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Chapter Five

The stranger the Littles had named Walker was out and into the late night with the bundle of the ruck sack in one hand.

He stopped in the wide courtyard and smelled the night. Beyond the heady scent of the eucalyptus trees the Littles planted in this region to protect their crops from the cruel late night and early morning frost and mist, he could smell the dust of the roads, the salt from out along the ocean, and the general aroma of things growing in the lands all around.

And… he could smell others out there tonight. Unclean things coming along in the dark as they were known to do. They were here, unseen and out there in the darkness, undetectable because of their sorceries and craft, but there all the same.

By the sign in the dirt of the courtyard he could see their trace, just barely. They were crafty and careful, and they’d come close to listen to what passed beyond the great door of the dark inn.

Pulling his hood over his head he headed off down the lane, away from the coast and the road that ran south to the tower of Sirith Osildor, or north to Indolién. He moved swiftly, not bothering to cast a look back, knowing they were there in clusters, working their nets already and seeking where they could come upon him and catch him. They were new to these lands now that the sacred boundaries of the Black River had been violated. But as he moved fast and farther into the dark beyond the inn proper and the fields that surrounded it, each new scent on the wind confirmed to Walker what he already knew.

They were here on this wilding night. And they’d come for him.

The stranger took the northeastern road up out of the area around the Last Friendly Inn. Walker moved swiftly up and along the way, passing the last few Little homes in the district, he could still see the soft glow of candlelight coming from firelit kitchens and knowing that the simple gentlefolk there were possibly about a late night snack of perhaps some of the last of the winter smoked ham, a fried egg or six, and of course the Hot Lilly they all liked to make and put up for the winter from last year’s harvest.

The stranger had to admit to himself that he could have used a bit of that peppery fire, and a well-cooked egg, and perhaps even a fatty slice of ham. He had a long night in front of him, and if he was going to outmaneuver his pursuers in the dark wilds toward the northeast, then he was going to have to cover some rough country to come at Indolién from a direction no one suspected.

And was he even going to Indolién? Perhaps the hour for the great city was too late even now that the gateways to the south were wide open. And perhaps it was best to do as Bearkiller had bade him to now.

Set to his mission this night even though it was surest death and there was no hunting fellowship to see it done.

Those thoughts bothered Walker as he moved, shouldered the ruck, and ran one gloved hand over the leather scabbard of the sword. He gave it a slight pull, executing the barest of draws. Just to make sure the blade was ready to clear leather should the fight come soon.

And soon enough it would come. That was a safe bet for this night.

The first rise out of the coastal valley that lay next to the small ridge of hill and the wide plains along the sea, showed him the district of the Littles behind, and the wide and big moon starting down toward the sea.

Out there the sea was empty and made like the armor of the Elven Horse by the moon. There were no silver sails of Indolién. But, and Walker’s eyes were keen, there were black sails out there, in the mist, and out in the open, testing the waters between the Outer Islands and the approaches to the harbor at Indolién.

But he really only pretended to be interested in the wide moonlit sea out there tonight. Instead, he’d turned to survey the shadows of the trees, the draws, and the quiet places where he knew his pursuers must be waiting. Threading winter’s deadfall carefully to stay on his trail.

The Men of the North are known for their ability to run for days at a time. But now, in the dark, and heading into the East, pursued by an unknown force, now was not the time to run. Running was easier to track, and the goblins were known to run for long periods too. And what if they had the support of some riders? Dark horse or even wolf?

The best trick now, thought Walker, who was more skilled than most at tracking and evasion within the woods, was to throw them off and move quietly away in some other direction than the one they were certain he was pursuing. There was a greater chance of losing them altogether, and if they did find his trail, then he could set traps and deadfalls, or lure them into dangerous places they might not get out of.

Now he followed what the Littles did not call the Old Road. This was the Northeastern Lane according to the Littles. It was an  ancient[NC1]  way made so by the Old Kings but now, and in the long years since, it had turned to little more than a wide winding path that would make its way in a very haphazard fashion up into the Dry Hills country and through the small hamlets, holds, and large farms of the Highlands Littles who lived up that way.

Walker stood for long minutes, waiting as the moon sank down toward the distant sea. Across the many roads and ways down there among the Little’s strawberry farms near the coast, the watch had come out to light the lanterns that lay along the roads and wide spaces between their villages, as their job had been for many generations.

He could see none of his pursuers down there in the dark, but he sensed their presence all the same. He checked the dagger in just the same manner as he had the sword, and thus satisfied, turned, topped the rise as fast he could, and started up into Dry Hill country by heading down the opposite side of the large hill and down into the low hollows that lay between the rising landscape that formed the Dry Hills area.

There was nothing but late-night silence, perhaps some occasional owl calling out, and then there was the wind from down along the coast raced quickly up into the hills, moving through the stands of oak and other clustering trees causing them to whisper in hushed tones.

That would be good. It would cover the sound of his passage once he left the road. And the shifting winds would cause all the shadows to move in the tress and underneath them, not just his.

“Perhaps there may even be fog later,” he said to himself though no one was about to hear. It was his way, forged by hard years on the road, alone, and his investigations into all the forgotten places of the world. Often, when no one else was around, he would speak out his plans, his advantages, and the obstacles facing him, talking through it all just to hear if there was any falseness in them.

This was a habit he’d acquired from the Men of the North, and his time among their scouts and warriors before he found his way among the Storytellers, where talking, and the telling of things, became not just second nature, but a language all its own full of many strange truths.

So, Walker reminded himself that the fog might just come up into the low areas beneath the Dry Hills and perhaps along old streams and creeks of the hills, following the paths of such to send its misty tendrils up aways a little bit more. And that would be good for him against the shadows that stalked him even now. Moving in the fog would be like moving under a blanket. Concealing him and allowing him to hear them blundering about.

But the fog did not come to aid Walker before he was forced to give battle against them in a lonely old hollow once called the Charring Tree Wayside for no reason any of the Littles of these present days could ever remember. Though the reason why it was named such was known to the Storytellers and kept in their records and annals.

 The Charring Tree Wayside was a place of ancient evils and Walker, as he moved swiftly, his road-eating stride long and relentless, cursed himself inwardl…

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Chapter Four

Walker

Some in the district had known this one as Walker. Few in fact still recalled the name by which he went these days. It had been many a year since the stranger, a man with a ragged scar about his throat, had been through these parts. In the days prior to the night of the Telling of the Show at the Last Friendly Inn, Walker had been seen “close and thereabouts” as the Littles like to say of strangers passing along the road to the south, or the smaller lanes and even trails that wove on out toward Olive Hills and the Dry Stretch. Or even further into the unreckoned neighborhoods of Barrows Valley and all that unknown that lay beyond its eastern edge.

But there had been many dark figures on the road and out in the hills lately. Some said Gobs. Others, the Hobbs themselves. Goblins or the larger and nastier variety hobgoblins[NC1] . But of course the Littles always defaulted to their favorite boogedyman… ‘warewoofs.

Now the candles were burning very low within the inn, and the fire within the hearth had reduced itself to little more than ash and an orange glow. This was the last of the night at the inn and now all that lay ahead in the darkness was quiet, and perhaps one low candle burning. And of course, the lanterns out along the roads and lanes kept going by the Night Watch. Outside the inn, occasional bursts of the windy thunder came off the distant coast and roared across Strawberry Flats sending small disquieting moans down its antique length just inland from the shores.

No one moved and there was no sound in the inn until once more Walker began to speak, only the creaking of his road-wearied leathers breaking the silence just before he began.

“The enemy was not defeated at Sirith Osildor,” rasped the stranger the Littles knew as Walker. He moved closer to them, and one would think his old high hard-worn boots would have made some soft thump across the ancient boards as he moved. Like some cheap travelling tragedian playing the stage to effect. But the strange man, and weren’t all men strange, moved without a sound and this gave truth to the rumor that he leagued with the Forest Watchers, a dangerous lot of Northern Men long come down out of the North whose ways and beliefs were strange and mysterious to the elves of Indolién and even more so to the many good folk of the Gentle Lands.

Walker made eye contact with them all and then returned to watching the last embers of the fire. His grim face was made even more so by the little light left in the room.

“The enemy were not turned back and sent to flight…” he paused. Then, “… as you saw in the wizard’s tricks and lying glamours.”

“But we saw the truth?” stammered old Hoot TacMavish who’d been in the kitchen and had sliced his own cut of the wheel. “How cannee be different in what we saw, stranger?”

He chewed his cheese as they waited for the response he’d seemed to angrily demand.

But the stranger did not answer Hoot directly and continued to stare into the orange coals as he moved closer from out of the darkness and toward the hearth so they could see him better.

“Nor did Adoras strike a blow among many against the Wyrm. Coming in against the flanks of the shadow, as you have been told. None of those things happened. And if you want to know what is true… then that is not it and never has been from the lips of the Elves of Indolién.”

“Then Adoras did not ride?” piped up one of the Littles.

Walker smiled. It was not the smile of a man playing with prey. Nor was it the smile of someone who despises a question in the middle of their speech. No, it was a sad, yet kind smile.

“Did you see in the last week a great host move along the road, heading south to the battle you were told of?” asked Walker softly. As though[NC2]  it was a real question, and no one had asked was because the answer is known, and the asker merely wants to make the listener seem foolish. No. It was an honest question. One that almost seemed like he’d prefer the answer that made him the liar. As though, a different answer would have been better than the one that was.

The Little said nothing.

“Because surely you would have seen so many of the Elven Cavalry and Spear, glittering and bright in Indolién’s sacred armors. I tell you… you would not have missed such a sight.”

“It’s no[NC3] t like that,” said the Little. Walker replied nothing. The Little stammered and sallied on which is their way when they’re on about something. Not easily dissuaded those Littles aren’t. “Well… ‘tis all tactics like, Walker. Thas’ what your name is, isn’t it? They came at them from the flank as good ol’ Malrond says so. The way I figures the maps, they must’ve taken the Eastern Hills road and gone out through Olive Wood or even Wild Tangle… or maybe…” and here the Little crossed himself and made a sign at this next bit, “Or Even Barrows Valley though I don’t like to even say it much less think it.”

“Aye,” piped in Tom MacTarthy who ran the stable and had come in to find his last pint of the night. Something had made him uneasy out there in the dark all alone, and the ponies had gone skittish, and it had taken him much hay and whispering to calm them down. Like there was some predator about but none that he could see. Maybe it was the wind, he’d decided after a bit, when he’d made up his mind to go pull himself a pint and found Fatty and others still gathered by the main hearth listening to the palaver of the stranger. A man no less. But the mood in the inn felt just as a thunderstorm, he’d tell others later when they’d listen.

Walker stopped and didn’t turn to look at a one of them. He was still before the dying fire. Behind him near the bar, the sound of Tom blowing the froth of his pint was the only sound that could be heard for a moment. Then the wind ran through the eaves high up on the third story and through the ancient section that was known as the Old Count’s Tower that was part of the inn and far older than anyone suspected.

But that is an older tale and has nothing to do with this one. Which is how things often are. There are more stories out there than you can imagine. On every walk in every out of the way place, there are many lying in the shadows and down undiscovered trails.

“And so…” continued Walker, “… no one came from down the Barrow Hills ways and gave account of the long snake of an elven army in full armor and on the march for battle? Not to one of you ever talkative lot of Littles… well, I find that hard to believe.”

Silence.

“Well, t’wouldn’t it be secret-like?” asked one of the other Littles near the fire. “Elves is queer strange and who knows them ways of our betters and all. But ifn’ anyone could do it… well stands to reason t’would be mighty Prince Adoras and the lot o’ his generals.”

“Are you saying Good Ol’ Malrond lied to us?” said another quickly on the heels of this.

“No,” said Walker more to himself than to his audience. “Prince Adoras did not come to battle in the South. In fact… there was no elven host to give battle to the Shadow himself or that wyrm that curls about the tower even now.”

“How say’ee that? How do ye know?” asked another, his eyes and lips full of incredulity.

“Because I was there, my Little friend,” said Walker after a long cool moment, and then sat down in a low chair near the fire. His coal black eyes still intent on the fire regardless.

“I will tell you a story then, my friends,” he began with a tired sigh. A dog barked outside, savagely for a few seconds and to this the man listened. When it stopped, he told Fatty to lock the doors to the inn and gave no reason for it. Fatty, jangling his big ring of keys, dashed off to do just that. Then Walker began to speak.

“The story of the fall of Sirith Osildor, Tower of the Golden Eagle as it was once known by another name. Maldornesoron it was once called. But not now. Not anymore in these dark and treacherous days. The warriors who died holding a line there a few nights ago, held for help that would never come from fair Indolién.”

Now the we…

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Chapter Three

The Question of a Stranger

In time, with the words and images of old Malrond still ringing in their ears and dazzling their sleepy eyes, the Littles and the old inn fell to the late hours. The last revelers, celebrating the victory they’d been told of in the South, they too took themselves off into the night as best they could with songs and lanterns to see their way along the roads to where they must be off to within the district.

Though it was still spring, and the night winds at this late hour were as wont to come in off the Great Sea as naught, there definitely was a festive air about those setting off toward their farms and small villages lying along the roads and rivers of the Gentle Lands.

Thankfully, the wind was not up on this night and in fact the air had turned pleasantly warm even at this hour as though whispering of a fine summer coming along soon enough.

This was all early, but not unappreciated. It would be a good year for crops, so that too was considered a blessing as Littles each and every one of them took themselves off to their homes for an unheard of Late Supper, or perhaps even Cordials and Cheese, which is the third of the three nightly meals they usually are about. This would normally consist of a pie, perhaps some cheese or a fried egg, then of course a fine pastry and a cup of cold milk from the lower larders before bed.[NC1] 

On toward midnight, perhaps in the hour before, the inn fell to a contemplative yet pleasant darkness as old Fatty gathered up the dishes and cleaned the bar again. Only a few of the Littles were left now. The oldsters, bachelor farmers, and a few of the young yet unmarried sat before the great hearth, nursing the last of what would be poured from Fatty’s taps for the night, before the round and large Little innkeeper turned them out one and all with much gruff impatience.

There was really no one left in the inn save these rascals and Fatty’s large family working at the closing up for the night. Out on the roads across the district, the night watch would be crossing the lonely roads to light the lamps that lit the way between distant and sometimes close places of stead, farm, village, hamlet, and outlying settlement.

But there was one other among them that night. A stranger, for the most part. Come in from the road and unconsidered by the lot of them giving their final opinions and musing on what they had seen and heard that night within the Last Friendly Inn.

Malrond’s Telling of the Show.

Such as the stranger were best steered clear of by the Littles as they liked to mutter among themselves when out of hearing. But of course, since there had been much beer poured over the course of the to-be-remembered night, and the news of the great victory before the tower itself in the south had come to them early in the evening, the Littles were much interested in once more discussing all the events. The portents and what they intended, and of course what it all meant for them and their Little World. Holding forth flowed freely and in time the presence of the dark stranger who’d kept to the old alcove within the inn, near the back and the upstairs barrels, had been forgotten.

So, he listened to them, silently, and seemed from casual observance, suspiciously uninterested in their palaver.

“So that’s that, says I,” said Cormic Tarnettle of the East Hills Tarnettles. “Dark forces, say I, has been struck down once more. The wizards o’ the council say it’ll be a good year for crops and that worries are for others come what may.”

“Aye,” muttered Ol’ Ned Duggan who was an oldster and not much in the autumn of his years[NC2] . “Ne’er thought I would see a year free of the worries o’ the South. Orcs and gobs is one thing and another, I tells ya… but to know that them ‘warewoofs’ has been sucked back behind the ol’ Blac Gate shore puts a mind at ease. I says that to yas. Used to like to fish down at Cutter’s Lake until I saw ‘warewoof’ in the dusk of a full moon comin’ up. Ne’re go down that way a’since, that’s for shore.”

The other Littles agreed that indeed a good year was upon them all even if it had been purchased with the price of elven blood, flame, and sword in the south. Perhaps even a good age was upon them all, not a few mused. One might even wonder if the old trade with the southern lands would come this way again and…

“It’s all a lie,” said the stranger from the shadowy recess where Ol’ Warshbourne had once done his moneylending. Acquiring a fortune that had built him an estate over in River’s Edge that had gone to crumbling in the years since the old miser had passed. Some said it was haunted by the ghost of an elven maiden whose tomb had been rumored to lie upon the haunted grounds nearabouts. But that was…

“A lie ye says?” said Cormic Tarnettle as though he were a bit deaf and an oldster like Ned Duggan. Though he was not yet but seemed to be trying out the role as of late. Warming to the weight it might carry and what he could get up to with that.

But that’s a Tarnettle for you.

All the Littles turned to peer into the deep shadows of the old alcove but the firelight from the hearth would not penetrate far across the room and so the Stranger seemed one with the gathering shadows there. Indeed, the darkness that lay there seemed an… unnatural thing to the Littles. A thing unto itself.

“Strangers…” muttered Ol’ Ned dismissively so only those near the fire might hear. “Never any good come of ‘em, I tells ya.”

And perhaps the Littles should have been a bit frightened. Even cautious. But again, the Boch, the meat pastries that had come out late in the evening along with some cold roast chicken seasoned with winter herbs, and a bit of Olive Woods cheese had put the courage into the Littles one and all and so they feared not the shadows, or the stranger and his words within them. The firelight and their companionship, and well, just being in the inn that night, a place much considered the last of the friendly places before one reached the dark and uneven border of the southern lands, gave them a bit more courage than they normally possessed.

Perhaps…

The stranger spoke up again. His voice was hard and seemed weary with the road, hoarse and dry. Deep like the woods. He had the voice of men who make their ways out of doors often do. Slowed by the weight of great spaces crossed and seen. And though much of him was dark with shadow, there shone eyes that seemed to burn within the shadows. Elven eyes, it seemed for a moment. But then not when you tried to look closer. They were eyes that possessed some other light than that fey and mystical race. Masters of all times since the Ancient Times of the Old Age much remembered in tale and song.

“No,” said the figure in the dark. “Not a lie. But lies… yes. There have been many of those tonight.” There was a long pause and the gathered Littles felt that the stranger had said his piece and was finished. They waited politely for more, sure nothing would come.

Then, “All told for your amusement… and rest.”

The Littles were made uncomfortable, for this was a bit too direct for their tastes in polite conversation, and for such a fine evening of victories recounted and of course, that fine cheese from Olive Woods, hadn’t that been nice?

Well, it was verging on rude.

But they remained silent and did the stranger the courtesy of ceasing their talk, ceding the floorboards and vast silences of the inn to listen to whatever it was this highwayman had to say, for it did seem he was going to speak.

The air was almost filled with something before he even began. As though it were the same as Malrond’s magic. But different.

Definitely different.

“What if I were to tell you…” began the stranger, leaning forward. His leathers creaking as he did so, and yes, wasn’t that a blade on his hip? “…that everything… and I mean everything you’ve heard tonight, and in fact every night old Malrond the… Wise… has ever appeared out of the nethers of wherever he comes from, to tell you of yet m…

Today we pick up with Part 2 of this week’s special 2 part-er. We get into the Assassination of a Movie Star. Hang on… its getting weird.

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Chapter Two

A Tale in the Dark

After the last of the hot scones were handed out, fresh from the ovens of Fatty, cups of sipping chocolate for the little’uns, boch of course for the olds, then the pipes were lit and hushes to be quiet administered, for the Telling of the Show was to begin. Malrond settled himself in a great tufted leather chair near the hearth, center stage within the main room, and for a long moment there was quiet. Then, with little to no fanfare he began at once.

“I come none too late from the war in the south, my little friends…” began the old wizard. “To tell you the war that was coming, that we have felt in sky and stone, seen in omens and even bones… is over now. You may rest easy knowing this.”

A hush deeper than the one that began the affair fell over the main room of the Last Friendly Inn as Malrond spoke this and all that could be heard in that solemn and stunning moment was the murmur-crackle and an occasional snap of the fire turning to grey ash within the grand hearth of the main room.

The room was darker now. Only the struggling candles burned from behind Fatty McFarlane’s perch at the end of the lovingly and oft-polished red oak bar and in the occasional sconce along the alcoves across the swollen room. Some later would remark that the dark seemed unnatural and was perhaps part of the showing. At the time this passed unnoticed, and the Littles collectively leaned forward at the beginning of the telling, willing themselves to miss nothing, knowing a great magic of the showing would soon begin as the wizard wove his quiet storytelling spell over the room, and them all in turn.

The Littles, and others who were there that early spring night, in the back among the shadows, alone or keeping to their small traveling stranger clusters, all in the old pile of an inn were aware that war and death had been raging across the lands to the south around the great tower of Sirith Osildor itself and along the Black River that was the natural boundary for that southern region the Elves of Indolién referred to as The Undómë.

The Twilight.

Many travelers referred to those lost southern regions where the map seemed incomplete and even uncharted at times as… Ungondor.

Lands of Cloud and Shadow.

The quiet crowd in the normally merry old inn hovered over the old elven wizard’s next words for surely there was more to this than what had been said already. Malrond took a deep draw from his long-stemmed clay pipe, held the smoke, his eyes watching them all, and then with a delicate movement of his old mouth sent the first smoke ring out and into the dark rafters above them all.

“The crisis in the south… has been averted for now,” stated Malrond the Wise with a theatrical gravitas that bespoke a certain finality one must accept if the story were to go on.

The Littles being great lovers of any travelling show that happened along the back roads agreed to the terms of the deal and accepted what the wizard had said with an acquiescent silence. Indicating old Malrond should go on with the rest of it, and already quick if you please.

“The fell host of the Shadow Hordes has been turned back at the ancient Gates of Sirith Osildor itself. Just a few nights ago you may have seen lights of the terrible magics worked with much wroth in the crucial moments of that dire battle… just the other night in fact, a long night if you’ll remember so, that is if there ever was one such as that one. A night in which those of us standing the watch against the coming shadow on the walls of the great tower guessed perhaps all was lost, and we had seen our last day. And even the last of all days to be seen by such as those who walk the Gentle Lands.”

Yes, many of the Littles would later remark. The night had seeming restlessly long. There had been tossing and turning. Little’uns had nightmares and strange dreams that required attending and cold drinks of water to console. Some Littles even remarked that there had been the not unheard of, but not necessarily common, last meal of the several Littles generally consume per day.

Second Creepies. A light comforting snack of catch as catch can from the larders to see out the last hours until dawn and Bacon.

The wizard took a puff of his pipe, seemed to hold it for a moment as though wordlessly reciting a secret prayer, or a chant for good luck, good health, fair weather and a fast horse, and then finally let go with an almost melancholic exhale, sighing out the great weights that surely must rest on his narrow shoulders, the Littles assured themselves.

Angelic blue smoke floated out from the wizard, its tendrils reaching among them, falling to the floor. Rising into rafters, seeking the shadows.

The Littles breathed a sigh of relief and some even hoisted their mugs and took deeper draughts than unusual.

This was, indeed, good news. The hordes of the Shadow defeated.

“I was there…” announced the wizard to them all.

No one had asked that. But in hindsight of the statement, it seemed the most natural of questions to be asked by ones not just seeking information but dying for its full reveal, and the tidbits and morsels must surely fall like so many crumbs of the Inn’s famed Lavender Crumble Scones travelers from far and wide made detours just for. One of the younger little’uns, even more hot blooded and rash-tempered than quick with his fists Shane McFie, suddenly spoke from the dark floor where those of that age and stripe were gathered betwixt the main body and the old mage telling the show of what had happened there to the far and misty south.

And even as this young one spoke up, rudely interrupting the proceeding with something about the elves and their swords, Malrond’s continued smoke wafted through the room and over them all. Everywhere there were thin smoking tendrils like clever little garden snakes there in the stuffy atmosphere above the curly-haired Little heads who stared in rapture toward the wizard at the hearth, half lit by the simmering fire. Half in shadow by the darkness of the room.

His face looked old now, they would all agree. Older than the last time they’d seen him come this way.

And how long ago was that, some wondered.

Time’s a funny thing, answered others.

Careworn and weather-beaten by many years on the road was the cause agreed on by all in the conversations and dissections that followed the days of the Showing of the Tell. As though some greater work than had been guessed at, was behind the old elf now. Though Malrond was clearly Andaari, noted by the long pointed ears, he seemed the opposite of that fair and noble race with their smooth features and almost almond eyes. Where he aged, they, other elves, did not. Where the bright sun did not touch them, it had carved deep lines in Malrond’s long face, and brought bags to be under his baleful dark watching eyes. Time had bent the long nose that stared down upon them. Some old scar left barely visible ran down beneath one large eye. His eyes, they were dark. Dark like burning coals where the average Andaarian Elf tended toward blue and blue green eyes, and in this too he was different than those of his kind. And of course, his eyes were not like the royal green, burning like living fire in a fantastic jewel beyond price, reserved for those of the House of Eäron. Those Ancient Wayfaring Lords and founders of fair Indolién by the Sea. To have seen such eyes of the royal line, for a Little, even for a moment once in a lifetime, would have been considered a blessing to be noted and measured. A life event much talked about over field and farm and festival across the long years of the Littles which at best reached one hundred and thirty-seven. And even so special as to be noted when death came as it had been for Old Ori Farbanks, the former Mayor of Sheepshead who passed just five years back.

Even the elves, merchants who seemed something more, had come out for that burying, staying just the day, and gone with the night and mist from off the coast.

But those …

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Chapter One

The Show of the Telling

Beyond the roads and ways of civilization, toward the south, and a little off to the east, there was once an old inn where road weary travelers, tired and dusty, coming from the south and heading off toward the north and the great cities that lay there, would stop to pass an evening a time or two a year. Less and less as those years went by, and seldom now in the current, much darker days, but the inn was there all the same and the lands in which it lay, much forgotten by the great and powerful as they watched their maps from their tall towers near the wide and spreading sea and counted the times with an eye toward the shadows of the south.

The Wayside Inn was “the Last Friendly Place” as it was simply known by the old and road-beaten who still dared travel. And even occasionally it was sometimes marked on those yellowing ancient maps few seemed to possess any longer, as a place of safety, where the fire was warm, and the beer from the cellar cold.

And the cakes uncommonly good. But that is saying something about the Littles twice. For both good cake and Littles mean the same thing to anyone who knows a thing or two about either.

The Indarri, rulers of the Great Elven Kingdom of Indolién to the north along the sandy coasts of the sea, preferred to refer to the old wooden pile of a roadside inn that lay along the southern coast road out of fair Indolién, brightest of their shining coveted jewels, and heading off south toward Sirith Osildor and the port districts that surrounded the dark tower down there, often called the City of Ghosts by all in nothing more than a hushed whisper as though to ward off some curse, they preferred to refer to the ancient inn as the “The Littles’ place by the side of the road.” And then they too, of course, made their ornate gestures to ward off some evil spirit as was custom when talking about anything lesser than themselves.

Which was, to be honest, most things and folk as far as the Fair Elves were concerned. Such is the way of the haughty and noble Indaar.

The forgotten lands that lay between Sirith Osildor and Indolién were considered… provincial by those same Indaar. Rolling hills and a long valley gave way to the coast and its small line of hills protecting the farms from the salt laden blasting winds and mists of the seas. Beyond the district where the inn lay was a small distant mountain range to the east occupied by small farms found fewer and farther between, and among these were found the occasional villages and hamlets of Littles. Or so the Indarri had named those smaller folk, the Littles. These smaller people had their own name for themselves, but the haughty Indarri elves seldom cared for anyone else’s languages or words but their own.

Of course. Everyone knows this.

In recent years, camps of reckless adventurers who’d long turned to banditry, waited alongside the crumbling roads and small, quiet canyons and hills where perhaps the remains of some ancient tower sleepily watched the dusty scape and the distant Barrow Hills. It was said that darker forces walked the canyons and dry hills where the ancient burials lay farther east, during the longer nights of winter itself, and even along the outskirts of some of the Littles’ villages farther out than they should have been. Tending their olive orchards and keeping watch during the quiet hot days, and shut up and in during the moonlit nights when one might hear things it was best not to investigate. But again, those were always the tales told in the hinterlands and around the Great Hearth of the old Inn, away from the high precincts and bright jewels of fair coastal Indolién where only important matters of state and great magic were ever discussed among rising and slender white towers adorned with pennants fluttering in the breeze.

No tales of ghosts, or lost hoard was ever spoken of among the beautiful elven ladies and their lords adorned in their shining and bright ceremonial armor. Such talk was crude and boorish. For the Indaar only dreamt of a misty future that somehow matched the glorious lost past of those elves who cast their gaze from their tall, sculpted towers and watched the storms of the sea come and pass by. And never did they turn their gaze south, beyond the Great River of the South the Sírë Morna. For that too was greatly considered uncouth to discuss even though it was in quiet tones and often.

The Great River of the South. The Black River.

Or as it was sometimes known… Nuruhuinë.

The Death Shadow.

One early evening it was into this very ancient inn old Malrond himself, who some said was an emissary of the Emerald Council, came on a late afternoon spring day. Many of the Littles in the district had seen him crossing over and through their green fields even just now blooming with wildflowers and first sprouting. Walking along the quiet and forgotten roads that lead from one stead to another with his tall and sculpted staff, stopping for a pleasant bit of talk with many of the older Littles he’d known in the long-ago days, and some who were rumored to have once, on occasion, gone off “a’wandering” with Malrond himself as they say down in those pastoral districts. And so, by Later Afternoon Tea, which is when the Littles have finished their heavy work for the day and are ready for their second tea before turning to the business of cleaning affairs up, news had spread that Malrond himself was indeed “around whether you’d been expectin’ that to happen or not, today of all days, dontcha know.” 

Many of the Littles were settling down to either their honey cakes, or even the heavy lavender scones with baked crumble topping for Second Tea, when they heard the news regarding Malrond as teams of small Little boys, wild and screaming, raced from farm to farm to spread the tale of the tall wizard’s arrival in the district.

The Littles are well known for those fantastic scones. Some even say Glórindol One-Hand, ruler of the Indarri, occupant of the Emerald Lion throne which rests atop Indolién’s Seventh Hill, favored them greatly and had carts of them brought up from the districts by the Elven Horse themselves. It was over these matters, and Malrond himself specifically, the Littles discussed news of Malrond’s arrival, and, that it was clear he was heading toward the old inn and would arrive there toward day’s end.

So of course, with little organization and much frenzy, Littles from all across the district found an excuse to be about some business regarding the inn, and came in from their farms as the spring sky began to settle toward its gloaming to hear what the old wizard had to say.

For he always had something interesting to say.

Now, let us discuss the inn which the Littles, who favored the likeness of the Children of Men more than elves, began to stuff themselves into as night came on and the inn was made merry and hot by the hearth and many a candle. As had been said, the inn was very old. Very old. Some say, which is a common phrase in almost everything Littles speak upon, a sort of benediction before engaging in the gossip they so love, or an absolution if you prefer, some say the old inn was as old as Indolién itself.

But… who knows such nonsense things?

But back to the inn itself, it was a beautiful old pile of rambling rooms and deep cellars. The beer which the inn was famous for, a dark brew they served cold and called “boch”, came with a creamy head of foam and a slight bitter aftertaste that filled the stomach right with just a sip, leaving a satisfied feeling and a pleasant warm afterglow. It was the opposite of the heady “pils” brought down from the eastern mountains, direct from the ruined halls of rock dwarves who still delved into the remains of their lost empire. Pils was, by most, co…

Nick and the Medusa favor you with their whimsical insights. Enjoy.