1st Day of Needfest, 566 CY
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy
Neither Elrohir, Aslan, Argo, Nesco, Zantac nor Cygnus could contain their smiles as the road from Willip crested the small hill to reveal the Brass Dragon Inn, now no more than a half-mile away.
"Be it ever so humble," Elrohir said.
After a moment, he turned to his right to see Nesco and Zantac looking at him expectantly.
"Yes?" Zantac added expectantly, adding a hand gesture that indicated he had been expecting more.
Elrohir frowned.
"There's no place like home," he elaborated. "Haven't you heard that homily before?"
The wizard exchanged glances with Lady Cynewine and Argo Bigfellow and then all three turned to address their leader.
"No," they said in unison.
"Must be an expression native to Aarde, Elrohir," Aslan said to his friend, his smile expanding. "Never make assumptions," he added on a moralizing note.
The sextet walked on in silence for a few minutes, each with their own thoughts.
"We made good time." Nesco was the first to break the lull in conversation as she pointed up at the late afternoon sky, overcast with thick clouds. "Feels like we're due for a cold rain tonight. It'll feel good to have a solid roof above and a soft bed below."
"Spoken like, well…" Argo put on a mock expression of confusion on his face, "well, like anyone other than a ranger."
"Hey!" Nesco grinned, elbowing Bigfellow in the ribs as they walked. "Maybe your ranger training involved learning to love lung rot, but mine didn't!"
"Ah, the joys of swamp living," Argo said with a sage nod. "Everyone should experience it."
"Let's not and say we did," put in Zantac, and then looked over at Elrohir. "They do have that expression on Aarde, don't they?"
Elrohir smiled and shook his head in mock exasperation but noticed that Nesco's expression had for some reason turned serious again.
She caught Elrohir's glance and quickly looked away.
"So," Argo spoke up again, "what do you think has happened at home in the," he concentrated for a moment, calculating, "three weeks or so since we've been there?"
"Tojo and Caroline have been home for the last two weeks of that," Aslan reminded the big ranger, "and Laertes for longer still. We'd have received word of any emergency, so what do you think could have happened?"
"Well," Bigfellow mused, "Tojo's probably killed a customer who insulted our food, Laertes will be complaining non-stop about being trapped in the kitchen and," the big ranger's face split in a wide grin, "a certain delicious young lady named Caroline will be absolutely aching for the return of her handsome and dashing husband."
"What are you going to tell her when you show up, then?"
Five heads turned towards Aslan, more than one mouth agape.
The paladin tried to suppress his smile with a serious mien, but only partially succeeded.
"That man's rubbing off on me," he muttered to himself.
"Let's not forget," Elrohir felt compelled to add, "that this may be a new year, but it's brought all our old problems along with it. Remember that divination. We've hurt the Emerald Serpent and they're not likely to take that lying down."
"Is that another Aardian expression, Elrohir?" Argo raised a pedantic finger. "I'm afraid we Oerth yokels aren't familiar with such high language."
"Put a sock in it, Argo," his fellow ranger responded.
"And there's another one. I- ow!"
Nesco Cynewine, apparently recovered from her brief malaise, had brought her mailed fist down on top of the big ranger's helm.
Argo returned her good-nature smile while pretending to steady his helm with one hand and rub his ribs with the other.
"Feels like I'm home already."
"The rest of you may have forgotten," Cygnus now spoke up for the first time in several miles as he jerked his thumb at the mass of men, horses and wagons behind them, "but I'm still curious as to why a caravan with over three thousand wheatshaffs worth of arms and armor is on it's way to our inn, and just who in Hades is this Yenom that taking delivery of it there?"
The party had departed the city two days earlier, heading northwest along the Land Legs Road when they noticed the merchant caravan that had just left ahead of them.
It was fairly large as Furyondan caravans went; nine full-sized wagons, each pulled by a team of draft horses. Eighteen armed guards, two per wagon, walked alongside. Each wagon featured the symbol of the Safe Journeys Caravan Company; the silhouette of a wagon surrounded by a circle of alternating symbols of gold coins and shields.
It was immediately obvious to Elrohir that his partially plate mail-clad company and the caravan moved at about the same speed, so they'd be journeying together, at least until the Tri-Worldians arrived home.
Elrohir broke into a brief trot until he pulled up alongside the lead drover; a thin, weathered-looking gentleman perhaps in his early fifties. The man adjusted the wide brim on his straw hat and glanced over at Elrohir, then nodded at the ranger with a brief but friendly smile.
"Fine journeys, stranger."
Elrohir smiled and nodded back. "Fine journeys to you, sir. Looks like we'll be travelling together for a spell. I am Elrohir, freeman of Willip."
"Malachi," the driver responded, keeping one hand on the reins while extracting a pipe from the pocket of his leather jerkin. He clenched it between his teeth and took out a small leather pouch, from which he poured a small amount of ground tobacco leaf into the pipe and then used a tindertwig to set it alight.
"These roads are safe, and we don't lack for protection," Malachi added after he'd taken a few deep puffs, "but it's always good fortune to have companions so obviously powerful," he indicated Elrohir and his friends, who were coming up now to join the ranger.
"Are all your company's caravans this large?" Elrohir asked.
"Nope," responded Malachi. "This was a special commission."
"Paid for in advance, I hope," put in the arriving Argo.
Malachi grinned and nodded. "Always are. We have the reputation that can demand it, even for a short journey like this one."
"Short journey?" said Nesco, frowning. "The first city down the road is Gorsend and that's a good ten days out at your speed. What's your destination?"
"The Brass Dragon Inn," replied Malachi. "Only two days out."
The smug expression on the drover's face clearly indicated that he had expected to surprise his new companions with this announcement.
The reaction he actually received was probably not the one he had expected, though.
Argo Bigfellow had been taking a swig from his waterskin and the big ranger's spit take showered Zantac, who cried out in annoyance.
While the others goggled, Elrohir shouted "Stop!"
The ranger ran ahead directly in front of Malachi's team and stretched both arms forward.
"Stop!" he demanded. "STOP!"
Instinctively, Malachi pulled his horses up short, his expression now half-wondrous and half-irritation.
Concern then crept in as he turned at words he couldn't identify and saw the two wizards incanting and pointing at the caravan.
The guards muttered. A sword was drawn.
"Have no fear," Aslan announced as he stepped forward. His arms were outstretched but he lowered them, palms down.
"You must forgive use, good sir," the paladin intoned in his most calming voice. "We above all others are somewhat taken aback by your news."
He indicated the rest of his group with a sweeping motion of his arm.
"We are the owners of the Brass Dragon Inn and we knew nothing of this."
Things had settled down a bit after that. After Cygnus and Zantac informed the others that they had detected neither evil nor magic, either on the caravan or amongst its employees, Aslan instructed Elrohir to let the caravan start up again. The ranger had agreed, but grudgingly.
Malachi had been reluctant to describe the contents of his caravan, let alone to allow the party a look at them, but Aslan's diplomacy, coupled with Elrohir's admonition that as owners of said inn, they could simply refuse to let the caravan debark there altogether, had convinced him to give in.
"By the Aegis," Nesco whispered, looking at the piles of swords, bows and arrows, quivers and enough pieces of leather armor to equip at least forty men. Other wagons held more mundane gear such as bedrolls, blankets, torches and lanterns, pots and mugs, rope, whetstones and assorted dry goods.
"Okay," Argo said, looking around at his companions, "who decided to assemble a company of soldiers and forgot to tell the others about it?"
The party's questions to Malachi raised more additional questions than answers.
"He said his name was Yenom," Malachi explained as he guided the horses forward, no longer looking at Elrohir or the others. "Claimed to be a priest of Zilchus."
The caravan leader had made no bones about the fact that he was concerned about the contract falling through, especially since the owners of the Brass Dragon had stated that they could not guarantee that the sale would go forward on their grounds until they had obtained the information they needed to make a decision.
"Zilchus," said Argo, the big ranger's expression serious now. "The god of commerce."
"Among other things," said Zantac. "Did he say where he was from?"
Malachi shrugged. "Nope, but he sure looked and sounded Oeridian. I'd hold him to be from Nyrond or maybe the Great Kingdom by his accent."
"And this Yenom paid for all these goods and told you to deliver them to the Brass Dragon Inn?" asked Elrohir, his voice still incredulous.
"Assume he paid for them," the drover responded with another shrug. "They were all stored in a warehouse, and it's all Willip-made. I could tell soon as I saw it; recognized the local smiths' brands."
Aslan seemed deep in thought as he walked, one hand stroking his beard.
"Did this Yenom tell you who would be signing for these goods at the Brass Dragon?" he asked Malachi, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Sure did, but don't go stopping me again when I tell you."
The lead drover took a deep drag on his pipe.
"He'd said he'd be there himself to sign for it all."
"All right," Argo said, shaking his head. "This is now officially crazy, even by my standards!"
"We were just in Willip!" Zantac exclaimed, pointing back to the southeast. "He could have met us there!"
"He wouldn't have any way of knowing we were there, Zantac," Aslan replied. "But as far as any of this makes sense, it doesn't matter. None of us fit into this picture at all. This Yenom signs the contract in Willip, then heads out early to meet the caravan at the Brass Dragon. I don't think it matters to him whether we're there or not."
"Well now," Malachi cleared his throat. "I don't think that's exactly true."
It was Elrohir who spoke up after nearly a minute of silence and shared looks with his fellow Tri-Worldians, and when he did, the ranger had to make a conscious effort to keep his hand off Gokasillion's hilt.
"He mentioned us?"
"Two of you."
That generated more looks, some of alarm, but Malachi continued before they could ask the obvious question.
"First off," he said, pointing at Aslan, "he said one of the owners was a paladin of great power named Aslan."
Aslan's companions turned to look at him, but the paladin was frowning.
"Over the years, I've learned that when someone talks about 'great power' in reference to me," he said, taking a deep breath, "they're usually referring to my Talent."
The paladin turned a sour eye on the wagons.
"This Yemen wants me as pack mule." He blew air through his lips. "It'd take me a good three days at least to move all that stuff."
"Money generally isn't a problem for priests of Zilchus," said Nesco Cynewine, "and certainly not for this one. He paid for the goods conventionally; why not have them delivered the same way?"
"He's taking an awful lot for granted," Zantac said, looking at Aslan. "Why does he think you'd do this for him?"
"I don't know why he needs these goods teleported," put in Cygnus, "but if I know anything about Zilchus and his followers, he's going to offer you gold for doing this, Aslan."
The tall wizard locked eyes with the paladin.
"Probably a lot of gold."
Silence again descended on the party as they walked on.
Lack of coin had been their constant companion; the guest that never left.
Could this be a chance for a fresh start; a new beginning for a new year?
Eventually, one of their group spoke up.
"Who was the other one of us this Yenom mentioned?" Argo asked Malachi.
The drover eyed him without blinking.
"That'd be you, sir."
Argo gave a credible imitation of Tojo's raised-eyebrow surprised look.
"Didn't say much," added Malachi. "Only that one of the other owners was a famous ranger named Argo Bigfellow the Second."
That generated another silence.
"Odd way of putting it," said Elrohir, looking over at his fellow ranger. "You're usually just 'Junior' to us, when it comes up at all."
"Speak for yourself," said Nesco, grimacing. "Sir Damoscene never told me; I think I was with you people for over a month before I heard anyone say it."
"Same here," said Zantac, raising his hand as if to second Nesco's statement. "For all the scrying we did on you people back then, that tidbit never came up."
"It's usually Aslan who mentions it," Cygnus said. The tall wizard's face was about as close to a smile now as anyone had seen it on this entire trip. "Usually when he's lecturing Argo about one malfeasance of his or another."
Everyone smiled or chuckled at that.
Everyone except Argo.
That puzzled Elrohir. He knew his friend was no stranger to self-debasing humor; sometimes Elrohir thought Argo thrived on it.
But now the big ranger looked lost in thoughtfulness; his auburn eyes looking at something none of the others could see.
"It's not something that usually comes up," he said, before his features hardened into a fierce glare that was rare indeed for his handsome face.
"At least," he said, "not around here."
Argo had said no more on the matter and the entire subject was eventually put on hold; there was unanimous consensus that while this matter was highly unusual, it was not a threat and would be resolved upon their return home.
But Elrohir still noticed that Argo's manner had lost all its usual jocularity and it did not reappear until their first sight of the inn.
They had been expected. As they approached the door to the inn flew open and Caroline Bigfellow ran outside, followed closely by Laertes and then, at his constant casual stroll, Yanigasawa Tojo.
The others knew enough to dive aside to avoid a bull rush as Caroline leapt into the waiting arms of her husband, who whirled her around before settling into the serious matter of a long and passionate kiss.
While waiting (and waiting) for the Bigfellows to return to them, the others greeted the samurai and the half-orc.
"Wow," Laertes said, gazing at the approaching horses and wagons. "I'd half-thought they were lying about the caravan."
"Did Yenom say what he was planning to do with all these goods? Is he still here?" Elrohir pressed the former lumberjack but stopped when he felt Cygnus' hand tap him on the shoulder.
He turned around but the tall wizard was looking instead at Laertes.
"They?" he repeated to the half-orc and then added, "Whom do you mean by they?"
Laertes started to reply but then stopped and merely pointed at the two figures now emerging from the inn.
The one in front needed no one to identify him as Yenom; that is, if he indeed was the priest of Zilchus that he claimed to be.
The man wore red robes overlain with a tan woolen garment of some kind; it looked something like a shawl with a hood. A glimpse of graying hair turning to silver was just visible under the hood; Cygnus guessed him to be a few years either side of fifty.
A silver holy symbol, a large disk showing two hands clasping a money purse, dangled from his neck. He carried a sheathed dagger but no other weapons.
He was carrying a small, rolled-up scroll in his left hand.
Yenom saw Cygnus and the others looking at him and began walking towards them, hailing them as he did so.
The man who had come outdoors behind the cleric, however, stared at Argo for a moment and then made a beeline for the still-smooching Bigfellows.
This man was much younger; perhaps half Yenom's age. He wore studded leather armor. A sword and dagger both were sheathed at his hip, along with a sling. He had tight, curly black hair and at the moment, a mischievous smile on his face.
Something about this man screamed either ranger or rogue to Elrohir. The man was taking pains to move silently towards Argo, ducking behind arriving caravan members to shield his advance, but there was nothing sinister in his stalking.
It seemed to be a form of play.
Elrohir remembered that he used to practice that form of stealthiness all the time. Before, he thought ruefully, examining the bulky plate mail he was now encased in, he had made a choice to forego all that.
Argo could feel Caroline starting at last to pull away from the kiss. He let her but kept his hands firmly clasped around his wife's slender waist. He was about to choose from any of a hundred pithy remarks he always had stored for this situation when a nearby voice addressed him.
"Figures. Three weeks apart and she can't get enough of you. I haven't seen her for five years and all I get is a peck on the cheek."
Argo's eyes doubled in volume and he stepped back while gazing in mute astonishment at the man standing right behind Caroline.
"I see that renowned Bigfellow eloquence hasn't changed," the man continued, a grin both friendly and vicious splitting his thin face from ear-to-ear.
"Excuse me, sir," he continued, now affecting a look of wide-eyed innocence, "I found a purple frog in the weeds," he said, jiggling his belt pouch. "I'm ever so hungry; might I trade it for some of your fine Furyondan fare?"
"You bastard!" Argo Bigfellow Junior yelled out and rushing forward, embracing the man as fervently as he just had Caroline but without the kissing.
The man returned the embrace with equal gusto.
"Those warts still pop up on my hand almost every springtime!" Argo shouted at the newcomer, holding up his mailed right hand for emphasis.
The man shrugged. "Not my fault you were born without common sense."
"And furthermore," Argo continued, jabbing his finger into the man's chest and indicating Caroline, who now had one arm slung over her husband's shoulder while looking back at forth between the two men and grinning wildly, "five years ago Caroline was only fourteen! We were both twenty-one, but I was the gentleman; you were a pervert!"
"Hey!" The visitor put his hands on his hips while hoisting a ferocious, if utterly false, look of offense on his face.
"What's all this were stuff?"
Elrohir, Aslan and Cygnus were now talking with Yenom and Malachi (although all five kept shooting glances their way), but Tojo, Laertes, Zantac and Nesco had wandered over to the Bigfellows.
"This is Gastar," Argo said to the latter two, introducing the man who had now wedged himself between Argo and Caroline and had one arm slung over each shoulder. "He was my best friend back in the Lone Heath."
Bigfellow hesitated, then looked over at Yenom before glancing back at Gastar, the smile abruptly dissipating from his face.
Gastar took the hint and removed his arms, his own expression matching the big ranger's in solemnity.
"Yes," he said quietly. "We need your help, Argo."
Bigfellow turned to Tojo and Laertes but both pointedly looked away, obviously preferring that Gastar deliver his news himself.
"Let's go inside," Argo said to Gastar and the others. "I suspect I'm going to want to be properly inebriated when I hear your story."
There was quite a pile-up in front of the main doors. Fortunately, the Brass Dragon was currently empty of travelers as it often was during the Needfest Festival; most people celebrated the New Year by staying at home. The multitude of caravan guards and drovers were queuing up to get inside for a comparatively comfortable seat and good food and drink.
Out of the corner of his eye Argo saw the stable boy Noah leading several draft horses around to the back where the stables were located.
"You know," he said, shaking his head at the others as they awaited the chance to enter the inn, "it's hard to believe an entire year has gone by."
The big ranger smiled ruefully.
"I remember last Needfest; I was taking Thorin for a ride atop Gylandir," the ranger reminisced, nodding upwards towards the sky. "Then I see this mounted patrol of about a dozen knights and all their followers approaching the inn and I remember wondering what new problems they were bringing with them."
Argo turned around at the sudden tap on his shoulder to see Yanigasawa Tojo gazing impassively at him.
"Argo-sama," the samurai intoned, then motioned off to the left, to the road that continued northwest past the Brass Dragon inn.
"I remember patrow," Tojo said, nodding in acknowledgement. "Berieve it rooked much rike this one."
The Tri-Worldians had sent their guests inside, instructing their staff to rouse all off-duty members to serve the sudden influx of guests. Elrohir had wanted to tell Laertes to go inside and supervise them but he couldn't think of a way to do it without sounding callous, so he decided not to bother.
The oncoming patrol did bear a strong resemblance to the one that had arrived at their home one year ago, but there were several important differences.
For one, last year's patrol had come from Willip, having originated in that city. This one was coming from the opposite direction; it could have originated from any of a dozen locales, but the sea of blue shields carried by the knights, each carrying the brown stag's-antler insignia, identified this as a royal patrol of the Azure Order.
And for another, they recognized several of the knights as they drew nearer.
Nesco Cynewine fought a maelstrom of mixed emotions as she saw Sir Juntaros in command of the patrol.
This was new; he must have been promoted.
She quickly searched for and found the shining face of her younger brother Grimdegn, one of Juntaros' squires. She gave him a smile and a quick wink.
There was no sign of her brother Joseph.
Sir Davos Rahldent, the knight with the deep baritone voice, was present, as was Sir Murtano. Both nodded at Lady Cynewine, who found she had to struggle to maintain her professional demeanor while surreptitiously glancing over at Aslan.
Nesco was suddenly reminded that she had given all this up for the paladin who as far as she knew still didn't possess the tiniest clue about her feelings for him.
Sir Juntaros moved ahead of his patrol, to stop and dismount in front of the party. Most of the caravan personnel had gone inside by now.
The knight commander regarded the caravan wagons parked outside the inn before turning back to Elrohir.
"I had no idea your supply needs were so immense, Elrohir," he said, the smallest of smiles crossing his face. "You must be doing a roaring business."
"It's actually a long story, good Sir Juntaros," the ranger replied wearily. "As soon as we learn what it is, we'll be happy to tell you all about it."
Juntaros tilted his head to regard the ranger. After a moment he seemed to come to a determination that Elrohir was not wagging him. He shrugged, cleared his throat and looked over at Sir Rahldent, motioning the other knight to come forward, who complied.
"Greetings, freemen and freewomen of Willip," Rahldent's voice boomed out as the knight kept a firm grip on the reins of his warhorse, which apparently was not used to the volume of its master's speech.
His next sentence, however, would have floored the party even if it had been whispered.
"Laertes, son of Burnwald of Laurellinn!" Sir Rahldent commanded. "Step forward!"
It was hard to say what was making the young half-orc so nervous; the royal knight's command or the multitude of stares that he was receiving from the rest of the party. Nevertheless, he strode forward as ordered, his hands wiping the sweat off on the apron he was still wearing.
Grimdegn Cynewine now dismounted and ran towards his master, giving him one of the Azure shields. Nesco caught a glimpse of another object hidden behind the shield, but she couldn't tell what it was.
It was soon revealed, though. Sir Juntaros brought forth what the party instantly recognized as a Blue Ribbon of Distinction.
"Laertes," the knight commander announced solemnly as he attached the ribbon to the half-orcs right shoulder strap by a small clip, "none of the Barony of Willip's nobility being available, his Royal Majesty King Belvor IV has decreed that you should be given your just reward at this time for your deeds of valor and bravery against Nodyath and his villainous Outlaws, who long plagued this county."
"Thank you, thir."
Laertes' tone was formal and polite, but the party could tell there was nothing behind it. Nesco and Cygnus in particular exchanged glances; both determined in each other's expression the shared confirmation that Laertes' snubbing at the official awards ceremony at the King's Festival less than a month ago was still fresh in the half-orc's mind.
The group's various medals were currently displayed on a wall in the Tall Tales Room, but no one really bothered with them. They were there only to display if visiting nobility asked where they were.
Laertes, on the other hand, looked to Nesco as if he was going to throw his ribbon in the trash at the first opportunity.
"Sorry about the color," Sir Juntaros said, gesturing at the medal he had just awarded Laertes.
The half-orc had been about to ask if there was anything else; his body was already commencing to turn away from the knight when that odd statement registered.
Laertes glanced down at the ribbon on his shoulder, frowning. For what it was worth, it seemed the exact shade of blue as those his friends had already received. He glanced back at the knight in puzzlement.
Again that slight smile crossed Sir Juntaros' face.
"Doesn't quite match the blue of your new shield," he said, holding the metal disk out to Laertes.
All the members of the royal patrol, squires and servitors included, were now making no effort to hide their smiles.
Nesco Cynewine grasped it first and the ranger's gasp seemed to generate a chain reaction of understanding among her group. Within seconds, they were all smiling as well.
Aslan and Argo both began clapping simultaneously. The rest of the Tri-Worldians followed and the knight patrol quickly joined in.
"Laertes," Juntaros now spoke to the teenager man-to-man rather than a knight commander, placing a hand on the lad's left shoulder. "Your father has been notified and gives his blessing, but the final decision is of course yours. Your nation and your king request your help in the never-ending battle against the forces of evil. What say you?"
Laertes could do nothing but gape. The half-orc literally seemed to have forgotten the power of speech.
He glanced back at the party, none of which was about to give any hint as to what the teenager should do with the royal patrol watching.
Sir Juntaros bit his lip.
"Laertes," he said. "After staying here tonight, we will be heading onwards to Willip, resupply there for a few days and then head back northwest. We can wait for your reply until we have passed by here again, but no longer. Do you understand?"
Laertes nodded dumbly but vigorously.
"Good lad," the knight commander said, giving the boy's shoulder a last squeeze before turning back to his patrol and ordering them to stable their horses and unpack their camping gear.
Cygnus felt a drop of water hit his head, followed by another and then still more.
Nesco's promised rain had arrived. The party gave Laertes a congratulatory thumbs-up before turning and entering the inn.
"So," Argo Bigfellow said, sitting and nursing a glass of Celene Ruby that he suddenly had little interest in as he regarded their two new arrivals, "tell us what's going on."
Ten people were crowded into the Tall Tales Room as the common room was a packed mass of knights, squires, servitors, drovers and guards. The din had been deafening even for the short time it had taken them to reach their private refuge and could still be heard as a low roar through the intervening door, completely masking the sound of the downpour outside.
Yenom and Gastar sat together on one of the couches while the two wizards shared another. The two padded chairs currently hosted Argo and Nesco while the other four stood. Laertes had been invited to join them but had demurred, saying he wanted to help his fellow servers with the sudden influx of customers. They had accepted, knowing that the half-orc's reluctance to join them was due much more from a desire to avoid questions about his future plans than anything else.
Argo had gotten a private thrill of satisfaction when he saw Gastar gape with undisguised astonishment upon first seeing the head of the blue dragon Sandcats.
Now, however, Bigfellow's ranger friend from far to the east turned to eye him with a rarely-used grim expression.
"Argo," he began after a glance at Yenom, "we're in trouble back home. Ivid's forces massed a massive raiding expedition into the Lone Heath three months ago. They were better equipped for swamp action than they're been in the past. Apparently even that damned Overking is capable of learning a lesson, if he gets to gaze at a thousand-strong pile of Aerdian soldier corpses long enough. They knew enough to wait until first frost, when the ground would be at least partially frozen."
He took a deep breath and continued.
"They razed our camp," he said as Argo tightened his grip on his chair arm with one hand while downing the rest of his wine with the other.
"We lost," and here Gastar had to stop a moment to compose himself, "almost half our people. Not just our fighters, but… their families. The elderly," he shrugged helplessly, "women, children."
Argo's breathing was heavy and labored as he digested this. Caroline, who had already heard this story, squeezed her husband's shoulder.
Gastar looked over to Yenom, who took up the tale.
"I had joined your encampment a few weeks prior to this, Bigfellow." He smiled ruefully. "Apparently I made the mistake of denouncing in my weekly sermon a local dishonest, cheating scumbag of a merchant who turned out to have powerful friends in the Overking's Court." He made a helpless gesture. "They came for me, so I fled."
The cleric directly at Argo and Caroline now.
"We've moved what's left a few miles deeper into the Heath, but we dare not go any further. We're in desperate needs of equipment of all kind, but none so much as arms and armor. The Imperial Army has formed a cordon around all the access points, Bigfellow. No caravans can get in or out. Rumors of you two and where you had settled down had trickled back to your people over the years, so I used some divinations to learn what I could of you and your companions. I thus learned of you, Aslan," he turned to the paladin, "and of your great Talent and then devised this mad plan."
"Yenom," Aslan replied slowly as he moved to stand directly in front of the priest of Zilchus, "I do indeed wish to help your cause, but there are several complications you may not be aware of."
He took a deep breath.
"I have never been to the Lone Heath, so teleporting there poses a problem. This issue came up last Coldeven, when we first travelled down to Highport, in the Pomarj. Even with a high quality map, which we do possess, where I first arrive may not be precisely where I planned. I would need to make an initial foray to locate your encampment's new position, which might entail either low or high risk…"
His light blue eyes flashed at the cleric.
"Depending on who, or what, I run into."
Yenom nodded soberly. His next statement was spoken louder than he would have wished, but the noise from the common room made soft speech in here an impossibility.
"I understand, Aslan. Believe me, I do not make this request lightly."
He leaned forward and handed his scroll to the paladin, who unrolled and examined it.
Aslan had expected it to be either a map or a spell, but it was neither. It appeared to be a legal document entitling the bearer, as far as he could determine, to the sum of two thousand Furyondan wheatshaffs, payable from the treasury of Willip.
He glanced back curiously at Yenom.
"I still have a hidden stake in our church's holdings in Rauxes, which are considerable," the cleric explained. "With the approval of my superior, I was able to transfer this portion into your Furyondan bank. I know it is a paltry sum given what we are asking of you, Aslan, but it is all we can spare right now."
The paladin sighed and began to slowly walk around the room, handing the letter of credit off to Cygnus as he did so.
The others watched him in silence as Aslan made his way to the far wall, where he paused beside the dragon's head and turned to address them again.
"The second complication," he said, "is far more serious. We are currently in battle against a secretive organization of evil known as The Emerald Serpent."
Yenom nodded. "I heard a crier in Willip giving some news of that."
"We have dealt them several serious blows," said Aslan, "but are under no illusion that they are defeated; certainly not as long as their self-titled leader remains at large. Unfortunately, our own supplies of gold are rapidly running out, as they seem wont to do so often. While we secured some from Baron Chartrain for our recent services in the Barony of Chauv, some of that was needed for our leader Elrohir here, who required training in Willip after our most recent escapades."
The group leader looked down at the floor, unable to meet anyone's gaze.
"And the rest of it," Aslan continued, his lips tight now, "was spent on a divination from the Church of Zeus, to determine when and where the Serpent will strike next."
The paladin turned back to stare directly at the priest.
"It said only, Beware the Gray Serpent."
Another uncomfortable silence fell as the Tri-Worldians all recalled the uneasy feeling they had experienced when Ukansis had recited what the divine power of his god had told him.
"I take it as given," Aslan resumed after a while, "that you and Gastar here also wish to return to the Lone Heath as quickly as possible. All this comes out to at least five days of constant teleporting and mindresting on my part."
He shook his head.
"I cannot risk that at this time, good sir. I am sorry."
More silence.
Yenom glanced over at Gastar, who now spoke up.
"I understand your position, Aslan. Believe me, the last thing I wish to do is beg but our situation is even more serious than Yenom has stated."
The Oeridian ranger clenched his fists as he looked over at Caroline Bigfellow, who lips parted slightly with a slight intake of breath and then glanced over at her husband.
Whatever Gastar was about to announce, it was obvious that Lady Bigfellow already knew what it was.
"It's not just two people who need to return to the Heath as soon as possible, Aslan. It's three."
"Four," added Caroline loudly, folding her arms across her chest.
Argo Bigfellow Junior turned to stare up at his wife in confusion.
"What?" he said, almost too softly to be heard.
Caroline knelt down next to Argo's chair and took her husband's hands in her own.
"Love," she said. "Your father; he told Gastar to ask for you."
That all-too rare look of naked astonishment once again spread across the big ranger's face.
"That's right, love," Caroline continued, tears sparkling in her brown eyes.
"He wants you to come home and now that I'm your wife, I'm coming too."
Cygnus and Elrohir exchanged looks of understanding.
"Argo Bigfellow Senior," the latter muttered, looking around at his friends. "Now it makes sense."
Argo abruptly leapt to his feet.
The big ranger's entire body was visibly trembling from agitation. His hands clenched and unclenched as he looked wildly around the Tall Tales Room, apparently looking for some source of succor that no one else could understand or supply.
Caroline stood next to her husband. She took his right hand in her left and then winced visibly as Argo, clearly unaware of what he was doing, squeezed it with all his massive strength.
She did not cry out, however, or seek to pull away.
"Aslan," Gastar now stood up to address the paladin again. "I understand that the lives of those you love are at stake, but the lives of those I love are as well."
He gulped.
"Including that of my wife and infant child."
Now Aslan looked as distraught as Argo did.
The paladin glanced at his friend and team leader.
"Elrohir," he asked plaintively. "What do I do?"
Now the Aardian ranger spread his hands apart as the despair took hold of him as well.
"I don't know, Aslan," he said. "I don't know."
"I gather," said Zantac slowly after yet another interminable pause, "that Senior and Junior here haven't always gotten along."
"Not berieve that Argo-sama wood have reft Rone Heath in first prace if that not the case," said Tojo, speaking up for the first time now.
Argo shot a hard glance at the Willip wizard.
"Imagine an older version of me."
Zantac shrugged. "Aside from a larger supply of lame jokes, that doesn't sound so bad."
"Now imagine the two of us locked in a room, or a swamp, together."
"Ahh," said Zantac, who the fell silent.
"I regret," said Gastar, "that there is one final piece of news that I must deliver to you, Argo."
Eight individuals turned to regard the ranger. From their expressions, it was evident that even Caroline and Tojo were not aware of what Gastar was about to say, although from the grim look on his face, Yenom was.
"That passage that opens into the eastern Gull Cliffs," Gastar began. "The one that leads towards Ountsy."
Argo nodded silently, indicating his understanding.
"We didn't detect any signs of a garrison there, so our scouts began a recon in force, to determine whether we could risk the manpower to secure the passage. We didn't find any soldiers…"
Gastar's voice trailed off. It took him a moment to compose himself and when he looked up, his eyes now held the same sadness as nearly every other pairs of eyes in the Tall Tales Room already did.
"But they found a cabin, Argo. A wooden cabin inhabited by a female wizard. A wizard who attacked and slew many of our scouts. The survivors told us that she looked like… like.."
Unable to continue, seeing the pain and shock in his friend's auburn eyes, Gastar dropped his eyes to the floor.
"No," whispered Caroline.
No one heard the word, but they all knew what it must be.
It must be the End Times, thought Elrohir, for he had never seen that look of combined fear and grief displayed so openly in his fellow ranger's face.
"They say it's your sister, Argo," finished Gastar with a visible effort. "They say that Argoria Bigfellow has returned from the dead."
Argo's response to this was to drop his wife's hand, stride over to the door, yank it open and rush out without a single word.
Caroline followed. Elrohir did as well but motioned for the others to stay.
Winding their way with some difficulty through the mob seemingly inhabiting every inch of the common room, Argo's wife and friend soon spotted him. The big ranger had opened the front door of the inn, heedless of the grumbling and complaints of those around him and was now staring silently into the downpour.
They came up behind him. Caroline silently lay her right hand on her husband's shoulder while Elrohir came up to Argo's right, heedless of the rain that blew into them in sporadic gusts.
There was nothing to see in that featureless gray sky, but Elrohir knew that Argo wouldn't have seen anything even if it had been there.
He was looking at something over a thousand leagues away.
Something terrible.
The three of them stood there in silence, staring out at the rain.
"It never rains but it pours," Argo Bigfellow Junior said without warning.
A frightening version of the big ranger's legendary pained smile appeared on his face.
Frightening because the pain it showed was all too real.
He turned to look directly into Elrohir's eyes.
"Do they have that expression on Aarde, Elrohir?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Do you know that one?"
Elrohir placed his hand on Argo's other shoulder.
"Yes, Argo," he said, unsure of what else he could say. "We know that one."