once again closed the doors behind him and sealed them against the wind.

'Oh, Lysha,' her mother began when she returned to the living room. 'Why?'

'I am eldest, Mother, and Father cannot go,' Lysha said. She noticed the unshed tears in the corners of her mother's eyes and immediately regretted her irritation, and her failure to attend to the oatcakes. 'I'm neither spinster nor house maid, Mother. Look at the oatcakes! I am better with a bow than with either spindle or skillet, you know that.'

'But…' her mother began.

'And I'm a lot better with a bow than Uthber,' she added, pulling a face at her eldest brother.

'But Lysha…'

'Someone must go, Nala,' her father said. He stopped to cough again. 'It should be me. The yeoman's duties are mine. I will go.'

'You can barely stand Dikel.' Lysha's mother folded her arms.

'I'm not alone; half of the village is suffering. Perhaps more, if even Lord Danard has this contagion.' Lysha's father once again stopped to cough. 'This brutal wind from the north brings Sárajìn's curse with it. Fetching the Ebaséthè here would help more folk than our Lord. A priestess of gentle Peóni will help everyone, even a Laránian like me, just as our old Ebaséthè, Davveth, would have done had he not gone to join his goddess in the Meadows of Valon.' Dikel of Rakath ended the longest speech he'd given in days with a racking, hawking cough, then spat green phlegm onto the fire.

'The Abbey at Brómelèon should have sent us a new priest when old Davveth died!' Lysha's mother said. 'If they had, then there would be no need for anyone to go out in this storm.'

'We can't complain about ifs or buts, mother! That's what you tell us, isn't it?' Lysha asked. 'You should be thankful that I've not been asked to travel to the hospital at Brómelèon Abbey, to fetch the—Master of Healing—what do the Peónians call him?'

'Lerovâna,' Lysha's father provided the man's title. He turned back to his wife. 'Who would go, Nala, if not myself, or Lysha, then who? Should we send Uthber? Petry has given this task to clan Rakath.'

Lysha watched as her mother weighed up her options, and the implications for her family. With watery eyes, Nala looked up at her daughter. 'Someone must go; your father cannot, and you have volunteered, Lysha,' she announced, coming to her decision. 'Dybal, find your father's old boots. Hui fetch his cloak from the hall. Uthber fetch your best breeches, tunic, and undertunic from the trunk, and put them on. Marila bring two big handfuls of clean straw from the barn.'

Lysha watched her mother with admiration. Once she made a decision, Nala al Rakath did not hesitate. While most of Lysha's siblings obeyed immediately, Uthber remained seated.

'Why must I wear my best clothes?' he demanded. 'Where am I going?'

'Nowhere, but the clothes you're wearing will fit Lysha. She'll need the extra layers!' Nala stood, folded her arms, and firmly imposed her authority over her eldest son.

It was some time before Lysha was ready to leave. Despite Uthber's complaints she had been given her brother's day-clothes. She'd also been fed the biggest portion of pottage she'd had in days. Her mother had wrapped half-a-dozen of the burnt oatcakes in cloth, and pushed them inside the tunic, "Just in case the journey takes longer than expected."

Lysha's woollen leggings were encased in her brother's breeches. She wore both her undertunics beneath her calf-length kirtle. On top of that loose dress she also wore her brother's tunic, which reached to her knees. Atop everything she wore her father's old leather greatcoat. Her sister and mother were now wrapping her father's long cloak over that. The boots she wore also belonged to her father. They should have been too big for her, but they were stuffed with insulating straw and her feet were crushed uncomfortably within them. Her hands were encased in her own leather archer's gloves, over which were two pairs of woollen mittens.

Feeling uncomfortable in all of the layers, Lysha watched her father struggle to his feet. 'Take this,' he said, lifting his old falchion from the wall. Between coughs he reminded her that, in this weather, her bow would be useless.

Lysha had often practiced with the heavy blade. Mostly she'd used it to chop firewood, but her father had also taught her the rudiments of how to wield it in combat.

'From today, this blade is yours,' her father promised.

As he fastened it to her belt, Lysha saw her father look across the room, at the spot where his new falchion hung. It was as if he'd rather give her that new and better blade. She knew, however, that the expensive new weapon was something he couldn't afford to lose. The old blade was loot from her grandfather's time. According to family lore, once—long ago—it had tasted gârgún blood. For many years, however, it had only seen use as an axe.

The falchion was a single-edged sword—good for chopping, but difficult to control. Lysha doubted that she would even be able to draw the weapon from its scabbard, unless she discarded the mittens. Despite this, she accepted it gratefully. The weight of the blade against her hip provided her with some comfort. She knew that, although it was no more than a token of defence, it was the greatest gift her father could bestow upon her. He was trying to protect her as best he could.

'Thank you.' She tried to hug him, but her multiple layers made her attempt clumsy.

'Safe journey, Lysha,' her father told her, returning the hug. Whether because of her clothing, his current weakness, or a mix of both, she barely felt his embrace.

Finally, her mother wrapped an old blanket about Lysha's head and face, fastening it in place with a copper pin and leaving only a narrow gap for Lysha to peer through.

'Be careful,' her mother added, kissing Lysha on the crooked part of her nose, the only area of exposed flesh.

'I will,' promised Lysha. With that, she stepped out into the swirling snow and didn't look back. The thud of the timber bar being dropped on the cottage door was the sound of finality. She had a task to carry out for the lady of the manor.

Trudging through the heavy drifts towards the manor house, Lysha followed the only tracks she could see on the white ground. They were Petry's, and they were already vanishing. Within minutes, few would discern the man-at-arms' visit. Within the hour no one would know that Lysha yeoman's-daughter had left her home.

Lysha could see little, and hear less, but at least she was warm. Holding the cloak closed, she tramped through the snow to the manor house. The gate was closed. She hammered on it, but her gloved and mitten-covered hands made no more than a gentle thud. The noise she made was barely audible over the wind.

As she clumsily unsheathed the falchion, Lysha dropped it. Cursing under her breath, she pulled it from the snow and hammered on the gate with the hilt. There was no response. She tried again, hitting the gate with all the strength she could muster. She was almost crying in frustration by the time Petry finally shouted, 'Who's there!'

'Lysha, of Clan Rakath, to do my Lord's bidding!' she shouted.

'At your request! Who else would be out on so foul a day, you fat oaf?' she whispered to herself as she waited for Petry to open the huge gate.

Finally, the portal opened a crack, just enough for Lysha to squeeze through. The manor yard, usually familiar, had been transformed into a new and mysterious place by the swirling, drifting snow. She followed Petry across the rectangular yard.

The bridge gate, which opened directly onto the bridge across the River Tâmora, stood at the far end of a narrow alley. The wattle and daub stables were to her left, and the great hall of the manor house to her right. Wind-blown snow was piled high against the gate. It took Lysha several minutes to clear the snow. Petry did nothing to help and, by the time she could open the gate, her mittens were soaked.

The moment Lysha stepped out onto the bridge, Petry locked her out of the manor. She heard him drop the heavy beam that secured it, and imagined the portly man-at-arms scuttling back into the warmth of the great hall. Calling the man-at-arms several names, any one of which would have resulted in a severe scolding from her mother, made Lysha feel a little better.

She edged cautiously onto the bridge. It was no more than a few planks nailed between two timber beams. It had no parapet and even in good weather people occasionally fell (or were pushed) into the river. Now, with the bitter wind buffeting her, the snow-covered surface was treacherous.

Lysha edged cautiously out over the silent snow-covered water. The bridge seemed wider than she remembered, so she carefully prodded a toe towards the edge. As she suspected, what had at first appeared to be the edge was no more than overhanging snow. It tumbled into the river.

Peering warily over the side of the bridge, she looked for the snow she'd dislodged. As she'd expected, it had fallen onto the river, not into it. The River Tâmora was frozen and, by the time she had cautiously crossed it, so was Lysha. The wicked wind whistling down the valley had blown the warmth from her.

On the west bank lay the open fields of her home village. The normally well-defined track to Novélim lay somewhere beneath the thick white blanket. It proved impossible to find. With neither trail nor landmarks to follow, and worried that she'd lose all sense of direction in the white world around her, Lysha did the only thing she could; she trudged along the field edges, keeping the frozen River Tâmora to her right. Within minutes she reached the mighty Kald. The River Kald was deep and fast flowing and, unlike its tributary, it remained unfrozen except in a few still shallows. By keeping the river on her right, she knew that she would eventually reach Novélim.

The journey was slow and uncomfortable. The snow was never less than a foot deep and was often more than twice that. Forcing her feet forward through the drifts was laborious work, and her world was a swirling grey-white fog of snowflakes. There was enough visibility for her to make certain that she was still following the river, and enough resistance to her progress to sap her energy.

In the summer the riverbank was a pleasant place. Usually getting from Yâlen to Novélim, even by this informal route, took no more than an hour. In the deep drifts every step was a struggle. Lysha tried both kicking her way through the snow, and lifting her feet above it. Nothing speeded her progress.

As she continued her journey Lysha began to doubt herself, to believe that, somehow, she'd gone wrong. The trek had become interminable. She had been walking for hours, yet there was still no sign of her destination. The river remained on her right, she assured herself. She could not be lost; the village must be close. Forcing her legs through knee-deep snow, she continued to place one foot in front of another. Snow crunched and her boots found purchase until, suddenly, they didn't.

Her front foot sank deep into the snow, and she pitched forwards. Not even her outstretched arms could prevent her from taking a face full of snow. Panicking, she tried to find solid ground. It wasn't easy. She discovered that she was lying on packed snow above an icy surface; she'd fallen into a ditch, or a frozen stream. What she'd thought was a slight dip in the snow was no such thing. Uncertain of the thickness of the ice or the width of the stream, she lay still for a moment and forced herself calm down.

Getting out proved difficult. The banks of the stream were steep and the snow crumbled beneath her. When she finally crawled up onto the west bank, Lysha had lost all feeling in her hands and feet.

Her heart hammering, Lysha looked back at the disturbed and panic-trodden patch of snow from which she'd finally freed herself. The continuing snowfall was already beginning to cover it, preparing to trap anyone else foolish enough to travel. Frightened out of her exhaustion by visions of her frozen corpse lying lost under several feet of snow, Lysha stood. Thrusting her freezing fingers under her armpits and ignoring the aches in her legs, she strode determinedly on. Stopping was not an option. In this weather to stop was to die.

The falchion at her waist was no longer a comfort, it was a burden, an unnecessary weight that simply slowed and exhausted her. Despite this, she could not discard it. It was valuable. It was a gift from her father. It was hers!

It was also a symbol. Reaching down, she grasped its hilt with numb fingers. 'Laráni, Lady of Virtue, protect and watch over me,' she murmured a prayer. 'Laráni, Lady of Paladins, grant me the strength to complete this task for my lord.'

As she forced herself forward, Lysha's prayers were, in part, answered. The snow finally stopped falling. While the feeble winter sun failed to provide any warmth, the fierce and freezing wind dropped to an almost unnoticeable breeze. The break in the clouds was enough to provide a much-missed horizon and to transform what had been a featureless grey-white world into a startlingly blank white landscape beneath a blue-grey sky.

'Praise Laráni,' Lysha mumbled, again touching the sword hilt.

The blanket wrapped around her head was wet from her breath and from the snow she'd fallen into. The cold air was clawing its way through it to her dripping nose and dry lips. Lysha trudged determinedly on.

The River Kald was still on her right. Beyond it, on the far bank of the mighty river, was the snow-covered forest where the Kath, the wild men of the forest, lived and died and hunted and killed. Finally, as she crested a low rise, Lysha saw the imposing stone bulk of Novélim Manor. It was still over half a mile distant, but her destination was at last in sight. Several white mounds surrounded the manor. The cottages of the village were almost entirely hidden underneath the snow, and she could not make out any familiar landmarks.

She knew the place well. Sir Terrys al Doulzarn, Lord of Novélim manor, was liege to her own liege and one of the richest nobles in Asólade Hundred. Sir Terrys was wealthy enough to maintain a priestess of Laráni on his staff. Lysha and her father regularly attended the services the priestess, the Matakéa Fryda, held in the manor's chapel.

Across Sir Terrys' greater demesne—the three villages of Novélim, Méminast, Yâlen, and the hamlet of Gémheldon—only the nobles and yeomen followed the warrior goddess. The peasants invariably followed the teachings of gentle Peóni, so the Matakéa's congregation was small—no more than two score. As a Laránian, Lysha had no idea where in the village she would find the Peónian Ebaséthè.

The solution was simple. She was here to request aid for her liege, and Sir Terrys, Lord Novélim, was the person she must ask. She must go to the manor and make the request of Sir Terrys himself. In the complex politics of the region, the nobles rarely interfered in the affairs of the peasant-priests of Peóni, but Lysha had little doubt that if the villagers of Novélim were suffering Sir Terrys would not allow the Ebaséthè to leave Novélim.

As she trudged wearily towards the manor house, the morning's exertions finally caught up with her. Stumbling wearily towards the main gate, Lysha tried to decide on a strategy, and tried to remember how to address the Lord of Novélim. My Lord would be enough, wouldn't it?