your entry onto our soil. Ilfedo the Lord Warrior himself welcomes travelers who bear us goodwill. It is part of this process of growing many settlements and towns into a strong nation.” He cleared his throat as the other men lent him a short cheer, for he thought he’d handled that phraseology rather fine. Though there was a lack of truth in his statement concerning travelers, for the Hemmed Land, to his knowledge, had not been visited by a foreign human in his generation.
“I am not a suspicious old sea lubber,” he said. “But I do find the timing of your arrival a bit strange. Never in our recorded history has a stranger come to us from the Sea of Serpents. Did you fall from the heavens by meteorite?”
“You have deduced correctly.” Linsair bowed to the grizzly-bearded man and walked barefooted toward the coastal town with his head held high.
It was a strange encounter by all counts, the fisherman said to his neighbors. Some thought they should stop the stranger and moved as if to follow. The grizzly-bearded fisherman held them back. “Let him go where he will. He seemed to be an honest fellow, even if a bit water-logged—‘fallen in a meteorite,’ indeed preposterous! And yet he may prove useful to the Lord Warrior.”
Linsair left the shore in peace and, arriving in town, found the sign of The Wooden Mug. He tried to blend in with the townsfolk. But two men who had too much to drink harassed the proprietor. Linsair bade them go home and consider God’s ways. “Are they not the chief of all ways?” he asked them. “He gave you breath and life. Should we not honor such a glorious master?”
One of the men hiccupped. “Look, Smithy, you’re in the wrong part of town.” He took another swig from his mug and put it back on the table, gazing into Linsair’s pinkish eyes. “Take your preaching to Brother Hersis where it’ll be appreciated.”
Linsair overturned the table and growled with such force that he might as well have been a creature, not a man. The inn quieted around him as he strode to the door and onto the cobblestone street.
On the Hemmed Land’s northern border, Ilfedo camped his makeshift army of five hundred men in the shade of the trees. He spread them thin so as to cover as much territory as possible. If the sorcerer and his minions returned through the desert tonight, the warriors would meet them.
As evening fell he stood between a pair of sturdy trees, stabbing his gaze northward into the stone-strewn desert. Some kind of creature had been reported to come from that desert. In three separate incidents, it had slain three men and two children dwelling along this stretch of the Hemmed Land’s border. All attacks had reportedly occurred in the dead of night.
The wind howled over the desert and whistled into the forest. Ilfedo fingered the hilt of the sword of the dragon. People in his territory had taken to calling it the Sword of Ilfedo. But for him it remained the Sword of the Dragon.
He wondered how well his baby had fallen asleep tonight. So delicate, so precious; someday this land would fall to her as an inheritance. She was already commonly called Princess. He did not doubt that, with her mother’s dragon blood flowing through her veins, his daughter could become a great ruler. But what of her character? Power should not be lightly handed to a youth. The Warrioresses would not spoil her. He felt certain of that. They would keep her safe, too.
“Dantress, why oh why? If you were here now our child would grow in your footsteps. Play with your skirt, learn from your voice, and smile at your love. Oh, I want that. I want that more than anything.”
Someone’s sword clinked against a nearby tree, and Ilfedo retreated into a deeper shadow. No one must see him like this. He would show himself strong at all times for his departed wife. She had sacrificed herself so their child could grow. How could he let his people perceive his still-grieving heart and expect them
“I am not a suspicious old sea lubber,” he said. “But I do find the timing of your arrival a bit strange. Never in our recorded history has a stranger come to us from the Sea of Serpents. Did you fall from the heavens by meteorite?”
“You have deduced correctly.” Linsair bowed to the grizzly-bearded man and walked barefooted toward the coastal town with his head held high.
It was a strange encounter by all counts, the fisherman said to his neighbors. Some thought they should stop the stranger and moved as if to follow. The grizzly-bearded fisherman held them back. “Let him go where he will. He seemed to be an honest fellow, even if a bit water-logged—‘fallen in a meteorite,’ indeed preposterous! And yet he may prove useful to the Lord Warrior.”
Linsair left the shore in peace and, arriving in town, found the sign of The Wooden Mug. He tried to blend in with the townsfolk. But two men who had too much to drink harassed the proprietor. Linsair bade them go home and consider God’s ways. “Are they not the chief of all ways?” he asked them. “He gave you breath and life. Should we not honor such a glorious master?”
One of the men hiccupped. “Look, Smithy, you’re in the wrong part of town.” He took another swig from his mug and put it back on the table, gazing into Linsair’s pinkish eyes. “Take your preaching to Brother Hersis where it’ll be appreciated.”
Linsair overturned the table and growled with such force that he might as well have been a creature, not a man. The inn quieted around him as he strode to the door and onto the cobblestone street.
On the Hemmed Land’s northern border, Ilfedo camped his makeshift army of five hundred men in the shade of the trees. He spread them thin so as to cover as much territory as possible. If the sorcerer and his minions returned through the desert tonight, the warriors would meet them.
As evening fell he stood between a pair of sturdy trees, stabbing his gaze northward into the stone-strewn desert. Some kind of creature had been reported to come from that desert. In three separate incidents, it had slain three men and two children dwelling along this stretch of the Hemmed Land’s border. All attacks had reportedly occurred in the dead of night.
The wind howled over the desert and whistled into the forest. Ilfedo fingered the hilt of the sword of the dragon. People in his territory had taken to calling it the Sword of Ilfedo. But for him it remained the Sword of the Dragon.
He wondered how well his baby had fallen asleep tonight. So delicate, so precious; someday this land would fall to her as an inheritance. She was already commonly called Princess. He did not doubt that, with her mother’s dragon blood flowing through her veins, his daughter could become a great ruler. But what of her character? Power should not be lightly handed to a youth. The Warrioresses would not spoil her. He felt certain of that. They would keep her safe, too.
“Dantress, why oh why? If you were here now our child would grow in your footsteps. Play with your skirt, learn from your voice, and smile at your love. Oh, I want that. I want that more than anything.”
Someone’s sword clinked against a nearby tree, and Ilfedo retreated into a deeper shadow. No one must see him like this. He would show himself strong at all times for his departed wife. She had sacrificed herself so their child could grow. How could he let his people perceive his still-grieving heart and expect them
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