Boy straightened painfully in the sweltering heat and leaned on his hoe, mopping the sweat off his brow, his palm raw with blisters. The salt stung his hand, and he wiped it on his coarse linen pants. Although he’d grown so much this past winter they were more like britches than trousers. Food had been scarce over the winter, though, so he had to use a piece of twine to hold them up around his hollow middle.

            He only had one shirt, but it barely stretched across his shoulders any more, so he was shirtless now. Which was just as well. Summer had come early this year, all scorching sun and merciless blue skies with no hint of rain in them. The bean plants stretched away like so many stunted, dust-coated sentinels.

            Hoeing this field was ridiculous—as long as the beans were taller than the weeds, they’d produce just fine. But ever since Ma’d passed, Pa had been prone to giving him crazy jobs to do. Best, though, not to argue with Pa when he was into the ale, which was pretty much all the time these days.

            His back aching, Boy bent wearily to his hoe once more. But as he did so, a movement caught his eye in the far hedgerow. Low to the ground. Quick. A rabbit maybe, or a squirrel foolish enough to have left the safety of the trees. It had been a while since he’d had meat, and a sharp pang of hunger quickened his gut. He eased his slingshot out of a back pocket, eyeing the ground around him for a likely rock. There. Small enough to fly right and big enough to knock the sense out of a critter. He crouched slowly and picked up that stone and a spare.

            He extended his left arm stiffly and pulled back on the stretchy gut. The movement came again. He loosed the stone with the desperate precision of the half-starved.

            “Owww!”

            The yowl startled him so badly he nearly fell as he started toward his kill. Rabbits might scream like women, but they didn’t yell like schoolboys. Fark. Pa’d kill him if he’d hurt someone and got himself in trouble with the law. Ever since that snooty sun elf, Baron Hector, came to visit last year and put the fear of hanging in everyone, the local steward was real particular about legal stuff and such.

            “”Ey there! You be ‘urt?” Boy called out. “Come on outta them bushes.”

            A rustle was all the response he got. Must be that Tomikin lad from down the creek. Probably s’posed to be home workin’ and gonna get ‘is hide tanned if’n he got caught playin’ hooky.

            “That you, Tomikin? Quit foolin’ around.”

            The bushes parted without warning and something green and fast charged him, screaming bloody murder. Holy dragons! That was no human…it couldn’t be…

            The creature was shorter than he but twice as wide. Stringy muscles showed under a bright green hide. The face was vaguely humanoid in that it had two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. But there the resemblance ended. The creature’s features were sharp and feral, the look in his eyes violent. Goblin.

            He’d heard stories of the creatures, but had never heard of one being seen in these parts. They’d been driven south into the Great Forest long ago, when humans and elves and the other civilized races settled these lands. Of course, there’d always been dwarves in Neritia, but they kept mostly to the mountains and their underground cities.

          Belatedly, Boy realized he was unarmed except for his slingshot and a rusty hoe, and he was definitely being attacked. He loaded the second stone hastily and loosed it. He swore as it arced wide of the goblin, who was almost on him now looking raving mad.

            The creature’s eyes were gold in color, the pupils not quite feline, but not quite human, either. And the smell of him. Gor’, he reeked. Worse than rotted fish. His skin looked closer to grass green than the olive of the local lizardmen, but it was hard to tell under the caked dust and dry, cracked state of it. The goblin looked strong. And fully desperate enough to kill.

            Boy swung the hoe in a wide arc that only slightly slowed the goblin’s headlong charge as he ducked under the tool. The goblin barreled into him, wrapping shockingly powerful arms around his ribcage and squeezing until Boy could barely draw breath. Thankfully, he managed to stay on his feet. If he went down, the monster would eat his innards for sure.

            That was when real panic hit him. He pummeled the creature’s head with his fists, yanking with all his strength at the tufts of thin hair, scratching and biting and kicking wildly. He didn’t care what he made contact with. He was going to die fighting, by the stars.

            The goblin grunted and staggered back as Boy’s fist slammed into the bridge of his nose. Boy swung again, aiming at the same spot. Whereas all the other blows had seemed to have little effect, the goblin’s face was another story.

            Boy cocked his arm across his body and then unleashed his elbow as hard as he could at the goblin’s bleeding nose. The creature screamed and his arms fell away from Boy’s ribs. Leaping back, Boy scooped up the hoe and rammed the end of the handle hard into the goblin’s gut. The vile thing doubled over, spewing bile all over his pants. A hard downward chop with the hoe, and the blade buried itself with a sickening thud in the back of the creature’s neck.

            The goblin collapsed, motionless.

            Boy prodded the inert form with his foot.  No response. A harder poke with the hoe. Was he dead? Nausea rumbled of a sudden in his gut. He’d killed plenty of rabbits and the like, but they was for food. This was another two-legged humanoid like him. A monster, to be sure, but a sentient being. He’d never killed nothin’ like that. Was he in trouble? Would Pa turn him over to the steward or just beat him to a pulp himself?

            Pa.

            The goblin had come from the direction of the farmhouse. Boy took off running for all he was worth toward the low, sod-roofed hovel he and Pa lived in.

            The garden was torn up, and the door sagged open on its leather hinges. Dread settled on his chest like Jon the Smith’s big anvil. “Pa, you okay?”

            Silence.

            “Pa!”

            He careened around the corner and into the one-room house. And screeched to a halt. He smelled it first. Metallic and coppery. Blood. He spied a huge smear of it on the wall by the fireplace, trailing down to a lump of cloth and blood and gore on the floor.

            Ahh, gads. He raced over to his father’s body and fell to his knees beside it. The cursed goblin had taken most of Pa’s innards. Probably already ate ‘em. But the vile beast has also taken Pa’s ears and fingers, and his tongue by the look of it. And maybe a patch of his scalp. Hard to tell with that gaping gash in the top of Pa’s head. The thought of Pa’s parts as trophies lit off a rage way down deep inside him. So deep he barely felt its fire. Yet.

            Something hot and painful burned a trail down his face, and he registered an odd, high-pitched keening sound. He realized vaguely that the sound was coming from his own throat. But he couldn’t seem to stop as he rocked back and forth on his knees.

            The world had ended. A goblin had come to his home and, in the blink of an eye, obliterated it all. He registered that the hovel had been ransacked. What hadn’t been taken had been smashed. The destruction was complete.

            How long he knelt there, he didn’t know. But at long last, it occurred to him to move. To act. Climbing to his feet like an old man, he found a broken shovel with a few feet of wooden handle remaining and trudged out to the garden to dig a hole. A grave. Pa deserved at least that much. He might’ve been a hard man, mean and drunk in his final days, but he was all the family Boy’d had. And he’d been a good man, once. When Ma was alive.

            It wasn’t like Pa’s spirit had the strength to come back. Not after Ma died for good. It had taken all the light right out of their home. Aged Pa twenty summers in a season. Naw. Pa’s spirit would go lookin’ for Ma’s in the Great Void. Who knew? Maybe he’d find her and have some peace at last.

            When he judged the trench was deep enough, Boy went into the hovel to drag what was left of Pa’s body outside. When he did so, he saw the goblin had, indeed, cut out Pa’s liver and kidneys. The outrage simmering in his gut exploded into full fury.

            He rolled the mess that had been Pa into the hole and shoveled dirt over him. It was hard work, burying a man. Took till nearly sunset, and he was tall and strong for his age, if still on the lanky side. Finally, a neat mound took up the middle of the garden. Pa was covered deep enough that the wolves wouldn’t dig ‘im up and finish what the goblin had started.

            Boy entered the house one last time. There was no question of him staying here. First Ma, and now Pa, had died in this place. He couldn’t stand it, not one night. Moving slowly in a sort of fog, he laid out a bedroll and stacked upon it the essentials he’d need to survive. A knife, a sharpening stone, flint and steel. The chipped ale mug that had been Pa’s. He moved around the room, kicking through the debris the goblin had left behind, considering each object for its potential usefulness. Funny how hard it was to decide even the smallest thing.

            A length of rope. An oiled tarp. His shirt. A small, ivory comb that had been his mother’s most prized possession. And then, feeling like a thief, he pried loose the stone up high on the chimney. He wasn’t supposed to know about Pa’s special hiding spot, but he did. Drunks weren’t very good at keeping secrets.

He fished out the handful of copper and silver coins and carefully tied them into Ma’s best handkerchief. Numb all the way to his soul, he took one last look around.

            “That’s it, then.” His voice was hoarse, deeper than he was accustomed to hearing it. Must be all that fussin’ he did earlier.

          He stepped outside into the soft gray twilight settling around him like a blanket. “Good-bye house.” He glanced at the raw wound of black dirt in the garden. “Bye, Pa.”

          Girding himself with a deep breath, he made himself look over at the sickly willow sapling a little ways away. It nodded over the other grave on the property, its long, thin leaves too yellow for this time of year. His throat hitched and he only managed a whisper. “Bye, Ma.”

            Then he turned his back on the only home he’d ever known and headed out.

            The village wasn’t far away to the north up by the shore of the Inland Sea. Boy trudged along, observing dully how the white dust coated his bare feet until he could hardly tell them from the road. The moon lit his way plenty well, and he was accustomed to working by its wan light in the summer. Most dirt farmers worked from a few hours after dark until a few hours after dawn and then slept through the heat of the day. He and Pa did it, too, when Pa wasn’t having one of his crazy spells and making him hoe the beans at high noon.

            Grief slashed through him till it nearly cut him in half. Maybe thinking wasn’t such a good idea just now. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the next, he made his way to the fishing village hugging the coast that marked the northern edge of the Kingdom of Neritia.

            He walked until he glimpsed flickering lights on the horizon. Even from this distance he could make out dark shapes moving in the village. Too many for this time of night. Fark. Goblins weren’t attacking there, too, were they?

            Common sense said to turn and run for his life. But a compulsion to see it for himself overrode any sense he might normally have. He slowed, moving forward cautiously, cursing this barren land for its complete lack of tree cover. Whose lousy idea was it to settle this place, anyway? Although the way he heard it, the dwarves had been here since before time, and the elves who ruled this place hadn’t been here much less than that.

            Huh. It looked to be townspeople moving around. The flickering came from the torches they carried. But sure as he was standing here, something was up, because they was all buzzin’ around like a swarm a’ ticked off bees.

          His eyes darting every which way, he walked into the village, about jumping out of his skin when a gruff man voice called out, “’Ey! That you, Boy?”

          He turned and spied the tavern keeper standing in the door of Pa’s favorite pub.

          “You’re out awful late. Your old man run out of that rotgut of his’n?”

          “No, sir. We was attacked by a goblin.”

          The fellow made a hocking noise and spit a wad of yellow sputum practically on Boy’s boot. “They hit here, too. Fought ‘em off, though. Sorry rabble they was. No organization. Just a’screamin’ and a’runnin’ around makin’ a grab for anything edible. Where’s your Pa, then? Straightenin’ out at home?”

          Boy winced. “He’s dead.”

          “Ahh, no. I’m sorry. Come on in, Boy. The Steward’ll be along shortly and you can tell ‘im what happened.”

          Boy slid onto a bench at the pub’s long table. “Not much to tell. I was hoein’ beans and one of ‘em jumped me. I killed ‘im and headed for the house. Found Pa dead.” Odd how the day’s events seemed so far away, somehow. Like they was wrapped in mist.

          The tavern keeper set a mug of ale down in front of Boy. He stared at it, bug-eyed. Pa never let him drink ale. Said he was too young and stupid to handle the stuff. Although it weren’t like Pa’d handled it all too great ‘imself. Boy took a cautious sip. Gads, it was foul! ‘Twas yellow like piss and tasted like piss. The foam tickled his nose and he sneezed, sending white spray across the table and making the tavern keeper laugh uproariously.

          Steward Kay came inside a few minutes later, wearing a quartered black and white tabard—them was the colors of Neritia—with the red hawk of Baron Hector sewn onto it. The tavern keep relayed Boy’s news to the steward.

          Kay’s voice was surprisingly kind when he said, “My condolences on your loss, Boy. Did you see how many goblins attacked your Pa?”

          “No, sir. He was in his cups pretty hard. Wouldn’t’a taken much to best ‘im. I think ’twas just the one.”

          The steward shook his head. “In my experience, when one goblin shows up, more will be along soon. Best spread the word to prepare for a large-scale goblin attack, gentlemen.”

          “Beyond the one we already had?” the innkeeper squawked in dismay.

          “Aye. Goblins tend to come in hordes. Tonight’s crew was no more than a raiding party looking for food.”

          The innkeeper swore while the patrons within earshot nodded grimly and hastened to finish their ales.

          Kay turned back to Boy. “I told your father his drinking was going to kill him someday. I just didn’t expect it would happen like this. Do you think he’ll resurrect?”

          Boy considered. “I doubt it, sir. He never was the same after we lost Ma. Can’t see as how he’d have any fire in his gut to make it back past the Veil.”

          “I’m sorry to say I agree with you. It takes a certain kind of person to come back from the Void. Nearest Heartstone’s in Bradenfall. It would take your father several days to walk back from there. We’ll wait a week or so before we declare him permanently dead.”

          The tavern keep interjected, “I hear it’s a fight. You know, to come back from the dead. Gotta have a really good reason to resurrect. Never done it mesself.”

          “I have,” the steward said with a hint of pride. “Twice. Easier the second time. Knew what to expect, I suppose.”

          “What’s it like on the other side?” Boy asked eagerly.

          “I couldn’t say. I only remember seeing that sword go into my gut and then waking up all cold and naked and shaking from head to foot with a Heart healer muttering over me.”

          Boy was impressed. He’d never met anyone who’d successfully resurrected. He eyed the steward with new respect.

          “What are you planning to do next, Boy?” Kay asked.

          “Don’ rightly know, sir.” Next? ‘Twas hard to fathom anything coming after today. When Ma died, he’d lived in a daze for a long time, just doing whatever Pa told him to and not thinking at all beyond that. But this time, he was on his own to push through his loss. He’d have to eat. Find a roof and hearth come winter. Although in this relentless summer heat ‘twas hard to imagine freezing to death.

          “Have you got any skills?” the steward pressed.

          “I can dirt farm. Know how to grow beans and taters and crop hay. Ma taught me my letters and numbers.”

          “Hmm. Knowing how to read will help, but it’s not much to build on. The militia wouldn’t normally take you on account of your young age. But I’ll have a word with Sergeant Willis. Report to him in the morning.”

           That sounded an awful lot like an order. Like the steward had decided his fate for him and he had no choice in the matter. Willis was in charge of King Gregor’s local militia. The sergeant was a decent enough fellow, but the way Boy heard it, new recruits were treated hardly better than slaves. He made a reluctant face.

          “You could always indenture yourself to someone,” the steward offered. His voice lowered to a bare murmur, “But I can’t recommend that. ‘Tis a hard life, and once trapped in it, nearly impossible to escape. Stay clear of it if you know what’s good for you, Boy. You hear me?”

          Boy blinked, startled. “Yes, sir.”

          “Yes. The Army’s just the place for you.” And with that pronouncement, the steward drained the last few drops of his ale, slapped down a few coppers on the table and left the inn.

          A voice, gruff with drink, muttered at Boy’s elbow. “Army. Bah. Come to work for me. I could use a strong lad.”

          Boy lurched in surprise. Jumpy, he was, after today. A strong, sour scent of garlic-flavored sweat assaulted him. He risked a glance at his uninvited companion and was alarmed to see the colorful rags of a gypsy. Known to be mostly tramps and thieves, Boy’s hand strayed to his pocket to secure his kerchief of coins.

          The gypsy grinned at the gesture. “Not gonna rob ye, tonight, I ain’t. Least not whilst ye still breathe.” He ran a menacing thumbnail across his bearded neck and his voice fell to a whisper. “Ye slit their throats first. Then ye rob ‘em.”

          Boy recoiled in horrror as the gypsy burst out laughing.

         “What say ye? Come away wit’ me. Ride my wagon and see the big, wide world. I’ll show ye things ye’ve never imagined, I will. Teach ye a thing or two if’n you’ve a head for learnin’. Don’ go in that there Army. Once they’ve got they hooks in thee, them never let go.”

          Gypsies were the dregs of the society, barely better than criminals, known to be cutpurses, child stealers, and worse. An offer of employment from one wasn’t much more appealing than the militia. He could hear his mother now, berating him for throwing himself in the path of trouble by associating with such a shady character.

          Having never met a real, live shady character before, though, he had to admit to a certain fascination. The gypsy’s clothes clashed flamboyantly, and his bushy gray beard was braided with beads and decorative shinies in the dwarven fashion.

          Equal parts intrigued and appalled, Boy watched as the gypsy slid even closer to Boy’s side. When the fellow spoke under his breath, much of the thick gypsy accent was gone. “I can’t pay you much beyond bed and board, but I won’t make you sign your life away. I’ll work you hard, but no harder than I work myself. I can show you the kingdom and teach you the merchant trade if you’re clever. Otherwise, I’ll just use you to do the heavy lifting and attract the ladies.”

          Boy blushed hard and hot. For the past few summers, the local girls had teased him so mercilessly that he frankly feared most all females these days.

          The gypsy grinned knowingly. “Aye, an’ I’ll teach you ’bout women, too, if’n ye want. Cursed tricky creatures, they be.”

          Riding in a gypsy caravan with a merchant? Traveling the open road to new places far away? Learning the merchant trade while he was at it—and maybe a few tricks that would appeal to the heart of a boy intent on a little excitement? The specter of endless military service and indenture retreated from his mind even as the caution of his upbringing remained. Ma and Pa were both dead, anyway. ‘Twasn’t like he needed their approval no more. And he did kill that goblin all by himself, after all. Who knew? Maybe he had a knack for the adventurer’s life.

“I’ll do it,” Boy declared.

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So there I was, knowing way too much about the rebellion, and the Kothites were rumored to be coming to town. Soon. With psionic inquisitors who could tear open a person’s mind like a sword through tissue paper.

It was extremely important for those of us who were planning rebellion to silence any voices that might inform against us to the Kothites. We couldn’t allow ourselves to be pointed out to the Inquisitors and tortured…err…gently questioned.

 One such fellow who worried us all was a local Nulvari. He was known to be playing on both sides of the fence, courting favor with both the rebel leaders and local Kothite nobles. Worse, no one knew to which side of the fence he would finally fall when forced to choose. He was perched firmly on top of the pickets.

 And so, I invited him to accompany me into the woods for a private conversation. I hinted that I had information of great value to the rebellion to share with him. He was eager to hear it, for to him, information was power–and personal protection.

I spoke freely to him, telling him absolutely everything I knew about the rebellion. And I mean every last detail. I drew out the telling, being sure that it took nearly an hour in the telling. And it was not hard to do so, for I had been deeply involved in the planning of it for some time.

 When I had finished my recitiation, I looked him in the eye and said, “There. Now you must join the rebellion. If an Imperial Inquisitor looks inside your mind and finds all that rebel information, you are clearly a member of the rebellion and a dead man. I have been speaking to you too long for any kind of forget potion to wipe all of the information from your mind. You are committed now, good sir. I have pushed you off the fence.”

 Suffice it to say yon Nulvari was none too happy with me. But he knew I’d trapped him fair and square. His choice was made for him, and thenceforth, he worked loyally and effectively for the rebellion, Sometimes, you just have to take these things into your own hands.

 10th July, 3654th year of the reign of Maximillian III– The Sunset Isles are composed of numerous islands clustered together off the coast of the Southern continent, and only reachable by a perilous voyage across the Abyssmal Sea. I was fortunate enough to gain passage on the Black Ship Intrepid for the journey, and hence was relatively safe.

Svetna is the island whereupon the seat of the Imperial Solinari kingdom resides. I do not go there, for the red tape involved in trading there is enough to make a gypsy weep. And of course, there is the small problem of the Solinari people’s cordial relationship with the Kothite Empire. My kind are not well received by most Imperial servitors. Instead, I travel to Hedon, the largest of the isles, and home of the Living Crystals. I have heard much of those legendary standing stones and wish to see them.  

11th July, 3654th year of the reign of Maximillian III– As Hedon came into sight, or rather Mount Sohlaya on the island of Hedon, which the solinari claim to be the tallest mountain on Urth, ’tis not hard to believe their claim. The living crystals sit upon the summit of Sohlaya like a sparkling crown of golden diamonds. The splendor of the sight is beyond words to describe. I shall never forget it as long as I live.  

15^th July, 3654^th year of the reign of Maximillian III–This is, quite simply, the most beautiful place I have ever seen. Elven places in general possess great refinement, but even among elves, these Solinari are extraordinary. [I have not included most of my descriptive notes of Hedon, for they go on at embarrassing length.] On the morrow, I have arranged to climb Mount Sohlaya. A Solinari gentleman, in gratitude for several letters and artifacts I have safely delivered to him, has offered to escort me as near to the Living Crystals as we may go without causing offense.  

30^th July, 3654^th year of the reign of Maximillian III–I shall endeavor to summarize what I have learned, but I doubt words can communicate adequately all I have seen. As one approaches the Living Stones, they appear as slender fingers of crystal, pillars if you will, reaching up toward the Sun. But as one draws near, they are massive in size. Perhaps sixteen grown men would need to link hands to encompass one’s circumference. They are mostly clear but have a faintly gold cast to them. They remind me of giant salt crystals from the great dwarven mines with torchlight shining through them, but a hundred times more brilliant.

They are arranged in thirteen concentric circles ringing the summit of the mountain. On each crystal is inscribed the name of a Solinari family, and below it the names of the members of that family who have earned recognition and honor in their lives—who have added to the prestige of their family through the life they lived. When a Solinari approaches the end of his or her life, they come here to undergo the Rite of Grand Ascension. His or her life is judged by some means I do not understand. If they have added to the prestige of their clan, their family’s crystal then grows in proportion to how much honor they have brought their clan.

As I understand it, the most important Solinari families’ stones rest among the inner circles of the standing stones, while the lesser and newer families populate the outer (and lower on the mountain) rings. Of course, some of the new families’ stones are already very tall and overtake the height of less successful families from the older circles. The Solinari say great magic resides in this mountain. If one touches the stones, which I confess I did in secret, they do seem unusually warm. The carvings upon the stones are quite beautiful, even though the stones themselves seem rough, even crude, among these refined people. The lettering at the beginning of the family lines is so ancient I can barely recognize the text.

The Inner Circle is comprised of 13 stones. Twelve of the families represented here are known as the First Families. The 13^th family is named Black Sun, and little is known of them. They alone do not allow anyone to attend their Ascension rituals, and no one moves into or out of their clan as a rule. Apparently, a Solinari can move up or down in status by marriage or adoption into a family. If a low-bred Solinari were to achieve huge success, many older families might try to adopt him or marry him to one of their daughters to gain the prestige he will bring to their living crystal. Some Solinari will remain loyal to their clan, while others wish to climb the mountain as far as they can. My host tells me inward moves of more than two circles in one lifetime are mostly unheard of.

Children here are told the story of Stefan Lamplighter, a tenth circle Solinari who saved their people when invaders from the sea attacked the Sunset Isles. So glorious were his exploits that Family Val’rah, of the Inner Circle itself, adopted him as one of their own. Through corruption, decay, debauchery, or simple failure to reproduce (which I am told is difficult for Solinari), a family line can be broken. The last time a family line was broken and the stone went dark and stopped growing was over a hundred years ago.

[I have collected here a few of my random observations.]

Svetna is called the City of Light, perhaps partially because it is brightly lit both day and night and never goes dark. Being born in the Spring is a lucky omen. Children are named in what is called a Sunrise Ceremony. I was not able to attend one during my visit, more’s the pity. Solinari invite someone of great prestige to name their children. Inteestingly enough, svet is the old Itheri word for light.

Solinari are chosen for government bureaucrat jobs by lottery and serve a term much as Army soldiers might serve an enlistment. Government service does not usually garner much prestige, hence is not highly sought after.

Solinari do not seem overly concerned with amassing wealth. I find their outlook on money refreshing. To them it is a tool to accomplish greater goals.

The Amber Guardians are the elite guard of the Sunset Isles. I am told membership in this order is frequently secret in nature. Interestingly enough, they accept members of any race, although Solinari do predominate. The only requirement is to be a brave and outstanding soldier of sufficient honor. It is said the Amber Guardians engage in some eternal struggle against a foe. It is whispered that when asked, they will say only that wherever there is darkness, they are light.

Solinari settle disputes with a system of three judges hearing a case. Each party in question provides a judge of their own, and a third (presumably neutral) judge is named from the Triumvirate of Justice. They hear the case and make a ruling.

Legends speak of a creature called Pakyzand. He’s a great many-headed serpent who rises out of the ocean to hunt Solinari. What sea monster could eat an entire ship, let alone crawl ashore to devour whole villages? I can only hope the story is pure myth.

And then there’s the legend of Daystar. He’s said to be the greatest warrior in the history of the Solinari race, and is credited with saving the world from eternal darkness. The story goes that a terrible blackness fell over the land a very long time ago. There was no light, no sun, and only an endless night that went on for weeks. When all the people feared the light would come no more, Daystar donned a suit of golden armor, and placed a great magical helm upon his head. He took up his golden sword and his mighty bow and climbed to the top of Mount Sohlaya to challenge the darkness to a duel to the death.

Out of the darkness formed a fearsome creature named Galeel, whose cloak was blacker than the blackest night, and whose hands were terrible claws of death, and whose face was nothing more than a void of terrible dark. They fought for many hours until the ground was soaked in their blood and blood ran in a river from the mountaintop. Finally, at the end of his strength, Daystar closed for a last mighty attack. He plunged his sword into the belly of the beast and struck a mortal blow, even though to do so he had to throw himself upon the sword of the monster, Galeel. Daystar joined the creature of darkness in the deadliest of all embraces, chest to chest, eye to eye, sword to sword. They died locked in each other’s arms.

As Galeel expired, his form burst into a thousand bits of light and scattered across the blackness of the sky to form the stars. In that same instant, two spires of crystal rose up out of the earth to embrace the body of Daystar. The ground opened up and the crystals gently bore the hero’s body down into the bowels of Mount Sohlaya to be laid to rest. It is said that Daystar sleeps beside the Progenitor, where they wait in eternity for the day when our people have need of them again.

The Blood Path supposedly follows the course of Daystar’s blood flow down the mountain. It is this path elves walk to the summit during their Rite of Grand Ascension.   Solinari use the last rays of the Sun through a magnifying glass to start their funeral pyres. They scatter their dead’s ashes wherever they so wish them to be scattered. Most seem to prefer to have their ashes loosed from Mount Sohlaya, but every so often, one of their kind leaves a different request.

Ceremonies of the Prism are performed whenever a Solinari wishes to embark upon a new career or quest of some kind. I gather it is not important so much what a Solinari does as much as it matters that he or she does it very well. There is great honor to be had in being an outstanding farmer. A fine notion, I think.

Family Praxis is known to be especially close to the Kothite throne and sends many of its scions to the Imperial court in Koth to seek favor and glory. My opinions on the matter notwithstanding, they are one of the preeminent families among their kind.

The Solinari generally get along reasonably well with Koth. They are not so concerned with trivial details of money and tax collection and production quotas as the Kothites, but the Solinari are highly competent administrators nonetheless.

As best I can tell, Solinari live approximately ten years for every one a human lives. It almost makes a soul wish to transform to that race.   The remainder of my notes are mostly details pertaining to trade rules and procedures in the Sunset Isles, and I shall not bore you with those. If you have any further questions, you have but to ask and I shall endeavor to answer.

May the road be straight before you,

Dasha

Of particular interest was how the Barbarians reacted to her companion, who never left her side once he returned. Whether it was fear or some sort of…worship…I could not rightly tell. But they did not treat him with the ease Emerald did, that was for certain.

One would have to see him to understand their reaction. He was taller and broader than most, a warrior in his prime. His skin held that dark, deep, permanent tan of a man who lived outdoors in the sun and wind. His hair was black, as were his eyes, adn he dressed all in black. He carried a brace of weapons in his belt, including an impressive pair of long swords. But that was not what inspired such fear. An aura clung to him, not of threat exactly. More like certain death if one crossed him.

As darkness came, sleet began to fall. We retired to the hut and settled close to the fire to eat our stew. After the meal, we made ourselves comfortable in piles of furs and fell to speaking once more.

A: You mentioned being Bloodsworn, earlier, Emerald.  Can you tell me what that is about?

E: It is a tradition among the Barbarians. Now and then a warrior chooses to pledge his or her life to protecting some specific member of the clan. Often they guard someone of special importance, say a chief. This is being Bloodsworn.

A: Ahh. So when you said Richard knew you would be taken care of, it was because someone had sworn to guard you.

E: <glancing at her companion and smiling a little> A Blood Oath involves a bit more than just guarding a person.

A: Am I to gather that a Blood Oath involves blood in some way?

E: Aye. Blood for blood. If the one you protect is hurt, then you suffer hurt. If they bleed, you bleed. If they die, you die. If someone or something attacks a Sworn, the Blood Guard is usually hurt first attempting to save them from harm, anyway. But in the case where the Sworn is injured and the Blood Guard is not, the guard will ritually wound himself or herself.

A: Wound themselves? How?

E: Legend has it that Blood Guards originally inflicted upon themselves the same injury as their Sworn One suffered. If a Sworn broke a leg in a battle, then his Blood Guard broke a leg. Sworn takes a blade to the gut, Blood Guard sticks himself. You get the idea.

A: Pardon me, but is that not rather…extreme?

E: Not so much extreme as costly. If the finest of a clan’s warriors end up maiming or killing themselves, the battle effectiveness of the clan is diminished too much. Anything that makes a clan weak is not good. Over time, the tradition changed. Now, instead of seriously injuring or killing themselves, Blood Guards ritually cut their forearms when their charge comes to harm. Then they let the wound heal naturally so it will scar.

A: And a scar serves what purpose?

E: I suppose it serves as a reminder of their failure to protect their Sworn. More importantly, over the course of years acting as a Blood Guard, such types tend to amass a large collection of scars on their arms. The scars serve as a warning to others that a Blood Guard is present and will go to whatever lengths necessary to protect their Sworn.

A: Why is that warning important?

E: You must remember: we Barbarians…dispute…amongst ourselves a fair bit. Fighting is part of our culture. It is one of the ways we stay strong as a people. But there are certain unspoken rules to such internal conflict. We may brawl and take prisoners, skirmish among the various clans, even engage in outright battle. But such fights are never taken to a level of death or destruction that weakens the People overall.

A Blood Guard, however, will not observe such restrictions. He or she will fight to the death and use whatever force necessary to protect his or her Sworn. So, the scars serve as a warning to others that here stands a warrior who will not hold back. Our kind leave Blood Guards alone for the most part. It’s best for everyone that they not be tangled with except in times of serious conflict.

Despite our combative reputation as a race, such serious conflicts within the Barbarian tribes are rare. We fight internally just enough to stay strong. Ready for war. But we reserve our full and unleashed power for our enemies.

A: So your companion  is Bloodsworn to you, and that is why he is never far from you and hovers so protectively over you .

E: Shall I tell her who you are, Mi Ya Taka?

M: If you wish. It is no secret.

E: There is a legend among my people of a Blood Guard who was so good at what he did that his Sworn was never once injured, and he took no ritual scars upon his arms. He was known as the Unscarred One.

M: Not entirely unscarred. There is the Oath Scar.

E: True. When two people exchange the Blood Oath, they each make a small cut on their arm and exchange blood to seal the Oath. The Unscarred One carries that one scar, but no others.

A: How long does this oath to protect a Sworn last?

E: For life. Until one of them permanently dies. If the Sworn leaves this realm, most Blood Guards will join their charge and choose to die. And interestingly enough, if a Blood Guard premanently dies, it is not uncommon for the Sworn to follow them.

A: Why is that?

E: Ponder a lifetime, or at least a good portion of one, spent in the continuous company of the same person, every day, every night. And one of them will give his or her life for the other without hesitation, without question. The bond between two such people can grow to be intensely powerful. It goes far beyond a normal relationship.

[Of a sudden, the air was thick between Emerald and her companion. Yes, I could see where the Bloodsworn bond could be intense.]

A: May I ask you a question, Mi Ya Taka?

M: Ask.

A: Why did you choose to become sworn to Emerald? Why her?

M: Once in many generations, a Barbarian rises to become a central figure among the People. The Hub of a wheel upon which great events turn. When such a person comes along, legend goes that the Unscarred One comes to the People and swears the Blood Oath to protect that particular Barbarian.

A: And this Unscarred One has never failed in his duty to protect his Sworn?

M: <grimly> Not so far.

E: <laughing> May I present to you the Unscarred One. Legendary protector, mythic warrior, descended to Urth to fulfill his sacred duty.

A: I beg your pardon? You? You’re this mythic warrior?

M: <Baring his forearms and holding them out, devoid of any scars except for a small, neat one on his right arm, which is apparently the one he made when swearing hte Blood Oath> I am Bloodsworn to Emerald. And I am, to date, unscarred.

E: He has been my Blood Guard for nearly a decade. By now he should have at least a dozen scars, if not many more. He is the Unscarred One.

A: Which means you are one of these pivotal people among your kind, Emerald?

M: <grinning at Emerald> And now it is your turn to be uncomfortable. Aye, she is key to the People’s survival. She united the clans at a time when they were splintered and threatened from outside with destruction. And she will do so again one day.

E: <teasingly to Him>At least I’m not the champion of a plane. I’m but a simple Barbarian.

A: With a legendary bodyguard.

E: Aye. Just so.

A: Wait. Champion? Of a plane?

E: Aye. He is the Guardian of the Totem Realm.

A: Excuse me?

E: The Totem Realm is an aspect of the spirit plane. ‘Tis a place where Nature and Spirit intersect, and sacred to my kind. It is from this place the Unscarred One is called forth in the Barbarians’ hour of need.

A: But the Blood Oath is for life, is it not?

M: I shall stay with my Sworn for the remainder of her life.

A: Forgive me, but if you are the champion of the Totem Realm, how can you also be Bloodsworn?

M: It can be a challenge to juggle the two charges, although in the end, they are the same duty. But it helps that Emerald is a shaman and able to accompany me on spirit walks to the Totem Realm. I am able to stay near her even there.

A: And that is why Richard knew you would be taken care of. Not only were you Bloodsworn, but sworn to The Unscarred One.

E: <sourly> That is correct. He practically gave me to the Unscarred One. Do not mistake me. I have found a peace and security with Mi Ya Taka that I would never have believed possible. He is of my kind. I am happy. My life is as it should be.

A: It is easy to see you two have an extraordinary bond. You are lucky.

E: We have much work to do, both of us. It is well that we can help one another.

A: I am curious about an outsider who could capture the heart of a Barbarian shaman. Will you tell me more of this Squire Richard?

E: <reluctantly> What do you wish to know?

A: Hmm. How did you meet?

E: As part of my training, I learned to read and write Common. These are not easy skills for my kind to master and few do it. When Richard brought a letter from his chief to our Great Council, I was called in to read and translate it. I met him then.

A: How old were you?

E: I was sixteen and he was twenty.

A: That is young for him to have become a full-fledged squire.

E: He saved the life of his Count. And yes, curious foreigner, I know how he did it. An assassin’s arrow was meant for the Count of Thassel, and young Richard spotted the shooter. He had no time to warn the Count, and instead leaped in front of him and took the arrow meant for the Count’s heart. Richard was badly wounded, and the Count was grateful. He was also impressed by Richard’s selfless valor. He took the urchin–or at least that is how Richard described himself–into his household. Richard earned his way up through the ranks quickly after that.

A: Until he became a squire and did the Count’s dirty work for him.

E: You speak bluntly. My kind value this. But Richard did not come to us to do dirty work. At least not that time. Varluke was Koth’s man. He also happened to be greedy, cruel, and insane. The Count of Thassel’s letter merely asked for assistance in containing Varluke. It was my idea to literally contain him in the cave.

A: But Squire Richard went along with your plan.

E: He knew, even then, that the Count of Thassel had rebellion against Koth in his heart. With Varluke gone, a large obstacle to freedom from Koth was removed.

A: <stunned> You’re telling me the rebellion was planned thirty years and more ago?

E: <shrugging> It is no small undertaking to throw off an Empire. These things take time, do they not?

A: Aye. And resources, and leaders, and a catalyst.

E: Just so.

A: You still have not told me how you fell in love with this Richard fellow.

E: Ahh, well. He didn’t treat me like an old lady. He saw in me the romantic young girl I was. He talked with me of young peoples’ things. We hunted and laughed. He made me feel…normal.

A: Did he return your feelings?

E: He told me later that he did. However, he added that he was too ignorant of the ways of love at the time to realize it. I think mayhap he spoke truth about this thing.

A: <frowning> So he let you lure Varluke into the cave and cast your magic circle around the two of you. Then what?

E: Then he left to go tell his chief that the problem of Varluke was resolved.

A: Were you not concerned that Varluke would merely kill himself and go resurrect somewhere else?

E: He had a huge fear of death. And rightly so, it turned out. His spirit was too erratic, too unfocused, to muster the will to pass back through the veil. When Varluke finally did die–of some sort of bursting of blood within his brain, I believe–his spirit failed, and he passed into the Great Void. <Her gaze hardened at this point> I did not teach him of the Totem Realm through which my kind’s spirits pass. He was not worthy of the knowing.

A: If you will forgive the observation, it does not seem the act of a man in love to leave the woman he cares for locked in a cave with a madman for seven years.

E: You and I are women grown and know such things now. I did not, then. I was sheltered from everyday things like love and courtship. I was raised to be a witch-woman and nothing else.

A: I am sorry for that young girl. She must have been very hurt.

E: Let us not speak of her feelings. She did her duty.

A: Fair enough. When did you see Richard again?

E: You know somewhat of our story, do you?

A: I confess. I do. But it is fascinating to hear it directly from you. There are shadings to this tale that the accounts I have seen did not capture.

E: Shadings? Is that what they call such pain these days? <waves her hand> Do not answer that. It is not a worthy question. When did I see Richard again? That would have been when he went to Bannockburn for the first time. It was a raucous place in the Midlands, across the Mighty Running Water–you call it the Kamchatka River, I believe. At any rate, a goblin army was said to be forming in a great forest not far from there.

A: Do you mean the Sorrow Woods?

E: Aye. The Spider Witch had not yet come to that place. Hordes of adventurers were flocking to the region, anticipating fat purses of mercenary pay and loot. Sir Richard–he was a knight by then–convinced the Great Council that it should make speech with the newcomers, and to be, if not friends, at least not enemies with the adventurers. I was recently free of the cave, and because I spoke Common, was sent with a party of our ablest warriors to meet these adventurers.

They held a feast and athletic competition in our honor. There were some problems because we do not apparently play by the same rules as the outsiders. We play to win. That is the only rule.

A: And Richard? Was he glad to see you?

E: Stunned is a more accurate description. He seemed pleased that I was free but worried that I had gone as mad as Varluke. He stayed close by my side all that day, perhaps to assure himself that I would not slaughter them all. At the end of the feast, he asked me to act as an ambassador for my people and stay in the Midlands, that he and his Count might speak more with me. I agreed to stay for a time.

A: Did your people think you had turned your back on them when you did not come home?

E: Aye. They wanted nothing to do with the outside. We left the Kothite Empire alone, and it left us alone. We liked that arrangement as it was. But Richard was persuasive. He said the day was coming soon when Koth would not respect our borders. He said my kind needed to know more of their enemy before then. And so, I stayed.

A: Is that when the two of you became close?

E: Aye. ‘Twas a happy time for us. The adventurers eventually got to the source of the goblin’s war fever, a creature calling himself Lord Baahl. They defeated him, took his Axe of War that made mortal men go mad, and the goblin army fell apart. But tensions were rising with the Kothites by then, and I stayed on to observe and report back to my people.

It was a time of many secrets. The Knights of Thassel were secretly recruiting. The Heart was quietly stockpiling resources. The adventurers honed their fighting skills by wiping out every major threat that came along. Those loyal to the Empire were noted and isolated. Even the Imperial Guilds began skimming off supplies and gold from their reported earnings in case of war.

And then the dissident groups began to surface. The Darrendale Rangers–an old Dwarven regiment. The Confederacy of Thierry–Dark elves who inhabit the Under Urth of the Copper Mountains, north of the Midlands,. The Tyrelians from the south with so many mages among them. Even the bandits and wild elves of the Sorrow Woods came forth to cast their lot with the Count of Thassel.

A: Did not the Count die before the rebellion commenced?

E: Aye. Of a slow poison. Richard believed the Imperial Assassins did it on orders from the Empire. Before his death, the Count named Richard Governor of the Midlands. For us, it was the beginning of the end.

A: How so?

E: Because Richard’s responsibility to his people, to the Land, become greater than his responsibility to me. Oh, he eventually married me. But he never made any secret of the fact that his duty came before me or a family.

A: What did you think of that?

E: That he would make a good barbarian. But then, not many barbarians make for good husbands. War is in their blood. Not tender things like family, companionship, or love. Those are hardly things for barbarian women, either. But I lived for many years among the outsiders. It is said they corrupted me. Perhaps it is so.

A: You had children with Richard, did you not?

E: <smiling fondly> Two. Our son, Garreth, and our daughter, Elena. All else aside, I do not regret them. I no longer care that he abandoned me, but I cannot forgive him for abandoning them.

A: A knight, governor of these lands, abandoned his family? I find such behavior hard to believe.

E: He would not put that word to what he did, but I do. He chose duty over family. He left us and became Wolf.

A: Excuse me? He was some sort of shape shifter?

E: No. <heavily> I introduced him to our sacred realm. Wolf became his totem, and over time, he grew closer and closer to Wolf and more and more distant from me and the children, and indeed, from his duties as governor. Once the rebellion was won and he’d met the High Lord King, Gawaine, he felt his people were in good hands and felt free to leave.

A: But what of his family?

E: I was Bloodsworn by then. Richard knew we would be taken care of. <bitterly> And so, he made the selfish choice.

A: Bloodsworn? What is that?

E: Let us eat. And then perhaps Mi Ya Taka will tell you of it himself.

It was winter and cold, much like now. She offered me the shelter of her hut for the night, although I should say it was somewhat more than a hut. The structure was arched but more oblong than round, of standing height or more. A stone hearth lay round in the center with a mound of glowing coals nearly knee high throwing off plenty of heat. The walls looked to be made of animal hides stretched over a wooden frame, but designed with two separate layers of hides with a small space between them, and I presume, in the ceiling. Although crude looking, I found the ‘hut’ spacious and comfortable.

The Shaman’s companion was a most fearsome looking fellow who spent most of the evening carving on a small and incredibly intricate likeness of a bear. But more on him later, mayhap. With no further ado, on with the conversation, recorded as accurately as I can recall.

May the sun shine brightly upon you and yours,

A. S.

A: I understand names have special significance among your people. What can you tell me of yours?

E: In the Barbarian tongue, my name is pronounced, Pay-zjee Een-yan. It means grass stone, or green stone. The first outsider of your kind whom I met could not speak it properly and translated it loosely instead into Common. Among your kind, I have been known since as Emerald.

A: What is your earliest memory?

E: Hmm, let me think. I suppose it was the day I was taken to the Bone Lady. I was just entering my third summer.

A: Who is she?

E: She was my teacher. My taskmaster. Mother and monster, some would say. Her hut was hung with skulls and teeth, and dead plants and snake skins and all manner of things scary to a small child. I was terrified of her. She smelled sour, like sweat and burned garlic. Half her teeth were gone, and the others long and yellow. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, and she had a long, black, greasy braid that hung nearly to the ground. She threatened me with it that first day. Told me if I was bad it would turn into a snake and eat me.

A: Did you believe her?

E: Oh, yes. I’d seen her do magic before. Terrible things that made grown men writhe on the ground and scream in agony.

A: She was a battle mage, then, and not a healer?

E: She did healing magic, too. My kind are not fond of your Heart’s magic stones of life. We prefer to live and die, and even resurrect, naturally. Besides, in time of war, we refuse to rely on healing from without. We take care of our own.

A: Do you find yourselves at war often?

E: The clans bicker among themselves, but we allow it, for it makes us strong. But outright war? No. Not often. Who would attack us knowing how strong we are?

A: You were telling me of the Bone Lady.

E: She was the greatest shaman among our people. I was sent to her because I showed a very early ability with magic. But she had no love of children. Especially very small ones. I remember her wooden spoon almost as well as her. She used it to stir with now and then, but mostly she whacked my arms and legs with it.

[Of note is how Emerald's companion looked up from his carving and glowered at this. As if he took offense at her being struck.]

E to him: What? Didn’t any of your teachers ever punish you for inattentiveness or impertinence?

Him: Most of my teachers were not human.

E: You’re telling me Lion or Bear never gave you a good cuff with a paw?

Him: <smiling a little> Maybe once or twice.

E to me: The Bone lady was more than a little…touched in the head. She had plenty of notions that I thought ridiculous. But the older I become, the more I see the wisdom of her words. Or perhaps, I am going mad, too. She taught me of Nature, and shamanic magic, of spirit travel, and more. She taught me the history of our people, how to argue in the Great Council, how to keep our race strong. She was very wise. Also very shrewd.

A: Did you eventually replace her?

E: Eventually. But my path took many turns before then.

A: What of your childhood? Was it mostly spent studying, then?

E: And listening to old men talk about boring things like politics and Koth and when to call the great hunts. ‘Twas dreadful. By the time I was eight summers or so in age, everyone called me the Old Lady. They’d drummed the childhood right out of me. I think I even began to look like her a little. I was a strange child, I think.

A: Were you unhappy?

E: At the time I knew no different and would have said no. There is a certain satisfaction in being feared by grown men.

A: Does it make you sad to remember it?

E: My kind do not dwell on such weak emotions. My path led me to this place. I  do not regret that which brought me here. Although  I will allow that parts of the journey were…difficult.

A: Like what?

E: It is not our way to dwell on what is past.

A: I am a bit of a historian. I would count it an honor if you indulged me and spoke of your past anyway. For posterity.

E: So the account can gather dust somewhere?

A: Something like that.

E: <shrugging> It is your parchment to waste.

A: Most mages don’t truly come into their powers until they are teens or young adults. Was it that way with you?

E: I had more magic than most of the healers in my clan even as a small child. But the full measure of my powers did, indeed, come later. It seems I was destined to be a somewhat powerful mage.

A: Was there a moment when you knew this?

E: A visitor came among us. The one who gave me my Common name. He first said to me that I was uncommon.

A: Who was he? [Emerald's companion commenced scowling at me or I would have asked more. But he did, so I didn't.]

E: He was a warrior from the West. From a place called Thassel. He came with letters from a great chief among his people asking for our help. A noble to our north and west was touched by The Voices and this warrior’s chief feared him.

A: The Voices?

E: The ones that speak in the head.

A: You mean he was crazy?

E: Some said the Bone Lady was crazy becuase she heard voices.

A: I do not understand. Do you speak of the gift of prophecy?

E: <shaking her head> Outsider. Do your kind never hear voices?

A: Yes. However, the first rule of adventuring is never to listen to the voices in your head.

[Her companion laughed heartily at my remark, and the shaman used the distraction to move away from the subject. No wonder people say her kind are a little mad if they listen to imaginary voices so readily.]

E: The Great Council ordered me to help the warrior capture the noble.

A: <alarmed> Was not kidnapping an Imperial noble a serious crime?

E: The Kothite Empire held no sway here. We did not care for their laws. Ours were better. Kill your enemies. Fight well in battle. Die with honor. And whatever else you do, do not get caught.

A: May I ask–purely for the purposes of recording history–who this noble was?

E: Count Varluke, father of Darluke.

A: Good heavens. He disappeared years ago. ‘Twas said he died in a hunting accident.

E: If you reckon he was the hunted, I suppose that is true. We lured him into a trap, Squire Richard and I.

A: Squire Richard?

E: Aye. The warrior from Thassel.

A: What sort of trap?

E: I hinted to Varluke that a great treasure was hidden within a magical cave. I led him inside and then cast a great magic upon the place and trapped him there.

A: Forgive me, I do not know a great deal about magic circles. But as the caster, wouldn’t you have had to stay inside the circle for it to remain active?

E: Aye.

A: How long did you hold Count Varluke in the cave?

E: Until he died. Seven years.

A: Seven years? Why on Earth would you lock yourself in a cave with a mad man for so long?

E: Have you never been in love, traveler?

A: You were in love with the Count?

E: <laughing> No, silly. I was in love with the warrior.

[Her companion definitely snarled at this declaration, and at his reaction she fell silent and serious. I sense another story, here. But perhaps tonight is not the time to ask of it.]

A: <reflectively> Still. Such a tremendous sacrifice. I cannot imagine it.

E: And that is why your kind are weak and mine are not.

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