Th' rhyme ay Engvar

Hammer hangs ower king's bier

Th' kin' betrayed by queen's desire

Maker cam frae gray forge peaks

Likewise deceive'd when red witch speaks

Cauld man's path, pestle's hole, maker's staine an' chain

Earth fettered, hoond at heel, guardian o' th' slain

              - unattributed Beornian rhyme

Chapter One. A Message

In a far northern city on the edge of the Silver Sea.

A hard, cold rain falls, washing dirt from cobblestones and cleaning the stone gutters of the accumulated rubbish of summer. High up in the gray sky, a large white seabird strains against the wind and weather, pumping its wings more often than gliding over the mass of huddled stone buildings and tiled roofs of Kaergot.

It sees a hundred glows through shuttered windows and cracks in doors. It hears muted sounds of laughter drift through the early evening, but only the stoutest city dwellers, or those with no choice at all are out and about in the streets, and even those hearty few wouldn't think to look up and spot a fellow traveler on its own arduous and mysterious errand.

For all the city was, Kaergot was beginning to wear on Rowen. She and her three companions, Graham, Khabsha and Taen were relaxing in the Cockerel’s Crown, an inn and tavern frequented by many of the city militia and royal soldiers of Fom. The four Swans, a large blond forester, a bald Durin with a bright red goatee and two guards wearing the iron crown crest of the city watch were in the midst of a fine game of Three Mast.

To the common folk of the city, the group was somewhat a gathering of local celebrity. Beyond the fact that three were of races not seen much within the capital, four were of a band of adventurers called the Order of the Swan, known for having recently saved the Princess from no less than demons.

At the head of the table, with her back to the crowd, was Rowen Eledwyn, a forest Syvani from the Southlands. She wore fine green silk and a leather thigh length tunic instead of her usual white leaf armor, but her signature swan feather cloak and bronze sword hung on a peg near at hand. Her long red hair was tied back, exposing the swept ears of her kind, and eyes the color of a deep forest pool occasionally surveyed the crowd. Even in a city which looked down on her kind as a general rule, the dourest of men would call her beautiful.

Perched up high on the partition by the table was an even stranger sight. The Faelinarie known simply as Taen was no more than myth come to life for most folk. A three foot woman with small, graceful limbs, even sharper features than a Syvani and a magnificent pair of pearlescent wings reminiscent of a dragonfly, Taen wore her usual dark spidersilk tunic and deerhide corselet, her silver daggers sheathed at the small of her back. Unlike Rowen, she left her shoulder length dark hair hanging free and partially obscuring her customary, impish grin.

At the table across from Rowen sat a dark skinned Oroka shamaness. With her tall, warrior's build, dozens of long black braids and tusk toothed grin Khabsha was no standard beauty, but there was still something alluring in her form and presence as much to do with spirit as flesh. The tight riding leathers she wore revealed a muscular, yet womanly frame and the bone choker around her smooth neck hinted at her deadly talents.

Last of the Swans, and most imposing from a purely physical perspective, was Sir Graham MacTavish, recent brigand turned Knight of the Iron Crown. The only Neran within the Order, Graham was nearly of a height with Khabsha, and bulged with thick muscle. His tanned skin and red brown hair were one hundred percent of the people of Fom, and his status as a commoner-turned-lord made him the favorite hero by far. Sitting there in his hunting kilt and surcoat, jesting with the men-at-arms, he displayed the easy-going personality which turned foes into friends and lasses into lovers on more than one occasion.

As Graham slapped a card down on the table, grinning and laughing, a loud commotion drew their attention from a table closer to the main doors.

“Here now! Kill that thrice blasted bird before it-”

The irate soldier’s bluster was drowned out by a hue and cry from others, as the large sea bird swooped through the open shutter and glided through gathered smoke and over the heads of a dozen men and women before crash landing amidst the hero’s drinks and cards. The stout Durin and Graham, deftly grabbed their drinks away in time, but the rest were left to Gleeve’s luck. Khabsha’s drink tipped and dark ale spread in a tide across cards and coins.

“Pig Shid!” Khabsha belatedly grabbed the tankard as the rest of the players scooted away from the table. A cold had taken the edge off of her words and reactions, and blunted her curse, but her red eyes promised unpleasant things.

The bird’s large pink feet danced back and forth. It’s sharp, fish grinding beak snapping open and closed. It’s great wings remained half folded as it sidled up to the table edge nearest Rowan, and away from the fuming Oroka Shamaness.

The barkeep, a large, red headed lass named Gerta. pointed a stocky finger, “Get that bloody birdie outa’ my establishment!”

A few other patrons backed up her cries of outrage, but more were laughing at the unscheduled entertainment.

From her perch on the high backed chair, Taen added, “It looks like Swans aren’t your only friends,” to Rowen, who had deftly avoided the mess and was now examining the bird more closely

Besides being wet, large and occasionally letting out a screech which brought more mirth from the tavern, the creature appeared to have flown a long way. It’s head drooped, some of its feathers were missing, and there was an air of weariness over the animal. Of most import was the small leather case tied to its foot.

Hushing the others at the table with a wave of her hand, Rowen leaned close and untied the missive, “I don’t know about that, Taen. This appears to be a spellbound messenger, and it has traveled far.

Gowen, the blond forester smiled through his thick, tangled beard, “Indeed. Th’ muckle bird is tired, an’ looks to have hardly taken the time tay shite.”

Another curse from Khabsha, and a round of oaths from the others arose when they saw the large new mess the nervous seabird had added to the table.

Graham shifted his large shoulders and eyed the enraged barkeep, who looked ready for violence, ”I think perhaps it’s time we took this party back to the castle.”

All agreed, and after laying a small pile of coins on the table by way of apology, they gathered their things and headed toward the door. The bird wasted no more time in the unfamiliar setting. With a final round of cries it lifted off and beelined for the door, which Rowen kindly opened wide. Its shrieking cries brought further laughter from the crowd, and distracted Gerta long enough for the group to follow the bird into the rain and make good their own escape.

The Letter

Greetings Lady Rowen,

It is I, Red Gail, Magus Navigus of the Griffin. I hope for your sake, as well as the sake of my crew, that this letter finds you well. For the sake of time and this poor bird, I will keep things short. I fear our secret quest has not fared well. The Captain and crew have been captured by a terrible creature-construct which lords over the isle. I was able to escape its clutches, but am unable to rescue my crew, or to pilot the Griffin away with but a single pair of hands. The beast has intelligence, but has already devoured poor Thistle. I despair.

I know our ledgers are square, and you owe us naught, but I beseech you to come to our aid. In the name of true, if fleeting friendship, and with promise of further reward I ask you this. I have included a seafarers map on the back of this missive which will lead you to the island if you choose to come.

With hope and prayers,

Master Gail

Later, in the fire lit study of their rooms, Rowen, Taen, Khabsha and Graham sat on padded benches sipping hot cider. Their drinking companions had parted company for the night. Wet cloaks hung by the door and all had taken a chance to read the bird-sent letter. Rowen was eying her companions carefully, trying to gage their reaction to the note. She had already made up her mind about it, but wanted to give the others a chance to voice their opinions before voicing her own.

Khabsha was holding and studying it with one hand while wiping her swollen red nose with a rag held in the other, “I dun knuw. Da map loogs lige chigen scratch du me.”

“I agree.” Taen added. “How are we going to find them if their map makes no sense?”

Graham shook his head, “To us it makes no sense, but I wager any seafarer in the city can read it,” A pause, “Well... maybe except for the Dinari parts.”

“Agreed,” Rowen responded, “But we must remember the secrecy of Captain Gulaster’s mission.” She paced before the fire, idly fingering the bronze hilt of Hawkwing, her druidic blade, “I think we should bring this to Sir Angus. If he can’t read it, I’m sure he knows someone trustworthy who can,” she stopped and looked at the others, “More importantly, are we all agreed  we should aid the Dinari?”

She looked at each in quick succession. When they nodded their agreement, she smiled, content to have guessed their answer.

“If for no other reason than to get out of this city,” Graham added, "I swear, if one more person “sirs” or bows to me, this whole “Knight of the Realm” thing WILL go to my head. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to actually use my reward.”

At these words he grabbed his very fine Halberd from its resting spot in the corner, and gave it a half-hearted spin. The silver edged, Durin runes reflected the firelight most impressively.

Rowen nodded, “Very well. I’ll take the map to the King’s Hand now. If I hurry I can catch him before he retires for the night.”

She took the offered letter from Khabsha, only narrowing her Syvani eyes slightly at the snot rag held in her companions other hand, “You should go to bed. If we are off on a rescue mission, you need to be in better form.”

Khabsha waved the hand with the rag, “I knuw. Yood think a sodding cowld wud yield do dibine prayer.”

“It’s the Gods way of keeping we Wicala’s humble,” Rowen replied with a motherly smile.

Taen fluttered to Khabsha’s shoulder and gave the grumpy Oroka a comforting pat on the back.

The Office of the Hand

“I think I know just the man to read this,” Sir Angus Mur said to Rowen, while peering at the small crumpled map with aged eyes.

Rowen leaned back in the comfortable sitting chair on the opposite side of the Hand’s large, oak desk. A silver candle-stand shed warm light over the office. Mur’s large, hairy bulk filled his reinforced chair to capacity. A fighting man well past his fighting prime, but full of the wisdom and grace of the Gods of Light, and just a little piss and vinegar, Rowen still had a little trouble believing he was only sixty winters old. A Syvani of such age would still be in the Spring of their life.

“I’m glad to hear that My Lord. The friend who sent the letter included a great deal of urgency. The sooner I can talk to this man the better.”

“Of course, of course. It’s a small thing for the savior of our beloved Princess, and the rescuer of the wee bairns of Dunbolten. Truly, if the High Wical of the Golden Chapel himself had told me a fair haired Sylvan lass would be the darling of old Ironcrown’s court I’d have spit fine whiskey in his face and called him a motley fool!”

Mur’s still-white teeth showed through his whiskers, “But here you are, and there it is... and there he is as well,” with the last words he slid a folded piece of parchment across the desk. On one side was the name, “High Captain Jerym MacAlvy," on the other, the Hand’s personal seal.

Rowen palmed the letter and tilted her head, “You are very kind Sir Angus, in manner and deed. My thanks.”

TO BE CONTINUED....

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