Daenara
With the bare rock of the mountains behind her, Daenara stows her cloak next to a change of clothes and a few days’ worth of rations. Closing the pack, she checks that her rope and climbing hook are still secured, and shoulders the burden once more. At least it’s warmer down here. A few more weeks, and warmer still! A practiced eye quickly finds the vivid yellow marker for the path toward town, and the youth sets a steady, leisurely pace along the way. My Naming!
As the morning sky brightens through the canopy overhead, the miles fall away with ease -- rolling hills, small clearings, and narrow creek beds just beginning to carry away the first trickles of snowmelt pass quickly. After a short break near midday for a light lunch, a quicker pace is called for to reach Cutters’ Wash before nightfall. But it isn’t too long before Daenara hears the braying of mules and the frantic crack!ing of a lash not far off the main trail. Pausing to listen, a voice wracked with sobs is easily discerned, but not so the words it garbles.
Albion / Blizzard / Allvin
It was quickly becoming unclear whose clothing was the more soiled -- Albion’s own durable alchemist’s robes, or the . . . uniform? . . . of the odorous, blithering drunkard that had just knocked him into the mud, vomited across his left shin, and coiled a sinewy arm about the apprentice’s waist. Peering about for the nearest clear spot, Albion begins gradually hauling the incoherent man toward the shade at the corner of Allvin’s father’s lumber mill. Older, stuporous, and heavy. And I still need to gather up the herbs I dropped, too. This is a bother. How can anyone be this drunk this early in the day, and out on the streets at the same time?!
Ummmm, Albion . . . what are you doing with that old man?
The drunken sot slips from his grasp as Albion turns to see Allvin quirking an incredulous eyebrow his way. With a frustrated sigh and palms quickly hoisted skyward, the alchemist-in-training says nothing and tells everything. The two teens rather roughly deposit their burden against the sawmill wall, and Albion gets his first good look at the man. That’s a King’s Rangers uniform, he mutters. What’s next? I've got a long walk ahead of me, and this isn't helping!
There’s no telling, Albion. I’ve hauled this one around a few times in the last couple years, Allvin quips. I hear that he’s been assigned a trainee recently. Feel sorry for that one! The young carpenter pauses. How soon do you want to leave for Three Waters?
Adric / Valentine
Salt-cured ham, eggs, and a bit of cheese served with watered wine made for a rather fine breakfast, Adric had decided. What was not so fine, though typical, was that Blizzard had once more not found his way to his small cot in their shared room. While tracking, forecasting the weather, foraging, and some weapons training were all part of the prescribed training regimen for a Ranger, Adric was gaining more proficiency at tracing his superior’s midnight stumblings through every community in the Vale than at anything related to woodcraft. Draining his mug and standing up from the table, Adric reasoned, The stable first. A bed of hay and horse manure would be his easiest lodging.
Nodding thanks to the innkeep, the recruit steps out into a cool, mist-wreathed morning warming to a pale golden sky and turns toward the stables. In only a few moments it becomes clear that both horses are exactly where he left them, and that Blizzard is not nearby. However, one horse is outside a stall, munching happily on the last small bales of hay near the shoeing station. Adric takes a pause and notices that the two rear stalls are wide open. Ha! He’s outdone himself this time! The useless man turned two horses loose just so he could look a fool again! The first stall turns out to be empty of anything except straw and clumps of pungent manure. The second, however, is also occupied by a collapsed form that is clearly not his trainer. And Adric’s first reaction is to think that foul play is involved . . . .
And I'm supposed to be leaving for the Trial today! Where is that ale-swilling fool?
Celia
Daenara hadn’t spotted her at the treeline. The turf was still damp from the rains two days past, and the leaves still wet. Moving through the underbrush without making a sound (that she could hear) had proven shockingly easy. I’m going to spook the soul right out of her, this time! Celia laughed to herself. I need a good laugh. There’s too little to do between here and Three Waters . . . .
Her friend’s lunch had taken a bit longer than Celia felt was necessary, but so had been her placid pace throughout the day. The aspiring cutter -- whether just purses or throats was undetermined -- is caught off-guard, though, when Daenara redoubles her speed after snacking. Not to be put off her goal of a test and a joke at the same time, Celia quickens her steps and stays within eyeshot of her target, and luckily keeps mistake-free. But she nearly misses the beat when her intended “victim” freezes on the trail, head tilted toward something in the wooded distance. A faint and incomprehensible murmur of disturbance reaches the young woman’s ears, and Celia grins in anticipation. Twice the people, twice the fun!
Gulsti
The dropped flask had been empty, just like the wineskin an hour before. Disappointed that there was no chance of a free drink while “working”, Gulsti resolves himself to fleece the blundering Ranger of every copper piece before rolling him down the riverbank to a bone-chilling bath. At least he’ll sober up quick, by the time I’m through. But this mark better be worth it -- I want the boss to set me for success before I leave town!
Gulsti glances toward his mark after stowing the flask in his belt pouch and grimaces as he sees the Ranger crash into a thick-robed youth. A small basket of wrapped, labeled herbal packets spills into the muddy street, and the unlucky bystander heaves a longsuffering sigh as he makes to pull the older man off the street. Gulsti curses his luck, but keeps watching, looking for a new angle to work -- getting someone else’s silver was all that mattered!
Alice / Purity
Purity looks up from the arrow in her lap as a rider nearly pitches headfirst off a workhorse into the Waystation wall. Help! HELP!! The boy, no more than twelve winters old, drenches himself in a puddle as he tries to gain the doorway of the outpost. Fletching is quickly forgotten as voices crescendo from within, and Purity springs up, breath caught in her throat. She sees Alice, the young acolyte at the shrine across the road, poke her head out the daffodil-decked doorframe. Their eyes meet, and both young ladies know -- something has happened to Lady Ferren’s entourage.
Alice turns back inside, navigating the dawn-lit room more by memory than sight, and begins gathering her mentor’s kit. Poultices, needle, thread, splints, bandages all are tucked snugly into the worn leather satchel, and she scampers back toward the priestess’s quarters. Three loud knocks, and rattling snores keep their rhythm. Huffing a soft sigh, the acolyte pushes into the tiny room and shakes a woolen-socked foot. Ma’am. MA’AM! Something’s happened! I know not what, but the Count’s daughter is in trouble. They’ll be calling for you, Old Mother. Your bag’s ready. The blanket heaves and flaps about as she sits up, blinking, age-clouded eyes unsure in the misty light filtering through the thatched roof. Aye, girl, I’m awake. Surprisingly spry, though close to blind, the elder shuffles about, exchanging nightclothes for a robe and cloak, and cramming twisty old toes into a pair of boots. Alice, fetch me a cup of broth from the pot -- I do hope you kept the embers warm -- , and then go help Purity ready the infirmary for the injured. Don’t worry about the horse. I’ll knock him in the head on my own. You'll be needing to make ready for your own trip after the infirmary's readied.
Back across the road, Purity is stringing bowstaves and stacking quivers for the Rangers that are soon to ride out eastward. Her father had brought the family out here, as middle-of-nowhere as one could be in the Vale, twelve years past -- the same time her uncle, Blizzard, had gotten his commission with this outpost. The more she thought about it, it could only be a surprise that they had prospered so -- but she was glad they had. Now with the armaments laid out, she moved into the infirmary to prepare the beds, and Alice entered the other doorway a half-second later. Another meaningful look was exchanged, but the two girls set about the task without a word spoken . . . yet.
Gulsti
It becomes clear that the two youths monitoring the drunken Ranger aren't soon going to let him out of their sight, so Gulsti ambles southward, looking for a new mark.
With the tiniest piece of luck, Gulsti liberates a teamster of his purse just as the drover is moving along the road toward Northferry, and he slips off toward the Stone Soup Tavern to count his new coin.
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Adric
The ranger-in-training quickly discerns that the collapsed person isn't going to awaken at all, and so he hauls them up in a rescue carry and shuffles back to the inn's common room. He calls for assistance as he blunders through the doorway, trying desperately not to knock the victim about.
Never one to be bold, Adric has to lay his burden on the floor beside the bar and dash into the kitchen to attract anyone's attention. The innkeeper sends a child running for the healer, and Adric is torn between staying with his charge, or trying to find his training officer.
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Klin
Being unusually generous with the whip to drive the mules toward the Wash, Klin has to trust more that the beasts recall their way home -- he can't see anything through tear-blurred eyes.
Fortunately the mules do know the way home, but they're none too satisfied with the cracking whip. Klin narrowly avoids one well-aimed kick that could have cracked his breastbone, but stumbles onward.
(continued)
Adric / Gulsti / Valentine
As Gulsti wanders into the Stone Soup Tavern and Inn, he nearly trips over a prostrate form lying in the path alongside the bar. He is shocked to see Valentine, complexion an ugly, chalky grey and clothing speckled with bits of straw, rigid and immobile on the barroom floor. He leans down to search for any signs of life just as a sandy-haired child dashes out of the kitchens and out the door.
I just found this one in the stables. I don't know what's happened, but we've sent for the healer.
The unmistakable uniform of the King's Rangers (even with the yellow chevron of a trainee) shocks Gulsti just a little. He surreptitiously slips the freshly-cut purse into his belt pouch, hoping that it was smooth enough to go unnoticed.
I've met Valentine a time or two. But . . . you know . . . alert, and talkative . . . . Gulsti hesitates a moment, and supplies, I'll . . . ummm . . . be over by the hearth, out of the way.
Adric is slightly put off by the other fellow's rather uncaring attitude, and eyes him closely as he walks away. I doubt he's responsible for this, but he seems quick to stay away. Must be the uniform.
Soon enough, the healer arrives on her horse-drawn cart and secures the ailing youngster. She looks rather expectantly at Adric with her palm up for a moment before he stammers, Ongoing investigation, ma'am. As soon as my training officer contacts me, we'll meet with you and get you your payment. I'm sure you understand.
She utters no word, but quirks an eyebrow at Adric before turning with a huff, and soon the cart trundles away with its burden. With a relieved sigh, the Ranger initiate steps back into the street and begins searching for his wayward superior.
Not long after the novice Ranger departs, the seat opposite Gulsti is suddenly filled with a large, round human who moves with surprising grace. I thought he'd never get out of here! Wouldn't be good for my anonymity if I just loitered in public with a Ranger about. Ha ha! The bulky fellow peers closely at Gulsti and says: So. What have you got for me? The purse hefts nicely as it is passed over, and Gulsti's Syndicate contact instructs, I'll meet you near the lumberyard an hour after sunset with your gear. I know that presses you for time getting to Three Waters, but we've got some riders headed toward the Ferries tonight, and a boat going downstream tomorrow afternoon. We'll get you there, and rested, no worry. See you tonight.
Whether by foot, or horse, or boat, our handful of Valers have arrived at Three Waters just ahead of the beginning of the Trial of Naming. For some, it is a time of excited anticipation; for others, it is tension suspended interminably. And for one King's Ranger, it is swiftly turning into pure punishment.
King's Rangers Headquarters, city proper, midday
The boy isn't supposed to be the one who keeps you at your post, Blizzard! He's to learn why staying on-post is so important from you, the captain seethes. And so instead of having my most experienced man -- technically speaking -- at the outpost in the south hills, they had to send a rider to retrieve you! I'm just glad that they knew where to look. A sheaf of parchments is thrown to the tabletop with a grunt of pure disgust, and the slightly younger officer drops into his seat. He tilts his head back to appraise Blizzard, and continues. By all accounts, your drinking has become a well-known problem -- from here to Last Rest and back. Common folk are expressing sympathy for that boy, Adric, having been assigned to you for training. And rather than being where you should have been, you were in the Wash, in a stupor. Too-shiny boots clump down on the desk corner. And so it is that you will not be chasing down what happened to the shipment of arms that disappeared between the Wash and Ravenlock. Nor will you be leading the investigation into what happened to Lady Ferren less than six miles from your station! Instead, you get to babysit the initiates in the Trial. You will tag along behind them and simply keep an eye on these younglings for the next ten days or so. Perhaps your trainee will finally get some real field experience, since it's his Naming Year. The sergeant-at-arms has your kit ready downstairs. Dismissed.
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The Godswell, near town, sundown
The late afternoon sun is turning a brilliant golden-orange as a pack of young people mill about in the amphitheater at the Godswell. A small host of priests of several faiths draw water from the clear spring, filling a series of wide-mouthed skins as they wait for Count Ferren to arrive. The gathering is somewhat subdued, for the news of the slaughter of Dawn Ferren and her escort has reached every ear.
When the count and his entourage reach the assembly, there is no fanfare, and the heraldry of the noble house is concealed behind the sable shroud of mourning. The stern-faced Lord of the Vale mounts the timber stage and calls the group to order, his expression grim and his eyes lit with fell energy. His voice rings clearly through the natural auditorium.
Young people of the Gladden! Today is the beginning of your passage to adulthood. Since time immemorial, the people of this valley have performed this rite of to take their place as citizens among the peoples here. The Trial of Naming is meant to be a test of character, ingenuity, resolve, and skill, and succeeding in it grants you a place in this great society. I wish you all well in the days ahead.
Each of you will be given one of these consecrated waterskins, filled with water drawn from this sacred wellspring. It is your most critical possession in the journey ahead -- keep it safe. Over the next three days, you are to travel toward Last Rest by a road that does not pass through the place you call home, offering service to the Vale's people, gaining reputation and aid as you go. Your work will be rewarded with advice, or tools, or even weaponry of some sort, all intended to serve you on the way. At sundown on the third day, a feast will be held at the great hall in Last Rest, where you will have your last sleep under a roof for a time. The morning after, you will begin the trek through the canyon toward the great waterfall of the River Gladden. There you will climb into the mountain steeps and find the path to the Greywicker Vast. In that strange yet hallowed location, you are each to find one bloom and one fruit from that sprawling grove, and then bring them back here before sundown on the tenth day. The fruit you claim is to be crushed and then placed within this waterskin, to steep until you return home. That purple flower will then be worked into a badge that confirms your citizenship and right to conduct your own business separate and apart from your family or guardians in the Vale.
This Trial is not one of competition, necessarily, but it is one that will test each of you. The journey has its own perils, and some of you might not return. Some of you might survive this test, and yet fail to complete it -- anyone who has not returned by the tenth day hence must wait five more years to make the attempt again. Many who do not attain this goal journey elsewhere to make their living. But those of you who do succeed will have your name recorded in the Rolls now and forever, and will be regarded as citizens of the Gladden.
So I offer you this encouragement: on your way, aid one another. Learn the names and trades of the Valers you assist, for their respect will garner favor for you in your lives as adults. Draw upon the knowledge and strengths of everyone around you to bring your part in the Trial to conclusion. Our traditions are of great importance, and keeping them has preserved the health of our community for generations.
And as additional motivation, I make this entreaty: should any of you learn some fact or clue that will aid me in seeking justice for my daughter, Dawn, who would have begun this Trial with you today, I will award you fifty pieces of gold. Furthermore, once that justice is done, I will personally bring you another one hundred golden crowns for your part in bringing me peace. I love this valley and its people, and yet I loved my daughter more -- help this father, this family, and you will be favored for it. Go now on your way, and may the gods of light and good keep you.
There is also this to consider: the court wizard has frequently enlisted Bea's aid in maintaining the books in his library, and she has learned scraps of arcane theory, history, and general knowledge during her time with him. Though she was never accepted as a full apprentice, the bright young woman often one-upped the nobleborn learners who had paid a tuition to the master wizard. Just the morning of the Trial's beginning, the wizened arcanist asked her to find something interesting and powerful on her trip, and to bring it back to him. If what she discovers is impressive enough, he will accept her as a full apprentice -- free of tuition!
Blizzard's attachment to the group as "unhelpful escort" may be a source of . . . something.
Gulsti does his best to watch for an opportunity that promises high reward for low effort, while trying to stay out of line of sight of the 'Alehouse Ranger' and his trainee.
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The healer in the Wash told Klin that there was a type of moss that could be found in the mountain heights that would be helpful to Baernd. He had it in mind to complete the trial as quickly as possible -- skip the feast at Last Rest, make the climb on his own, find the Greywicker grove, get the flower and the fruit, and get this over with. So he looked for drovers and teamsters to assist, always pushing to get further down the road just a little faster.
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Adric was just glad to get away from Blizzard for a while. He knew the career Ranger had to know something of what he wanted to learn, but that experience had not been forthcoming. So he trailed along behind the pack of youngsters walking down the road that led to Bear's Den, and just offered help wherever it seemed needed.
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Blizzard's efforts to track down an easy drink are apparently doomed to fail. No one seems especially receptive to his cajoling, so he eventually migrates to one of the last pubs on the outskirts of Three Waters and spends a copper for some cheap ale. The barkeep pinches the coin quickly, and Blizzard tries to enjoy the subpar beverage. At least it has an alcohol content, he muses.
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Purity's work in the Widow Tucks's garden isn't especially impressive, but the old bachelorette passes her a well-wrapped batch of dried fruits and nuts, enough to pass for a full day's rations. She wishes Purity well as she takes her leave.
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Whether by Albion's grousing or his surprising effectiveness in helping carve the meats for curing, Yuginov determines that it is well worth it to run the young alchemist off with a cured ham, a bit of cheese, and a spare knife. Might be best if we leave our business right where it is, kid. You've got quite a mouth on you, and I'd rather not have my customers overhear it. But you've definitely got a knack for cutting animals up, I'll admit. Take that knife you've been using -- it might come in handy: gotta keep an eye out for those cragcats.
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It seems that Gulsti spotted exactly the right lady to help with her wash, because he gets sent on his way with a day's worth of bread and smoked meat and a scarcely used bedroll. It can still get coolish in the mountains this early in the spring, youngster. Stay warm, and be safe! Gulsti smirks as she tosses him a wink, and he takes to the road.
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Klin is so addled about trying to make rapid progress on his way that he finds no one to assist. He's usually quite good at speaking with others, but he's having difficulty moving beyond his worry over Baernd.
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It does indeed seem that word-of-mouth about Adric's training officer has spread. Though the young man has very little self-confidence, his focus on whatever he chooses to do serves him well. He helps a drover unload his wagon of goods, and though the hauler complains regularly about his missing coin purse, he gives the Ranger cadet a parcel of jerky and a surplus flint and steel. Probably need to light a torch or two, fella, before yer trip's done. Since ya's on the South Road, ya shouldn't have no trouble finding some! This'll make sure ye can have a light when ye need it! The teamster heaves a sack of grain onto the loading platform behind the inn. I'll keep an eye out for ye, lad. I'm impressed with yer work. You ever need a thing moved from here to there, ask around fer Randel -- I'd be glad to help ye someday! Thanks for the heavy lifting!
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Count Ferren's offer of a reward for helping track down his daughter's killers has proven so strong a lure that most of the Trial initiates are ignoring the tradition of taking a different road toward Last Rest. The vast majority are wending their way toward Bear's Den, with the hope that they can find some clue on the South Road in just two more days. The scuttlebutt is that her carriage and bodyguard were attacked less than an hour's ride beyond the Ranger outpost that is situated halfway between Last Rest and Bear's Den, the place Alice and Purity call home.
Gulsti grew more and more excited as he got closer to Bear's Den. He was sure that someone, somewhere in the cave town knew some piece of gossip that would point toward that fifty-crown reward. He was certainly interested in advancing within the Syndicate, but a little extra gold in one's pocket never hurt anybody! Confident that he could afford to forgo the community service aspect of things for a day, Gulsti wandered into one of the few aboveground taverns and quietly searched out the local Syndicate contact.
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Today has to be better. I need to find some work, get some help! If I can't talk to people straight, then I've got no business running ahead on my own, Klin reasoned. His stumbling attempts at conversation the previous day haunted him -- he knew that his way with people was his best chance of finding a way to help Baernd, and helping Baernd hinged in large part on his success in the Trial.
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Having been through Bear's Den a time or two with Blizzard, Adric quickly descended into the warren of caves which housed the majority of the township's businesses and government offices. He hoped to reconnect with the captain of the Baron's guard, and hopefully find some serious work -- he'd feel much more comfortable with a good sword at his belt.
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Throughout Bear's Den, a host of hopeful youths fan out and look for good work, trailed by a seemingly disinterested Ranger. The locals prove quite hospitable, and the initiates' efforts are well-rewarded -- well, generally speaking. A minor crisis literally erupts at a charcoal fire stoked too high, but it is dealt with quickly; the rather embarrassed alchemist's apprentice responsible doesn't manage to repeat his previous success with the Butcher Yuginov. Beyond that, the day passes well, but a tension begins to gather in the Denfolk and their young visitors . . . for tomorrow will bring these initiates face-to-face with the hard facts of life, and how suddenly that life was ripped from the Count's eldest child. The adults look on with pity tempered by hope, and those coming-of-age look ahead with expectation curbed with a little fear.
But that very revelation is part of what the Naming Trial is about: seeing life for what it is, and finding one's place in enduring it -- or even overcoming it.
As the day draws to a close, and the initiates gather around the wardpost located near the cave entrance, stories are told -- whether favorite fables or tidbits of Vale lore handed down through the generations. Within these stories may lie kernels of vital truth . . . .
And even the gruff and grumbling Ranger escort might have a fireside tale to tell this night . . . .
Bea shares one of the simplest elements of Vale history: the wardposts. Each established community in the Gladden region, depending upon its size and population, has its boundaries set by a series of distinctively-colored hardwood posts, and at least one wardpost positioned near the town center, often in its market area. The wardposts set the jurisdiction of the local governments within, and the authority of the barons and count without.
Gulsti recalls something he overheard from one of his . . . "brothers" just a few months back: the nickname some of the oldtimers give the greywicker -- "bonecreep", they call it. The strange plant grows to a height of nearly twelve feet in places, covered by thick, matted yellow-hued foliage that almost resembles grass. But it's the stalks, branches, and roots that give the bonecreep its unusual name. As hard as its name implies, bonecreep doesn't cut easily, burns poorly, and is almost useless for being shaped by a carpenter or woodcarver. The pale stems of greywicker grow together in weird coils and loops that rise from the soil, and their sprawl can form a natural maze of tunnels. It is within these shadowed passageways that the most prized greywicker fruits grow.
Daenara tells the other youngsters some mountain wisdom: one of the birds unique to the peaks they will be climbing in just a handful more days is called the razorhawk. Razorhawks are intensely territorial, and even though they're of similar size to eagles and condors, they have a devastating means of dealing with intruders and threats -- though they fly slowly, razorhawks perform dives that can knock a grown man from his feet, and sometimes even break bone. Though their feathers do not contrast with the stark stone of the mountains in a way that makes them easy to spot, they can be discerned by the gleam of sunlight that occasionally reflects off their otherwise plain plumage.
Either because going back up to the Greywicker Vast has brought it to mind from years past, or to grace the mewling kiddos with a tale to frighten, Blizzard warns the initiates of the deadliest predator of the mountain passes -- the cragcat. Massive hunting cats of astonishing patience and eerie climbing ability, cragcats have been known to lie in wait for prey for days at a time, sometimes even while clinging to near-vertical rock faces. Escaping from a cragcat is rather easy due to their slowness, but it is rare that anyone struck by one of the great beasts survives that initial attack.
Blizzard sends the children off to their rest with the whispered threat followed by a sudden shout, and he chuckles while his charges scamper away, . . . and he heads to find another ale.
The trial initiates have begun to bond among one another, reaching out beyond their familiar friendships from their respective hometowns, and there are flashes of growing camaraderie among their ranks. As they set out from Bear's Den, the road grows tougher -- the hills are more steep, and the encroaching forest serves as a reminder: the dangers ahead are nearer than before. There may be comfort in numbers, given that there are nearly twoscore and ten wending their way toward the next stage of the Trial, yet whispers are passed among the travelers: We're almost to where the Lady Dawn was killed. And she was guarded by some of House Ferren's greatest knights and warriors! What will do if we're attacked the same way?
The Denfolk made sure to provide the novices with enough jerky, nuts, berries and miscellaneous foodstuffs that there is no need for the troupe to pause for lunch on their way forward, and so it is that they arrive at the Rangers' outpost in the late afternoon. Everyone knew that the outpost was a tiny community, so small as to even lack a wardpost of its own, and that finding work according to Vale tradition would prove difficult; but what they find is something altogether different. Rather than keep with the purest form of the old ways, the Ranger captain here has planned something irregular, but no less meaningful, for the youths.
As the youngsters come within bowshot of the small tower and its surrounding buildings, they meet two fully armed Rangers watching the road. They are directed to gather behind the stables, where they'll receive new instructions. In little over an hour, all the younglings are clustered off the road, the smell of horse manure and old straw wafting from the enclosures a few yards away.
A loud voice rolls from around the building's corner, stentorian, and comfortable with command: You are all in danger. You are young, inexperienced, and unlikely to survive an attack like the one that took our Lady of the Vale. A middle-aged man appears before the gaggle of initiates, a cadre of Rangers behind him all heavily laden with heavy sacks. The captain, familiar to Alice and Purity, is of middling height and build, but moves with a practiced ease that speaks to a readiness for violence at any instant. His dark brown eyes scan the gathered crowd, his gaze searching -- piercing -- through the adolescents. I am Captain Kadmin, King's Ranger, and commander of this outpost. My scouts have been searching both day and night for the young Countess's attackers, and have found almost nothing of use. You may know it in your heads, but I am here to tell you straightly: none of you can hope to survive a thing like what happened to her and her guardsmen.
Once more his eyes rake over the young men and women gathered before him. The Trial is difficult enough that not all who begin it survive. But now there is a threat to our people here, where for years long-forgotten we have been able to count on safety, and the honesty of those met on the road. This spring, though, I cannot guarantee your safety between this outpost and Last Rest; indeed, I am surprised that you weren't attacked between here and the Den. I am glad you are safe; I will do what I can to prepare you for the road ahead.
None of you will look for work this evening, because I have prepared it for you. I see backpacks, a handful of knives, perhaps a small bow or two among you. In truth, even if you were as well-trained as these Rangers before you, they would not be enough to save you. But we are Valers, one and all -- we know how to pull together in hard times, and we are not the sort to roll over and die in the direst of circumstances. He sweeps his hand toward the turf before him, and his underlings begin to empty their bags and bundles on the ground in front of him. I am sure that both the Count and the Vale Commander will have my family jewels in a smith's vise for this, and may even drum me out of the Rangers altogether, but I will not stick so strongly to tradition that I feel I would be sentencing all of you to a terrible death by doing things as they've always been done. I have emptied the armory of the simplest weaponry we have on hand; I have raided our stores for food and waterskins -- and nearly left our cupboards bare. Today is your first day of weapons training, initiates -- and likely your last until the Trial is ended. My men will work with you to give you some familiarity with these simple weapons for your own defense for the next four hours, after which you'll be provided a meal and place to sleep. Heed them well, young people -- your lives may depend upon it.
Captain Kadmin turns on his heel and bellows for Blizzard to accompany him to the tower.
Gulsti
With a bit of swagger and more overconfidence, Gulsti accepts a sling and a club from pile of weapons and moves off with a cluster of learners. Feeling that his quick hands will serve him better, he tries to make a show of his few attempts at slinging rocks.
When the time comes to swing the club, though, the aspiring Syndicate brother loses a bit of that bravado, but tries gamely to bludgeon the practice dummy.
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Klin
Always having had greater success at running off wilderness creatures by yelling and waving his arms, Klin goes at the tasks of slinging and clubbing with quiet meekness. This isn't going to work.
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Adric
Seeing the chance to pass off some responsibility to the Ranger trainee, the men-at-arms impress Adric with the task of documenting the equipment issue proceedings, telling him that keeping records is vital work. Even though he knows better, Adric accepts the mild hazing with his typical longsuffering, and then tries his hand with sling and club in the very last clutch of initiates.
Young Clem
Young Clem stumbles up and tries a few times with a bow that he can barely hold up and almost shoots himself and someone else
Then Clem picks up a club and promptly barely swings it at the target
Clem is so happy with is one accurate shot and so surprised he almost trips in his excitement and then claps with glee knowing this will be a great story one day!
Fitz "The Wolf
Fitz walks up and tries a few throws of some hand axes first his arm sure and strong from much logging
Then he moves in close with his wood axe and goes "to town" with it on a target hacking this way then that
Fitz gets a couple of good hits in both with hand axe and wood axe and smiles his crooked wolf like grin and moves on happy with his results.
Durr
Durr walks on up and tries his hand only at the bow
Durr shakes his head at it and then shrugs and walks on past not really doing all that well and not wanting to try anything else and look more foolish.
Kadmin leads Blizzard onto the road and begins to walk eastward at a slow pace, as the clatter and clang of weapon practice fades behind them. They walk past the small shrine and the outpost's main entrance, and look on as some of the local homesteaders fetch water from the well for finishing the evening meal's preparations. The setting sun at their backs casts faint shadows before them as they go beyond the last hovel and look toward the treeline ahead.
All right, old friend. I know you've been given a lousy task, what with herding this pack of kids into who knows what in the next several days, but I've got a couple more things to add to the load. I'm not going to be able to leave the post until after I make my official report to Count Ferren on his arrival, and there's no telling what I'll be in for once he and the commander find out what I've done here to give these pups a fighting chance. Kadmin pulls thoughtfully at his goatee as he scans the dark forest ahead. A miner came into Last Rest about a month ago raising nine kinds of hell about having been robbed. Word is that he claimed to have stocked up about forty pounds of silver ore in his shack, but came out of his little dig late one afternoon to find the bags missing. He got into Last Rest, found his way into a bottle, . . . here Kadmin pauses and regards Blizzard closely, . . . and started moaning about strangers in the mountains. One of my couriers overheard his ranting, and mentioned it to me. I haven't been able to free up anyone to go look into it, but I'd appreciate it if you could find out what you can, and get word back to me.
The captain turns and squares up on Blizzard, not threateningly, but in a direct way that calls for attention. I want you to find this miner, get the story from him. I'm not so interested in the silver ore as I am the "strangers" he talked about. I doubt that it's got anything to do with what happened to the young Countess, but it might be that the Syndicate are looking for a quiet route over the mountains, and this old fellow was just a victim of opportunity. A pause. Something tells me that this random theft is important, Blizz. I don't know why, but I think there's something in that miner's story that we need to know. You're already headed that way, and likely to find the same tavern that digger is in, so I've got to ask you to get me something, if there is anything to it.
Kadmin hesitates, and looks at his feet as he scuffs a boot over the dirt. And the other thing. . . . . I'm not trying to rake you over the coals here -- I'm sure you got plenty of that back in Three Waters -- , but let's be honest: it's been years since your fieldwork was up to par. You still haven't told me what it was that pushed you so hard toward the booze -- and you don't have to! -- , but some of those kids are gonna get real curious once you get to . . . where it happened. Where she died. They're gonna look to you if only because of the uniform. You'll have a chance to show that boy Adric, and all the rest of them, that you do have what it takes to be a Ranger. A chance to make an impression. And I'm willing to wager a month's pay that your next disbursement will be your last if you don't show somebody your worth. The rumor mill is already grinding that grain, friend -- some say you're as good as done as a Ranger. And I don't want that for you. I want you back. Back in fighting trim, back in the know, back running your patrols instead of touring every alehouse in the Gladden. I've seen you do it before. Do it again, before they retire you for real.
The Rangers supervising the weapons practice (because, honestly, no one could call it "training") manage to stifle their chuckles -- mostly. A few times some murmurs of approbation rumble amid their numbers, but there are no shouts, not even at the best strikes the novices manage. Through it all, though, they offer sound advice and provide basic, effective instruction.
Once the allotted time passes, and everyone takes a short break before the evening meal, a handful of the more energetic initiates scatters to and fro around the outpost, offering help and looking for work in the finest of Vale tradition.
Maybe not tonight, but sometime I might just try to knock off that strongbox on its way here . . . , he muses.
A brightly-burning candle on a tall stand rests on a desk in the far corner, and the scent of woodsmoke, hot wax, and tobacco wafts over him. The bowl of a pipe glows through the smoke, and Trimbolt discerns a shockingly tall Ranger medico reading a book in the lull before dinner.
Help you wi' somethin', lad?
A pair of heavy leather gloves rests on the anvil, and Hafnor can tell that though they're weathered, they aren't worn by frequent, heavy use. The Ranger continues, As for the quartermaster himself, y'can prob'ly meet him at dinner. Cap'n had him tied up in some task or another while you rookies were . . . gettin' your trainin'. A slight pause. I don't really have any work for you to help with at the moment -- I finished puttin' a fresh sharpen on all the blades we got just yesterday. Maybe once you've finished the Trial, you can come back by and see if work's picked up. I dunno about using Ranger fuh-silly-dees for your own work, but sometimes Kadmin turns a blind eye to stuff. Just as like not to, though, too. We'll see!
Let's go see what they whipped up for grub 'round here, eh?
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Kadmin and Blizzard spend a few minutes reminiscing before they turn back toward the mess hall, trailing behind the ever-growing crowd of growling stomachs. The meal turns out to be a succession of hearty stew, some assorted roast wild game, and freshly baked bread. Mealtime overflows from the mess hall and back out onto the roadside, delighted chatter interspersing pleased munchings. Once everyone has eaten their fill, the cleanup begins. After each plate, bowl, and utensil has been cleaned by its user, the post quartermaster issues the initiates a simple pack, four days' rations, a waterskin (the normal sort, not the weird Trial-issued ones), a club, a sling, and ten sling bullets.
Young Clem makes his way to a street corner and tries to perform for a few extra coins to see if he can grind out some dinner and a drink or perhaps even a stay at an inn.
Fitz will settle in for a day and gathers some fire wood to sell from just outside the town, bundling it and tying it with ripped scrap until he has all the bundles his strength can carry and bringing it back to town to sell.
Durr will see if any of the smiths need locksmith work or if the town has any locksmith work needed.
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The night at the Ranger outpost passes quietly enough, and though there are no beds (and no inn), the fires are warm and the loaned linens clean. When day begins breaking, the troop of young folk and the troop of King's men share another meal -- a warm breakfast of griddle cakes and sausages. Captain Kadmin makes no appearance as the initiates depart, but the Rangers clap a few shoulders and bid the younglings to take care on the way to Last Rest. No more words are spoken, but everyone knows: just a few miles up the road, the group will pass by the place where the Count's daughter and her escort met their end.
Ahead lies danger, and mystery.
"Brisk", most Valers would call a spring morning like this. The wind is kicking up, and the breeze out of the west is chilly. Winter is still nearby, perhaps making ready for one last strike before spring fully takes hold. The birds are singing cheerily as they seek food and mates; a few sleek squirrels dash through branches overhead. A fine morning.
But the hills are mounting higher and higher, and the road winds more steeply. Some Trial initiates begin to question the wisdom of choosing the more difficult road toward Last Rest, rather than the easy track along the River Gladden. And then they remind themselves once more: Lady Dawn.
As the pack of youngsters plods up a particularly demanding hillside, they emerge from the shade of the forest to the brilliant blue sky overlooking the rocky shelf of land they've summitted. A mesa so vast that the engineers of the Vale and the duchy decided to simply build the road up and over it, rather than circle all the way around it. The grey bedrock of the tableland seems trackless -- what few boulders and small shrubs dot the landscape would make for poor landmarks up here. Fortunately, with the road already at their feet, they can clearly see where the stone was painstakingly graded and smoothed -- an easy path to follow in broad daylight.
But in the flat desolation of the mesa, it is all too easy to spot the shattered remnants of Lady Dawn's carriage just a few hundred yards away. From this vantage, even the bright blue dress cloaks of a Rangers guard detail are discernible, and it soon becomes clear that the attack was carried out right on the roadway.
Both front wheels of the carriage have been broken, making the conveyance tilt forward at a weird angle. The wood of the doors and driver's seat has been hacked to splinters. Snapped strips of leather and shards of turned wood are all that remain of the tongue and harness. A lone horseshoe rests on the roadside, chunks of hoof still nailed in place.
And the blood.
Even days later, with no rain to wash it away, the vivid splatters of red make for ghastly "decoration". Welters, spatters, speckles, splashes, films of crusted crimson accentuate and emphasize the tableau. The essence of twenty lives and more is poured out on the grey granite in a thirty-foot circle as though the bodies themselves were used as brushes to make the painting.
The heavy scent of copper can be detected from yards away. The flies have come up from the woods to feast on this bounty, and the thrum of their wings provides an inescapable undertone. If anything, the stone has served as nothing other than a baking sheet under the steady sun's glare -- it is certain that the Rangers on duty here have had to face worse than flies.
The sergeant steps forward. Blizzard. Any o' yer charges wanna take a look, yew escort 'em about. But they ain't supposed t' touch nuthin'. Nuthin' atALL! Or Kadmin'll have me roasted. The non-com's eyes flick toward Blizzard, but not straight enough to make eye contact. And if'n ye notices sum'thin', yuz s'pose t' tell me, eh?
Fitz moves forward cautiously following along his eyes scanning not really ever having seen death like this except to hunt. He thought out loud slaughter. What did this here didn't do it for food, but for the killing.
Young Clem looks from afar trying to see things cause he isnt getting anywhere near that!
Durr walks around it looking for any locks broken inside or outside the carriage.
The bare rock of the mesa has no dirt or turf to speak of, here on the road proper, but there are markings in the bloodstains -- but it is unclear if those signs are the result of the Rangers, the attack, wild animals, or all of the above, as yet.
Fitz, Drailen, and Hafnor step forward near Blizzard to survey the scene more closely, and the two humans are overwhelmed -- Fitz impressed by the savagery he perceives, Drailen still shocked by the sheer volume of blood on the ground. Hafnor, though, likely due to his more innate awareness of stone, studies the actual track of the road and the rock nearby, and notices an oddity: there is a broad swath of unusually level natural surface just to the south of the roadway here.
Durr moves past the other three to get right up on the wrecked carriage, and only misses marring something Blizzard sees in the blood-spatter due to the older man's warning. He turns his stride a bit to the left and makes his way right beside the ruined vehicle. As he walks the circuit (seeing some of the Ranger guards tense up a bit at his nearness to the crime scene), two things leap out to him: first, that any locks that were present were completely irrelevant; and second, that the interior of the carriage, though obviously vandalized, looks almost "neat" in comparison its exterior.
Why were security devices of any kind so useless? Because sheer brute force accounts for the sorry state of the formerly sturdy coach. All four doors were totally ripped from their hinges. The windows set to either side of the double-door entries were smashed inward, their rent shutters dangling from loosened mounts. The metal brace that supported the driver's seat has been bent upward at one corner, with the padding still secured to the now-broken hardwood panel. Both front wheels still have ironshod rims in one piece, but they are twisted out of true, the spokes having been sundered and nearly half of each wheel itself pulled away.
How is the inside so different? The bench cushions have all been yanked up to uncover the storage spaces beneath, and they are pitched haphazardly over the wooden supports. The curtains have some bloodstains where they face outwardly, but are free of any such on their inner surfaces. The fine carpet on the floorboard shows tears in places where it meets the doorframes, but is free of damage over most of its area. Scattered throughout the cabin are miscellaneous trinkets and tokens of a well-to-do lifestyle -- oddments of golden jewelry, a fine fur cloak, and a few lovely gowns are strewn about with no rhyme or reason.
Within the hurricane of bloodshed that surrounds the young Lady's last ride, her comfortable space seems very much the "eye of the storm".
Durr says I'm a locksmith and this thing took no damage from the inside, almost none at all. The compartment is still safe, but it looks like something did a lot of tearing up around it. Is there any report of hidden compartments inside the coach?
Durr will try to find one.
The Ranger sergeant hears Durr, and replies. Best I know, young'n, there weren't no compartments other'n the ones under the seats. But we've had no orders to akshlee get in there and look. We gathered up the pieces and made a pyre in the woods down the other side o' the mesa. The rest o' wut we's doin'? Leavin' it alone till the Count gets 'ere with his people.
Durr mutters grumpily at the restriction, but knows that he'd end up in more trouble than he wants if he climbed into the coach for a closer look. Nobles and their cursed rules!
Drailen empties his stomach a handful of yards away from the bloody scene, propping one hand on a boulder. As he straightens and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, he doesn't hear a single grunt of laughter or sarcastic remark from the six Rangers. When he meets the eyes of some in the squad, their sympathy is obvious, but he gleans that their cleanup detail was far worse.
As Gillian makes a wider loop around the carriage, watching Trimbolt wander over toward a tiny cluster of shrubs, he nearly plants his foot on something that contrasts with the dark grey bedrock underfoot. Peering down, he makes out a faint dusting of off-white curlicues in a ring about six inches in diameter. Weird.
Trimbolt heaves a sigh of disgust as he realizes the clump of shrubs holds nothing of use to ease Drailen's suffering. Not too surprising, really -- we're on top of a stone plate with too little soil for good seed to take hold . . . . And by the time we make it to the woods again, he won't really benefit much from a medicinal.
Blizzard blinks in the direction of Hafnor's gesturing, but isn't sure that he can discern what the young dwarf is going on about. Everybody stay right where you are for a minute! he calls loudly. Nodding to Hafnor, he quips, Maybe you oughtta show me what you noticed. I can't see it like you do, yet.