Lumberman tied his horse to a sapling at the edge of the broad clearing. He cleared out a space with his foot, brushing the twigs and leaves aside and digging a small depression with the heel of his boot. He laid a bed of tinder in the bottom of the depression, and stacked twigs in a teepee structure. Larger branches formed an open square around the central structure. Lumberman bent his concentration, said a deep chant, and channeled into the tinder. The fluffy ball of wool, cotton, and cedar bark shavings burst obediently into flames. After a few brief moments, and a little help from Lumberman's fanning, the flame caught and spread quickly to the dried twigs and branches. The fire was bright and crackling within moments. Lumberman quickly pulled a skinned chicken from his cloak, skewered it with a stake of hard oak, and set the bird across the flames at an angle. It would start cooking quickly, and the juices would fall directly on the hot flames and glowing embers at the heart of the fire. For hungry brigands, the smell would be irresistible. Lumberman patted his horse on the neck and whispered in his ear soothingly. And then he was gone, into the shadows between trees, melting into the night. He could feel them when they got close enough. Five people, moving quietly through the woods. He didn't hear them, didn't see them in the pitch black beneath the low cloud bank. He felt their presence like a deep, but light caress on his mind. Brigands. Jackals. They were hunting him, sniffing along his horse's tracks in the night. Following him as much by smell as by sight. And he was counting on that. Lumberman melted into the deep shadows at the far end of the clearing and climbed up an ancient gnarled oak. He sat on the first low branch, twice as wide as his waist, and waited. Within a few moments, a face poked out of the trees and into the light of the fire he'd lit. It was dirty, greasy, and hungry. The first thing the man saw was the bird. He pulled it out of the hottest part of the fire and blew on part of it that had blackened. He dropped a curved scimitar, and barely missed his toes. The man cursed and spent a while looking around for a longer stick. After a moment, twos other joined him, one with a war hammer's head at the end of what appeared to be a young pine tree, and another with a broken Viking sword and a splintered wooden shield. The tools of their trade were crude, but the men moved with a certain easy grace that made them seem more dangerous than their arms would suggest. And then came a massive ox of a man with a heave crossbow slung across his back and a quarter staff in his hand. Lumberman's eyes narrowed. Time stretched on, but there were only four. Then a slim form draped in a cloak that seemed to shift colors and blend with the woods around it. She carried a bow that looked ever bit as tall as herself. A full quiver of arrows stuck up over her left shoulder, and dark auburn hair fell in an arm-thick braid to her waist. Even with her face hidden behind a deep and shadowy cowl, the Lady Maryn of Silvervale was unmistakable. "What are you doing, you fools?" The Lady asked, her voice sharp. "You stumble into a camp with a mysterious roasting bird and your first thought it to eat it? What if it's poisoned?" "You've never really been hungry," The man roasting the bird growled, "Or you wouldn't be asking that question. I've got a cure pot in me pack, and I ain't had roasted chicken in a month. I'll take a belly ache just for the taste." Lumberman pulled a small curved stick from his pack and fastened a round stone that typically hung from a leather loop around his belt to it. He slipped the thing, polished end of a spear about four feet long and as thick as his ring finger. The other end of the spear had a spear head of chipped fireglass obsidian. It was sharper than steel and a third the weight. With the added leverage of the weighted spear thrower, he could get this missile a good hundred and fifty yards accurately enough to skewer a rabbit. More than enough to cross the clearing. Lumberman took aim, swung his arm forward, and launched the razor tipped spear silently through the night. He dropped to the ground as soon as the throw was complete, moving through the shadowy trunks. He heard the spear hit, though, and a muffled scream that gurgled in a strangely uncomfortable fashion. He came in from the west, behind the three shadowy figures with their backs to him. The scimitar slipped from the one man's hands when Lumberman's short spear took him through the heart. Lumberman left the one with the broken Viking sword and shield with three poisoned daggers in his back. Neither saw him coming, and they fell almost together. The man with the makeshift Warhammer turned, but Lumberman's poisoned Kryss slashed across his chest twice and through the man's neck once. As he twisted in pain, the man swung his Warhammer around and connected with a glancing blow across Lumberman's knees. The blow lanced pain up his legs, but Lumberman stepped back into the shadows, stilled his breathing, and wrapped himself in darkness. Lady Maryn nearly jumped, as she spun away from the end of the clearing Lumberman had been standing in, and stared at the man with the quarter staff and the heavy crossbow, fireglass tipped spear stuck clear through him from the right shoulder to the left hip. The only one of her companions that was still alive twitched and spasmed at her feet, foaming at the moth. Lumberman was in the shadows once more, and at the far end o the clearing. His leg burned and ached, but it was bearable. He chewed a few herbs, drained a healing potion, and bound the leg with bandages and a poultice. The deep magic of the herbs began healing him at once, and he was able to put weight on the foot again within moments. Lady Maryn held her bow half drawn, scanning the wood line warily. The tip of her arrow trembled slightly. Lumberman stepped out of the woods, limping slightly, his hands raised high above his head and empty. "Please don't shoot, my lady," Lumberman said carefully. "I mean you no harm." Lady Maryn fixed him with a cold, hard gaze. "You've killed my companions. Why shouldn't I skewer you where you stand?" "I didn't kill you when I could have," Lumberman answered calmly. "That was not accidental, Lady Maryn." The Lady hesitated for just a moment, but she recovered quickly. She knew how deep the cowl on her hood was, and how dark and shadowy her features were. "Is that a guarantee that you won't kill me then? If so, what do I have to fear from letting the arrow fly?" Lumberman smiled. "Your father for one," He answered. "You may kill me, that's as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. But he'll just pay someone else to come find you, and bring you home. He's a powerful man, Lady Maryn, and even if he weren't he's rich, which is just about the same thing. But I'm the man he came to first. The one he asked to bring you home safe and sound. And I let you live. If you kill me now for what I had to do, then you know he'll just pay someone else to come." "Stop," Lady Maryn said, and Lumberman obliged. "Will you kill us all, Lady Maryn?" Lumberman asked in barely more than a whisper. "Why did he send you?" She asked finally, the tip of her half drawn arrow drooping slightly. "I told these men he'd ransom for me, not murder them in cold blood." "Lady Maryn, these men have robbed, burned, raped, and murdered their way through the forests of Yew, Minoc, and Britain," Lumberman growled, "They're wanted by more than a dozen houses, blood warrants by three different trade guilds, and Lord British's guards in every city. Believe me when I tell you that the realm is better off without these men for a time. If they can balance their scales, perhaps they can reawaken in the world. Bu they were brigands, thieves, and much worse. They got no more than they deserved." "You didn't answer me," Lady Maryn repeated, raising her bow and drawing it fully. "Why did he send you?" Lumberman raised his hands again. "Okay. Fine. He's dying," Lumberman said carefully, "His time is growing short, and he wanted to see you." For a moment, Lady Maryn's face twisted in a mask of pain and fear. Then anger washed everything else out, and she fixed Lumberman with a hard stare. "Lady Maryn," Lumberman said, taking a step back. "It's said that the Fates curse a person who kills a messenger." Lady Maryn's face was grim. "I'm not gonna kill you," she hissed, "Just hurt you a little." Lady Maryn loosed the arrow. The three foot long shaft arched through the night and slammed into Lumberman's left shoulder. It hit him high, and he felt it tear through muscle and bone. The impact knocked him a step back, and he hit his knees, crying out. His back arched from the pain, and he fell on his side, twisted, and staring up at the night sky overhead. Lady Maryn's face appeared above him after a moment. Both moons and the lantern stood overhead as Lumberman looked up into her face, the cowl pushed back. "Such a crowded sky," Lumberman whispered, and the blackness closed in around him.... ******************** ...Ascher sat bolt upright in his bet, his scream still echoing off the walls. His windows were open, a cool breeze drifted softly through it. He sat for a while in his bed, his breath fogging in the dim darkness before his face. After a few moments, he remembered where he was, his room above the Siren's Call, and Paws. His name came back after a moment as well. He had been dreaming, he knew that much, though he couldn't form the images clearly in his mind. There was the sense of danger, of fear, and then pain. He reached up and rubbed his left shoulder. He must have slept on it wrong or something. Ascher stepped outside onto the balcony of his villa and stared at the tops of the trees around him. He was on the outskirts of the Village of Paws, and it was quiet. Both moons stood full overhead, and the lighthouse shown like a flame in the north. The sight comforted him for some reason that he couldn't place. "Crowded sky tonight," Ascher whispered to himself, and a chill ran down his spine.
