Chapter ONE – A Jackass and his donkey.

 

            Graxsur let out a loud, long sigh of relief as he let loose a strong, steady stream of urine into the cool night air. A thick, pungent steam arose from the bramble weed bushes he was presently assaulting. He chuckled to himself, proud of the stench and strength of the stream. He could not believe how badly he had needed to pee. Perhaps that last mug of ale at the Prancing Pony pub before this evening’s patrol was one of many, too many. Graxsur had once again pulled advance scout duties for tonight’s patrol of the King’s guard. He often pulled this duty. It was said due to blind chance but mainly because he had an abrasive demeanour and a foul odour, and his fellow guardsmen could not stand to be around him for any length of time.

            Graxsur thought he heard a slight rusting in the darkness of the woods over the splashing of his much-needed relief.

            “Eh, who’s ‘at there?” he barked, “come on now, show yourself. Git on out here! This ain’t no peep show for sneaky degenerates. You wanna good look, come on out, I’ll get you somethin’ to look at!” He shifted his hands from one weapon to another as he quickly tried to unsheathe his sword, letting his pants drop down to his ankles when, all of a sudden, a dark black form emerged from the seclusion of the woods. Graxsur caught a subtle glint of moonlight reflecting on a thin black blade. He fell flat to the ground, sputtering blood from his mouth, as he now saw the evening's moonlight glistening off of a small red pool forming on the hard-pack dirt in front of his face. A wave of nausea ran through him as the panic of his approaching inevitable end sank into his ale-laden mind. The last thing he saw was a pair of dark black boots disappearing back into the shadow of the woods.

 

*            *            *

 

            Spring’s revitalizing rains had finally spent their last drop, with its warm, sweet winds having blown through, making distant memories of winters all too long and icy grasp. Now, the intense summer sun's warm and welcoming embrace shone mighty rays over a most grateful kingdom. Its restorative rays spread a warm glow over the broad forest lands that covered most of O'Dharan's vast countryside. The great Western realm of O'Dharan sat nestled next to a dense and ancient forest. Its leafy canopy sprawled over a hard-packed earth. Gently rolling forestlands teeming with all manner of wildlife, both docile and dangerous alike.  The forest comprised mainly of ancient, colossal oak trees and a dense, unyielding underbrush.  The undisturbed trees, having grown high into the overhanging sky, offered protection to the many inhabitants lurking below its watchful gaze. Their great size was a result of the many centuries of growth allowed to them by the inhabitants of O'Dharan. They wisely left the mighty trees to their eternal vigilance. The O'Dharans being a modest and intelligent people, both hard-working and stoic in their own right. They held deeply to an honoured respect for the ancient trees and allowed, for the most part, the great oaks to grow undisturbed by the expansion of their kingdom.  Felling only the smaller trees they needed for themselves and planting seedlings in their place so as to maintain the delicate balance of nature. The forest provided both for them and the wildlife within; thus, it was taken care of in return.

            Most of the animals indigenous to the forest were now bustling with vibrant pent-up energy resulting from their long winter's rest and an overly rain-soaked spring.  After cleaning dew-covered feathers, various wondrous birds raised shrill voices in a chorus that carried upon the stiff summer breeze. All while numerous small critters searched the underbrush for tasty bites to eat or looked for a shady haven to rest out the day in peace.

            Morning was beginning to take hold of the numerous small villages, farms, and hamlets that cropped up here and there across the face of this great forest land.  The sun’s rays were gently caressing one such city, Reglevick, the vast capital stronghold of O'Dharan, warming the homes and waking its slumbering citizens.  Soon, they would also rise to face another day in the sweltering heat that poured over O'Dharan in the summer's long daylight hours.

            The city's shopkeepers, who had been awake and tediously working since long before sunrise, opened their doors and swept off their stoops in anticipation of the day’s budding business.  The scent of freshly baked loaves of bread, sourdoughs, and other tasty delicacies produced by the skilled hands of the city's many fine bakeries cascaded through the empty streets. Carrying temptation along within the warm morning air.

            In the centre of the city, past the numerous citizen's housing and the plentiful merchant shops, loomed the resplendent Palace of O'Dharan.  The city of Reglevick had been built up around the mighty palace that had stood in its place at the centre, proudly, for centuries, even before the great city had grown up around it like a thick belt.  At one point in time, long before the city had sprung up, the glorious palace had been the most significant military fortress on the O'Dharan peninsula.  Its vast perimeter walls towered well above the new city's shops and meagre dwellings, making the palace an exceptionally imposing spectacle to first-time visitors in the capital city. As impressive as it had been during its days as a military outpost, the palace was even more so now after its transformation from a military fortress into the Royal family’s luxurious home.  The old, rough, but defensible exterior walls of the fortress were now covered in slabs of brilliantly polished, alabaster white marble. They gleamed in an almost ethereal manner, dazzling the eyes with wondrous displays of ever-changing colour.  Its newly erected and glimmering towers loomed far above the city’s rooftops, reaching like giant fingers high into the brilliant crystal blue skyline.  Countless and beautifully crafted stained-glass windows covered the palace's many openings, adding more splendour and colour to the impressive Royal home. The lower levels of the structure were home to several meticulously tended grand garden balconies.  Both the towers and the gardens provided a splendid view of the kingdom's sprawling crown city for the pleasure of the palace’s occupants and their guests.

            The sentry guards in front of the palace gates were changing, as they did every morning, and the flag of O'Dharan was raised to flap proudly in the stiff western breeze.  Hidden from the street, behind the sturdy walls and battlements, palace life began to stir.  Courtiers were busy preparing for the upcoming day’s events.  Making sure the King's itinerary was in order and everything would be prepared for the visitors that came to discuss state affairs and the various litany of grievances that generally took up, in his opinion, far too much of his Majesty's valuable time. Soldiers were turning out of the garrison houses to prepare for their varied duties.  The sound of commanders barking orders to new recruits resounding loud enough to be heard far into the city streets, bounding overtop the palace’s high perimeter walls.

            Life, as it is wanton to do, was running in a typically smooth fashion throughout the city.  Everywhere that is except at Vole's Inn where, as it seemed to the owner, nothing ever ran smoothly.  Apparently, overnight, a donkey belonging to a Dar'genian trader staying at the inn was released from its confines within the inn's stable.  That very fact, invariably, of course, caused an overwhelming amount of distress to the donkey's rightful owner.

            “Damn you, Vole!” The angry, red-faced trader scolded the ever-increasingly impatient innkeeper.  “I told you when the boy took my donkey that there would be trouble, didn't I?  Don't let him take my donkey, that's what I said.  No, you said.  He'd be no trouble, you said. He'd see my donkey safely to the stables, you said!” With each ‘said,’ the man’s pudgy finger poked Mr. Vole in the right shoulder. “Well, as you can see, he didn't, did he? So, what are you going to do about it, hmmm?  That's what I'd like to know, hmmm?”  This particular Dar'genian was a rotund little man with a severe perspiration problem.  He wore a simple brown tunic, grey hose, and a thick brown traveller’s cloak, most certainly unneeded and ridiculous to don in the warm climate of an O'Dharan summer.  His flushed face was reddening with each passing moment as his anger over the loss of his donkey heightened.  His flabby nostrils flared out, wider and wider, with each angry breath he took. Much like Mr. Vole pictured, in his mind, the poor man’s donkey would look like carrying his great bulk from town to town.  As he talked to the owner of the inn, the trader glared at a sturdy lad of sixteen celebrations in age standing by the stable's doors.  Waving another of his pudgy fingers with his other hand in the youth’s general direction, he tapped his foot impatiently on the hard earth, awaiting the innkeeper’s solution to the problem at hand.

            Mr. Vole stood proudly, shrouded in the brilliant rays of the morning sun, looking very distinguished as he typically did.  Being a man who was considered by society as a whole to be somewhat past his prime. Nearing what was rumoured to be his mid-sixtieth celebration, he still commanded an extreme amount of respect or occasionally awe from those he encountered.  Even those much younger and physically superior gave him this regard.  A vast wealth of wisdom could be seen in his weathered but well-chiselled face and in his bright, alert, azure/grey eyes.  His smoky grey hair hung neatly trimmed from his head, and a short grey beard adorned his face.  He was obviously a man of the world and accustomed to very courteous and polite conversation, not the agitated rantings of this Dar'genian trader.  Mr. Vole had not slept well in the summer night’s warm air, so he was tired, and his back ached. As such, he did not appreciate this trader’s condescending, surly attitude so early in the morning, nor the incessant finger poking. It became evident that this innkeeper would not put up with any excessive amount of ill-treatment lightly, especially this early in the day. Hence, Mr. Vole rose to his full height and glared back with his steely eyes at the angry trader, who faltered slightly for a moment and took a cautious step back.

            “Well, what are you going to do about it?” the trader questioned again, this time in a slightly softer, more civilized tone.

            Mr. Vole looked over at the boy who had caused this problem by releasing the man's donkey in the first place.  The young lad was noticeably uncomfortable, kicking slightly at the dirt by his feet while being held in the older man's gaze.  Mr. Vole frowned slightly and returned his attention to the trader who still stood foot taping and nostrils flaring.

            “I shall gladly compensate you for your donkey, good Sir, and be pleased to send you on your travels with a complimentary breakfast.  Will that suffice to satisfy the inconvenience of your having to find a new ride?”  He ended his offer in a tone that implied there would be no alternative offer and that this one should be accepted or nothing at all.

            “I suppose that will do,” scoffed the trader. “Good thing for you that I'm in a reasonable mood, or you'd have the stars to pay.  Now, if you will excuse me, I'll go to take my free meal and inquire at the bar as to where one might purchase a good donkey or maybe even a horse. I assume someone there will have such knowledge of these things?” Without waiting for a response, the round little Dar'genian grabbed the coins for his new mount from Mr. Vole’s hand, turned, and waddled his way back toward the inn’s bar to receive his ‘complimentary’ breakfast.     As the man disappeared around the corner, Mr. Vole turned his attention to his youngest grandson.

            “Jerith, perhaps you would like to explain exactly what happened to our pudgy little friend’s donkey, or perchance, how you are going to replace the coins I spent on the man’s replacement?”  Mr. Vole spoke harshly but not threateningly to the squirming young man.  “Well, Jerith?  Speak up, boy!”

            Jerith stood quietly, trying to think of how he could adequately speak in his defence.  He was neither very tall nor robust for his age, but his muscles were well-developed from his many hours of work at the inn, and his general features were well-proportioned to his height.  He had a handsome, if somewhat unique, face with kind hazel eyes framed under a mop of thick black hair, a stark contrast to his overly pale skin. He was dressed in old, faded brown leather pants and a soft green tunic that fit a few sizes too large.  For the most part, he was a very easy-going and straightforward young man, but he had a very independent nature and a questioning mindset.  These later qualities often seemed to get him into a great deal of trouble. He was generally happy to have a home at the inn with his grandfather as it was the only home he remembered, but many a night he spent looking out his window at the stars and wondering what his parents had been like.  Torin, his older brother by a few years, had told him stories of a magical place where they had all once lived that even Torin barely remembered. He was never very clear with the details he gave as he had been only four or five years of age when the boy’s parents had been taken from them, and his memories of those days were spotty at best. Those tended to be long nights for the young man when his thoughts were on his parents, and the day following would see him in a more sombre and sullen mood. These down days happened infrequently, and on most days, he found the world to be a happy and fascinating place. The inn's guests were an ideal source of distraction with fantastical tales about the broader world he had yet to experience.  Jerith naturally loved and respected people and animals and strove to make everyone he met happy and safe. Most significantly, animals held a fond and prominent spot in his heart. Hence the current predicament they found themselves in.

            While still kicking at the dirt with his left foot, he brushed his thick black hair from his eyes and cleared his throat to speak his defence.

            “I didn't like how that man treated her grandfather, Sir.  You see, he had her so overloaded with… and with that lame leg bothering… then the whip marks on her hind… well, she wouldn't have lasted much longer, especially as underfed as she was… Sir.”  The young man obviously had some deep-felt convictions about the ill-treatment of this poor animal and felt that his actions were more than justified.

            “Oh, stop with all this ‘Sir’ nonsense, and stop looking at me like that. ‘Sad eyes’ have not worked on me for a long time now. I am trying to run a business here, and that donkey simply did not belong to us.  You cannot just up and let someone else's property go free, especially if they are staying at our inn, regardless of what we might think of him. It is just not done.  You have to learn to have more respect for other’s belongings.  It was his donkey, even if he was inhumane to it.  It is not our place to interfere, do you understand?”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            “No more ‘Sirs’!  I have not been a Sir anything for years.”  He sighed softly while glancing up at the sky, letting the warm sun caress his face, and took a breath of the fresh morning air before returning his attention to Jerith.  “Now, where is that brother of yours?  What sort of trouble is he getting himself into this morning?” He asked, half afraid, not really wanting to know the answer.

            “I think he's inside helping clean the rooms.  What makes you think he's doing something that would get him into trouble?”

            “Because, in the past thirteen or so years since your mother and father died, there has not been a day gone by that the two of you did not do something to get yourselves into trouble with someone, somehow, in some way.  Since you got off to such an early start, I figured your brother might do the same.”  He shook his head in mock disgust and gave his youngest grandson a wry little smile.

            “Anyway, let us go inside and see if we cannot make back some of our profits that you just lost?”

            “You're not really angry with me, are you, grandfather?” Jerith asked, searching for some sign that what he did was not really wrong.

            “Humph, I suppose not.  It is my own fault for raising you with such a kind heart for animals. I guess my superb child-rearing skills make me partially to blame for that. Plus, that man was more of a jackass than his donkey was. I had it in mind myself to do something for the poor animal.” He laughed, put his arm reassuringly over the youth’s shoulder, and guided him out of the dusty alley leading down the side of the inn toward the stables.  They rounded the corner into the busying street where the inn's main entrance was.  Above the door hung a sign that read ‘Vole's Inn: All welcome,’ swinging gently on creaking hinges in the sturdy breeze.  Pictured under the script was a resemblance of a bed and a representation of a loaf of bread for the convenience of those in the general populace who could not read. Vole’s Inn was a respectable, if unspectacular, business located a stone’s throw from the city's busy market sector.  You could almost, on a clear day and, if you were tall enough, catch glimpses of the peaks of the Royal Palace's tall turrets from the top floor windows of the inn. The inn's ground floor was a popular watering hole for the less affluent citizens of the city or for road-weary travellers who preferred to keep well off the beaten pass. At the heart of the tavern was a large, warm fire that oft spent time roasting some sort of animal or stew for the inn’s patrons.

            Just as they were about to reach the door and enter the inn, a very large man flew out of the doorway and collapsed, ungracefully, in a heap in the middle of the busy street, narrowly avoiding a large pile of donkey droppings.  Following him out the door was an even larger man who had to bend slightly to avoid banging his head on the door frame.  This giant of a man wore a sleeveless red tunic that displayed his massive forearms.  Dark brown leather pants seemed under heavy strain as they could barely complete the task of holding in the thick muscles of his legs.  His blond hair was tied in a tight lock behind his head. He wore a short, neatly trimmed beard dusted ever so slightly with a tinge of grey.  The big man was wringing his hands together and sternly chastising the inanimate fellow lying face down in a shallow puddle.

            “I told you once, fella' that we wouldn't stand for that sort of behaviour around these parts.  You should have listened to me the first time. I don't usually, as a rule, give warnings. So don't let me catch you in here again, or you'll end up worse than lying in the middle of the street. You'll be laying six feet under!”  The big man’s deep, serious voice, coupled with his immense size, established a very clear warning for the vagrant to never come near this particular inn again. With his job done, the huge man strode back inside the tavern leaving the other poor sod groaning in the street as people casually walked by or overtop of him.

            “Can Bivitar not go through one day without throwing someone out of the inn?”  Mr. Vole asked of no one in particular, rolling his eyes to the sky above. “We are going to run out of patrons at this rate.” He and Jerith entered the inn's main floor, where the tavern and tables for eating were located, pausing momentarily as they entered the dimly lit, smoke-filled main room.  Mr. Vole looked critically at his simple place.  As his vision adjusted to the change in light from the bright morning sun to that of the poorly lit tavern, he could make out the long bar directly to his left and the stairs at the far end of the bar that led up to the guest rooms on the second and third floors.  He peered over to his right to where a large fire pit was roasting this morning’s pork and vegetable broth breakfast.  Flames flickered up the sides of the enormous cauldron-like ancient, powerful fingers, casting dancing shadows on the room's walls.  He shifted his examination to the tables, which were a complete disgrace.  Barely clean enough to eat off of. Not that his customers ever really noticed. Most being littered with spilled ale and greasy scraps of food. An abundance of which also ended up on the floor as well.  He inspected his various patrons just as critically.  Most were nearly blind from drink, even as early in the morning as it was. In comparison, his now one happy customer was tucked away in a corner partaking of his ‘free’ breakfast.  With a sigh, Mr. Vole walked across the room to stand beside his brawny bouncer.

            “Bivitar, why was I just nearly knocked over by a flying customer?”

            “Sorry, Sir.  Like you always said, this is a respectable place. We don't want riffraff dilly-dallying around.  That lad was getting a little too fresh with some of the ladies here.” He pointed to two blushing young maidens standing and giggling at the foot of the stairs.  “So, like you said, I asked that fellow to leave, that's all. Sir.”

            “What is it with all the Sirs today?” Mr. Vole muttered under his breath. “And have you ever tried actually asking people to leave rather than tossing them out?  We are going to get a reputation.”

            “We’ll. I did ‘ask’ him, and he spat in my face, so I asked him this way instead.”

            “That temper of yours… Bivitar, did it possibly occur to you that the way in which you ask our customers to leave may not be very conducive to repeat business?  If you keep up at this rate, you will have thrown everyone in the city out of my door at one time or another.  Soon, visitors to the city will be afraid to stay here and then what would we do?”

            “Sorry, Sir,” he said, eliciting another wince from his employer. “I was just trying to do what I thought best.”

            “I know, as you always do.  That is what makes you so interesting to have around. I suppose.  Oh, and while we are at it, please try to stop with all of this ‘Sir’ nonsense.  I have heard that word all too frequently today; you are all making me feel very old.”  Mr. Vole looked into his ever-shrinking coin pouch. Also, very poor, he thought to himself. 

            “Between you and Jerith, I am amazed that I can afford to keep the doors open.  I think it is high time to do something about that. Do not you agree?” He said, jingling the nearly empty coin pouch that he always kept hanging at his side.  “How do you feel today, Bivitar? Strong, I hope. Could you rustle up a little extra coin out of this… crowd?”  Mr. Vole eyed Bivitar’s overly large arm and tossed him what remained of his pouch of coins.  Bivitar scanned the group of surly ruffians lounging around the various booths and tables and turned back to answer his long-time employer’s question, sporting a sly grin.

            “I believe that I do feel good today. Very good. If there be any fools here today, they'll leave with fewer gold and silver coins than they had planned.”  His broad grin flashed even wider across the big man’s face.  He turned and addressed the inn's patrons with a loud, clear voice.  “Listen up,” he boomed as every head turned his way.  “I've got fifty gold coins in this here pouch that says I can beat any man here in a contest of strength.  If anyone thinks he's brave enough to, or if you just don't want your coins weighing you down on your daily journey, speak up now, or you'll miss your chance!”

            The room was quiet momentarily, most of the men painfully aware of Bivitar's strength.  Then, a small, pompous-looking Tolvirany Baron with beady little eyes and a nose that resembled an owl’s beak, sitting in one of the back booths, stood up and answered Bivitar's challenge.

            “I would like to put my porter against your arm, my friend.  He doesn't have any wealth of his own, but I'll back his bets.”

            Tolvirans were, as a whole, generally not reputed for their great size and were infamous for their lack of physical exertion and their love of the finer things in life. As such, the other men in the tavern began to wager heavily on Bivitar's winning of this contest.  That is until the Baron's porter emerged from the shadows of the booth from which he was hidden.

            “My mother’s as...” Bivitar was at a loss for words.

            “... that's the biggest damned Tolviran I've ever seen!” finished one of the men standing beside Bivitar as he switched his bet to ride on the enormous new porter. Consequently, all the other men also switched their bets to back the very, very large Tolviran.

            “I didn't think Tolvirad grew them that big,” Bivitar remarked in utter amazement. 

            “Who's going to cover all these bets, Bivitar? Have you got the loot or not?”  One of the inn's regulars called out smugly, eager to see the big man get his comeuppance for a change.

            Mr. Vole spoke up, addressing the crowd in an overly confident manner, “I will cover my man,” he said with feigned confidence.

            “He can best any man or woman, for that matter,” he added, darting a sideways glance at a hulking woman who regularly frequented the inn and had tested her strength against Bivitar's arm on more than one occasion. It takes more than sheer size to win. You need to have the heart to win as well.”

            “From the looks of that monster grandfather, I'd say he's got a pretty big heart,” Jerith interjected quietly.

            “Hush, boy!  You can beat him, right, Bivitar?”  Mr. Vole quietly questioned his old friend, his voice considerably less assured than when speaking to the crowd.

            “I've never lost a contest in my life,” Bivitar stated proudly.

            “Well,” Jerith said, “remember there was that one time...”

            “I did not lose that one!”  Bivitar snapped quickly.

            “Only because you had arranged for one of the maidens in the crowd to lift the hem of her dress up to distract your opponent if things were not going well.”

            “I still won… and that's what counts, lad,” Bivitar protested, his pride somewhat injured.

            “Let's get on with it!”  Barked a man eager to collect the winnings he felt most assured of.

            Bivitar sat down opposite the hulking Tolviran.  The two giant men loudly clasped hands, set their elbows on the table, and stared with immense concentration into one another's eyes.  Mr. Vole counted up to three and then signalled for them to begin.  Bivitar's arm almost appeared to double in size as his muscles tensed under the strain of his opponent’s equally impressive right arm.  Veins carrying loads of adrenaline pulsed on Bivitar's forearm, and his breath came and went in quick, short gasps.  Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead and trickled down his face to his thick neck.  His arm began to falter under the strain and inch slowly down toward the table's greasy surface.  His opponent was equally affected by the strain of the contest, but he had a new look of reassurance when Bivitar's arm began to fall.  The crowd of cheering men intensified their encouragement of the large Tolviran.

            “You can't lose Bivitar!”  Jerith said, his plea coated with anxiety, to the weakening man.  Bivitar grunted abruptly as if to say he was doing his best, but it may not be good enough.  He finally met a man he could not outmuscle, and his arm sank another inch.  The crowd cheered as Bivitar's arm was nearly all the way down. Mr. Vole quickly knelt beside Bivitar and quietly whispered into his ear.

            “Bivitar, do you remember that magnificent young creature, the one with the long golden hair and heaving chest that you took such an interest in last week?”  Mr. Vole had to think and speak fast, “Did you ever figure out why she refused to come near you when you tried to talk to her? Well, you see, I maybe told her that you were suffering from a serious mental ailment and that we had to keep you chained up at night for our and your safety.  She seemed to be not very interested after hearing that… I suppose.”

            “What!  You old dog, I'll crush your skull for that!” Bivitar's traditional quick to anger reached down deep within him, retrieving a strength he did not know existed.  His sudden burst of energy caught the Tolviran by surprise, and there was little he could do to compensate fast enough before Bivitar slammed his fist down to the opposite side of the sturdy oak tabletop.  Bivitar rose quickly and turned toward Mr. Vole with a glint of deadly venom in his eyes.

            “Now it's your turn!”  He said from between clenched teeth as Mr. Vole took a cautious step back.

            “You did it, Bivitar, you won!”  Jerith yelled, stepping between the angry man and his grandfather. He clasped the big man on the forearm to get his attention as he raised it triumphantly in the air.  “You’re the winner!”

            “I did. Didn't I?  I am. Aren't I!” he said excitedly as his come-from-behind victory now dawned on him, “I got just a little worried there for a while, only a little, mind you, lad. Like I said, I've never lost a contest in my life,” Bivitar completely forgot his anger with Mr. Vole when he realized that the old man had helped him to win the contest and retain his unbeaten record that had appeared to be seemingly in serious jeopardy.

            All the men who had bet on the Tolviran reluctantly handed over their gold or silver coins to Mr. Vole. At the same time, they eyed the big Tolviran’s employer with stern, irritated, and altogether wickedly mischievous scowls. Save the large woman who knew better from past experience and collected her share of the winnings.  Mr. Vole quietly walked over to whisper in the Baron's ear.

            “I would consider leaving soon if I were you, good friend.  These lads here… well, they do not like to lose their hard-earned assets. It means they cannot afford to keep up their ale intake. Without the ale to numb the senses, they quickly realize the current state of affairs that their lives are in. That does not go over very well… if you know what I mean. Perhaps if you know what is good for you and what little is left in your purse, you should leave before they try to recoup some of their lost funds back.”  The Baron swallowed hard and nodded in agreement.  His face blanched slightly as a small bead of perspiration trickled down his forehead and dripped off the end of his owlish nose.  He motioned quickly to his porter and walked hastily out of the inn.  A few of the more ambitious losers waited an altogether too brief moment and followed them out into the morning light with maniacal grins on their faces.

            “Wouldn't want to be that man, not for all the gold in the King's treasury,” Bivitar stated sympathetically.

            “Ahem!” A voice from behind the bar interrupted the three men’s victory celebration, “If you small boys are done playing your little games, you could actually do some work around here and clean off those filthy tables. This place isn’t much, but at least we can keep it clean!”  The voice belonged to Rheal, the inn's cook, bartender, and all-around manager. She was a strikingly attractive woman by all accounts. She appeared to be in her late twentieth or rumoured to be in her early thirtieth or so of celebrations, although she would never confirm that rumour.  She was arguably one of the most beautiful women in the city and, in large part, one of the reasons why Vole's Inn had a hearty supply of men lounging around the bar regularly and at all hours of the day. She wore her flaxen hair tied back in a loose curly tail that cascaded down to the small of her back, with curly bangs that hung down and framed her high cheekbones. She often mesmerized her patrons with her crystal blue eyes. Eyes that pierced the soul and softened the resolve of even the most hardened of souls.  Her somewhat tight white blouse was tied strategically at the front, just below her ribs, so it shaped and framed her form most invitingly and exposed her bare, thin waist, adding a sensual touch to her already striking appearance.  She was wiping down the bar and appeared to be in a foul mood. Not at all impressed by the incredible display of strength and heart that had just taken place.

            “... and you, Jerith, could go upstairs and help your brother finish cleaning the rooms. We have been unusually busy the last few days, and they won’t clean themselves!” There was a commanding, if somewhat harsh, quality about her when she spoke, a quality contrasted harshly with that of her beauty. She was, in no uncertain terms, in charge of the inn’s daily affairs. Including the ones Mr. Vole did not have the time or inkling to do anymore, proving invaluable to the aging owner.  She also served as the governess to Mr. Vole’s grandsons, as she was much more suited to have more of a mother’s influence over the growing young men than old Mr. Vole would be able to impart.

            “All right, Rheal,” Jerith replied unenthusiastically as he trod his way up the creaking wooden stairs toward the third-floor guest rooms in search of his older brother and their endless chores.

            Rheal returned her attention to the rather drunken slob leering at her from the other side of the bar.

            “Ya know wa’ would be better than this ‘er drink, lassie? Those two treasures you keeps a covered up there!” He said, waving a dirt-smeared finger at Rheal's chest. “Was a fella gots to pay to get a servin’ of ‘em?”

            “You're so sweet.” She smiled tenderly. “Well, if by some chance you managed to kill all of the King’s men and then kill the King himself and acquire all the wealth of this great kingdom… it would still not be enough,” she smiled warmly again to the drunken man. “Besides which, I wouldn’t want to tire you out for your poor little wifey. I am sure she looks forward to those glorious two minutes with you as the highlight of her day.”

            “Bah…  just give me ‘nother drink, ya uppity wench.”

            “Of course, my dear.”  Rheal turned and reached under the bar, spilling the contents of four partially finished drinks into one clean glass. “Here you go… one of our finest blends.” She set the half-full glass down in front of the swaying man. “That’s a silver from you, sweety, and don’t forget to tip.”

            “Tip my ass…” He was about to turn away when a meaty hand rested down upon him, covering his whole shoulder.

            “I believe the lady said not to forget the tip, my friend,” Bivitar gave him a gentle squeeze.

           

            “Oh, Bivitar, didn’t see ya come ova. Course, the lady gets a tip.” He reached into his pocket, dumped what little coin he had left on the bar, and then slunk back into a corner booth to finish drinking himself into a stupor.

 

*            *            *

 

            “Torin!” Jerith yelled out, trying to locate the room his brother was currently tending to. “Are you up here? I'm supposed to help you finish cleaning the rooms!”

            “I'm working on the last room. Fat lot of help you're going to be now, but thanks anyway,” Torin’s typical sarcastic voice came from the last room at the far end of the hall.  He was almost three celebrations older than Jerith and was notably taller and somewhat more muscular than his younger brother. His hair was also black but softened by tinges of tawny brown. He wore similar brown leather pants and was almost always sporting a blue tunic and a beat-up old hat.  Torin rarely smiled, and that seemed to harden his otherwise handsome face. Unlike his brother, Torin was typically withdrawn from the people around him. He preferred to spend most of his free time, what little of it he had, alone. He would often sit quietly looking out the windows of the inn’s upper quarters down at the busy streets of the town he rarely took part in. He was a quiet observer of life, and most who saw him considered him a sad and somewhat overly sarcastic young man. However, beneath his sadness, there was an inner quality of kindness and compassion in him that endeared him to almost everyone who took the time and patience to get to know him. Everyone that is except for Jerith.  Although they did have a secret mutual respect for one another that they rarely let known to the world at large, nor often let slip to one another.

            Jerith entered the room his brother was cleaning.  The morning sunlight streaming through the window reflected off the thick dust floating lazily in the air, producing a magical golden haze that made it feel like walking into a dream. A musty odour was hanging in the air caused by the many years of sweaty, smelly travellers who had stayed at the inn. At least sweat was the hope Jerith held onto for the source of the smell. Possible alternative sources were best not to be dwelt upon for too long.

            Torin was just finishing smoothing out some fresh sheets over the lumpy straw-stuffed mattress that rested on the room’s sturdy oak bed frame as Jerith plunked down upon the bed, messing up the sheets in the process. Torin’s hair was untidy, and his face was darkened by the faint stubble of a beard and moustache, as he had not had time to clean up before he had to get to work. He now wore a deeper scowl on his face. Torin and his brother were very similar in appearance, except that Torin's face was a bit thinner, and he had a longer, more narrowed nose. Otherwise, they looked almost like twins. There was no mistaking them for siblings. As similar in appearance as they both were, the young men were completely different in all other aspects.  While Torin was more withdrawn and quieter around others, Jerith was upfront and overly talkative. Especially so to his brother, who would prefer to be left alone to his chores in silence and solitude without his brother’s presence.

            “You look kind of scruffy this morning,” Jerith said as he looked at his unkempt brother.

            “I had too much work to do, apparently all by myself. I'll shave later. As if it really matters what I look like when doing this shit,” Torin quipped, shaking out a wrinkly bed sheet. “What was all the commotion about down there?”  Torin asked as Jerith sat up and finished smoothing out the bed sheet he had just disturbed.

            “Bivitar arm wrestled an absolute monster from Tolvirad.  He had a hard go of it, too! Barely won, but he pulled it out at the end. Like he always does…”

            “What about that one time…”

            “Don’t bring that up. He gets touchy about it. Grandfather did make a killing on the bets.  Everyone had put their money on the Tolviran as soon as they got a look at him.”

            “I didn't know there was such a thing as a huge Tolviran,” Torin mused. How did Grandfather take the news about the Dar'genian's horse?” Torin asked, wanting to discern his grandfather’s temperament this morning.

            “It was a donkey… and rather calmly, actually,” Jerith said with a shrug. “He'll be in a better mood now that we won back all of the coins we had lost on it, though.”

            “So, you would say he's in a pretty good mood today, then?” Torin asked, hoping.

            “Yeah, I suppose so.  Why?”

            “Remember that soldier who stayed here last week? The one who brought in one of the street girls but said she was his sister?”

            “I think so.  Was he the big, rancid-smelling fellow? That poor girl didn't look overly thrilled about her night’s work, that’s for sure,” Jerith said, a sheepish smile coming to his face.

            “Yep, that's the one.  Anyway, I had a chance to talk to him after the girl left, before he had to sneak back to his barracks.  He said the King would begin enlisting more men to help patrol the border along the edge of the Howling Woods.  He said it was due to more frequent sightings of Morgonum raiders in some of the northern border regions or some such nonsense and that the King wanted to make it safer for the villagers who live near the border.  Increasing the number of troops there might scare the savages away. That is the prevailing thought, I guess.”

            “So, what's that got to do with you, and why does grandfather have to be in a good mood today?” Jerith asked, puzzled as to what one fact had to do with the other.  

“Well, the soldier said he thought I was big enough to join the King's army. Said it looked like I had a strong arm, and he said that with a few months of training and hard work, I might be able to transfer out of Reglevick.  Maybe up to a border town or, by the Gods willing, any place that is not here.”

            “You can’t do that.”

            “Why not?”

            “Uhm... cause I would miss you, and we need the help here, and everyone else would miss you?” Jerith could not fathom his brother leaving any time soon. The thought that his brother might leave him had never even crossed his mind until just now.

            “Yeah, sure, don’t be such a baby about it.” was his response to that. “So, I think today's the day that I'm going to tell Grandfather I'll be leaving the inn,” Torin continued, ignoring his brother's genuine concern, “I'm just not cut out for… inn-keeping.  I don't want to endlessly spend the rest of my life toiling up here. Cleaning soiled bed sheets and emptying overflowed bed pans or guiding drunk slobs up and down the stairs so they don’t fall and kill themselves. I need some new challenges. Some excitement in my life. Anything but just… well… this,” he waved his hands around at the room, “living here is suffocating.”

            “Well, if it's excitement you want, just wait and see how much you get when you tell Grandfather you want to leave the inn.  Especially given that the traders' market is coming up real soon.  We're the closest inn to the trade market; this is our busiest time of the year.  He’s not going to be impressed, not in the least.  Sure, I said he was in a good mood, but not that good a mood. I don’t think he has ever been in that good of a mood. If I were you, I would wait a few weeks until after the trade market has opened. Maybe by then, he'll be too busy to kill you. Or, maybe you should think about this a little more first. It’s a big decision!” Jerith was not at all happy about this sudden revelation from his brother. He had never entertained the thought that someday Torin would leave the inn and Jerith would be left all alone.  The very idea of this possibility made his stomach churn. “It’s sort of a big step, don’t you think?” He said more pleading than questioning.  “Besides which, remember how much you hate getting up early in the morning.  If you think Rheal wakes us up early, wait until you meet your drill instructors. I can’t see military life being easy at all. No sir, not a bit.” He hoped that appealing to Torin’s logical and lazy side might help dissuade him from leaving, “and who wants to get killed on the side of the road protecting some fat farmer’s flock of sheep.” He ended with arms tossed high in the air for emphasis.

            “Maybe you're right,” Torin regrettably agreed. “It is sort of a big decision. I may not even be cut out for military life, but I must do something… anything.” With a heaving sigh, he began to leave, looking even more forlorn than usual, “Well, I'm done in here. If you want to be of any help to me at all today, you can come with me to the market,” he sighed again and headed for the stairs.

            “Why go now?” Jerith asked, “It doesn't open until late next week. Most of the out-of-town vendors are still arriving and getting set up.”

            “Rheal wants me to go now.  We both know that what she wants, she gets.  Apparently, some of the booths are open early, and she has a list of things she just can't take a chance on them selling out of. I'm going to need help to carry it all back. It’s a long list. Besides, going there is better than staying here and working. Maybe some cute shopkeeper’s daughters will be there helping them set up. Do you some good to try and talk to one of them.” Torin slugged his younger brother hard on the shoulder.

            “You have that right!” Jerith agreed on the desire not to work on any more chores and the possibility of meeting someone new in town, “Ok, I'll come, but let's hurry before she thinks of something else for me to do instead.”

            The two young men bounded out of the room, down the stairs, and past a startled Rheal.  Before she had time to think of some other job to give one of them, they were out the door and into the street, where the man Bivitar had thrown out earlier still slept. He had now rolled over head-on into the pile of dung he had narrowly avoided before.

            “Who's this?”  Torin asked Jerith, sporting a rare whimsical smile.

            “No one of importance,” Jerith replied offhandedly, “just a customer Bivitar asked to leave.”

            They exchanged glances, burst out laughing, and rushed down the street toward the town's busy retail district.

 

*            *            *

 

            Vole’s Inn lay nestled in the northeastern corner of the city, surrounded by the simple homes of the common folk dotted here and there by the occasional bakery, cobbler, or one of the many other random general merchandise establishments found in this part of the great city. In the heart of this sector of Reglevick was the great market square. During the span of an average day, droves upon droves of people passed through the market shops of Reglevick city, citizenry and visitors to the capital alike.  These numbers rose more around the summer's much celebrated, annual Trader’s market.  At this time of year, traders from all the regions west of the Great Boundary Mountains gathered in Reglevick for a weeklong exchange of highly sought-after regional goods.  Tolviran, Dar'genian, and O'Dharan flags waved proudly over their respective venues, ranging from small temporary booths to larger ornate tents. On some rare occasions, even a few brave merchants from the kingdoms east of the Great Boundary Mountains, like Vladria or even the hated Kallaran empire states, would venture far from their homelands to sell truly odd and magnificent wares. Items that were not often seen in this part of the world.  All manner of merchandise was available for the right price. Goods ranged from rare spices and herbs to high-end fashionable clothing or the latest in vastly advanced gadgetry. New things that were designed to make the common folk's lives easier to manage. Strange and exotic animals were often bought and sold along with rare cuts of meat from some very strange animals.  If you thought you needed something particular, this was the time and place to find and get it.  Visiting traders would exchange their unique goods with those of other traders from different regions to bring this new and different merchandise back to their customers. Where, of course, they could be sold for a very sizable profit, given the rarity of the new items in those markets.  The citizens of Reglevick benefitted most from the market as prices were cheaper at the source, and they would not have to travel across half a world to get them, as merchandise from all three regions was displayed for them to choose from. As such, consumers from all over O'Dharan travelled to Reglevick for this reason, which in turn was also good for the local businesses, local Inns most especially.  The market always had a festive atmosphere with fresh, exotic foods, lively music, and flashy dancers. It was widely regarded as the highlight of the summer season.  Both traders and consumers alike benefitted from this annual affair.

            Torin and Jerith walked down Reglevick's busy streets, headed for the large market square, travelling past the local merchants’ shops along the way. Occasionally, they would poke a head through an open doorway like at Garik’s Smithy to see what new piece of armour he may be working on or make a brief stop to wave hello to some of the many merchants they passed. Merchants whom they knew far too well, as most of the locals, spent a good deal of their free time at Vole’s Inn to either spend some quality time in one of the rented rooms with a local gal, often unbeknownst to their wives, or just forget their own problems over many cold goblets of mind-numbing ale. If the boys were lucky, maybe Moratha, the baker, might have some leftover bread from her morning bake that she may share with them for free. The ordinarily busy neighbourhood was gearing up for the coming market, and an extra excitement could be felt in the throngs of people moving in and out of the many shops.

            As the two young men neared the market, they heard a strained, pain-tinged moan emanate from down a small side alley. Jerith warily poked his head around the corner and cautiously peered down the small street. Kneeling just a few yards down the alley was the very large Tolviran porter who had arm-wrestled with Bivitar earlier that morning. He was bent over his employer, carefully tending to a rather large cut that slowly trickled blood down the small man’s forehead.

            “Are you all right?”  A concerned Jerith asked the large man.  “Do you need any help?” Ever the one to offer aid, Jerith was clearly upset at what had happened to his former quest.

            The porter looked up at the boy.  “Thank you all the same, but I can manage.” he said, “I was in the spice shop across the street getting supplies for my Lord.  When I came back out, I found him lying in this alley.  Some of the men from your tavern must have followed us here.  They got a great deal of gold from him and a pound of flesh as well, but he will be fine. Luckily for him, I had some of his money with me when I went into the shop. We should be able to get our way home. I thank you for your concern.”  With little else to say, the porter picked up the semi-conscious man, thrust him over his massive shoulder, and left, heading further down the alley.  His large form slowly vanished as the alley’s darkness closed around them.

            “Should we help them?” Jerith asked, starting down the alley.

            “The good Baron should have been more careful,” Torin remarked, grabbing hold of his brother's arm, “he's lucky to still be alive, I’d say. They’re not our problem. Come on now, let's go get Rheal's things.  She said she most wanted me to pick up some very specific Dar'genian silk so she could make some new dresses. A lot of it. You know her and her clothes. This is supposedly the only time of year it's sold in the city by her favourite clothier. It’s a must to get; you know how particular she is about her silks. She says they are usually open a while before the main market gets underway. If we hurry up, after we have got it, maybe we can look around at some of the other venues for ourselves. There is bound to be something of interest.” He tugged on Jerith's elbow and pulled him away from the alley. The brothers hurried the rest of the way to the large market square without bothering to look into any other shops or down any other dark alleyways.

            A large diversity of patrons was already filing into the partially open market despite its lack of readiness.  Dar'genians, O'Dharans, and Tolvirans alike wandered through the crowded market, watching the traders busily preparing their booths.  Here and there, small groups of nervous Vladrians could be seen quickly roaming through the market, looking to buy from the other traders, knowing full well that they were not wholly welcome at the market due to Vladria's past and close associations with the Kallaran States.  Kallaran being the most significant threat to the peace found in the western half of the world.  For many centuries, the Kallarans had often sent their armies from the far side of the world to wage war against the realms of the West. It had only been within the past few decades that there had been any semblance of uneasy peace between the Kingdoms of the West and the Kallaran Empire.  Even now, that peace was but a very fragile thing, with neither side wanting to start another all-out war. Citizenry from every kingdom had come to live under the constant unrest as the possibility, if necessary, that the wars could begin anew. For now, an uneasy peace has tentatively held, and life carried on as well as it could.

            The market itself was divided up into three sections, one for each of the western realms. As people would travel from all over O'Dharan’s countryside to the city to buy from specific traders, sorting them by kingdom made it easier for visitors to navigate. These travellers would be the reason for Mr. Vole’s very hectic week.  The bulk of the booths would not be ready until the market's opening day, and most travelling customers would not arrive until then. Luckily for the locals, some of the more experienced traders opened a few days earlier to take advantage of the people already in Reglevick for early sales, one of those being a particularly favoured silk trader.

            Torin and Jerith nudged their way through the busy crowd, making their way toward the Dar'genian section of the market.

            “Look, Torin, over there!” Jerith remarked a bit excitedly. “There's a flag of Vladria flying over that booth- right over there. Do you see it?  That’s a very brave soul. The markets in Vladria must be pretty sparse for them to risk selling goods in a Western trade market.”

            “From what I've overheard of conversations at the inn, Vladria isn't terribly wealthy,” Torin informed his younger brother. “I don’t know much about them, but Vladria is a vast land with no real borders and no one true ruler. Mostly just independent factions of clans fighting over lands or to gain more followers. The strongest rise to the top and rule for as long as possible. The whole place is constantly at war with one another, leaving little time for farming, learning or any other civilized activities. That's why they depend on the Kallarans to help support them.  It gives the Emperor of Kallaran a great deal of power over them and why, traditionally, they have sided with the Kallarans whenever they dare to invade the West.  Vladrians are a very rough people, not the brightest in the world, but very, very good in a fight.  The Kallaran Emperors normally just used them for front-line fodder.  After all, why should they waste their own soldiers when they could send flocks of overly exuberant Vladrians to their deaths instead? Given their allegiances to the Emperor, I am shocked those fools have the nerve to set up shop here at all.”

            Jerith thought for a moment. “I guess what they are doing here doesn't really matter to me that much. I suppose they have as much right to try and sell their goods the same as everyone else.” Jerith turned his eyes away from the Vladrian flag and did not give it another thought.  “Let's look around the market.” He suggested.  “I've heard that there would be a Tolviran dance troupe performing during the market’s opening day ceremonies.  They’re supposed to be the most beautiful women on this side of the Boundary Mountains. I think I overheard someone at the inn say they were already in the city and practicing their routine.  Maybe we can find them now and watch them practice while there will be less of a crowd?  On opening day, it will be so crowded we won’t be able to come within a hundred heads away from the main stage.”

            “That sounds like a good idea to me.” Torin smiled, agreeing with his brother for once as they set off to find the legendary dancers.