"Darkmoon Ridge (-Prologue-)" by James K. Bowers

    The abbot stood alone atop the somber grey tower, unshielded from the elements but for a cloak worn thin by its use.  Light from the setting sun danced uncaringly on the ice and glared back from the fresh blanket of snow.  The battlements, for all their bulk, did little to break the icy wind.  It swept in from the east to numb his face and hands.  It tugged at the folds of his cloak as if seeking a place to hide from itself then, as if impatient, knifed through his cloak as surely as any blade.  This winter had been as harsh as any T’ralex had known in his many years, if not for its hardships then, at least, for its piercing cold.
    Doing his best to ignore the insistent wind, he watched intently the commotion below in the still fledgling settlement of Southgate.  Riders had appeared moments before, drawing a crowd of townsfolk before T’ralex had given them further thought.  But, now, with the villagers gathering around them, his thoughts were only of the events unfolding before him.  Surely there was no danger or the townsfolk would be running away from the riders.  No herald had ridden in before them to announce the impending arrival of his liege.  The absence of wagons or carts ruled out the possibility that they were merchants.  T’ralex realized he had no means to fathom who these riders were.  Why they had come was not apparent, nor was any reason for Southgate’s citizenry to show this much interest.  The only scrap of information he had was the fact that they had ridden in from the south -- from the direction of Stonedown Reach.  He reflected on this, grudgingly admitting to himself that any questions he had would remain unanswered for as long as he merely stood and watched.
    T’ralex turned to the winding stairs that would lead him down through the tower.  He started down the steps, pausing to close the heavy trapdoor.  As cold as a stone tower can be in the dead of winter, it felt warm in comparison to the weather outside.  T’ralex resumed his descent.  He paused at the closed doors of Alorra’s study.  No doubt his sister was poring over some obscure arcane tome, struggling to comprehend the intricate arts of a mage long since turned to dust.  It was certain that she needed to take a break in her studies, but even more certain that she would view any interruption as unpardonably rude.  Fueling the temper of any mage, especially a mage to whom one is related, has never been promoted as a means of keeping oneself in the best of health.  T’ralex continued down the stairs.
    Exchanging the cloak for the elaborate one indicating his rank and station, T’ralex hurried out to the steadily growing throng.  Several young boys were scrambling in his direction shouting, “Please hurry, Reverend Abbot!” and, “Your help is needed, Your Holiness!”  Still he had no way of knowing the cause of such excitement in a town that had grown used to the passings of all manner of beings.  All T’ralex could surmise was that something was dreadfully wrong.
    As he neared the crowd, they shifted aside to allow him through.  There, surrounded by the townsfolk, were three horses bedecked in the livery of the King’s own cavalry.  On the ground near their mounts were their riders, two men and a woman.  A collection of horseblankets and old cloaks had been tossed on the snow to afford them some comfort, but it was plain that they were in dire need of aid.  Blood still flowed from their open wounds and their breathing was shallow and labored.  Calling upon forces that only the holy may, T’ralex summoned forth all the powers of healing at his disposal.  The brilliant white light flowed from his hands as he knelt by each in turn.  As the priest’s hands passed over their wounds the light poured off, stanching the bleeding and knitting torn flesh.  Death had been postponed for the immediate future, but full health for these three would be months away.
    T’ralex glanced around the crowd for familiar faces.  “Good smith, Cavinan,” he said, spying the much-respected blacksmith, “please find some stout lads to carry these souls to the warmth of my tower.  Afterwards, could you find it in your heart to bring their mounts to my stable and gather another lad or two to tend to them?”  Phrasing commands as requests was a common practice among men of the cloth, one which usually afforded excellent results.  With a simple, “Aye, Reverend,” Cavinan set to the tasks he had accepted.
    Again, T’ralex’s eyes swept over the group.  “Jeddun and Auzinna, would you hurry to your mother and ask her if you could be spared for a few hours to assist me.  It may be that you will not return home until morning.  Be certain that your mother understands this, and please be quick about it.”  The young boy nodded, took his sister’s hand and scurried off through the crowd.  The youngsters would not be useful to Cavinan, but their obedient little hands might prove to be a valuable asset.  The King’s riders would need much attention over the next few hours.
    Cavinan’s recruits, a young boy named Arvaine and a half-dozen T’ralex knew only by sight, had dutifully carried the riders into the tower, placing them on the carpet near the hearth.  Hastily, the abbot directed the lads to move three tables near the hearth to serve as makeshift beds for the wounded.  Extra blankets were quickly spread on the tables as mattresses and the riders were moved carefully onto the tables.  More blankets, some of them from T’ralex’s own bed, were used to cover the riders.  Satisfied that the boys had done all that was asked of them, the priest handed each a shilling for their efforts and sent them on their way.
    T’ralex had just begun to warm some wine for the unfortunate travelers when there came a rap at the door.  Hoping it was either Cavinan or the two Gordath children, T’ralex strode to the door to answer.  “Your Holiness, the horses are stabled, but I believe one of them may have to be destroyed.  Tomorrow I’ll check her over.  Is there anything else you might need tonight?”  Cavinan was a good man, sometimes a little blunt and gruff, but a good man nonetheless.
    “No, but thank you, Cavinan,” replied the abbot, handing the smithy a small pouch of coins.  Cavinan, as politely as he was able, refused the payment. Cavinan was a good man, sometimes a little stubborn and exasperating, but a good man nonetheless.
    “Rest well, Cavinan.  We shall speak again in the morning... of horses and of silver.  You'll not work for me without accepting a fair wage.”  Cavinan flashed a broad smile, nodded, and turned to leave.  As the smithy made his way back to his cottage, T’ralex spotted the children scampering through the snow in his direction.  He thought to himself, “Good. Madam Gordath has given them leave.”  He held the door for them as they scurried in, then closed it tightly.  The wind would have to look elsewhere for victims.
    The children, Auzinna more so than Jeddun, stared wide-eyed at everything.  Not knowing what to expect, they were nevertheless determined to remember every detail so they might recount this ‘adventure’ to their friends at any opportunity.  T’ralex broke the trance momentarily with a simple, “Come warm yourselves by the fire.  We will have a long night ahead of us if these three are to see another day.”  The words had a sobering effect on the children as they walked past the three riders to the hearth.  T’ralex left them there for a moment, returning with a loaf of bread and two bowls.  The kettle of broth that was to be his supper still hung from the hook by the fire.  He smiled at the children as he filled their bowls and broke off a bit of bread for each.  Full stomachs would guarantee their cooperation better than any wizard’s charm, not that these two were at all likely to require any persuasion.   In any case, an extra meal would certainly do them no harm.
    T’ralex tore some strips of cloth from one of his robes.  It would be difficult to replace any time soon, but would serve him better now in shreds than on his back in some future ceremony.  He then filled a basin with fresh water, and began cleaning the unconscious travelers.  From all indications, T’ralex had heated wine for no purpose; a dwarf courting a goblin seemed as likely as these warriors waking to sip wine.  As the children ate, T’ralex explained their duties to them, all the while tending to the King’s horsemen.  The children’s tasks were simple, but would, over the next few hours, save T’ralex a fair amount of time and effort.
    T’ralex prepared to wash the blood and grime from the woman. As he unfastened the buttons of her cloak to reveal garments of bright green stained with blood, a glint of gold caught his eye.  He reached for the necklace she wore and lifted it carefully out of her cloak.  What he had once thought to be an event of little consequence to any but these three travelers instantly blossomed to its full import.  He held gently in his hand the symbol of a battle-maiden.  This woman was a Khurda!  A green uniform?  What was the Khurda of Penzand doing in Southgate?  His mind raced swiftly through his options.
    “Jeddun!  Take my ring!  Show it to the guards at the castle!  Tell them you must speak to the Earl -- only the Earl himself!  Tell him it is urgent that he comes here immediately!  Run, lad!”  T’ralex opened the door and the boy bolted out on his mission, frightened but obedient to the letter.  Auzinna stood by the hearth, sensing the urgency without knowing the reason.  “Auzinna,” the abbot said calmly, “something has happened that is of great importance.  Would you go up the stairs -- two floors -- and fetch my sister?  Do you remember meeting her at the last Harvest-fest?  Her name is Alorra.  Tell her it is very important.”  T’ralex returned to the table where the Khurda lay.  He soaked a swath of cloth in the basin and wrung it out.  He dabbed carefully at the caked blood.