I brought my steed to bear as the small caravan ambled over the crest of the last hill before we entered the city of Tir Locke. I scanned the spread before us with practiced ease, taking in every detail with militaristic efficiency. Then, idly, I glanced toward the setting sun. I thought back on the number of times the sun had set on that caravan, and the realization that I was dead tired washed over me anew. Every inch of my muscular body ached, and, out of habit, I reached for the spectacles that were not there to clean the dirt that had not accumulated upon them. Inwardly sighing at the habit that was forcibly broken some ten years ago, when the spectacles had shattered upon my impromptu and vaguely unceremonious arrival in this land, I rubbed the grit and trail dust from my eyes and shrugged slightly. The longer I spent in this place, the better my eyesight got. Only a year after my arrival, I could already see more clearly than I ever had in my life, and it had only improved since then. My body also had improved, once soft and loose, now hard and compact. Indeed, I felt better than ever, even ten years hence. But still, old habits die hard. One of the two horsemen that had accompanied the caravan turned and looked questioningly at me. “All is well, Wolf?” he asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm. I blinked and almost didn’t respond to the name that wasn’t mine, but that I had answered to for the last ten years. “Aye lad,” I replied, urging my mount to a slow walk, not quite pacing the caravan. The other horseman nodded and slowed his pace to match mine, and I suppressed a grin. The horsemen was young and the unfortunate victim of hero-worship, but that was off-set by the equally unfortunate noble blood-line that carried itself out in an odd way. I had seen it before, and had worked with and against it more than once. While the lad idolized me, he, at the same time, tried to find ways to prove that he was better. “They will not stay the night.” the young man informed me, cutting off my string of thought. “They have to,” I replied gruffly, “the horses will go no further.” The young noblemen looked haughtily at me down his long, aristocratic nose. “And why is that?” he demanded in his ‘I am better than you because my father has a lot of money’ voice. I gave him a withering stare, and the youth shrank in his saddle. “Two reasons. One: I am leading this caravan and charged with it’s safety. Tir Locke is on the border of the free lands, and beyond is the land of the dragons. Two: If we travel one more mile, our horses will die right under us, and you will have to pull the wagon with your teeth.” The youth seemed about to speak, thought better of it, and kicked his horse to better pace the caravan. I was, once more, alone. A part of my brain cringed at the archaic cliché of that thought, however the rest of me simply rode onward. It seemed that irony and cliché would forever remain my companions.* * * The argument was not unexpected. The youth, despite his naiveté, had been right. The faery and the elf wanted to press forward into the night, and the others backed them, but I stood firm. I’d spent enough time defying authority figures to know that if you gave them an inch, they’d march right over you, so even when the elf threatened to report me to the Legion, I simply rebuked her threats with a deadpan stare and a nonchalant shrug of my broad shoulders. “If you are so quick to die, by all means, take your leave. But I, and the horses, stay here.” I stated quietly. The elf seemed ready to argue the point, but the faery, oddly, restrained her. The little fellow was different from most faeries I had met... Loud and brash, yet thoughtful and introspective (though still managing to be mischievous in a wry sort of way), he, and that infernal owl he spoke to as if it could understand him, seemed to me to be the only of the caravan’s occupants to have any sense of what was going on in the world, and how unlikely their mission was to succeed. The elf, for her part, stood down, but was clearly unhappy about it. After seeing my charges retired, the horses and wagon cared for, I found that, in spite of my apparent weariness, I was not yet ready to sleep. Tonight was the first night I had not needed to take first watch, or any watch at all for that matter, and my customary ritual would not allow for deviation. It was this restlessness that drove me hence, to the tavern portion of the inn we had selected for our purposes. Without, it was like any other building in the city, but within, it was aglow with light and life. The faery, Rathimander by name, had climbed upon one of the tables and was regaling those who would listen with tales of derring-do that he himself had not done, but was clearly claiming credit for. The owl, more awake now than ever I had seen it, stood quietly next to the diminutive fellow; seeming to hoot when Rathimander underplayed the owl’s role in the unfolding events. All in all, it was an amusing sight, and the faery had drawn quite a crowd. The young noblemen, Cor, and the other horsemen, a mercenary named Blake, hovered toward the back of the ring of spectators, holding half-full mugs of ale, listening boredly to the tale they had heard several dozen times already. From what I could see, none of the others, save Rathimander and his avian companion, had joined them. After a brief nod to Cor and Blake and a jaunty salute to Rathimander (who happily saluted back), I wound my way through the crowded tavern in search of an empty table, preferably toward the back. I wasn’t sure why I always searched for an empty table near the back, but, to date, I had always located one without much trouble. This day was no exception. I found a relatively quiet table in the darkest, shadowiest corner of the tavern and eased myself into it, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there to prevent myself from sitting on the non-existent blade. Old habits... I stopped myself before the thought was finished. Damn old habits and their longevity! I just wished I had brought the damn thing with me. In spite of my more than apparent anti-social tendencies, a serving wench found her way to my table. I had seen hundreds of barmaids in as many taverns, but never had I seen one quite like this young lady. And no, she was not the paragon of grace and beauty. She was pretty, in a sense, if you squinted slightly and tilted your head just-so to the left, mentally scrubbing away the grime of dirt and degradation from her face. After you had done that, you probably would have had to put her in something other than a tunic that was once white but now was something of effluentic brown. Then, if you washed the hair thoroughly... Hell, washed the whole damn thing thoroughly, she might, MIGHT just be pretty. I took all this in with something of unchecked shock. For her prettiness, as well as her bearing, was not that of Corivaan... It was of... Someplace else. Someplace I had forced myself to forget, these ten years. “You gonna’ stare, or are you gonna’ drink?” the girl demanded. I blinked. “I... Wha... Er...” was my witty reply. “I see,” she murmured, “you want some ‘um’ with that ‘er,’ or will the ‘wha’ be enough?” My jaw dropped. She noted my reaction, and nodded sagely. “I see, I’ll just give you a few more minutes to decide.” She turned and... Well... Flounced. Away. If I had been sharing my table with a companion, and if that companion would have any idea what the hell I was talking about, I would have turned to him and stated something like the following: “I like her already.”* * * I grew up in a small village near a big lake with my parents, little brother and a dog. Two dogs, actually, but not at the same time and of varying names. And then, two months after my eighteenth season, on the twenty-third of whatever moon that was (I had long since lost track), I got ready for bed, as always, went to sleep, as always, and woke up the next morning in a place that was not at all my bedroom. Needless to say that last bit didn’t normally happen. I was in the middle of a forest. It was daybreak (at least as near as I could tell) and there was nobody around. My bed was present, as was his night-table and the contents thereto, but as I reached for my spectacles, I somehow lost my balance, fell from my bed, slamming my hands against the night-table, which tipped it over, spilling everything on it all over the place. In a wild attempt to clean it all up, I accidentally stood on my spectacles, rendering them completely useless. The rest is a lot of details really not worth mentioning, but ultimately, I found my way to a village and got myself arrested. Long story short, I was tried, found guilty and sentenced to join the army. This, at the time, was not unlike a death sentence, though no doubt execution would have been more merciful. The war, which the locals were calling the Great Conflict, was long and bloody, but I found that I had a knack for strategy and warfare, so I quickly rose in the ranks. Because of my sentence, I couldn’t command, but I was soon promoted to the honorary rank of Captain, and through my strategy, the final, deciding battle was won. I was pardoned and proclaimed a hero. That was the first five years. The next five, I spent living down my name, ultimately going off into the mountains to leave this strange world of magic to it’s own fate. But after about a year, I got bored, so I came down from my mountain and started a protection agency. Or, that’s what I rationalized it to be when I was called mercenary. For all that time, I never found one person like me who simply woke up one morning and found themselves not at all where they were supposed to be. That is, I amended, until now. I stood to go after her when all Hell broke loose. “You’ll take that back or face the consequences!” Cor shouted angrily. I glanced at him, and saw that he was now the center of attention, with Blake at his side. Both had their hands on their swords and were squaring off against a broad and brutal man and a group of men who could only be described as “thugs.” I moved forward. Cor’s face was flushed with anger and booze, and I knew well enough that even if the big man took it back (which at this point didn’t seem likely) Cor would still manage to instigate the fight. But it wasn’t Cor that I was worried about. It was Blake. I knew Blake from when I was in the army. The man had been brought up on charges of unnecessary brutality in regards to surrendering soldiers. In essence, he’d slaughtered the men without a second thought. I watched the mercenary’s face as I neared the outer ring of patrons. It was pale and bloodless, the face of a man willing to kill. By the time I forced his way through the milling, half-drunk clientele, the big man opposite my companions spoke. “Your father is a cheating, conniving whoreson, and his progeny are sniveling cowards.” The voice was calm, flat and emotionless. I paused to study him closer and knew instantly there was no avoiding a fight. The man, while seeming unintelligent and stupidly dangerous, had the subtle bearing of a warrior; the way he kept his knees slightly bent and stood on the balls of his feet so that he could shift his weight quickly when his enemy began to move, it smacked of formal training, and while his cronies were no threat and of little consequence, that man, and that man alone bore watching. I had no doubt that in his angry, drunken state, Cor had missed all of this. Of Blake, I could not say, but I wasn’t going to find out. I stepped in between the two. “Gentlemen... Is there a problem?” I stated, stalling for time. I was aware that the other man knew my ploy, and hoped he was sporting enough to play along. I could feel that I was being sized up, and the fact that I was unarmed was suddenly very apparent to me. Either the man would think I was very brave, or very foolish. I hoped it was the former, for I was feeling very much the latter. “Stand aside, Wolf!” Cor cried, “I must defend the honor of my family!” “Silence child!” I snapped sharply. Even though I only had six or seven years on the young noblemen, most of the time, I felt much older. Cor, not used to me speaking to him in such tones, shut up. I stood silently, letting the other make the first move. I’d seen the bleak eyes brighten in recognition of my name. “Not Reinter Wolfein of the Legion’s Fifth?” The man spoke slowly, deliberately letting me know that this was merely a distraction to what would be an inevitable outcome. The man had moved forward, and was now attempting to stare me down. I met the man’s gaze for a long moment, then, with a simple flick of my wrist, slit the man’s throat with the dagger I kept hidden in the sleeve of my shirt. The man dropped without a sound, his cronies staring down at him in amazement. “One and the same,” I stated calmly, turned my back and walked away, cleaning the dagger with my handkerchief. As I walked by the amazed Cor, I shot a glance at Blake. The man’s face was back to normal, and his manner relaxed. He met my gaze and spoke one word in his deep, grating voice. “Nice.”* * * Not nice. Not nice at all. I paced back and forth in my room, wondering what had become of my basic morals. Oddly enough, the source of my consternation had nothing to do with the cold-blooded murder I had just committed. It was the fact that I felt absolutely no remorse over it. I could rationalize that had it come to blows, the man probably would have been killed anyway, but I knew damn well it wasn’t about that. The man was a threat, and I eliminated it. The Legion would protect me, I knew it would... They always protected their own. Amazing how Knights of the Legion, Followers of Anisalynn, Warriors of Good could be so blindingly stupid. There was a knock at my door. I drew my dagger once more, moved silently to the door, opened it a crack and peeked out. Then, I sheathed the dagger and opened it the rest of the way, admitting the ancient dwarf who stood outside. “Don’t bother lecturing me, Drai, I already know.” I growled. “What happened to disappearing?” Draitan Woodgaard rumbled as he entered and closed the door behind him. “Got bored,” I waved it off. The Master of the Legion shook his head slightly, whether in exasperation or in contemplative understanding, I neither knew, nor cared. “I’ll admit, Reinter, Tryan down there deserved to die...” Drai stated slowly, “but not like that. He is braggart and fool, but warrior nonetheless. He deserved to at least die like one.” “Then why didn’t you kill him?” I snapped bitterly, flopping down in a nearby chair. Drai stared at me hard. He’d known me since I was brought before the Legion on the charge of thievery and disturbing the peace. The Master of the Legion at the time had been a harsh man with good intentions, but unbending views on right and wrong. Drai had spoken on my behalf, so I wasn’t simply executed, but the army had hardened the me more than Drai would have liked. I had done well for myself and the Cause, but I know that Drai feared it had irrevocably changed me. I feared very much the same. “You do remember what this is all for, correct?” Drai inquired, sitting in the chair opposite me. Normally Drai did not like sitting in such chairs, for his legs were a good foot off the ground, but I guess he felt it was more like comrades sharing conversation rather than a commander berating an offending officer. “Money, Drai... I’m doing this because they are paying me, not for your damn Cause,” I tried to snarl, but it sounded almost pathetic. Drai shook his head again. “You know why you’re doing this. Why you’re accompanying these people in particular,” Drai murmured, softly, almost soothingly. “You knew Elysa before... And you’d heard of Rathimander.” “Ah, yes indeed, the faery with a cause... The Cause, no less... An entertaining notion... Where did he come by that owl?” I inquired, not bothering to check the sarcasm that dripped from my words. “Damn it, Wolf, you know you missed working for the greater good!” Drai roared, jumping down off the chair. “Greater good?” I snorted. “Slitting the throat of His Uglyship down there is not exactly what I’d call a step in that direction.” “You can convince the world of whatever you wish, boy,” the dwarf snarled, “but I will always know otherwise. When you came here, you knew more of books and poetry than swords and sorcery. The man you were is still there. You still wear the pendant!” he exclaimed, pointing to the silver gryffin talon gripping an obsidian orb talisman worn on a chain around my neck. “I only hope that man can find his way.” I stood, moved to the door and opened it. “That was a long time ago, Drai.” He stared at me for a long moment, then moved toward the exit. “Indeed it was.” He left without another word.