In the northern hemisphere of the Fairworld, there exists a close collection of small kingdoms, assorted duchies and principalities which together form the dwarf continent which has been called Ursiland for the better part of two millennia. Bordered in part by the Hinterlands to the east and the sea to the west, these nations constitute a modestly insular civilization with little contact with others beyond the mixed and peculiar folk of the Hinterlands and their own cultural relatives in the far south beyond the tropics, whom ships reached by following the western coast past the trackless depths of the Hinterlands and the great desert of the world’s dead wastes.

Tucked in the far west corner of this region is the Kingdom of Gandburgh. And tucked in a corner of Gandburgh, there is the village of Potham.

Nobody would ever have said that Harlow Barnstabrake was a bad sort of person, or even more selfish than mankind is ordinarily wont. He was a gentleman; generous in his ways, courteous in his disposition, kind when he remembered to be, and sensitive when it was convenient. He was a man highly regarded and well liked by most, nearly worshipped by some, and only really disliked by the jealous sort. For he was handsome, athletic, and a master at positively everything. Even those skills at which he had no particular art or flair, his bounteous personality was sufficient to carry him with distinction before all but the most petty of critics. He was a man who could do anything, and he knew it well. There was no one he could not please, save for those whom nothing could please. The sun that shone upon Harlow was one of a perpetual spring morning; cheerful, virulent, and above all supremely confident in its cool and benevolent domination of all it came upon.

“No, I can’t say as I really expect to win the footrace again, not this year. Since I’ve been back from the university, you know, I’m not in the form I was. Jenkins is your man. He’s a skinny fellow, no hand at anything heavy mind you, I can lick him any day at wrestling. But he can run like the wind and swim like an eel, and like as not I’ll be hard pressed to make it a really close match. I’ll be so fagged by it all that I’ll cut ‘cross the finish line looking more like Jenkins’s grandfather!” Harlow stooped and waddled about theatrically in a silly impression of the venerable Mr. Jenkins, and the three girls comprising his audience giggled with the most unabashed appreciation. Harlow was a magnet to all persons of popularity in the village, not the least of which was the budding exuberance of the local maidenhood. If any young man in Potham on Heath desired the frequent company of the most amiable of provincial girlish spirits he did well to attach himself to Harlow’s train, for even he could not manage to flirt proficiently with the entirety of his nubile flock at once.

Harlow grinned in the glow of laughter and applause his performance elicited. He towered magnificently over his feminine entourage, his great boots adding not insignificantly to his already above average height, and the polished brass buttons of his coat and silvered hilt of his hunting sword flashed in the sun with only a bit more brilliance than his keen eyes and dashing smile. Harlow leaned nonchalantly against a nearby fence post as he basked in the well being of life all about him.

Charlotte, Angela, Mary Eloise, all capital girls; pretty, charming, easy mannered, and shapely. Glancing at the sea of bright faces, profuse compliments, and pronounced decolletage before him, Harlow felt that he would do quite well enough to accede to his mother’s wishes and pick any one of them, or indeed any of the other girls in the village......eventually. Just not quite yet. Harlow was the heir of a yeoman estate of no little size and weight in the neighborhood, and as his mother was quite fond of reminding him, the son of Harlow Ethelridge Barnstabrake II was in all probability positively the most eligible bachelor in the county. And Harlow wished to keep it that way. It was a grand life, and he liked it.

Bidding a cordial adieu to his trio of damsels, Harlow made his way further into the village. The vicar wanted him to sing in the madrigal at the upcoming festivals. Of course, he was no great singer, as Harlow would freely admit, but the vicar and his wife were insistent that they couldn’t possibly exclude young Harlow. He could do the ‘tra la la’s’ in the chorus.

Rehearsal was at the rectory at eleven O’Clock. That left comfortable time enough to pop into the Arms for a pint of bitter and a chat or two with the innkeeper Mrs. Wilberforce or perhaps the Honorable Gareth Larch, if such a capital conversationalist also happened to be stopping by to lend a liberal ear to anyone who might yield loquacious diversion, which is just the sort of audience Harlow liked best. Harlow whistled a dance tune and twirled his walking stick a bit as he strode up to the tavern and skipped over the threshold.

“What-ho, dame Wilberforce, what-ho! Have anything drinkable in the house?”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the public room, and Harlow suddenly had the feeling that his entrance had rather not come off. Hanging up his hat, he made his way to the bar.

“Morning, Mrs. Wilberforce. A pint of bitter, if you please.”

“It’ll please me well enough to serve you, Mr. Barnstrabrake, unlike some.” The matron Wilberforce punctuated her remark with a significant look to a corner of the room, and proceeded in tones inadequately subdued. “We have foreigners here today, Mr. Barnstrabrake. That greasy fellow, Mr. Gates, he’s been to the village now and again. He always pays his bills, but often in queer coin and sometimes a year or two late. Not that I’m complaining, mind ye. He’s generous with the interest. But I prefer customers to be more reliable, and I don’t hold with foreigners, especially Hinterland folk.”

Harlow followed Mrs. Wilberforce’s censured looks to a darkened booth in the corner of the room. The morning sun did not seem to stream through the windows quite so well there, and in the gloom there sat a tall, lithe man smoking a white clay pipe, his feet propped indecorously upon the seat across from him. He seemed familiar to Harlow, and he’d certainly heard of the vagabond Mr. Gates. He’d been an irregular curiosity for many years, turning up at odd intervals and staying for a few days at most, sometimes engaging in eccentric business that left the local merchants scratching their heads, other times meeting with other queer folk of his own ilk, and sometimes he would loiter for days at a time and appear to do absolutely nothing at all, except perhaps to wander the countryside and startle the farmers with his outlandish appearance and peculiar manners. Harlow, however, had never to his memory so much as seen the man before now, much less spoken to him. Having recently completed his two years book learning at Fordham and grand tour of the metropolis, it seemed to Harlow that he would do well to continue furthering his ever expanding standing as an educated man of the world, and engage the itinerant in a brief chat. It would make a splendid topic for conversation over tea, as the young ladies were theatrically terrified of Gates and were wont to exchange the most harrowingly dubious tales about the man.

“Morning, good sir! Fine day to have been travelling a long way.”

The man mechanically cocked a dark, glittering eye at Harlow.

“Forgive me sir, but as I have done the courtesy of ignoring you, I would have expected that you would return in kind and ignore me. But no matter, the damage has been done. Pray take a seat!”

The man Gates gestured offhandedly, but did not remove his feet from the seat across from him. After an awkward pause, Harlow pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down.

“You have traveled a long way to come here, I understand.”

“Indeed. It’s a full twenty paces to my room, not including the stairs. Do you always drink before eleven o’clock?”

“Eh? Oh, right. I thought I’d stop by for a bit of refreshment after coming down from the house.”

“Ah? Yes, I suppose you must have walked the better part of two miles unpaved road. Don’t be surprised, I travel a great deal and can tell from a man’s boots how long he’s been walking. Besides, there is not a house of your quality within a mile and a quarter of the village. Barnstabrake junior, is it not?”

“I....I say, what makes you think so?”

“Well, if you’re uncertain as to who you are I can’t help you much, but if you can corroborate me I would hazard that you are the son of Harlow E. Barnstabrake, esq.”

“I say! Well, I mean yes, I am, but how the devil...”

“I have a flawless memory for faces. I bought a mare from your father last year, and you look exactly like him, with just a bit more height and considerably less waistline, and a slight bulge to the nose that probably betrays your mother’s side of the family.”

“What do you know of my mother’s family?”

“Nothing at all, except that they might have a nose that your father’s side does not. Did you want something?”

“Ah, well, I suppose not. Just looking for a friendly chat.”

“Did you find one?”

“Frankly, sir, I’m not quite sure.”

“I have that effect on people, especially when I am deliberate about it.”

Stillness hung upon the last comment. Momentarily at a loss, Harlow took a moment to observe his enigmatic companion.

The man was perhaps slightly taller than Harlow himself, more lithe and sinewy of build. He was bald, and what hair remained was long, black and unkempt, beginning about the crown and ending irregularly just above the shoulders. He was unfashionably bearded, not unlike a sailor yet his beard was kept very short in a way which highlighted the man’s sharp, raptor like features. His eyes were keen and piercing, giving the impression of missing nothing. A thin smile played on the man’s lips, which upon speaking betrayed teeth which were not the most orderly endowed to a healthy mouth.

It was the alien who at length broke the silence.

“Well then, how is Mr. Barnstabrake Sr? Was he ever knighted?”

“Er, no. Not yet, anyway. He was passed over last season, but he’s hopeful that the College of Arms will take another look at his case this year.”

“I’m sure they shall. Your father seemed to me an excellent candidate for the Gandish nobility, and the government will most certainly be delighted to accept his arming commission. How many men would he be expected to quarter?”

“Well, a knight of the realm must at a minimum furnish and provision a full company at all times.”

“Doubtless your father already has a contract in mind?”

“Father is hoping to get a contract with an incorporated regiment. They charge a premium but generally manage themselves, so in the long run professionals are much cheaper and less troublesome than were my father to raise the troops himself as part of the territorial army.”

“To be expected. The next time I find myself in the metropolis I may drop a line with Colonel Drakenhart, chief of the Variburg Lictors. He’s an old friend.”

“The Variburg Lictors?”

“Quite. Their men are drawn mostly from the Hinterlands, and they’re a well experienced lot. They should give your father an excellent reputation.”

“Hinterlands regiments have a reputation of their own that I’m not sure father is anxious to acquire by association.”

“Ah, well if you wish merely niceties I’m afraid Hinterlanders are not always to be your preference.”

“Aren’t you from the Hinterlands, sir?”

“I see my reputation precedes me. Properly speaking yes, and properly speaking no. I’m a rambler and I’m not from anywhere really, but all things considered I suppose I have ultimately spent the larger part of my life somewhere or other in the Hinterlands. Things somehow always manage to draw me back there, one way or the other.”

“Tell me sir, are the Hinterlands really as wild and primitive as they say?”

“Far less so and far more so, of course.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“Always. It makes things more interesting, and keeps prying young bucks befuddled. Good morning.”

Gates arose, and taking a firm bite on the end of his pipe he strode over to one of the windows, flung it open, and stepping clear through to the street was gone.

Harlow found himself staring blankly at the now empty site of this remarkable exit while Mrs. Wilberforce sputtered into a shocked fusilade of indignant outrage at the unprecedented spectacle.

Potham on Heath was a quiet and respectable place, where little more extraordinary ever occurred beyond the excesses of a transient rake or the odd occurance of thievery. And when a person did do anything exceedingly peculiar in public, remark on the event was to be made for easily a fortnight after. And anyone who was a witness to any event of eccentricity was to find himself the central source of intelligence for the whole of an inquisitive community, a position which Harlow now found himself to most agreeably occupy.

By the time he had managed to escape the clutches of the Vicar, the Vicar’s wife, and the ceaseless refrain of “The Nymphs and Fauns Did Merrily Dance that Day”, the peculiar behavior of the ever mysterious Mr. Gates was a leading topic of conversation, and Harlow found himself a sought after authority.

“Did he really just get up like that and step through the window? Did he even apologize or anything?”

“Was he in any sort of a terrific hurry? Perhaps there was something terribly important he needed to do at that moment?”

“If he were in such a hurry, wouldn’t he have, you know, gone into the back yard, to the shed?”

“Lizzy!”

“Well, he might have needed to use to the necessary.”

“Lizzy, don’t be vulgar! Oh Mr. Barnstabrake, do you have any notion as to why Mr. Gates should have behaved in so peculiar a fashion?”

“Oh, impossible to say, my dear Miss Carlyle, impossible to say. I’ll say though, he was mighty cool about it. Just took up his pipe and stepped right on through, like this.”

“Oh Mr. Barnstabrake, you do a marvelous impression of Mr. Gates! Although, I’ve never seen him, except once I think--”

“I bet he’s a smuggler or something, and had to leave before the excisemen found him.”

“Don’t be silly, Lizzy, there aren’t any excismen in the village, although do you think he could be a smuggler, Mr. Barnstabrake?”

“He could be anything, my dear Miss Hearst, he could be anything, although I have a mind that he’s more or less a harmless sort. But he’s a strange and peculiar fellow, make no mistake. I’ve had my eye on him for a long time (or at least I’ve heard what people have said about him from time to time). Like I say I don’t see any great harm in the man, but I’ll be watching for him, Miss, make no mistake. You can rely on me (and of course the other lads in the neighborhood as well). We won’t allow any mischief in these parts!”

“Oh, that is so very brave of you to say so, Mr. Barnstabrake, you make me feel so much safer!”

“Fiddlesticks. I still think he’s a smuggler! I’d bet three shillings on it!”

“Lizzy!”

“What if he’s really a Kobald!”

“Don’t be silly, Therese, Kobalds don’t exist.”

“How do you know, just because no one’s ever seen one? Kobalds are magical, you know!”

“But magic doesn’t exist either, as anyone with an education should know. Surely you don’t believe in Kobalds and magic, Mr Barstabrake!”

“Oh no, of course no! Sheer superstition!”

“I hear people in the south study heaps of magic!”

“Yes, I believe the Anachronians do, but they’re peculiar folk, and build far too many machines. I mean, I suppose a steam engine is fine enough so long as it is stationary, but if you buzz around all over the countryside being pulled by one it will churn your brain up a bit, all the vibrations you know.”

“Oh, you’re so well read, Mr Barnstabrake!”

“I still say he’s a smuggler! I’ll bet six shillings on it!”

“Lizzy!”

As inquisitive and easily animated a place such as Potham could at times be (at least as regards the eccentricities of an enigmatic wayfarer), it still took time for the newest gossip to spread from the highstreet to the outlying houses and manors of the gentry. Nearly a full two miles out of the village proper was Ashpier House, where word of Mr. Gate’s recent antics had yet to come at all.

The early afternoon found Fanny Howard reclining on the lawn engaged in the most predictable of activities to anyone acquainted with her character: Reading.

Fanny was a tallish young woman more near thirty than twenty, a prolific reader with a body of knowledge acquired in this way that could readily embarrass any man with a university gown fresh from the tailor. Fanny’s reading was nearly as much an occupation as avocation, for she was unmarried and still at home.

There were some who considered her too intelligent, others as simply too plain. Fanny was not a woman whose beauty was of striking character, nor was hers a personality of any easy magnetism. Her intellect was imposing and her charm closely kept, and she had never managed to cultivate the art of flirtation. There were indeed many who dismissed her as merely a snobbish intellectual with no interest beyond weighty books, bland watercolors, and a well worn pianoforte. Certainly, she must have no interest in men.

But this was untrue. However there were not many men in her acquaintance whose intellect and character were such that Fanny felt were at all suitable, and of those even fewer who were unmarried and had not already adopted her as a sort of favored granddaughter.

And then, of course, there were a few splendid fellows who were very charming and terribly fond of her, so much so that to a man they had appointed themselves her brothers. They would come to her for advice on how best to claim the attention of the popular girls in the neighborhood, and she had aided them in such endeavors with sufficient wisdom such that most of them were married by now.

Likewise (and despite popular perception to the contrary) books were hardly her preferred companions. But these days they were often the only ones that were really left to her. For many years her greatest companion of all had been her elder sister, who was regarded as the finest beauty in the county when she had her coming out, and the two of them had shared many happy times together, often at the center of masculine attention. But she had been married now some seven years to a knight who lived nearly fifteen miles from Potham, and visits were infrequent. Second only to her sister were her three younger brothers, but the eldest of these was recently off to university and the others were barely containable lads of nine and ten.

The volume Fanny perused was an old one, the leaves stiff and crackling, the bindings loose and askew. A hundred and fifty year old printing of an even older publication, its prose and style were as quaint and eccentric as were its contents.

‘It hath been commonly shewn that the Kobalde will shunne the lightening of day, seeking himself instead his Crevices and Moundes wherein he keepeth his wares and mindeth his tyme till the ryse of the nexte moone. Yet he will not venture forth when the moone is new, for he still needeth light to see by, nore will he venture the moone that is full, that in its lightening he may be dyscovered. But fear ye most the Half Moone, for then doth the Kobalde venture with the gretest boldness, and taketh him the yew lamb and the gedling and perform all manner of mischiev. Keep ye yer goods and stock close and bind thy doors, for the Kobalde may even steal ye Babes and Lasses from thyer beds and take them to their laire to be be devoured at tea.”

Jolly sort of reading for bedtime, to be sure. Fanny was only ten years old when she first picked up this particular volume, and even wading through its peculiar language she managed to frighten herself sufficiently that she hardly slept for a month (and neither did her sister, for there is nothing to a horrid tale if it cannot be retold in proper drama).

The book was closed gently. Fanny adored the history and folklore of her people and the library was full of it. Her father, Sir Walter Howard, scoffed at much of it as so much frivolous nonsense. Be he was proud of his lineage nonetheless, and the family was an ancient one, boasting generations of staunch yeomen and retainers of several earldoms and not a few knights of their own, among whose exalted ranks Sir Walter himself had been so honored to be numbered for the last six years, much to the adulation and jealousy of not a few of his neighbors. Three complete suits of armor were displayed prominently in the hall, one thought to be the suit of Sir Horace Howard (The Bold), another somewhat battered one with a mismatched helmet belonging to Sir Winston Howard (the last of the family to have ever entered the lists personally), and a new one that Sir Walter had commissioned for himself only last year. The trio mounted a hollow guard that served to remind all and sundry of the family’s tradition and significance. According to official opinion, there was nothing more splendid or romantic than a knight. The ages of chivalry were the pinnacle of honor, gallantry and adventure. Every child knew the exploits of the heroic kings and the Knights of the Golden Wheel of the mythic past, told and retold by parents and grandparents who knew the stories themselves by heart. Fair damsels, dark castles, and terrible beasts abounded in legend, while history itself was no less wanting of chivalric glories on the field and in the lists. Of course, nowadays noblemen did not generally conduct their hereditary duties in person, carrying their responsibilities instead as patrons of professional regiments. The tumultuous brilliance of the past had been reduced to but an ember of memory, whose light added just a bit of color to the settled, matter-of-fact sort of world which the modern Ursiland had become.

Fanny folded her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. It was a good life. Not exciting, to be sure, nor particularly exalted, but by any sensible measure it was quite well enough. But Fanny could not quite consider herself a woman entirely satisfied. Perhaps it for was want of a man, a precariously balanced instinct for both wild romance and a tidy household, but while Fanny was no less endowed with such instincts than the next person, she was sufficiently acquainted with life beyond the bound volumes of fiction to be of a mind that there was greater nuance to the question.

Passion, she had come to believe, is revered because it gives a person the greatest possible sense of purpose, and while this sensation is often as overwhelming as any heat of the body, like the senses themselves it dulls over time and loses its sharpness and virility, and the glorious experience reduces swiftly to a humdrum discipline at best. It is a fire that burns quickly, but if properly tended leaves a bed of coals about which one may solidly forge a life. The purpose remains, but the sensation is less, and mortal men and women are creatures of the flesh who thrive upon what they can grasp, not what eludes them. Love, passion, family, these are not the only worthy purposes to which a human life may cling, but certainly the commonest, for they hold the greatest of primal powers over the human disposition.

Regardless of these musings, one thing stood clearly to Fanny. It was in any case to her most pronounced that she a woman who was distinctly lacking in any particular purpose.

To be sure, she did have a few purposes in life, if she thought about it enough or was reminded in some conspicuous way, such as the next moment when she was abruptly assaulted by a pair of diminutive barbarians who pounced upon their sister unannounced: Edward and Peter, ages nine and ten, known to domestic staff by the rueful sobriquet of The Barbarians Howard.

“Heavens above strike down the both of you! What on earth do you think you’re doing, you savages?”

“Sorry Fanny, but we have such terrific news! We found a toad under the snapdragons and so we simply had to put it in one of the aprons hanging on the clothesline outside the kitchen! I hope it was one of Mrs. Winchester’s, won’t she flustered silly when she finds it!”

“If it’s hers that is. It might have belonged to another of the servants. I should feel bad if it were Daisy, do you think it was really one of Daisy’s, Ed? Mother will scold us if we make her cry again or something.”

Fanny gave the boys a stern look.

“The two of you ought to temper your exuberance or you’ll both wind up hanging in a cage off King’s Dock as pirates! It was very naughty of you to have put it in Mrs. Winchester’s pocket. Now, you both go right back this minute and rescue that poor toad. You can put him in Mr. Stoke’s pocket instead. He needs livening up.”

“I say, I should like it if we were pirates, wouldn’t it all be so jolly exciting! And we would surely escape from any cage! All you need do is pick the lock, that’s what Black Abraham did, he used his quartermaster’s left rib.”

“No he didn’t, that’s a myth. It was a jackdaw’s rib.”

Fanny heaved a sigh.

“The both of you are far too grisly of mind for gentleman of breeding. And I wouldn’t have needed a poor jackdaw’s rib anyway (or a quartermaster’s rib, for that matter). I would have been sensible and lived a life of honesty, or else kept a sharp saw on my person for just such emergencies.”

“Coo! Now that’s a thought!”

“But surely they’d take it away from you!”

“I would hide it in a compartment in my shoe heel. Now off with you, or I’ll fetch the toad myself and put it in father’s nightcap and claim it was you two that did it.”

The two barbarians scampered obediently off while speculating in animated tones about the possible reactions of Mr. Stokes once his forthcoming doom was fulfilled.

The interruption by her spirited minor siblings was sufficient to spur Fanny to return to the house. She’d had enough reading for the present and it was nearing luncheon. Besides which, she had half a mind to be in the vicinity so as to witness the jollity when Mr. Stokes discovered there was an amphibian on his person. Sir Walter’s secretary was one of those people whose pomp naturally lent itself to be the subject of humorous escapades on the part of right-minded people. He was a young man who took himself far too seriously for his own good.

The promised diversion did not materialize at luncheon, as the barbarian horde did not succeed in laying their fiendish trap by that time. Instead, Fanny had to endure the odious felicitations of a most appallingly settled and unperturbed Mr. Stokes. Fanny took comfort in knowing that her diminutive brothers were never daunted by a lack of opportunity; they were tenacious as badgers and would not give up on a good joke unless compelled to do so by superior force.

Partly from a self imposed sense of obligation and partly from not wishing to endure the twin terrors of being both bored and in the company of Mr. Stokes, Fanny resolved to visit one or two of the tenant farmers after luncheon was over. Sir Walter felt it was unseemly for a woman of the house to involve herself in the functional affairs of the estate, but Fanny was not particularly concerned about her dear father’s sensibilities in this matter, and it was her observation that these regular visits of hers gave her a much clearer understanding of the tenant’s situation than her father’s periodic regal tours of his private realm. And her father was at heart a sufficiently sensible man that he would not infrequently heed his daughter’s word.

The furthest allotment from the house would have taken the remainder of the afternoon to reach on foot, but Fanny was a good horsewoman and didn’t at all mind taking her mare leaping across the odd hedge and brook, so long as neither of her parents were about to make a fuss. As it was she reached Midge Fuller’s cottage in good time enough, where she found the good yeoman in a bit of a heat.

“No good relying on the forest wardens, no Miss! No good at all. That’s two lambs this month while those laggards are busy swilling beer with our taxes!”

“Are you sure it was a wolf?”

“Not a wolf, Miss, more like two. And large ones. See?” Midge pointed with his cane at a markedly disturbed fenceline.

“But hasn’t it been years since there’ve been any wolves in Potham?”

“I don’t have a mind as they ever really got rid of ‘em, beggin’ your pardon Miss, not all of ‘em anyway. But these, these must be a new breed to these parts. By the looks of it, I’d say as I’d never seen or heard of anything the size of ‘em. I sure as thunder would never want to meet one in the woods, that’s sure for certain Miss. Take care on your ride home, and keep to the roads.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fuller. I do believe I can outride any wolf, but you are right that it is best to take precautions.”

The conversation shifted to a more mundane discussion on crops and such, and Fanny found herself back at the house in time well enough for tea, where she discovered to her regret that Mr. Stokes had already experienced the genius of her sibling’s enterprising spirits only a short while after she had left. And, to turn minor disappointment to further irritation, not a moment after her return visitors of the more trying sort were announced.

The Honorable Harlow Barnstabrake II, and son.