1

The air was crisp with autumn as the steady beat of hooves pounded the cobblestone road. The breeze ruffled the dark blue cloak draped across Gareth Aldren’s shoulders as he clasped the reins of his white war stallion. The young Northlander rode eastward, into the rising sun that gleamed off his polished plate armor. His helmet hung from its strap on the pommel of his saddle, allowing the air to sweep across his short-cropped golden hair. His breastplate was adorned with the bas relief spread eagle design that marked him as one of the Knights of the Republic. The shield strapped to his left arm bore his family standard—a golden dragon superimposed over a field of half blue and half red.

The large independent city-state that was the jewel of the northern coast of the Medean Sea, Orok Tor, lay ahead on the horizon. It was a sprawling city, much larger even than Acadia, the capital city of the Northern Republic. It had been weeks since he’d departed Acadia—the home of the Republic’s Senate, the Holy See of the Eternal Father, and the Knights of the Republic Academy—for his new posting at the Orok Tor Cathedral.

Seeing his destination before him, he wanted to urge his steed Firebrand to a gallop. Not so much the city itself he longed to see, but those who waited within its thick defensive walls. Rather than needlessly tire his horse in the last stretch of his long journey, he stayed his spurs and continued along at a steady canter.

Orok Tor, the gleaming City of Wizards, occupied a site of historic importance. Orok A’kunamen, the world’s first known wizard, had lived more than four thousand years ago on the crest of a tor that had overlooked the delta of a now-dried river that once emptied into the Medean Sea. After his death, the tor where the father of wizardry had lived became known as Orok’s Tor. When hundreds of wizards were banished from their native lands three thousand years ago, they settled on Orok’s Tor and founded a city there that became known simply as Orok Tor. Shortly thereafter, the plains to the northeast of the city bore the city’s name, becoming the Plains of Orok Tor. Inexplicably, that name was eventually shortened over the succeeding centuries to the Plains of Tor.

No one living today knew exactly where the original tor was located. Most believed that the gentle rise where the Council of the Magi’s forum building currently stood was the remnant of the rocky hill that Orok A’kunamen had called home.

The city’s defensive walls, rising twenty feet over Gareth’s head, filled his vision from left to right. The walls didn’t surround the city, ending at the shoreline to Gareth’s south. The road curved gently toward the main gate, which stood open. The young knight saw no sign of any guards on station.

Gareth pulled the reins slightly to slow Firebrand’s pace as he approached the open gate. A shadow fell across him as he passed though the gate into the city. The sight before him, inside the walls, drew him to an abrupt stop. He stared in awe at the splendor that was Orok Tor.

The City of Wizards, famed as much for its independence as for its multitude of wizard academies, was truly a cosmopolitan place. One could usually determine the nation in which a city was located by the architecture of its buildings. Orok Tor, being a home to peoples from all across the continent of Westfall, had no singular architectural style. Northlander granite structures with vaulted roofs stood alongside Minotian marble colonnades and Kabaarite cupolas. The towers that reached skyward, however, were distinctly Orok Tor, built to house the many wizard schools in the city.

Gareth spurred his horse forward after the initial shock of the city’s immensity faded. People of all occupations and nationalities strolled the concrete streets going about their activities. Vendors hawked their wares, wizards in robes strolled about on their endeavors, harlots solicited business, students carried out their instructors’ errands, and travelers sought the wise counsel of master wizards. Few paid him any heed.

Two hundred years ago, when the Northern Republic had been subjugated by the Minotian Empire and the Knights of the Republic as an order were extinct, his distinctive armor would certainly have garnered stares. Today, however, with the Knighthood once again the sword arm of the Northern Republic’s Law, knights like Gareth were no longer an oddity.

He eased his warhorse to a halt in front of a vendor’s cart. Early as it was in the morning, the vendor was still setting his booth up for the day’s business. The knight dismounted and, with his palm resting lightly on the pommel of his sheathed longsword, he took his steed’s reins and led Firebrand toward the vendor.

“Good morning, sir,” Gareth said.

The vendor, a middle-aged Minotian wearing a tunic without leggings that was the typical garb for the men of his country, turned from his work to face the knight.

“It’s a fine morning, sir knight,” the Minotian said. “I’m not up for business yet, but come back in another hour and I will be.”

Gareth took a silver coin from the pouch on his belt and flipped it toward the vendor. The Minotian caught the silver piece in his palm.

“I’m looking for the Orok Tor Cathedral,” the knight said.

“Which cathedral? Orok Tor has many.”

“The one dedicated to the Eternal Father.”

The Minotian grinned. “I’m only jesting with you, sir knight. You Northlander types are the only ones who call your places of worship churches and cathedrals.” He put a fist to his breastbone and contorted his face until he belched. “Pardon. I had squid for breakfast. Now, the cathedral you seek is that way.” He pointed northward. “Away from the harbor. If you find yourself swimming—or in your case sinking in that steel piss pot you’re wearing—then you’ve gone the wrong way. Got it?”

Gareth nodded. “Northward, away from the harbor.”

“Good. Now, heading northward, you’ll see yourself near this big, towering wizard’s tower.” The Minotian paused in his narration to look around the cityscape. “Damn. There are wizard towers everywhere, aren’t there.” He pointed. “See that one there?”

Gareth turned to look in the direction where his guide pointed. “I think so.”

“That’s the Master Timuron’s School of Arcane Knowledge. In the shadow of that school, on the corner, is Madam Penelope’s Happy House. By the way, you ought to check out Madam Penelope’s. It’s nowhere near as heavenly as the Bachanal temples in my homeland, but it suffices in a pinch. Anyway, turn left at Madam Penelope’s and keep going until you hear the thunderous explosions. You hear that, you’re not far from Orlon delFargo’s School of Fiery Arcana. Go past that, and you’ll see the steeple with your god’s holy symbol atop it. That’s the cathedral you seek.”

Gareth bowed slightly at the waist. “Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure, sir knight. And if you don’t get lost finding it, perhaps you can come back and we can bargain for my wares.”

“What do you sell?”

“Sheep products. I have woolen cloaks, lambskin gloves, sheepskin shoes, entrails for all your augury needs, and a nice array of dyed-in-the-wool hats.” He grabbed a small wooden box from his cart. “And this—in this box is a special sheepskin glove for your man-sword. It’s guaranteed to keep your spawning of unwanted bastards to a minimum.”

Gareth offered a half-hearted smile. “Perhaps once I’m settled in. Thank you again for the directions.”

“Again, sir knight, my pleasure.”

With a parting nod to the vendor, Gareth climbed into his saddle and urged Firebrand into a canter. Tugging the reins, he headed in the direction of the wizard’s tower indicated by the Minotian moments ago. The steady clop of Firebrand’s hooves against pavement lulled him, and his thoughts inevitably drifted to who waited for him at the cathedral. He almost missed the sign that identified Master Timuron’s School of Arcane Knowledge.

From his place at the base of the academy building, Gareth was finally able to gauge just how tall the wizard’s tower was. He craned his head back, and the uppermost level of the spire seemed to be tall enough to tickle the clouds soaring overhead. How the wizards were able to keep a stone structure like that upright without collapsing under its own weight was beyond his understanding. Rumors abounded, however, that the grandmaster wizards who resided in Orok Tor were so powerful their sheer will was enough to keep the towers standing.

Having found the academy indicated by the vendor, Gareth had no difficulty locating the pink and white two-story building that was Madam Penelope’s Happy House. As if its garish color scheme and the lewd artwork on its signs weren’t enough to identify the services it provided within its walls, a pair of nubile young women wearing only silken skirts tied about their hips stood outside near its front door. As Gareth rode by, they attempted to entice him with offers of incomparable bliss.

Momentarily distracted by the young harlots, he had to remember the next landmark in the vendor’s narration. Trying to recall the name of the wizardry academy in question, he suddenly saw a flash ahead, followed shortly by a tremor that rumbled through him.

“That’s got to be the school of fire magic,” he muttered to himself. He couldn’t remember the name.

He rode past the School of Fiery Arcana and kept his gaze on the skyline ahead. As the vendor had said, a tall steeple rose above the surrounding buildings. The granite structure was nowhere near as imposing as the wizard towers, but it was perhaps one of the tallest buildings in the city that didn’t require magic to keep it upright. Atop the steeple, clear for all in the vicinity to see, was the golden scuplture of the Eternal Father’s holy symbol: a Northlander longsword standing on end, tip downward, superimposed over a knight’s shield. It symbolized the dual nature of the Eternal Father’s Law in protecting his people’s life and liberty from tyranny and evil.

The Orok Tor Cathedral had, two hundred years ago, served for about one century as the home of the exiled Holy See of the Eternal Father. Orok Tor, as an independent city-state protected by her concentration of grandmaster and master wizards, had little to worry of conquest by the Minotians. Many displaced religions, including those of the exiled Minotian pantheon, even now found refuge in the City of Wizards. After the liberation of the Northlander people from Minotian dominion two centuries ago, the Holy See returned to Acadia, and the building now in front of Gareth had since become the home of the Church’s delegation to Orok Tor.

As Gareth approached the cathedral, he could clearly see the three-story vaulted-roofed building across the street from the holy site. With the red, white, and blue banner of the Northern Republic fluttering from the newer building’s flagstaffs, Gareth identified the Republic’s embassy to Orok Tor.

The knight dismounted before entering the cathedral’s grounds. The stables weren’t hard to locate, and he led his steed in that direction. Near the stables, he was intercepted by a Northlander youth who looked to be about ten years younger than Gareth’s age of twenty-five.

“Good morning, sir,” the youth said. “May I take your horse?”

Gareth handed the reins to the boy and presented a tip of two silver pieces. “His name’s Firebrand.”

“I’ll take good care of him, sir, as is befitting a knight’s charger.”

“Thank you.”

The boy led Firebrand away, and Gareth turned his attention to the cathedral’s main entrance. He unstrapped the shield off his arm and slung it across his back. Taking a deep breath, he mounted the steps.

As he passed through the main entrance into the foyer, he paused to take his bearings. The worship sanctuary lay to his right, and he decided that was his first stop. He entered the sanctuary and strode respectfully up the aisle that cut between the pews. He slowed his pace for the last few steps to the altar and stepped up onto the dais.

He knelt and made the sign of the sword over his chest by first tapping each shoulder with the fingertips of his right hand, then tapping the base of his throat and his abdomen. He offered his prayer of gratitude to the Eternal Father for a safe journey from Republic territory and for his timely arrival in Orok Tor. He stood and backed away from the altar, always facing it, until he was off the dais.

He spun on one heel and took one step forward. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw the slender figure at the entrance to the sanctuary, silhouetted against the lamplight.

“I had heard a knight had arrived at the cathedral,” said a soft, familiar feminine voice.

Gareth pressed his lips together as a smile threatened to crease his face. “I guess word travels fast around here.”

He took a few steps closer to the woman who stood in the aisle beside the rearmost row of pews, until he could see her clearly. He swallowed when his gaze drank in the contours of her lovely face. She had her human father’s blue eyes and blond hair. Those long golden tresses were unbound, hiding the slight taper of her ears that she had inherited from her elven mother. Adrie Lancaster, a priestess of the Church of the Eternal Father, was a vision as she stood in her blue and white vestments.

She stepped out of the sanctuary and waited for him in the foyer. As soon as he joined her in the foyer, she enveloped him in a friendly embrace.

“It’s about time,” she said. “I’ve been here for almost a month now.”

“I couldn’t leave Acadia until my replacement arrived to fill my billet,” he said.

“I sent you a letter two weeks ago.”

Gareth chuckled. “It’s probably just arrived at the barracks in Acadia, only to be forwarded to me here in Orok Tor.”

She unwound her arms from him and stepped back to pat his breastplate. “You should probably report to your commander now that you’ve had your chance at the altar.”

“Do the knights barrack here in the cathedral, or across the street in the embassy?”

“Some are assigned to the cathedral, some to the embassy, but they’re all under the same knight commander.” She turned him toward a door on the back wall of the foyer. “Go and report. You should be able to finish that, get yourself out of this armor, and get your road dust cleaned off before lunch.” She started for another door. “See you in the dining hall at noon. We have much to catch up on.”

He watched Adrie disappear behind a door, behind which she presumably had her own priestess duties waiting. It was good to see her again, even for the brief few moments. Though he wasn’t yet hungry, he couldn’t wait for lunchtime.

Gareth walked to the door indicated by Adrie and knocked softly. “Enter,” a gruff voice within said.

The young knight entered. A man in his thirties—wearing the dark blue tunic, medium blue trousers, and black riding boots that was the casual uniform of the Knighthood—sat behind a desk that bore several rolled scrolls to his left while he had a scroll unrolled before him. He looked up at his visitor.

“You’re Gareth Aldren, the transfer from Acadia?” the older knight asked.

“I am, Commander,” Gareth said.

“Any relation to the Aldren who designed and built Aldren Keep five hundred years ago?”

“An ancestor, sir. I come from a long, long line of architects.”

“And you chose to be a knight.”

“The first Aldren to do so, sir.”

“Nothing wrong with that. My father wasn’t a knight either, he was a fisherman from Cyrdor. Where you from originally?”

“Delgan.”

“Good salt-of-the-earth city, Delgan is.” The officer rolled up the scroll he had been reading and stood with his hand extended. “I’m Valard Picsaran, Knight Commander of the Orok Tor detachment.”

Gareth accepted the handshake. “Sir.”

“Now, let’s get you processed in. It’s been a long trek from Acadia, and you’ll probably want to spend the remainder of the day resting.”

“Yes, sir.”

Valard rifled through the scrolls on his desk until he found the one he sought. He unrolled it. “Ah, here. You’re assigned to the barracks here in the cathedral.”

Gareth did all he could to keep from cheering or even pumping a fist in celebration. He stood silently, hands clasped behind his back.

“What will my duties entail, sir?” he asked.

“We are here to defend the Republic’s soil here in Orok Tor, that ‘soil’ being limited to the cathedral and embassy grounds. We also provide the honor guard for the Republic’s dignitaries in the city. If either the prelate or the ambassador leave the grounds, they’re to be accompanied by a body of knights. If any of our priests leave the grounds, they have to be escorted by at least one knight. If the ambassador’s son takes one of his weekly strolls down the street to Madam Penelope’s, he’s to be accompanied by a body of knights. The reality is, Orok Tor is not a dangerous place. We’re here primarily for show, so if it’s action you seek you’re in the wrong place.” Valard set the scroll aside. “The detachment has two hundred knights assigned to it, including you and me. And guess what, the young wayward son’s next sojourn will probably happen in the next couple days—he’s overdue—and as the newest addition to our detachment you’ll have the honor of being a member of his protective detail.”

“Great,” Gareth muttered.

“There was no mention of brothel escort duty during your training, was there.”

“No, sir.”

“But we don’t want the little seed-sower getting mugged on his way there. His father won’t be too pleased.”

“How much of a thieving threat is there, sir? Madam Penelope’s sits next to a wizard school, and you have to go past a fire magic school to get to Madam Penelope’s.”

“Wizards are too occupied by their arcane concerns to bother with the predations of a street thug.”

“Will the escort be in full armor?”

“No. The swords on your hips should detour any would-be thief. Come, let me show you to your quarters. At least each knight of the detachment gets his own stateroom.”

The knight commander led Gareth out of the office and down a corridor. Valard gestured to a side corridor they passed by on the right. “The priest quarters are down that hall.” He pointed to a side corridor on the left. “The priestess quarters are down that hall. That’s strictly off limits to us. If a knight needs to get word to a priestess while she’s in her quarters, for whatever reason, he must send a page girl, for he cannot take one step past the threshold of that hallway.”

“Understood,” Gareth said.

Valard and Gareth turned down another hallway. The knight commander led the younger man to an open door and gestured inside.

“There you are, Gareth,” Valard said. “Your home for the period of your posting to the Orok Tor Cathedral.”

Gareth stepped into the room. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll let you get settled. You’re aware that lunch is in another two hours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. You won’t be bothered until the ambassador’s young son takes his stroll. Welcome to Orok Tor.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Valard departed. Now alone, Gareth took a moment to survey the small room that would be his home during his posting in Orok Tor. Though only ten feet on a side, it was his space. He noted that his baggage sat on the floor against the far wall, someone having taken it from his horse’s saddle and delivered it here.

He unslung his shield off his back and set it aside. Next he shucked his armor, wiped the plates, and buffed them. His equipment tended, he grabbed a fresh casual uniform from his baggage and retired to the washroom down the hall from his quarters.

Once clean, Gareth headed for the dining hall. Lunch was served buffet style, and he found the end of the serving line. The cathedral had but one dining hall, and everyone ate here. Pages, priests and priestesses in their vestments, knights, and administrators all waited their turn to be served today’s menu.

Gareth received his bowl of beef stew, baked bread roll, and mug of ale, and he sat at the first unoccupied table he found. He scanned the dining hall and didn’t see Adrie yet. Though hungry, he only picked half-heartedly at his roll rather than attack his meal with gusto.

Adrie finally arrived in the hall, and she waited her turn in line. Finally, having been served, she brought her meal to the table and sat across from Gareth.

“Hello again,” she said.

He grinned. “Hello.”

“Are you settled in?”

“I am. My quarters are bigger than I expected.”

“It’s one of the luxuries afforded to those assigned to the Orok Tor detachment,” Adrie said.

“Have you seen Alistair yet?” Gareth asked.

Alistair Lancaster, Adrie’s older half-brother, was Gareth’s age. Alistair and Adrie’s father, Daric Lancaster, was a trade guild master in Delgan. Daric’s first wife, a human woman named Ilia, had died a few months after giving birth to Alistair. About a year later Daric had remarried, this time to an elven woman named Adaraveldron, who had been banished from Elvinwyd for reasons still unknown. When Alistair was two, Daric’s second wife gave birth to Adrie.

Adrie stirred her beef stew. “Not since I arrived in Orok Tor.”

“The last letter I received from him, he talked about hiring on to a caravan plying the trade road to the East.”

“He told me the same thing in the last letter he sent me. The same letter asking if I could transfer to the Orok Tor Cathedral.”

Gareth tasted his stew. He frowned. Alistair, his friend since their childhood in Delgan, hadn’t said anything about wanting him to transfer to Orok Tor.

Adrie smiled when she saw Gareth’s expression. “He didn’t leave you out, he knew that once I transferred to Orok Tor you would too.”

Gareth’s frown deepened. “I didn’t say anything about—”

She laid a palm on the back of his hand. “I know you well enough, Gareth, I can read you like a child’s fairy tale.”

He said nothing further. He just let himself enjoy the soft touch of her hand on his.

“Have you been assigned any duties yet?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation.

She offered a slight smile. “What could be so bad in this city?”

“Escorting a bureaucrat’s spoiled offspring to Madam Penelope’s.”

“What is Madam Penelope’s?”

“It’s a house of ill-repute that’s a few blocks down the street. You didn’t pass it coming to the cathedral from the gate? It’s next to Timuron’s School of the Arcane, or something similar.”

“The shortest route from the gate doesn’t bring you anywhere near Master Timuron’s school. Where did you get your directions from?”

“A Minotian vendor I came across when I first arrived in the city.”

“A Minotian. It’s not surprising he’d send you on a route that takes you near a brothel.” She sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Well, I don’t know if I like the idea of you going to a brothel, even if it is for escort duty.”

“I’m the newest knight in the detachment. It’s expected I pull the least desirable duties for awhile.”

“If you really don’t want any part of that duty, I can get you out of it. The clergy does have some leverage here in the cathedral. I go to the prelate and ask for an escort for the errands I have in the city, and when I do I’ll request you.”

“You can specify that?”

“The prelate is very flexible, especially if I were to tell him that you’re an old friend from my home city. He’ll tell the knight commander to give you to me as an escort.”

“I appreciate that, but I think, at least for this first time, I better take the duty as expected of the low man. I don’t want to give my brothers in arms the impression that I think I’m too good to do what’s expected of the new man in the unit.”

“You just want to see all the half-naked harlots.”

He felt his cheeks flush. “All right, enough about the harlots.”

Adrie grinned at him, and that expression on her stunning face was etched into his memory more strongly than the unclothed curves of any trollop who may work at Madam Penelope’s.

“I hope Alistair gets back to town in time for the festival.”

Gareth stirred his stew. “What festival?”

“The one honoring the birth of Orok A’kunamen, the father of wizardry. It’s an annual week-long event here in Orok Tor. I’m told it’s quite the celebration.”

“When does that occur?”

“In a week or so, just before the autumnal equinox.”

* * *

Alistair Lancaster picked his way carefully up the incline on the outskirts of Orok Tor, leading his roan mare by the reins. The city itself still lay beyond the horizon, but he was on the last leg of his journey. His sister and his old friend should be in the city by this time.

Clad in a boiled leather cuirass, a blue tunic, earth brown trousers, and comfortable boots, he had a round wooden shield strapped to his left arm and a spear clasped in his right hand. His brown hair ruffled in the breeze, and the corners of his blue eyes were wrinkled from a life of smiles. The thought of seeing Adrie and Gareth again brought another smile to his lips.

Five rough-looking men on scraggly horses suddenly approached from the hills to the north. Alistair cursed under his breath as he placed himself between the riders and his steed. He braced his shield and set the butt of his spear haft against the cobblestone pavement. The men reined their mounts to a halt and dismounted a good ten paces from Alistair. Dagger blades glinted in the setting sun.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Alistair said calmly, rolling the haft of his spear between his fingers.

“Was it you who killed our brother?” the dark-haired bearded man demanded.

Alistair shrugged. “Damned if I know. Who’s your brother?”

“We know you slew him. You kill a Black Serpent, you feel the wrath of us all.”

Alistair made a dismissive gesture. “Never heard of the Black Serpents, and I certainly didn’t kill one of you.”

“You did so. You left him to die on the side of the road. He described you perfectly before he died.”

“Oh, him. He shouldn’t have tried to rob me. He’s lucky he lived long enough to squeal to you.”

The brothers’ leader lunged forward and thrust his dagger toward the spearman. Alistair suddenly took up his spear in a sure grip and swung it in a wide arc. The stout oak haft crunched against the side of the ruffian’s head, and the man dropped immediately.

The other four men stood dumbfounded, staring at their dead brother. Alistair acted quickly, twirling his spear and slamming its butt against another skull. A split-second later the glinting spearhead came around and punched through the breastbone of the third man. Three attackers lay dead at Alistair’s feet.

The last pair turned to run, but Alistair wasn’t about to let them go so they could terrorize other innocents later. He abandoned his spear and shield and moved to his saddle, where he had a crossbow lashed securely. He loaded a bolt and set the crossbow to his shoulder. He aimed and fired, planting a bolt into the spine of the lefthand bandit between the shoulder blades.

The last bandit, looking over his shoulder, hastily mounted his horse. He snapped the reins and kicked the animal’s sides. Alistair calmly loaded another bolt and aimed. The fleeing bandit fell out of his saddle with a crossbow bolt transfixed through his neck.

Alistair tied the crossbow to his saddle and picked up his spear and shield. Taking the reins of his horse, he led his steed down the road, toward Orok Tor. The city came into view, and Alistair mounted his horse to ride the rest of the way.

Upon entering the city, it was hard to miss the signs of the impending festivities. Banners, streamers, and pennants created a mosaic of color. Workers, even now on the morning of the festival’s opening ceremonies, labored on the decorations. Posted signs pointed out directions to Forum Circle, the immense square in the city’s hub where many of the festival’s activities and entertainment were slated to be held.

The street, otherwise, was fairly empty. The morning was young yet, the sun barely above the eastern horizon. Alistair navigated his way easily enough without the need for maneuvering around pedestrians. He entered one of Orok Tor’s several merchant districts and rode past the rows of shops that manufactured and repaired goods and the stores that sold them.

He reined his horse to a stop and dismounted in front of a store bearing a sign with its name, Sackworth’s Trade Goods, stenciled in yellow and black block lettering. He tied his mare to a hitching post and lashed his spear and shield to the saddle. He rifled through one of his saddle bags and pulled out a sheathed curve-bladed dagger. He entered the store.

Sackworth was a rotund, jovial fellow dressed in otherwise clean attire that always seemed to have sweat stains under his arms, even in today’s cool autumn air. He had a receding hairline and long hair that he kept tied back with a leather strap.

“Alistair, me boy,” the vendor said, “what have your travels accumulated this time?”

Alistair set the dagger on the counter. “I took this off the body of a goblin that raided our caravan. I normally don’t bother with looting the fallen, but this dagger is a curiosity. Kabaarite?”

Sackworth picked up the dagger and freed its curved blade from its sheath. “Well, by the curve of the blade, I would have to say this is Kabaarite craftsmanship. Ye know that goblins don’t craft their own weapons, yes? They have to obtain their weapons from others, through trade or theft. It’s not surprising to find Kabaarite steel on a goblin.”

“I saw it and thought of you, my friend.”

“How much are ye asking for it?”

“I need to restock my crossbow bolts. I’m down to ten left.” Alistair paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, make that eight left.”

“How many bolts do ye want?”

“How many will that dagger get me?”

“A stack of twenty.”

Alistair shook his head. “Come on. I met some robbers on the road today that would give me a better deal than that.”

“How many bolts do ye think the dagger’s worth?”

“Forty.”

Sackworth leaned his head back and belted out a round of mock laughter. “Oh, Alistair me boy, it’s best ye leave the comedy for the jesters. I’ll give ye thirty of me finest bolts. What color fletching ye want?”

“The usual, Sackworth.”

Sackworth slid the dagger back into its sheath. “Coming right up.”

The vendor disappeared into the back room. Moments later, he returned with a bundle wrapped in a canvas sack. He set the bundle on the counter and untied it, revealing a cluster of crossbow bolts adorned with red fletching.

“Very good,” Alistair said.

“I have more merchandise here, if ye care to browse.”

“I have what I wanted.”

“Be kind to an old friend, Alistair me boy. I know ye just came back from an expedition. Caravan guards always have purses bulging with coin when returning from an expedition.”

“Just the bolts today, Sackworth.”

“Oh, ye wound me.”

Alistair bundled up the bolts and departed with a farewell wave. Outside, he restocked his nearly empty quiver. He untied his horse from the hitching post and led the steed by the reins.

“All right, Celeste,” he said to his horse as they walked, “one more stop before I take you to the stable where you can get brushed down and fed.”

The mare’s only reply was to deposit a pile of dung onto the pavement behind her.

Alistair smiled. “Well, sometimes you’re the horse, and sometimes you’re the road. I’m just glad that, for today at least, I’m not the road.”

He led the horse through the city, leaving the merchant district far behind them. More and more people walked the streets as the morning rolled on. He minded his own business, keeping his talking to a minimum.

Alistair finally arrived at his destination. He guided Celeste onto a tiny yard, upon which sat a small bungalow. He tied the reins to the railing of the front porch and dug into his saddle bags. He took out a bundle of yellowgrass plucked from the foothills on the eastern side of the Great Barrier Mountains. He held the herbs behind his back and stepped up to the door. He grabbed the iron knocker and rapped it twice.

The door opened to reveal a wisp of a Northlander woman with long brown hair and clad in homemade robes of black, white, and purple that were cut in the style worn by wizards. She was young, barely eighteen years old. She seemed too young to be a wizard.

“Ali!” she beamed.

Alistair gave her a stern expression. “I thought I told you never to call me that, Callida.”

She only looked at him with her innocent-looking brown eyes. He couldn’t feign his annoyance any longer, and a smile came to his lips.

“I got something for you,” he said.

“Behind your back?”

He took his hand from behind him and showed her the rare Eastern herbs.

“Ooh,” Callida said. “Weeds! For me?”

“It’s Barrier Mountain yellowgrass.”

“I know what it is, Ali.”

“You have a spell or two that requires this.”

“I know.”

“If you don’t want it....”

Callida reached for the herbs. Alistair raised his hand above his head, taking the herbs out of her reach. She made a quick gesture, and a floating hand of arcane energy suddenly appeared hovering above him. It plucked the herbs from Alistair’s hand and delivered it to Callida.

“That wasn’t very sporting of you, using your magic when I have none,” he said.

“No less sporting than you using your height against me, Ali.”

“I thought I told you never to call me that.”

She gestured inside. “I have some porridge ready, if you want some breakfast.”

“I’d love to, but I have to get Celeste stabled.”

“I do appreciate these components,” she said, gesturing with the yellowgrass in her hand. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. What do you intend to do with that yellowgrass, anyway?”

“I do have a spell in mind.”

Alistair frowned suspiciously. “You’re not going to cast a spell to give Uli Barca the trots, are you?”

An evil look crossed Callida’s face. “I hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it, that’s better than what I intended.”

“Forget I brought that up.”

“He deserves the humiliation for his arrogance. Every time he sees me, Uli Barca doesn’t hesitate to tell everyone that I’m not a true wizard because I didn’t apprentice at an academy.”

Alistair smirked. “Perhaps I’ll see you at the festival later today.”

“You will.”

With a wave of parting, Alistair returned to his horse. He untied the reins and led Celeste away. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Callida’s front door close. He pressed onward.

His next stop was Scarbray’s Tavern. He delivered Celeste to the tavern’s stables and sought Trent Scarbray, the establishment’s proprietor. He paid for his usual room for the next week and retired for a bath and a meal.

As he usually did when he took lodging at Scarbray’s, he ate his meal in his room and was joined by Taressa, the tavern girl who always catered to him during his stay. She was a redheaded Northlander woman with buxom curves and an active interest in historical events. She satisfied his need for both scintillating conversation and passionate affection.

Noon was close at hand by the time he was done with Taressa. When she left his room, he retrieved from his baggage the last prize he had collected in the East during his recent sojourn with the trade caravan. He pulled a leather scroll case out of a saddle bag and positioned a chair in front of the window, placing it in the beam of sunlight that passed through the panes of glass.

He opened the scroll case and tapped out the scroll within. The paper had a different texture; it wasn’t the wood pulp paper that was common in Westfall. The peoples of Eastfall, specifically those from the vast Ganji Empire, made their paper from the pulp of rice plants.

Alistair couldn’t read the writing on the scroll, it was written in the native tongue of the Ganji Empire. Even the alphabet used by the writer was different than the alphabet used by most cultures in Westfall. He hoped someone here in Orok Tor could translate the Ganjian writing into Tradespeak. What the author, supposedly a general in the Ganjian army, had written about military tactics was of great interest to Alistair.

As much as he yearned to read its text now, he knew he’d have to wait. The festival commenced today, and would last a week, and no one in Orok Tor will be doing anything beyond revelry during that time. Leaving most of his gear locked securely in his room, he left Scarbray’s. As expected, the opening ceremonies of the festival were well underway.