Troubled Dreams ~~Wand'ring Watchman~~

There was another thunderous thud on the heavy steel doors that stood closed and barred. Dust sifted down from the thick ironwood beams overhead, and the flagstones shook beneath his toes. The gates hadn't cracked....yet. A trumpeting roar filled the high windows with glowing read light. Queen Morgaine sat in the stark blackstone throne behind him, the picture of calm poise. For the hundredth time, he turned to her and was struck by her beauty and her calm defiance. She returned his gaze with steely gray eyes and shook her head slightly. "I. Will. Not. Run." She said, her teeth biting off each word like a chip of cold iron.

He smiled and nodded. "I wouldn't dream of asking you to," he said with a small smile. "All I ask is that you think of me, from time to time, and smile. And remember the words that I didn't speak to you today. Not because I don't feel them, but because my tongue is bound as it has been these last nine years I have stood by your side. As it has been bound since the day I knelt before your throne and swore the words that put this blade in my hand. I have kept the watch these last nine years, stood over you as you slept, and guarded you from the Darkness....but not because of the words I spoke....because of what is in my heart."

He stood tall and saluted. Then he turned and strode for the iron gates with measured, calm steps. As he moved, he reached up and tore the left arm from his tunic, baring that arm to the shoulder. A dark red scar in the shape of an ancient power rune stood out on his pale, muscular upper arm. He calmly drew the blade of his silver runic spear across the Rune, slicing it evenly and easily with the razor sharp edge. He wiped the blade in his blood, and the rune immediately sealed itself. The blade began to shimmer and shine, casting shards of pure silver light across the flagstones and walls. He muttered an ancient incantation of the Old Magic, and felt the power of the spear in his hands come alive, and flow down his arm and across his chest.

"Wait!" Queen Morgaine called from the throne, her voice suddenly panicked. "Where are you going?"

"I suggest you use this delay to escape, my Queen," He called over his shoulder. "I would hate for you to die sitting in your pretty little chair once my corpse is cold outside."

"What are you doing!?" Queen Morgain called.

He froze in mid stride, and turned slowly to face the woman he had long ago pledged his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor. For a brief moment, he held her gaze silently as another powerful blow landed on the metal gates, and one of the flagstones in front of the throne snapped in half from the waves of force that radiated throughout the Tower. "I'm fulfilling my oath of office," he grated through clenched teeth. "I suggest you fulfill yours, my Queen."

With that, he swept a low and elegant bow, turned, and touched the tip of his spear to the steel gates. The thick metal doors exploded outward in a shower of red hot steel and splintering stone. There was a loud and deep howl of pain, and the ground shook as if a mountain had fallen over on its side. He stepped through the gaping, smoldering hole in the wall and called into the night in a loud, booming voice. "Fiend of Darkness!! Quake and tremble. The light has come to dispel you!"

Then his eyes fell on the beast, and the rest of his curse died in his throat. The creature was massive, head and shoulders taller than the upper most crenellations of the Tower behind him. The thing had stony, scaled hide from the waist up, and hooved legs covered in coarse black hair from the waist down. Great leathery wings sprouted from the back of the beast, and spread like a giant bat's in the moonlight. Its eyes were smoldering red embers, and its mouth a gaping furnace as it bellowed a howl and climbed to its feet.

"I know you, Lumber man," the beast growled in a guttural voice that sounded like giant boulders grinding against each other. "You've forgotten who you are, but I know you. I rode with you through the pits. I was by your side when you sacked Minoc and burned Vesper with the Northern Hordes. I whispered in your ear when you slit the monk's throat outside Yew for a loaf of bread and some dyed sandals. You wore the sandals for a month and traded them for a roast ham. I know you, Lumber man. I am the Collector of Souls, and I have come for yours."

He didn't flinch. Instead, he strode forward with the spear raised high and blazing like a small sun in the darkness. "I know who I am and what I've done, foul fiend," he called into the beast's face. "I've paid a greater price than you could possibly fathom... Come, and test me if you dare!"

The Balron threw its horned head back and bellowed a gout of fiery laughter. "What do you know of pain, puny mortal? I will rend your soul from your bones for a thousand life times and make you relish in ever exquisite moment of agony!"

The Balron swung its mighty midnight blade in a wide, whistling arc, but Lumber man didn't flinch. He didn't even try to dodge to the side. Instead, he simply stood with the spear blazing and raised and waited. The blade seemed to hit and rebound from an invisible barrier a few feet from his head. The Balron roared loudly in frustration, and suddenly struck at him with its fists. There was a blinding flash of pain, and Lumber man felt himself spinning through the air. When he landed, breathless, he still gripped the spear in his hand, its magic throbbing down his arm and through every inch of his body now. The elder daemon chuckled a bone chilling laugh.

"My blade can't touch you, mortal," The Collector of Souls growled, "But I can."

With another roar, the beast charged him with arms and wings outstretched. The ground shook with each thundering step. At the last instant, Lumber man dodged to the side, and suddenly he was under the beast. He evaded clawed hands and hoofed feet in a flurry and frenzy of motion. Finally, a massif blow from a boulder sized fist landed close enough to him to send stone shards ripping through his legs and chest, throwing him off balance. A mighty stomp of one of the massive hoofed feet crushed his left arm, and Lumber man howled in pain. Nearly two dozen deep slashes from the spear oozed red hot, steaming blood that looked like thick, viscous lava from a fire mountain's belly.

The balron chuckled as it reached down, a massif hand closing around Lumber man's lower half. The powerful grip crushed him slowly, overcoming the spear's magic bit by bit. Lumber man could feel the bones in his legs splinter, and he howled with pain that lanced through his body, running up and down his spine and locking him in a rigid, arched position. The balron lifted him easily to eye level, and squeezed slightly harder to wake him from his pain induced slumber. The only thing keeping Lumber man conscious was the power of the magic that still flowed from the spear through his arm and into his body, and the unbelievable pain.

"Foolish mortal," The Collector of Souls hissed through its jagged fangs, "You will die, and then so will she. You have failed."

Lumber man raised his head slowly and met the Balron's baleful glee with a laugh of his own. It started softly but built until his entire body was shaking with the mirth of it. Eventually, he threw his head back and laughed the loudest laugh he'd ever given in his life. The Balron frowned.

"You're right," He said at last, "I will die. But then again, I never really planned to live."

With a roar so sudden and so fierce that for the briefest moment, the Balron felt the cold stabbing pain of fear lance through its deep, primordial being. Lumber man summoned the last of his conscious strength and poured it into the spell. The spear in his hand was bound to him now, and he was bound to it by a magic deeper and darker and older than the roots of the Shrouded Mountains. With a power beyond his own, Lumber man arched his back and swung with everything he had. The Balron barely had time for its eyes to go wide as Lumber man's spear swung around and down at an angle, piercing the elder daemon's skull. The silver leaf-shaped blade of the spear erupted from the under side of the Balron's chin. His roar still echoing in his own ears, Lumber man gave a strong twist of his arm. The Balron flinched, and its muscles immediately contracted as hard as they could. The monster's grip crushed through the last remnants of the magic's defenses, and Lumber man felt his life break.

With his last breath, Lumber man felt every ounce of life in him flow out through his arm and into the spear still locked in his grip. The light from the spear blazed for a brief moment in the most brilliant, blinding flash of light he'd ever seen, and then there was darknes.....

From somewhere outside his own consciousness, Lumber man saw a blinding shaft of light erupt from the point where his spear pierced the Balron's skull. The bolt of light stood for three long heartbeats, and then winked into nothingness. When it was gone, the Collector of Souls stood for a brief moment with one arm and half of its face burned away to dust. Then its massive hulking form sagged, and stumbled. A section of sea cliff crumbled under the weight of the falling beast, and collapsed into the sea.

Queen Morgaine watched from a distance as the cliff fell into the sea, tears streaming down her face.....

Ascher Kraw woke from the dream with the last roar of battle still echoing off the walls of his bed chamber. He lay on his back, panting and drenched with sweat, for a long moment trying to calm himself. A brief flash of distant lightening lit the sky outside his window, and several heartbeats later the low rumble of thunder rolled through the Spirit Wood. Ascher briefly wondered how many of his fellow villagers would see that flash and hear that rumble since not many were awake in the quiet streets of Paws in the pre-dawn darkness.

"Troubled dreams?" A woman's voice asked from the dark corner of the room, and Ascher nearly leapt out of his bed it startled him so. "I didn't mean to frighten you, but you," the woman said, and she stepped into the center of the room. She raised her hand to the side and a globe of soft white light bloomed in the air above it, filling the room with its glow. The woman was easily the most beautiful that Ascher had ever seen. She had long, shining hair so black it seemed to shimmer. Her eyes were icy blue, and her skin was a deep olive-tan complexion from years of life in the outdoors. She wore a simple, if well-made dress that flowed like water down her shoulders and across the curves of her hips.

"I don't know who you are, or how you got into my bed chamber," Ascher growled, "But I'd appreciate it if you left me in peace."

"Peace?" The woman asked, arching one thin eyebrow quizzically, "Is that what you called that screaming, sweating nightmare you just broke free from? Hardly seems peaceful to me."

The woman slowly eased herself into a massively carved and padded throne that suddenly appeared beneath her. The globe of light hung suspended in the air between them, and she regarded Ascher for a long moment in silence. That quiet, calculating gaze began to make Ascher feel decidedly uncomfortable, and that made him angry. This woman somehow forced her way into his home, into his bedchamber, then she conjured magic and had the gall to sit and examine him? Ascher was just working himself up to a righteously outraged outburst when the woman calmly smiled and said, "She did, you know.... Think of you and smile, I mean."

It took Ascher a few stunned moments to realize that his mouth was hanging open and his teeth clicked when he closed it.

"Queen Morgaine lived many years after your brave act," The woman continued, "And she often thought of you and smiled.... wept.... even laughed. She loved you, as you loved her, and your loss taught her not to bind that love and hide it behind oaths and honor. She never forgot you, either, and when she was old, and thin, and frail, in her last moments in this world....yours was one of the names she whispered...and she smiled."

Ascher's eyes were suddenly blurry, and he had to swallow several times before he could manage to speak past the hard knot in his throat. "Who are you, woman?" He grated in a rough voice thick with emotion, "And why have you come to torture me with a dead man's memories?"

For a brief moment, the woman's face softened and Ascher thought he saw pain mixed with compassion in her eyes. "The price must be paid," she whispered. Then, like a flash of lightening, the softness was gone and her face was a mask of careful inexpression. "I did not come to torture you, Watchman, though you may find that difficult to believe. And even more difficult to believe, those are not a dead man's memories.... they are yours."

Ascher squeezed his eyes shut, and rubbed them hard with the heels of his hands. It was too early in the morning for magic and riddles, and he was growing tired of the woman's condescension. But when he opened his eyes again the woman, the throne, and the globe of light were gone. No sound, no whoosh of displaced air that accompanied a Recall or Teleportation spell, not even the faint smell of sulfur that a dispelled gateway always left hanging in the air.

The woman was simply gone.

Ascher pulled a dagger from beneath his pillow and stood cautiously, watching for any sign of movement. With a sorcerer as powerful as his mysterious visitor obviously was, he doubted there was much his enchanted blade could do if it came to a confrontation, but it made him feel better to hold it. The room was empty and there was no sign of the woman or her magic. When Ascher turned back to his bed, though, he froze and nearly soiled himself.

There, resting on his nightstand as if it had been there all night, was his leather cup and dice.

Zeddar stood on the flat balcony outside of his bed chamber. The night was quiet, save for the soft rumble of the water as it crashed into the rocks at the bottom of the sea bluffs. A storm had come through the day before, but now the air was clear and the soft breeze rarely mounted enough courage to even be called a proper wind, much less a gut of any sort. The air was cool and every now and then the crisp, dry scent of snow would flitter by. Early spring on the Storm Shores was known for its temperamental and unpredictable shifts in weather.

Zeddar took a long, slow sip of the dark red wine in his crystal goblet. He stared into the glass and rolled the liquid around in a slow arc. The starlight reflected as pinpoints of bright, distant light. The moon was between cycles and resting her face tonight. Before the next full moon, the shepherds of Yew would begin the spring sheering, and wool would be spinning into yarn to the south. The apples and pears Zeddar had planted along the northern slopes would be in bloom as well, making ready for the short but intense summer of the north.

Already the whispering roses in the Royal Britannia Cemetery.

Zeddar drained the last of his wine, and poured another goblet. He stared into the nearly black wine for a long time before finally setting it on the small writing desk by the balcony door in his bedchamber. He threw his heavy black ermine cloak around his shoulders and fastened the gold clasp. Before he really thought about where he was going, Zeddar was outside, his breath fogging in front of him, and his silver-capped, rune-etched black staff in his hand. He was restless, but he wasn't quite certain why. Something seemed to be stirring just beyond the horizon....something that was calling to him, pulling at the very fiber of his being.

He'd felt that pull before, and he was in no rush to feel it now. He pushed the thought aside, and with a shake of his head, he started walking down to the bluffs. For a long time, he stood and looked out at the choppy Stormy Sea. The smell of snow was stronger here, and the breeze was steadily whispering out of the North where a distant line of gray clouds was just barely visible. If the wind didn't change before morning, there would be snow on the ground by sunrise.

Still restless and unsatisfied, Zeddar turned and put the sound of the surf at his back. He walked past the town hall, past his villa, and into the ancient oak forest. The trees were gnarled and twisted by the centuries of salt and sea breeze. They grew slowly, but steadily. The twisted limbs and trunks along with dense wood from short growing seasons made them the perfect material for finely carved furniture as well as bows and staves. Zeddar moved along the narrow paths that lumberjacks over the ages had worn through the forest. They were always careful to only take a few of the larger limbs from a tree at a time, allowing it to grow and heal and provide source material for generations. Even so, only the most hardened and experienced made it this far north, and even those rarely.

Zeddar turned off the man path, and walked beneath the raw growth of the forest for a moment. He soon found himself standing outside the gates of the Cemetery. He stood for a moment gripping the cold iron of the fence and staring into the quiet memorial. Zeddar had been in every single cemetery in the land save this one. He had fought in the Britain Graveyard when the Lihe King clawed his way out of the dusty grave. He'd stood side by side with Radghast the Pirate when the Undead Plague tried to sack Jhelom. He'd fought off the Necromancer when he summoned the bones of fallen heroes to burn the city. Zeddar had even ridden with the True Knights of Brittainia against the Followers of Armageddon when they tried to break the world again in the crypts of Yew.

But this place was different. This cemetery was the only one remaining in the land that was unsullied by the touch of the undead. It had taken him ages to find it, and now that he stood with his hands on the fence, he couldn't bring himself to walk in. A Master Merchant years ago had told him over a mug of ale that a very special grave was in this cemetery that was watched over by an order called the Silent Brothers. They were an oft whispered about sect of the Wizards of Wind that had left the caverns and caves of their city for life in the wind and the sun. When they left Wind, each spoke the words of a spell that bound their tongues. It was a double bind spell that required the voice of the speaker to remove it, rendering it permanent.

As Zeddar stood with his hands on the fence, one of the monks approached, a smile on his peaceful face. He bowed at the waist, and opened the gate for Zeddar, waiving a hand in invitation. Zeddar bowed low in return, but shook his head. "I thank you for the offer, but I don't think I'm ready," Zeddar whispered in response.

The Silent Brother nodded sagaciously, and eased the gate closed. He bowed again, and turned back to the graves. As he passed each stone, he patted it softly with a hand, as if he were easing the worries of a small child, or reassuring an old friend.

Tears suddenly stood in Zeddar's eyes.

"I often wonder what the dead whisper to them," a voice said, and Zeddar jumped to his right, away from it. When he turned, wide-eyed, Zeddar found a woman dressed in an emerald green doublet with bare arms, and a long dress the color of autumn wheat. Her hair shimmered a deep ruby red reminiscent of the wine he'd been sipping earlier, and her eyes sparkled the same shade of green as her tunic. Open sandals on her feet were laced up her ankles to disappear beneath the skirt. "I didn't mean to startle ya, love," she said with a lilting accent.

Zeddar grunted, and turned back towards the graves, his expression sour. He hadn't wanted any company tonight, even if it was the company of a startlingly beautiful woman with the accent of his home thick on her tongue.

"You know they never leave?" The woman asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "Once the Silent Bothers take their oaths, bind their tongues, and walk out of Wind, they come straight here, to this cemetery. They enter the gates, and never leave again."

The woman waited, obviously expecting a response. After a long moment, Zeddar nodded and grunted again. He immediately wished he hadn't.

"I read of one who took more than a decade to find his way out of the labyrinth of tunnels under Wind," she said, taking Zeddar's grunt as an invitation to continue. "Once they speak the oaths and the spell, they can't speak again to Recall away from the city. So they have to take the ancient paths beneath the city and find their way out without a map, without aid, and without their voice. Think of it.... a decade alone in the darkness and silence, walking, sniffing out the freshest air and following it towards eventual freedom....only to come here, and tend the graves of people they never met, never could meet, for the rest of their lives...."

In spite of himself, Zeddar found himself looking at the three robed figures moving slowly among the graves with new eyes. He'd had no clue about their struggles and trials in achieving the life they chose. And he'd never even considered why someone would choose this life over one of relative ease and comfort in the learned halls of Wind, the fabled City of Magic.

Zeddar turned to the woman, a frown creasing his forehead and a disgruntled request for peace and quiet on the tip of his tongue.

"She's not here, you know," The woman whispered softly, her eyes never leaving the gravestones in front of her. One of the Silent Brothers bent to relight a candle stub blown out by the wind, and Zeddar suddenly found the words he'd been about to say had left him in a sudden rush of breath and pain. "Her grave may be, I don't know. I've never been in myself," the woman continued in that same soft tone. "Most of these people were tormented enough in life that they deserve peace in their rest..... and peace is something that very rarely follow me, though I seek nothing more ardently."

Zeddar regarded the woman quietly for a long time as she stared at the cemetery. "Who are you?" He whispered finally, "And why do I have a feeling so deep it's in my bones that I know you, and know you well. Look into my eyes, and let me see you."

But the woman turned her head away, and Zeddar thought for a brief moment that he saw the shining gem of a tear on her cheek. "You don't know me," The woman said softly, her voice ragged. "You know the barest whisper of a memory so long faded that you're not even sure if what you see behind your eyelids just before you fall into sleep at night is the work of your own mind or the echo of what actually was. You know nothing."

Zeddar smiled, and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply in through his nose, and smiled even deeper before opening his eyes. "I know the scent of lavender and rosemary," Zeddar said softly, "Heather and clover honey for your hair. It always was so shiny."

There was a sudden gasp, and Zeddar reached his hand towards the woman's shoulder.

Suddenly, the woman was gone. Zeddar stood for a stunned moment with his hand still outstretched. He hadn't felt the tingle along his neck and arms that warned him another Wizard or Mage was working magic near by. She was simply there one moment, and gone the next. The Wizard let his arm fall slowly back to his side, and he turned back to the graves. All three of the Silent Brothers were standing, regarding him with sympathetic expressions. As one, they bowed low to him before turning away, and goose bumps ran up Zeddar's arms. He didn't know exactly what had happened, but he felt it was deeply significant somehow.

The restless feeling was gone now, and Zeddar suddenly found himself exhausted. He turned to head back to his villa and froze. The breeze shifted for a brief moment and brushed his face from the south, carrying with it the smell of lavender and rosemary....heather and clover honey....

Fate's breath caught in her throat and she turned her head away as a single tear rolled down her cheek. It left an icy trail that stung more than it should.

She'd made a mistake coming here, exposing herself like this....but she couldn't help it. One of the things that was supposed to insulate....people.... faced with her particular predicament was that eventually all of the threads directly tied to you simply slough off and a person is left isolated in the pattern and truly free to move without entanglement. For her, though, that wasn't the case. The Wizard's thread was tied as tightly to her now, even with an age and a half of the world of man between now, and......then.....

And, truth be told, even if she'd known how to sever that bond, she wouldn't have. It was part of her now, as much as her fingers and her toes at the moment. It was part of the weight of the office as well. That tie kept Fate turned to the race of man with a compassionate eye, at least in theory. When the tie was secured to a sheep-footed, wool-brained, goat kissing oaf as.... she stopped short of saying his name in her mind.

Only then did she realize that he was speaking. And now he was reaching towards her. Fate could feel the thread of his life twisting tighter as emotions and memories flooded through his head, and she fed on the mirror of the raging tempest of emotions swirling through her own mind. She knew in that instant that if she felt his touch, she would break, and centuries of careful planning, sacrifice, and commitment would evaporate like a tide-pool in the noon sun. But still, she ached for that soft yet strong caress that she'd grown to need years ago, and finally learned to survive without. She wanted him to reach for her, to grab her shoulder, and gaze into her eyes... her eyes...At the last moment, Fate twisted the pattern, and stepped into the space between heartbeats. She squeezed her eyes shut, and ragged sobs shook her shoulders.

When she finally regained control some time later, she pulled herself to her feet by the cold iron rail of the fence. She kept her eyes closed for a moment and resolved herself not to turn back to him. She couldn't bear to see his face again. Fate opened her eyes slowly, and found that one of the Silent Brothers stood before her, a pleasant smile on his bearded and weathered face. "You know it really creeps me out that you guys aren't touched by my powers," Fate said.

The Silent Brother smiled, and nodded. Then he shrugged apologetically.

They were always more animated with her than they were with the mortals that came from time to time to visit with them and their charges. Still, none of them ever spoke a word. "You know, since my powers don't touch you, neither does that silly spell that supposedly binds your tongues," Fate said gruffly. "You could speak to me if you really wanted to. Nothing's actually preventing it."

The Silent Brother's smile compressed into a thin line, and one eyebrow went up.

No other response was given, and Fate didn't know quite what to make of it. The nonchalant silence of the Brother began to irritate her so Fate crossed her arms and threw her weight onto her left foot, leveling an icy glare at the Silent Brother. "I could make you talk, you know."

The Silent Brother gave her a deep, sympathetic look, and then slowly shook his head slightly.

He was right, and Fate knew it. She had tried once to make a Silent Brother speak....or scream.....or anything. He'd been alone, none of his fellow Brothers surviving to keep the watch with him. She'd seized the opportunity, and seized him. For months she had tormented him with the worst visions, the worst pains she could fathom. He'd born it all with a stoic, silent expression that still haunted her at times. When the next Silent Brother chose the path and made his way to the Cemetery, the one Fate had tortured greeted the newcomer in the traditional fashion, and hen immediately walked to the sea cliffs and threw himself a thousand feet onto the jagged rocks below. Sometimes she could still see his face twisted into a mask of pain, weeping, and silence. Somehow, and Fate never could tell how, every single Silent Brother since had known of the incident from the beginning. Not a one ever did anything hostile or judgmental towards her, but she could look in their eyes and she knew that they knew.

And they were right, she would never cross that line again. She had carried that weight a long time, and it still troubled her deeply. But, by now, that was just one more in a long line of moral compromises Fate had come to terms with over her tenure. But this one haunted her more than most.

She walked away from Zeddar without looking back, and the Silent Brother walked with her. There was never one far from her now, whenever she visited this Cemetery. For reasons she couldn't begin to fathom, they'd not only forgiven her for what she'd done, they'd taken it upon themselves to try and heal her pain. "I don't know why I came tonight," Fate lied. After a moment, she spat a soft curse, and shook her head. "That's a load o' tripe to be truthful. I know why I came....I felt the pull of him stronger tonight. Something is moving, twisting the pattern in knots and tangles. I can feel them coming, but I can't see the hand spinning it yet. Until I know, I won't know whether to help or hinder, or stand by and watch...."

Fate heaved a heavy sigh, and her breath fogged in front of her. "There'll be snow by morning if the winds don't shift," She said into the silence between them.

The Silent Brother lifted his head and inhaled slowly. When he lowered his head, he smiled and nodded.

"I just wish I knew if I was doing things right," Fate said at last, tears welling into her eyes again.

When her vision finally cleared, Fate saw the Silent Brother regarding her with a face full of sympathy and shared pain rather than pity. He held out his hands and beckoned her closer. Fate hesitated for a moment. The Silent Brothers almost never initiated personal contact with anyone, and she was shocked. The Brother arched both eyebrows, and motioned her closer again with insistence. Fate moved carefully, cautiously forward. It wasn't so much that she didn't trust the Brothers. After all, she'd already earned anything they could possibly do to her a thousand times over. Rather, she was nervous and uncertain of what would come next.

When Fate finally reached him, the Silent Brother reached out and calmly took both of her hands in one of his. With the other hand, he patted the backs of hers. His hands were large, strong, and gnarled from season after season of being weathered by the elements. But they were gentle, and warm, and there was comfort in his grasp and in his eyes.

After a moment, tears began to stream silently down Fate's cheeks.