CHAPTER ONE: IT WAS A GOOD INN

Maskyr's Eye, the Vast, 14 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens

The two riders halted at the southern edge of the vale. Beside them, a lone standing stone rose up at an odd angle above the rubble wall of an old farm like a stern, endlessly pointing finger.

"This marks the edge of Maskyr's Eye," said the dark-haired rider, indicating the stone. The village of Maskyr's Eye was before them in the narrow vale formed by mountains to the east, tall hills to the south, and the line of a dark, brooding forest to the north and west. All the vale between the mountains and the forest was visible from their vantage point on the road. They could see perhaps a dozen farms or pastures, all neatly marked by straight boundaries of stone fences.

"Are those dwarven writings on the stone?" asked his companion, mildly interested. It was a warm, midsummer afternoon, getting on towards evening. The air was humid, and dark clouds had been coming up from the south all afternoon. They could hear thunder in the distance.

"Aye, Lord. The locals call it the Dwarfstone, although some ballads refer to it as Durn's Finger." To the locals, the stone was more than just a marker, it was something sacred to the dwarves, not to be disturbed or even approached too closely. In recent memory, no dwarf had ever appeared to reveal any use or reverence for the stone, but the legend remained, clear and emphatic, and the stone remained undisturbed.

The dark-haired rider turned and looked back the way they had come. To the south stood a great rocky hill, so steep and rocky on its northeastern face that it seemed almost a cliff. Though not nearly so tall as the distant mountains to the east, this great bluff loomed over the entire vale like the prow of some giant ship. A single large farm, its borders neatly marked with a low, straight fence of placed rocks, huddled nearby, at the foot of the bluff between the hill and the road. Their road wound around the base of the bluff before turning away southward. He noticed a narrow path climbing the bluff on the eastern side, where the hill was not so steep.

The other rider, a young nobleman, looked to the east, and saw farms stretching away from the road. The land rose steeply to meet the mountains in the distance. The plots were narrow and long, and many had vineyards planted on the rocky slopes at the eastern side of the vale. Beyond loomed four tall mountain peaks. To the left, the two northernmost of the visible mountains of the Giantspike range, stood the twin Coldstars- high, blue and grey, looking nearly identical, with few trees on their slopes. To the right was Mount Wolf, the squattest and broadest of the peaks which formed the eastern edge of the vale. It was almost entirely covered with trees, and its top was flattened with only the barest tinge of snow. Between the Coldstars and Mount Wolf he beheld the greatest peak of all, Mount Aergurl, which in old folktales was called The Sleeper in the Sunrise.

Three cold, narrow streams rushed down the rocky side coming out of the dark trees which grew halfway up this snow-capped mountain. These streams ran down from the mountains to the east, and flowed into a small pond in the center of the village. North and south of the pond were two grass- covered levies, redirecting the mountain streams into the pond and away from the road. From the west side of the pond, a single creek wound its way westward through horse pastures before disappearing into the forest.

"At least we will make the inn before it rains," said the younger man.

"For once," grinned the dark-haired rider.

They spurred their horses, and followed the road northward through the middle of the vale. They crossed the stream by means of a broad wooden bridge which marked roughly the center of the vale. There perhaps a dozen thatch-roofed buildings clustered around a small dirt square, near the pond and the bridge. Close at hand stood the old pillories, which looked as if they've not been used in years.

At the south end of the pond was a large building, a blacksmiths shop from the sounds of clanging metal and the smoke billowing from the chimney. Next to the smithy where one of the mountain streams ran into the pond stood a largish building with a waterwheel and a low grain silo. Next to this, they saw a slightly larger building of wood and stone construction, with a high peaked roof with slate shingles. Gilded double doors at the front marked this as a temple of some sort.

They made their way east of the square, around the northwestern curve of the pond, toward a large, low, sprawling building of stone and wood, with a thatched roof. A walled compound off to one side enclosed what looked to be a stable, and a rather large oak tree. This building was undoubtedly the inn, called the Wizard's Hand, a place reknowned throughout the Vast for its good food and comfortable lodgings.

***

It was a good inn. A large, broad-shouldered man with dark hair approached them with a smile. He wore a stained leather apron over a sleeveless tunic and trousers. He looked the two travellers up and down, wiping his hands on a kerchief. With perhaps a little suspicion he noticed the longswords at their sides.

"Hail and well met, travellers," he said, smiling broadly. "You must be here for the Hornmoot. I am Lhullbanen Orlsyr, proprietor of the Wizard's Hand, finest inn of all the Vast. Here you may rest and eat and drink your fill. Are there but the two of you, and how long will you be staying?"

"Greetings, good innkeeper," said the younger man, bowing politely. "I am Aendar, and my companion is Drannamon." He did not volunteer their titles or their surnames. "We have travelled far today on a hard road, and would count ourselves lucky if you could find room for us for the night. We have heard tell of the Wizard's Hand, but alas we have a longer road tomorrow, and must leave at first light."

"Well spoken and well met," said Lhullbannen, returning Aendar's bow. The innkeeper sensed an air of nobility about the younger man, though the dark- haired one looked a bit rough. Over the years, he had developed an eye for sizing up travellers who came to stay at his inn, and these two looked like they could afford a night's stay. The proprietor formed a good many other opinions about them, as well, but Lhullbannen Orlsyr did not generally share his opinions. "Not here for the Hornmoot, then? Just as well, for it may be delayed this year."

Aendar had no idea what was meant by the Hornmoot. He raised an eyebrow questioningly at Drannamon, who shrugged.

"Do you have horses in need of stabling?" asked the innkeeper. "If so, there is room at the back. If not, know that Maskyr's Eye is reknowned for its horses, and if you are ever in need of one, you will find your money's worth here in the Vale, that's for sure. We've raised horses here for as long as the village has stood."

The two friends both smiled at the innkeeper. "We have two horses," said Aendar.

"Well, you've heard enough of my chatter," said Lhullbannen. "You must be tired and thirsty from the road, so I will be off. Make yourselves at home under my roof. I'll send one of my daughters around to bring you a meal and a drink. Just let me get the groom to help you." The innkeeper turned and made for the door to the kitchens, bellowing "Bunker!!"

In answer to the summons, a dwarf scuttled in through a side door. He shuffled with a pronounced limp, but moved quickly despite his lameness. He was stooping and unattractive-looking, with crooked yellow teeth, a tangled beard, and a patch over one eye. On his head was a large, shapeless blue hat. Muttering under his breath, he bobbed up and down nervously, and smiled and bowed profusely many times. Aendar and Drannamon were finally able to make out that this was Bunker, the groom, and he was to lead them to their room.

Once their belongings and lodgings had been arranged, and their horses taken to the stables and cared for, Bunker led Aendar and Drannamon back to the common room in search of an empty table. The room was already crowded.

In one corner sat two older men who looked as if they spent a great deal of their time in the taproom. Their conversation was loud enough for the two travellers to overhear. One of them expressed his concern that the expected horns of the Stout Folk had not yet been heard. "Not to worry," said the other. "Graer Dunfallow will just give a toot of that old horn of his, and the dwarves will answer sure enough, just as they have in the past."

On a bench by the fireplace, a yellow-haired woman in dyed robes of brown and green with a yellow sash was sitting quietly. On her lap was an open book; a tea cup sat beside her on the hearth. She was pointedly trying to ignore an enthusiastic young man who had seated himself next to her on a stool.

They passed many tables, where men were talking. "The Stout Folk will be selling fine dwarven axes at the next Hornmoot," said one. "Bandits on the North Road attacked a caravan coming from Mulmaster just last tenday," said another. "Wolves a' been comin' down out of the mountains in greater numbers than usual this year," said another. "Ulcrimmon Alskayl told me he was up on Mount Aergurl and got chased off by a whole pack of wolves. Ain't a wolf been seen on the Sleeper in living memory."

Bunker finally led them towards an empty table. Before they were able to seat themselves, a little girl approached them. She tugged on Drannamon's weathered cloak. The girl had short-cropped dark hair and dark eyes. Bunker smiled at the little girl and bounced up and down, clapping his hands. She smiled at the dwarf, and at them. "My name is Jhesycha," she says, "What's yours?"

Before either traveller could answer the lass, a huge, noisy woman with a red face burst in from the kitchens. She had a wicked looking broom in her hand. She glared at the two new guests.

"Are you two planning to eat anything," she demanded, "or do you intend simply to stand on my clean floors attracting flies and discouraging paying customers?" They managed to stammer out that they would very much like a meal and a drink. Then she yelled an almost unintelligible string of orders and epithets at the poor dwarf, sending him scurrying off back where he came from. The large woman sent a disapproving glare at two older men in the corner, making no attempt to hide her disdain, before shooshing the little girl back into the kitchen with her broom. Aendar and Drannamon could only blink, but quickly sat down.

From his place by the fire, the enthusiastic-looking young man rose and approached the two newcomers with a smile on his face. He had boyish looks, with big ears and bright eyes. He was colorfully dressed in a cloak of bright crimson and a green tunic worn over a chain shirt, with yellow leggings tucked into a large pair of brown boots. He had a lute slung over one shoulder and a crossbow across over his back. At his hip hung a short sword in a shiny new scabbard. He carried a large mug in his hand. Aendar grinned, but Drannamon scowled.

"Ah, I see you have met Maefi," the man said, seating himself. He referred to the loud woman with the broom who had come from the kitchens. "Don't let her bother you, she's like that with everyone. She is Lhull's wife, may Ilmater bless him with perseverence. No doubt you've already met Lhullbannen Orlsyr, owner and innkeeper of the Wizard's Hand. A good man, he is." He leaned forward, and lowered his voice. "Rumor has it," he added conspiratorily, "that Lhullbannen led an adventurer's life in his youth, before he met his wife." He nodded and took a drink.

"That dwarf you met was Bunker," he continued. "The only one of the Stout Folk who truly lives here in Maskyr's Eye. Bunker mostly runs the stables, and sometimes carries baggage for Lhullbannen. He is generally quiet and keeps to himself. The Orlsyrs treat him with kindness, except for Maefi, who treats no one with kindness. And the girl was their youngest, Jhesycha. They have four daughters to help them running the inn. The other girls are Carine, Andryl and Shalea. They're all around here somewhere." Again, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "His daughters are the prizes of the hamlet, dark-haired spitfires every one, but no one has caught one of 'em yet, for fear of old Lhull." He gave a wink. "Course, there's a bit too much of the tomboy in them Orlsyr sisters for me, else I'd surely have wooed them all myself by now."

"Who exactly ARE you?" asked Aendar.

The young man seemed to remember his manners, and stood in order to properly introduce himself. "Greetings, fellow travellers," he said. "I am Pinter Plen of Ylraphon, wandering minstrel and teller-of-tales." He bowed theatrically, with a fluorish of his cloak, somehow managing not to spill a drop from his mug, and barely managing to keep his sword from falling out of its scabbard and clattering to the floor. Sensing he still had an audience, or perhaps sensing nothing, Pinter seated himself again at their table and proceeded to inform the two travellers of everything he knew about the locals who frequented the Wizard's Hand.

"Now, those two," he said, gesturing toward the two old men in the corner, "Are Hulthoon Maer, an old woodsman and Arbrest Thunwyllun, an old farmer. They are regular fixtures here at the Wizard's Hand, near as I can tell. When they are drunk, which is often, they are arguing loudly. When they are not drunk, which is seldom, they are gossipping. Now, where be you from, eh? Tantras, mayhaps?"

"No, we are not from Tantras," answered Aendar.

"Just as well. Tantras is a god-ridden place of suspicious, unfriendly folk." When no further clarifications seemed immediately forthcoming from either Drannamon or Aendar, the minstrel went on with his disertations.

"That man over there is Aarrison Urlefil, the closest thing Maskyr's Eye has to a guardsman. He and Lhullbannen have gotten to be rather good friends over the years, as both were fighting men at one time. He once told me he served a brief stint as a mercenary in Calaunt. Calaunt is a den of thieves, an openly evil place dominated by arrogant idiots. Or so I've heard."

Aendar shook his head.

"Not from Calaunt, either, then," Pinter said. "Mulmaster, perhaps? Mulmaster is a dangerous, sinister place, but they have the fiercest warriors. Maskyr's Bluff was once used as a look-out by soldiers from Mulmaster, you know."

Drannamon rolled his eyes at Aendar.

"And the quiet lady by the fire," Pinter went on. "That is Jhenta Sulpir. She is an acolyte at the temple of Chauntea. She's lived here in Maskyr's Eye for many years, and she's not once accepted my offer to buy her a glass of sherry. Strange, considering I'm certain she's smitten with me."

Aendar gave the young minstrel a questioning look.

"Twas just yestereve," he explained. "She asked me to accompany her upstairs. Jhenta and I snuck upstairs making sure that goodman Lhullbannen wasn't looking, along with Lhull's eldest, Carine. We went into his room." The bard grinned mischievously. "But it wasn't what you are thinking. The girls just wanted a look in his old chest. Well, I managed to jiggle the lock, and we all got a peek inside. There we found some heirlooms of her father's adventuring days- an old book and a magic sword. We barely got away undetected. That would have been it for me- he has ordered his daughters not to look into his things. Old Lhullbannen does not want his daughters to become adventurers, although I can't imagine why not."

Aendar was desperately glad when one of Lhullbannen's daughters finally arrived with their meals. Unfortunately, she brought one for Pinter as well. Her face was plain, but might have been pretty. Her apron was dirty, but her homespun dress and hands were clean. She wore a pair of spectacles perched on her rather aquiline nose. Her hair was long and, like her father and sisters, dark.

"Thank you, Carine," Pinter said. The bard flashed an innocent smile at the dark-haired girl, then set into his meal with both hands. Aendar thanked her as well, and she briefly curtsied before heading off.

They dined well on roast stag eaten with beer, and wildsage vegetable stew, and hardbread with "bloodlick" gravy, and for dessert, she brought them sweet-tarts with bramble-berry jelly and a bowl of sugarbread soaked in brandy and covered with cream. Though the two travellers paid him little heed, Pinter spoke all through their meal. Drannamon said nothing, but finally Aendar asked of him one question. "What can you tell us about the Hornmoot?"

"Twice or thrice a year," the young minstrel answered, "dwarves come down out of the mountains to trade with men in Maskyr's Eye. They stay only four days or so, long enough for word to get to Mulmaster, and for its traders to hurry south. The Stout Folk trade knives, daggers, axeheads, bracers, and short swords of fine make in return for food, wine, clothing, lamp oil, scents, wooden barrels, pitch, and rope. For a few days Maskyr's Eye is a crowded place and those unable to get rooms here at The Wizard's Hand either pay handsomely to stay at one of the farms in the vale, or camp by the roadside just north or south of the vale."

"No doubt," he continued, "the innkeeper told you the Hornmoot will be late this year. It seems as if the dwarves are late in announcing their arrival for the Hornmoot. Typically, this is heralded by the blowing of horns from up in the mountains. The villagers are all a bit puzzled, and not overly concerned. In the past when the dwarves have been late, the Masyrvians simply sounded a horn of their own."

"But there have been unsettling sightings of giants and signs of orcs up in the mountains this year. Even worse, there have been strange rumors of ghosts up in the mountains. Ghost stories usually come from the hill of Beluar's Hunt to the south, or from the Flooded Forest to the west, not from the Giantspike Mountains. Something is definitely stirring up trouble in the high country, folks tell me."

***

Carine Orlsyr returned to the kitchens after bringing the two newcomers and Pinter their meals. Her mother was not there. "Probably off bullying poor Bunker," she thought. But her sister Shalea was there, barefoot, scrubbing pots.

"They don't look like merchants," she said, looking up. "Do you think they might be adventurers?"

"Who, those two who just came in?" asked Carine. She shrugged. "They're both wearing swords, but that just means they're wealthy. They aren't much to look at, really." She sat down at the table and started chopping onions.

"Well, I looked at 'em," said Shalea, going back to work with her scrub- brush. "The fair-haired one is handsome, don't you think?"

Carine frowned at her younger sister. "He's twice your age, Shal."

"Yes, but isn't he?" she persisted.

"Well, perhaps," Carine admitted. "If he trimmed his hair and put on some clean clothes."

***

Lhullbannen went into the quiet courtyard behind the inn. He enjoyed coming here to watch the sun set, whenever chance allowed. He blinked when he noticed he was not alone. Leaning against the trunk of the great oak was a tall woman. She was slim, with long, golden hair that shone beneath the shade of the old tree. He blue eyes sparkled in the twilight. She was clad in tight-fitting black leathers, from foot to neck, and a sword hung at her hip, with gems in the hilt.

"Sshansalue!" he cried aloud. He had not expected her. The woman turned to the innkeeper with a smile.

"Hail and well met, Lhullbannen Orlsyr," she said. Her voice was like elven music, and her smile warmed the old innkeeper's heart. For a while, all thoughts of his cares were driven away. "You look surprised to see me." She laughed. "I told you I would return, did you think I was jesting?"

"No," he answered. "I just did not expect you so soon. It is always a pleasure to see you again, though you remind me of other times which sometimes I would rather forget. What brings you here?"

"There is evil stirring in your Vale, Lhullbannen," she said. The innkeeper's eyes widened at that, but he said nothing. "I have come to meet with another who Harps, Inven of the Dales. He has not yet arrived, has he?"

Lhullbannen thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Nay, but I will look out for him. Shall I tell the guests you will be performing tonight? A song, perhaps?"

The bardess smiled. "I would very much like to, if you will allow it."

Lhullbannen chuckled. "If I will allow it? Why, it is ever a great honor to have the famous Wonderharp under my roof, to hear her songs. The Wizard's Hand will be packed tonight, I assure you."

"Good," she said. "There is a new song I would like to try."

"My lady," asked Lhullbannen, "I need to speak with you a moment."

"About what?"

"Last night, my daughters snuck into the attic and found my old gear locked in a trunk. I don't want my daughters going down that road."

"Were our days together in the Broken Branch so bad?"

"You and I both know what sort of people most adventurers are. I am trying to teach them to stay out of that lifestyle, but they don't always listen to their father. Especially Carine, my eldest. Perhaps you could speak to her?"

"I would be glad to, my friend," she answered, smiling.

The old innkeeper looked grateful. "I am pleased to hear it, my Lady," he said.

***

"Don't they all look just so handsome and romantic?" asked Shalea. She was crowded around the kitchen door with her two older sisters, looking out into the common room. A group of adventurers had just arrived at the inn.

"Now what's happening, Shal? I can't see!" complained Andryl.

"Well, if you'd stop pushing me, perhaps I could get a look," said Shalea. She peeked out into the common room. "Ooh, it's Pinter."

"What's HE doing?" asked Andryl.

"He's spouting some ballad he's written about them," answered Shalea.

"That oaf. He's just trying to gain their favor," muttered Carine.

"Hello, ladies." Startled by the unexpected voice behind them, the three girls nearly jumped. But it was neither their father nor their mother who had discovered their eavesdropping. It was Sshansalue, the exotic, leather- clad bardess who from time to time sang at the Wizard's Hand. The sisters all suddenly remembered there were chores to done. They muttered their greetings, and apologies, and hastily went off. Sshansalue set a hand on Carine's shoulder as she tried to go, instead leading her back into the kitchen. One glance from the tall woman sent the cook out the back door to gather herbs.

"You know, I once thought even as you do," said Sshansalue.

"You did?" asked Carine, a little surprised. The lady minstrel gave her a knowing smile.

"Carine, allow me to give you a bit of advice," said Sshansalue. "Don't go into the business of adventuring."

Carine sighed. "Lady, you sound just like my father."

"Your father is a wise man." The Harper leaned against the edge of the table and shook her head. "Believe me, Carine, I know where your thoughts run." She gestured towards the door to the common room. "You see those adventurers out there, with their bright swords and pouches full of gold, flaunting society and your father's rules, living life on their own terms, listening to tales of themselves sung by little minstrels. Then you examine your own life, with its drudgery and boredom and hopelessness, and you would rather have theirs than yours."

Carine crossed her arms stubbornly.

"Let me give you a little lesson concerning the nature of adventurers. That bunch out there are the worst sort of adventurers- the ones who have had several successful expeditions, who suddenly have more wealth than they ever dreamed of, who delight in parading about in their shiny new gear, acting brave and pompous."

"Is that so bad?" Carine asked.

"Nay," Sshansalue replied, shaking her head. "But it is only the first side of the coin. Adventuring is about never having dry feet, never getting any sleep, never having nice clothes or a light pack, never having a soft pillow or a warm bed. One day, their luck will run out. It always does. They will see most of their friends die, be hounded by those who hate them and betrayed by those who envy them. They will learn to mistrust all those around them. They will leave their loved ones behind and never again have homes like you do now. They will all become scarred, and the scars that show are nowhere as bad as the ones that don't. Once you set out down that road, you may never be able to return. And even if you are lucky, and manage to survive, you will not be the same person you were when you left."

Carine was silent for a moment. "Is that what happened to my father?" she asked.

Sshansalue nodded her head. "He was lucky."

***