Never be afraid, young ones, to wonder why

someone has chosen you for a task, not because ye are

filled with of doubts of yourself, but because others

may have designs upon you, your works, or your

efforts that are harmful to you or that which you love.

-Saint Kalimia, Church of the

Crimson Waters of Life

"Pardon me, but have you seen an elf run by?" The voice was rough and gravelly. "He has pointed ears."

Twal jumped, letting go of the handles of the wooden plow and spinning in place to face the roadway. His horned ox, Blue, immediately sensed that Twal had let go of the plow and stopped while he dropped clods from his rear end. Twal's face was red and covered with sweat from cutting furrows into the fertile earth so that he could plant rutabagas for harvest. He pulled his floppy wide brimmed felt hat from his head and used it to wipe the sweat from his face before cramming it back on and taking stock of the man who had spoken.

The stranger stood at least two heads above Twal and was dressed in rusted plate mail. The giant was carrying a clean, enameled shield in one hand and holding the haft of an axe in the other. His face was roughhewn and solid, with eyes so bloodshot that the brown irises looked to be floating on a pool of blood. White scars crisscrossed the face, and the nose was bent twice and covered in broken veins. Twal could smell rotting blood, rust, strong spirits and the acrid stench of long unwashed body rolling off the man, who stood calmly and stared at Twal with those bloodshot eyes.

"No, milord, I did not," Twal answered, kneeling when he saw that the man's shield was enameled with the pattern of a heraldry device that contained the laurel wreath of nobility. Twal wrinkled his nose when he realized that he could smell the giant over the fertilizer he had liberally applied to his fields less than a week ago.

"Unfortunate. I had hoped you had seen him." The man looked around, his bloodshot eyes sweeping over everything and measuring his surroundings. "He must be long gone by now." The man let out a disappointed sigh, then nodded toward the walls of the town in the distance. "Is that Gretlen?"

"Yes, milord, it is." Twal could feel his knee start to ache, and the smell of the field and the stranger mixed together was overpowering, the alcohol fumes starting to make Twal dizzy where he knelt.

"My thanks to you," the stranger said, then let go of the haft of the axe, the leather wrapped shaft clunking against his armored thigh. The armor-encased giant pulled a pair of silver coins from the leather coin wallet on his waist and tossed them to Twal. The farmer barely managed to catch them as the giant grabbed the haft of his axe and began walking toward the village.

Twal watched the stranger's lurching walk, which staggered slightly, and wondered why the man would let the head of the war-axe drag in the dirt, digging a furrow in the road. To Twal it looked as if the man was favoring his right side, as if he was curled around some kind of injury, and he staggered like a man who had drunk way more cups of wine than he should have.

Ol' Blue grunted and dropped more clods, pulling Twal back to his fields. The farmer pocketed the two silver coins without looking at them before turning back to the handles of his plow and muscling it back in line. Twal clicked his tongue and the ox began pulling the plow.

The business of armored men was not his.

* * * * *

Jalt shifted his weight in his boots, tightening his grip on the leaf bladed long spear all town guards were issued, as the stranger approached. He was favoring his right side and staggering toward the gate of the town like a drunkard. While the man kept his shield up as if it had no weight, the head of the man's axe dragged on the ground, carving a wobbling line in the dirt of the road. The man's armor was uniformly brown with rust, although the shield was enameled and bright, held up proudly for the world to see the heraldic device upon it. Jalt knew that if he were to let the armor the town had issued to him fall into such condition he would be whipped and then put in the stocks.

The man came to a stop in front of Jalt, and the gate guard almost stepped back with an oath when the stench of the man rolled over him: whiskey, rotting blood, rust and the eye-watering stench of a long unwashed body. Most armored men that Jalt had encountered during his ten years of guard duty had smelled of metal, sweat and faint traces of rust. The man in front of him now stunk so bad that Jalt's vision swam.

"I'm looking for an elf," the man growled, leaning on his axe. "He has pointy ears."

Jalt stared at the man's face, realizing it was visible because the visor that would normally cover it was missing, and found himself wondering how any man's eyes could be as bloodshot as the reeking stranger's.

"An elf, guardsman, have you seen him?" the stranger asked again, and Jalt visibly twitched as he brought himself back to business at hand. "He has pointy ears and hair," the giant finished.

"Not in many days, sir, and that elf was part of a trade caravan," Jalt answered.

"Damn," the man mumbled. "Thank you." The man stumbled forward, weaving drunkenly, and passed through the gate. Jalt wanted to stop the man from befouling the air of his hometown, but he had committed no crime and was free to enter Gretlen as long as he acted peacefully. Still, Jalt watched the stranger, through the tunnel built into the fifteen foot thick walls that acted as a gateway into the trade town, as he weaved down the street, hunched over slightly, the head of his axe scattering sparks as it bounced on the cobbles.

* * * * *

Lomdus the Lame, one of the Circle of Equals who ruled Gretlen, waited impatiently on the stone bench in front of the marble fountain in the middle of the town; tapping his cane on the stones and ignoring the sweet smell of pure water and blooming flowers that wafted around him. Lomdus was irritated that the other Council members had sent him to the city center to wait just because he was the youngest of all of them. He shifted irritably on the silk cushion he sat upon and let his squinty, yet penetrating brown eyes sweep across the gathered peasants that were moving around the town square, looking again for the man that Lomdus had been ordered to watch for.

Fraker the Axe, famed mercenary and hero, was heading toward Gretlen according to the cities soothsayers and oracles, and Gretlen was in dire need of a hero to assist them in their hour of need. Fraker was a former Iron Legionnaire and warrior of the Stygian Wave, a survivor of the infamous Valley of the Stacked Skulls, and was known far and wide for taking up causes to help protect those who needed it, providing they could meet his price.

The crowd parted, consternation visible in the leading edges, and a brown stain appeared, seeming to befoul the very fabric of the town as it slowly, implacably moved across the square and headed straight for Lomdus and the fountain he sat in front of. The citizens of the town rarely came as high as the man's shoulders and he was as broad as any two men; the fist wrapped around the haft of the axe was the size of a man's head, and the metal sheathed legs as thick as a man's waist. The giant moved in a weaving walk, hunched over to his right, his axe dragging on the ground but his shield held proudly.

Lomdus squinted at the shield as the figure drew closer, his stomach sinking as he took in the horrible condition of the man's armor. On the shield an axe was laying at a 45 degree angle, the enamel red above the axe and blue below it. Wreathed laurels were just beneath the head of the axe in the middle of the shield, and a pair of crossed spears were in the lower right. In the upper left of the shield's face was a crowned skull, split down the middle, with lightning bolts above the sundered crown.

Lomdus recoiled from the figure as he came within a few paces, both from the realization that the crest enameled on the shield belonged to Fraker the Axe, and from the stench of rotting blood, rusted iron, whiskey and strong body odor. Lomdus fully expected the flowers around the fountain to turn brown and wilt as the man moved to its edge, the head of the axe he was dragging striking sparks from the cobbles. At the edge of the fountain the man knelt down, the armor's rusted joints screeching like tormented souls, and laid the haft of the axe against the stone rim.

Lomdus opened his mouth to ask the lout to move on when the armored man suddenly pulled his helmet off, made a horrendous noise, and vomited into the artfully pruned rose bushes. The stench of whiskey, wine and worse suddenly overwhelmed the scent of blossoms as the man loudly emptied his stomach. Lomdus frowned and watched disapprovingly as the man straightened slightly, wiped his mouth and put his helmet back on. Then, despite the sign written in five languages - including two trade tongues - warning people not to drink from the fountain, the man scooped water from the fountain and slurped it loudly.

"Excuse me, sirrah," Lomdus harrumphed.

"Wait your turn," the man, who Lomdus was still praying was not the famous mercenary despite what the shield heraldry claimed, growled as he scooped up another handful of water and slurped it down.

"Sirrah, it is against the law to drink from there. I am sure that there are plenty of taverns and shops who would be willing to allow you to purchase something to quench your thirst," Lomdus told the man, pointing his cane at several restaurants and taverns.

"Yeah, well this is free and I'm not at one of those establishments, I'm right here and I'm thirsty now," the man growled again, and Lomdus realized that the low growl was the man's normal speaking voice, not an affectation. Lomdus sighed and waited for the man to stop slurping handfuls of water from the public fountain, preferring to level stern glares at the townspeople who stopped and stared. Few could withstand Lomdus' deep brow furrows, high thick gray eyebrows, his penetrating squint or his fearsome scowl, and people moved on without asking questions or lingering too long.

"I gotta get a horse," the man grumbled, standing up with the squeal of rusted joints. He grabbed the haft of his axe and began to walk away. "Or maybe stop eating the ones I buy," the man added as Lomdus pushed himself to his feet, leaning on his cane so that his lame knee did not give out and throw him disgracefully to the ground.

"Pardon me, milord, but are you Fraker the Axe?" Lomdus asked, hoping the answer was that the powerful smelling man was not.

"That's usually what people who recognize me scream before they start running," the man said, slowly turning around. He was silhouetted by the sun, and all Lomdus could see of his face was his bloodshot brown eyes.

"I am Lomdus, member of the Circle of Equals of the Trade Town of Gretlen," Lomdus began, drawing himself up and twitching his robe into place.

"Congratulations, I'm sure your mother is proud," the man said, starting to turn away.

"Milord, Gretlen is in sore need of a hero at this moment, as we are beset by enemies fierce and steeped in vile magics," Lomdus blurted out. He did not want to have to tell the other Elders that he had failed to get Fraker the Axe to even listen to him.

The large figure sighed loudly and turned back to Lomdus, making the trade tongue gesture to continue.

"Not here, milord, the details are privy only to members of the Circle of Equals and those they choose to inform," Lomdus told the man, standing up and deciding to forgo the use of his coach rather than let the armored man befoul it with his stench and rusted armor, or risk another tide of vomit staining the seats and wood. Slowly making his way toward the crowd, using the cane to support himself, Lomdus beckoned toward the man, "Follow me, please, to my humble manor. Just before dinner the rest of the Circle of Equals will arrive, and we will attempt to sway you to rescue us in our hour of need."

The figure behind him sighed again and followed, weaving drunkenly through the crowd after the limping old man, the head of his axe striking sparks from the cobbles, squinting his eyes against the light of the sun and visibly wincing from the ringing bell of a town caller informing everyone of a wedding.