Chapter One
The dog guarding the room lay on the small bed and never looked up to regard its intruder. The man was short but stout with short, tidy, graying hair and a stubble beard. “Useless,” the man scoffed at the hound as he began to rummage through the papers tucked away in a coffer beside the bed. The cottage was small, with but two rooms, a small room with a kettle hanging over a fireplace, and a bed chamber. The bed chamber was tiny and cramped, and smelled of dogs and sweat. The man had to strain his golden eyes, for the only light in the room came from a very small window. As the intruder was searching every crammed corner, he failed to notice the dog slowly rise and transfigure into the form of a woman.
“Now, what have we here?” asked the slender older woman with light brown hair who was suddenly filling the doorway. She was wearing a flowing blue and tan dress with glowing runes stitched onto both sleeves. Sword in hand, she quickly had the stunned man pinned to the back wall, her green eyes piercing his own. He frantically searched his mind for an excuse to be there, other than the obvious.
“Allow me to show my official papers?” he asked. The woman, looking as beautiful as she was deadly, nodded and kept the sword close enough to strike at him should he try any tricks. Slowly, he slid the strap off one shoulder and swung his pack around in front of him. He unbuckled the flap on top, and, still moving very slowly, but deliberately, brought forth a bundle.
Worn leather wrapped around several sheets of parchment paper, bound with a leather thong, tied very neatly. As he began to open the bundle, the woman noticed a symbol stamped on one side of the leather, and her green eyes widened as she recognized the crest. It was a shield, divided into quadrants, a river running through the top left to the bottom right, a mountain in the top right, and a tree in the bottom left. It had a knight's helm atop, and worn runes in the cross dividing the panels. It was an early version of the current royal crest.
When the intruder produced the paper he was seeking, she took it, eyeing it curiously. As she was reading his “official” papers, she left the sword floating in position in front of the man's nose. The papers this man held were required those days, in order to travel throughout the kingdom of Caryn. She read his name aloud, “Kryzzl”.
“An odd name, even for a thief...” As she spoke, the floating sword crept closer to Kryzzl's face. Without pause or alarm, Kryzzl placed a finger on the tip of the blade and guided its sharp point, carefully, away to the side.
“I am no thief, Lady Lisann,” he calmly replied, “ I am a representative of the land of the dwarves called Jire. I seek the one named Wyrmwood, and was told he could be found here.”
“Haven't seen 'SIR' Wyrmwood in these woods in a decade. Ever since he lost his title, he has been in exile. Someone told you my name, but nothing of his absence?” She asked angrily.
“The last man I spoke to in search of Sir Wyrmwood, told me he could be found here, and the lady of the house would be happy to show him to me” said Kryzzl.
“All I have of him is this.” She held out a small gold chain with a silvery half-moon pendant.
Kryzzl held his hand out, and she dropped it into his dry, cracked palm. He carefully examined it, and it seemed attached to this chain was only one-half of a larger piece. On one side was carved a scene of a mountain, no doubt the Great Hill in Jire, on the other was inscribed half of a message. Kryzzl read the pendant and asked, “What does the other half read?”
“Only Sir Wyrmwood knows. He made this in exile and had it sent to me”
“I see. May I?” he produced a scrap of parchment and a small chunk of coal.
The woman nodded her agreement and he set about to make a rubbing of both sides of the pendant.
They sat for hours talking about the dwarf. She told him many tales of Wyrmwood's various battles and exploits. After they had eaten a supper of stew and bread, Kryzzl departed. “Thank you, Lady Lisann, I shall remember you in my travels.”
“Be safe, young man, and gods be with you on your quest. If you should find him, send him back to me, safely.” Lisann allowed a single tear to fall from her eye.
Moments after leaving the cottage, Kryzzl remembered something else he had been told on his journey, and turned to ask Lisann of the matter. Yet when he turned, all he saw were ruins of a small cottage sitting on the knoll. Weeds and small trees were growing through the cracks of the old stone floor.
Was it all a dream? No, he still had a full belly and the taste of stew on his lips. Kryzzl reached into his pack, and yes, the parchment scrap with the rubbing on it was still there. He walked over to the rubble, to where the bed chamber had been just moments before, and saw the glint of metal through the weeds. Crouching down, he picked up the object. It was a plain silver ring with a scrap of papyrus rolled up inside. He carefully unrolled the minuscule scroll. It was blank, save for a single spot of what appeared to be dried blood in the center. Carefully, he placed the crumbling paper in a pocket of his pack, placed the ring in the inside pocket of his green coat, and turned south on the road between the cities of Caryn and Ravenwood.
The suns were setting and light was fast waning when Kryzzl decided to stop for the night. He found a meadow on the side of the road surrounded by a low wooden fence. Kryzzl stepped over the fence and laid down in the soft grass, using his pack as a pillow.
He was awakened the next morning to find a crossbow aimed squarely at his eye. “Just who in the flame are you?”, bellowed an angry, growling voice. As Kryzzl's eyes adjusted to the brightness of the morning suns, he saw the man it belonged to. He was very tall and thin, blonde hair, with sun-darkened skin. He was dressed in blue cloth breeches, black leather boots, and chain mail under a tunic that had a familiar crest embroidered in its center.
Shaking off some of the sleep he replied,“Kryzzl, good sir.”
“Papers”, the man said coldly, crossbow ever still.
“Here,” Kryzzl said as he handed his pack to the patrolman, “In the top of the pack, a bundle.”
After finding and reading the papers, the patrolman said to Kryzzl, “Do you know not who owns these lands?”
“No.”
“This field is part of Fael's territory, this and almost all others around here,” the patrolman swept his free arm out wide. “He is not very welcoming to free-loaders who sleep in his fields, taking his rabbits and boars as they please.” He went on to explain that Fael was an ancient man who worked cruel and dark magics, calling on the dark forces that were forbidden for most mages to use. He was given special permission by the king, though some may say he used magic to “convince” the king to permit him to do so.
“My apologies,” said Kryzzl in a soft voice, “I will take my papers and be on my way.”
“You'll take care not to stray from the road, except for the marked areas for camping, lots of foul things out there.” As he handed back the bundle of papers, he noticed the crest stamped in the leather. “A friend of the king?” the patrolman asked.
Kryzzl gave a tight smile at this, but remained silent.
“Gods be with you, sir,” the patrolman said as he watched the short man stroll away down the ancient cobbled path.
Around midday, Kryzzl came into the city of Ravenwood. This was a grand city, not as large as the city Caryn, but large enough. Looking down its newly cobbled streets, one could see tall, colorful buildings. A large keep reached for the clouds in the town's center, with beautiful gardens and high iron fences surrounding it. Bards and minstrels lined both sides of most streets, singing praises to the king and of glorious battles of days and times long-forgotten. One street had ten or more taverns, countless merchant carts and carriages from which the traders peddled wares, and several inns to take in new visitors. Horses and ponies whinnied and stamped, this street was very busy indeed.
He chose the cleanest looking tavern, called “The Crow's Feather Tavern”. Kryzzl stepped through the doorway to find a circular bar, packed with patrons sitting elbow to elbow. In the center of the noisy tavern was a rolling fire with several kettles hanging above. The smells of fresh bread, roast boar, and spicy stew entered his nostrils, making his stomach grumble. All around, he looked at the tables scattered about, and found an empty table in a dark corner. When he sat down, he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out the ring he had retrieved from the cottage. Examining it, he noticed nothing remarkable, just a plain silver ring, so he slipped it on his first finger. Nothing seemed special about the ring, so he placed it back in his coat.
Soon after, a serving wench arrived at his table. “What'll you have?” she asked in a pleasant voice, smiling that fake smile that most servers have.
“One tankard of ale, please,” he said. He added, “and a small bowl of stew.”
“Right away, sir”, she replied. Moments later, she returned with the ale, stew, and a basket of fresh bread on her tray. As she set the bowl in front of him, a horrible crashing sound came from outside in the street. There was commotion as the tavern patrons rushed to the windows to see what was happening.
Out on the street, two men were standing over a very young boy who was unconscious and bleeding from his head. Laying on the road, the boy looked pitiful indeed, and outnumbered as more armed men arrived on scene.
Kryzzl pushed through the crowded doorway of the tavern, sword and dagger in hand. When he reached the men, he noticed they both had the same crest on their armored chests as the patrolman he encountered in the field earlier that day. Kryzzl quickly put his blades away, hailing the nearest armored man.
“What has happened here?” he asked calmly.
“This rat was trying to steal from that vegetable cart across the street,” the guard told him.
“And you killed him?!” Kryzzl exclaimed.
“ If he dies, so be it,” the guard said. He then added after realizing Kryzzl was not from there, “Papers, please.”
As Kryzzl handed over his papers, the child began to twitch. Wincing in terrible pain from the gash in his head, the boy slowly sat up, dazed. Blood began streaming down his face, darkening and discoloring his short blonde hair. Kryzzl started to ask the boy if he was alright, when the second guard advanced with a mace in hand held high above his head, swinging at the child with all his might.
A moment before the mace would crush the boy's skull, the world stopped. Kryzzl saw everything stop. Birds hung in the air in mid-flight, drinks that were being poured froze in place. Citizens and guards alike were frozen mid-stride. Kryzzl found he could still move, and thought best to try to re-position the poor child away from the path of the mace. The man stepped over to the boy, picked him up from the ground, and moved him aside. As soon as he had the helpless body out of the way, the world started to move again.
The guardsman cursed as his mace struck nothing but thin air.
“Magic!!!” the first guard cried. “Bind him immediately!!”
There was no struggle in tying the boy’s hands. Kryzzl stepped forward and said “If this child is to go to the dungeon, take me as well. For I also worked magic”
The boy looked incredulously at Kryzzl as he was jerked up to his feet. Kryzzl gave him a smile and a wink as the first guardsman bound his hands with a chain made from crystal. The two were loaded onto a pony cart and were taken away from the bloody scene.
The dungeon was dark, dirty, and smelled of rotting flesh. Dim torches hung on the wall every fifty feet or so. Men chained to the cold stone walls screamed and spat curses at the guards escorting the two through the narrow passages. Kryzzl heard the sounds of torture coming from a side hallway. One prisoner managed to spit a wad of mucus onto the last guard, who returned the favor quickly with a thump from his club. The dungeon seemed to go on forever, sprawling in all directions deep beneath the keep. They eventually came to a cell with a heavy iron door that was bound by magical forces, reserved for those who illegally worked magic. The man and the boy were shackled tightly to the wall, side by side, in the darkest corner of the cell.
In the lit portion of the cell, a dwarf was chained to the wall, quietly spitting curses to gods unknown. After a few moments of looking at his newest cellmates, the dwarf barked, “Ye got yerself in a bloody mess, ain’t ye? What’d the boy do, summon a demon?”
Kryzzl smiled at the dwarf, “I guess I somehow slowed time when the boy was about to be slain for stealing. The child has done nothing except for steal fruit.”
“Funny, they normally let the little rats die in the street,” the dwarf replied to the darkness.
“They thought he did some magic, so they brought him to this foul place. Why would they let him die for theft, but live for dealing magic?” Kryzzl asked
“Oh, they’ll kill ‘im, don’t ye doubt, an’ ye too, just takes different measures to kill a mage,” the old dwarf replied.
“Never mind that,” Kryzzl said, “What are you in for?”
“Me? Hah, well I had an axe enchanted and wouldn’t give up the feller I had do it. So they’ll kill me, I reckon. Never was one to follow the letter of the law anyhow. I reckon I deserve it somehow.”
“That doesn’t sound like any reason to die. What would you do if you got out?” Kryzzl asked
The dwarf looked toward the ceiling and replied, “I’d go back to Jire, where these dumb laws don’t exist, and get me king to talk some sense into the damned king o’ Caryn.”
“What if I got you out?” Kryzzl asked, suddenly standing free of bonds in front of the dwarf.
“What’re ye goin’ to do, turn us into mist an’ hope we float outta this forsaken prison? Nay, I’d rather die in this cesspit than be helped out of it by a damned wizard!” the dwarf exclaimed.
“My friend, I am no wizard,” Kryzzl replied. In moments, he had the dwarf and boy free of their bonds, and was working on the magical forces keeping the door locked. The boy had found a small length of wire on the floor, a component to an earlier mage’s spell, grasped it with his toes, lifted the wire to his hands, and was working the pins and tumblers with a skill that was far beyond his years. Soon, the lock was open and the door swung open silently. A quick search down each direction of the hallway revealed no immediate guards, so Kryzzl swiftly led the other two in the direction they came from. All along the corridors, prisoners spat and cursed the free men, but they had not run into any guards yet. Retracing their steps was a challenge, as the dungeon was dark and every turn looked the same, but Kryzzl somehow prevailed.
At last finding the room where their belongings were held, Kryzzl blew on the lock, melting it with his breath.
“I knew ye was a damned wizard!” the dwarf exclaimed. Kryzzl gave a hateful look, but had no reply, he simply stepped into the room and retrieved his personal effects and bade the dwarf to do the same. The dwarf grudgingly rummaged through the items in the room until he found his pack and his boots. He also grabbed a cloak that obviously belonged to someone else, but Kryzzl held his tongue and said nothing.
At this late hour, only one guard was keeping the entrance. When the sleepy man saw the escapees, he quickly went for the spear he had leaning against the door. The dwarf launched himself up the three stairs leading to the guard, throwing his weight into the man’s belly, knocking him off balance. The guard let out a loud grunt as the wind was forced from his chest. Kryzzl and the boy slipped past as the dwarf was pummeling the guard with a bare fist, denting the man’s breastplate and breaking his jaw. He found himself on top of the man’s chest, punching his face over and over. The dwarf finally came out of his fit of rage when the man went limp beneath him.
The dwarf rose from his victim, covered in blood, and ran out through the door and into the streets of Ravenwood, looking for the man who let him out of the dungeon. After an hour of searching the alleys and streets, he gave up and rushed out of town, lest he be caught.