20th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY

Suderham, The Pomarj

A tavern table and two stools materialized inside the circle. Scattered pine needles appeared on the floor by them.

Sounds began to wend their way through the room; glasses clinking, indistinct conversations, stools being scraped along a wooden floor.

Wisps of pipe smoke hung in the air.

A man appeared in one of the stools.

He was a large man of middle age, with a mane of tangled, dark red hair and a heavy beard, all of which contrasted heavily with his pale skin. He wore a snug-fitting garment of black fur and a brown cloak fastened with a silver brooch about his neck. A small axe hung from his belt, and on his head was a short conical helm from which two horns protruded.

The man did not move. As motionless as a statue, he stared blankly straight ahead of him.

Unru walked over so that he stood on the opposite side of the table from the man.

The illusionist's hat transformed into a similar helm. His clothing changed into a long woolen tunic, dyed a lima bean green. It covered him from his neck to his knees. Unru's new appearance sported fair skin, blonde hair and a full beard, although it was shorter and neater than the first man's.

Unru made a gesture with his left hand, and a boy materialized at his side. Perhaps about fourteen years old, the resemblance to Unru's current form in both features and dress was instantly recognizable, although he wore no helmet. He seemed a little short for his age.

Like the man, the boy stood stock-still; he did not even blink.

Unru turned and smiled at Aslan, and then snapped his fingers.

Instantly, the man at the table came to life. With a roar of delight, the image sprang from his seat, walked around the table and nearly crushed his creator in a great bear hug.

"Corrigan!" the man yelled as he thumped Unru on the back repeatedly. "By Thor's hammer, 'tis a pleasure to see ye! What's it been, seven years?"

"'Boot tha'," Unru replied, as they finally disengaged. "Yer a welcome seet, Eric. First familiar face we've seen since we got back."

The man's dark eyes switched over to the boy, who had now also become animate, if only to stand there shyly. The child's eyes lit up with nervousness as Eric came over to him.

"And this strappin' young lad?" he proclaimed. "Can't be Hoslin! Hoslin was just a wee bairn when las' I saw him!"

Hoslin seemed to be able to do little other than nod and mumble, "'Tis me, alreet," as Eric nearly knocked the poor boy off his feet with a hearty back slap, and then returned to his stool. "Corrigan" took the other one, leaving Hoslin to stand next to the table.

Eric turned his head and shouted, "Ales!"

Elrohir started- it looked like Eric was looking directly at him- but a moment later three drinking horns had materialized on the table, each held upright by a small wooden frame. No one seemed to think anything of this but scooped up the horns and drained them.

As the trio drank, Elrohir used the pause to check out Aslan.

The group leader suspected the locale that Unru was depicting, if not the exact place. It was the rugged land of Rekamifoke, on Aarde.

One glance at Aslan confirmed his suspicions. The paladin was watching the scene with an almost frightening intensity. His lips were pressed together, and he was trying hard to keep from trembling.

Rekamifoke was where Aslan had been born.

Movement out of the corner of his right eye drew the ranger's attention. Sitdale had walked around the circle to come over to him.

"I don't know what Unru's up to," he whispered, "but I do recognize this. This was about four or five years ago, perhaps a year or so after we'd met you the first time. We were in Rekamifoke and had stopped at a country tavern." The half-elf grimaced. "I didn't know he'd been eavesdropping, but it doesn't surprise me. Unru makes it a habit of listening in on any conversation he can. Claims it helps him tell his stories better."

"So, Corrigan, wha' brings ye back tae Glencorraid?"

Everyone heard Aslan's sudden intake of breath.

"Seein' me brother again," replied Unru, who jabbed a thumb at the illusionary youth next to him. "His aunt and uncle's neh seen him fer so long, they won' ken him!"

Hoslin stared down at the floor. "They'll ken me all reet," he muttered. "I've neh grown but a few inches all these years."

"Dinna be feelin' sorry fer yerself, young man!" Eric spoke with such conviction that Hoslin raised his eyes to meet the man's. "Ain't how far yer head's off the floor what's important. By Hel, yer no smaller than Lady Mercy's son was at yer age, an' say wha' ye will 'boot tha' boy, there's no sayin' he was a weak 'un!"

The youth tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "Lady Mercy… tha' was the priestess who'd taken the Vow o' Nonviolence, reet? She lived by herself on the hill by Loch Arlou."

"Aye," Eric nodded. "But neh queet alone."

"I ken," Hoslin responded. "Her son. Meet even a seen him once or twice, on top o' the hill."

Eric looked thoughtful. "He'd be just past twenty or so, if he's still alive."

Corrigan raised an eyebrow. "Ye don't ken? Never came back, did he?"

The larger man shook his head. "Neh a word o' him I've heard. I think he left Rekamifoke fer good; headed tae Rolos, I'd guess."

"Was he famous?" asked Hoslin.

Eric's eyes widened in surprise. "Never told yer bairn the story o' Lady Mercy's son, Corrigan?"

Unru shrugged. "He was too young then, an' I've neh thought 'boot it since. But yer reet there, Eric. 'Twas a strange lad, tha' 'un. Still canna believe he heard the Callin'…"

The boy was nearly hopping from one foot to the other with impatience now. "Please, father. Tell me the story! Wha' was the boy's name?"

And here Unru/Corrigan broke character to turn around and look directly into Aslan's eyes before he spoke.

"His name," he said, "was Goliath."

Goliath?

Nesco Cynewine frowned so hard it hurt her jaw muscles. She would have bet her life they had been talking about Aslan, and yet-

A knot suddenly formed in the ranger's stomach. She remembered that night- that very first night in the Pomarj- and Aslan talking to her from across a campfire.

"I had... a personal crisis... I... fell from grace... for a while. I had to... sort things out... decide if I wanted to continue following my Calling. In the end, I decided I did, although I had to give up a part of my past to do so… I served no king at the time, so I rechristened myself Aslan and let Elrohir assume the sole leadership role."

Nesco nearly gasped as the realization struck her.

Goliath. Nodyath It all made sense now.

Or did it?

Lady Cynewine returned her full attention to the scene unfolding before them.

"Well," Eric began. "Lady Mercy- I meet o' heard her real name once, but I canna recall- was always thought a bit odd by some. Neh so much as she never married, but 'cause o' her Vow. Tae folk here in Glencorraid, she was a blessin', tho. Much closer than the nearest temple in Aug Rondon. She was always willin' tae help out with her prayers; never chargin' more than wha' someone could pay. She'd take a chicken or a pound o' flour, if tha's all ye had."

"Now Lady Mercy, as ye ken, had a son," Unru continued, addressing Hoslin. "No one kenned who the father was, an' Lady Mercy would never talk 'boot it. Fact is, tha's the only way ye could get on her bad side- by askin' her. But folk talk, and folk look 'round, and see wha' man look like he meet be the father." Here Corrigan looked back at Eric, who nodded and resumed.

"And some folk said," the image intoned in a voice so low that the assembled audience had to strain to hear it, "tha' the father meet be neh other than Bjorn Drew himself."

Hoslin gasped. "The Laird o' Glencorraid?"

"Aye, the same. But- and here's the rub- a year or so 'fore the lad was born, a new High Priest took over in Aug Rondon. Name o' Father Tyvold."

His father nodded. "Well, there were as some said it was him- tha' he'd had an affair with Lady Mercy. Now the Laird was widowed, as ye meet ken, but neh Tyvold- he had a wife at home. So some tongues were waggin', but no one knew fer sure. Boy took more after his mother in looks, he did."

"But," Hoslin struggled to comprehend, "Father Tyvold was a priest. Couldna he ask the gods tae ken fer sure?"

Eric smiled at the question.

"He did boy; an' he said they told him no, he was a father, but he wasna the father." The large man chuckled at his own joke. "Of course, who's gonna ken whether he ever did ask or neh? Wha' ye think his wife said, 'boot him even havin' to ask?"

"But… if he said it wasna him, did he say who the father really was?"

Eric's smile grew deeper. "No. Said the gods told him 'twas neh fer him tae ken."

"Think, son," Corrigan cut in. "Aug Rondon's the seat o' Glencorraid. Laird Drew owns all tha' land, including tha' bit the church sits on. Wha' do ye think meeta happened if Father Tyvold were tae go pointin' fingers?"

Hoslin nodded.

"So," Eric went on, "things continued leek tha' fer 'boot a dozen years or so, an' then one night…"

For the first time, the man's expression grew dark.

"One terrible night, both Laird Drew an' Father Tyvold went tae Lady Mercy's home. Some say she summoned them; others say they went o' their own accord, to solve the mystery once an' for all."

Eric hesitated, and it seemed to the audience that the man had to literally spit the words out through his teeth.

"But all they found was death."

Unru/Corrigan turned around to look directly at Aslan again.

"And there was some that said they died by the hands of her son."

Aslan closed his eyes.

No.

They didn't understand. All they knew were rumors; half-truths, whispered gossip.

Unru didn't know the whole story, but he knew just enough. Just enough to hurt Aslan.

Just enough to hurt a boy named Goliath.

Just enough for the worst night in his life to come back.