Fall of the Kingfisher

Moira knew she was deep in a nightmare, and for the fifth night in a row there was nothing she could do to wake herself. Maybe that was because she had actually lived these events six nights ago. Maybe her mind was damaged beyond repair. She didn't think that last was true.  The prophet had chosen her and her brother after all. She clung to that thought fiercely as the flames licked the walls, and the screams of her mother and sisters clawed through her mind.

Every night, sometimes two or three times, the events in her dreams would unfold just as they had in the waking world a week ago. Moira could still hear the soft bleating as her father finished gathering the last of the wayward flock into the small pen behind their house. She remembered seeing her mother running up the small rise from the beach, her face white with terror. When Moira looked up she saw the reiver sails silhouetted on the watery horizon.

The men of Nordhulm had been an increasing threat to northern isles, especially Lerial. They had, for years, contented themselves with poaching ships, and raiding the small whaling communities in the White Sea. Little more than pirates, they had built their reputation as mercenaries for petty lords of the Inner Islands in their incessant conflicts.

Lerial had stood for centuries, under the Kingfisher Banner, as a buffer between the Hundred Isles and the reivers of Nordhulm. In a few short months though, the Prophet Rillan had undone the armies of the Kingfisher with his new vision of the Path. Duality and Balance were, and always had been, at the heart of the Path. The Monks of Kualang had preached a path of peace for generations, but they, being monks, lived far from society, and their message was mixed with the nature of Hia'ji – the open-handed martial art their order developed and promoted.

Rillan's message was peace. Peace in family, peace in community, and peace in the world. The Path to Ascension could only be reached, he said, by an all-encompassing life of non-violence. The miracles he had worked in the hamlets, cities, and ports of Lerial had won the commoners over by the thousands. Crowds followed him from one city to the next. When the Lord Kingfisher had finally mustered his strength it was already too late. 

On a field outside the capitol, the host of Rillan had sat down while the prophet walked forward to speak under the majestic Kingfisher Banner.  The King had called Rillan a false prophet, and challenged his teachings in a voice that carried across the field. In another time that may have worked.  There had been many and more false prophets in the long history of Hundred Isles.  Rillan’s miracles and message were too powerful though.  The vast majority of the army had thrown down their weapons at the prophet’s response, and joined the sitting throng.

For a season Lerial was truly peaceful.  The Lord Kingfisher had taken the remnants of his army across the straights, and locked himself in the ancient cliff fortress of Ulloch.  The prophet worked with and through the peoples of Lerial, and everyone was cared for.  The poor were fed and clothed, the sick healed, and the criminals reformed.

Word had spread though, as it was want to do, on the first sails that left with the Lord Kingfisher.  Nordhulm stirred in its icy halls.  When the raiding began all along the northern coast of Lerial, the reivers did not just burn the villages, and carry off the women and plunder.  They established their own military commands in the conquered towns.

The people turned to Rillan for answers, and he spoke as he always had, of peace and balance and the Path.  His words, even in chaos, had buoyed the nation.  Time and again, they watched as Rillan would walk out, open armed, to speak with the reivers as they fell upon some village, or stormed a city’s walls.  Neither arrow nor sword could touch him as he told them of the path, walking among the stunned nordmen.

For all of his attempts though, the prophet could not convert the men of Nordhulm.  The northerners worshiped deities they called the old gods, and their priests worked their own miracles, wrought in fire, lightning and blood.  So the reivers pushed further south with every new moon, until that twilight, one week ago, the sails had appeared outside Moira’s village, and changed her life forever. 

Mara's Tavern

Mara's Tavern had a definitive smell to it. It wasn't necessarily an unpleasant smell, but neither did Arthur strictly consider it pleasant. It smelled loosely of wind and waves, but distorted, like an oil painting left in the rain. It was soaked into the oaken rafters and creaky floorboards, even giant barrels that lined the back wall. It had a way of seeming unpleasant - as things that are just barely pleasant have a way of doing - but you acclimated to it quickly. Like a day that was just a little too warm, or a roast with just a little too much salt. It was just kind of there. To Arthur, it smelled like home. At least he thought it did.

Mars's tavern was a patchwork, scrubbed together from the leavings of Madrigo. No two tables were the same. Some were made of stone, others of oak, or driftwood, or even brass or forged iron in a few cases. A few were large enough to have served in a lord's banquet hall, others felt cramped with just two people sitting across from one another. The chairs were no better. High-backed, padded chairs out of a lady's sitting room, sat next to three-legged stools, and rickety, folding contraptions that strained under the weight of some of the heavier patrons. None of the lamps hanging around the room matched; the floor was a hodgepodge of different kinds of woods cut in disparate patterns, widths and lengths; and where the walls had been repaired dozens of times, white washed carpentered wood met rough hewn timber at uncomfortable angles.

Luckily, the patrons of Mara's cared very little for glamorous ambiance. It was a special crowd that was catered to here, and no complaints were ever had about the decor. At least not by the regulars.

Tonight, the tavern was well over half full, despite the late hour. Arthur recognized many faces scattered around the room: Trolley, the Moffet, Jack and Riley, Hildor, Bren Yellow Hands. The latter two nodded, from opposite sides of the room, as he entered. Bren was quietly talking to two young, well dressed men. Hildor, of course, sat by himself, drinking.

He waded through a sea of hushed voices, laughter and song toward the far end of the room. Despite it's gruff  look, Mara's was a quiet, laid back hole in the wall. Belon, who ran the place, made sure that the atmosphere was always conducive to those who need to conduct business: quiet enough that you could hear who you were talking to, but loud enough that others could not.

As he approached, the bartender looked up without missing a single sweep of his cloth inside the mug he was working on. "Well, well. You finally turn up." He sat the mug down and picked up another from the pile without looking. "You're a popular man these days, you know. People have been asking about you almost since you left."

Arthur sat on one of the mismatched stools. "Good kind of asking or bad?" He let his pack slip to the ground to a dull thud and the muffled clink of chain.

"Hard to tell. Some of the worst people have the best offers; and some of the most pleasant, upstanding figures want nothing more than to take you away in chains for something you never even did wrong." He grabbed another mug. "It's hard to tell just from the people and how they ask, even for an old trained eye like myself. But all that being the case," he stopped cleaning and put a big arm on the bar, "I'd say no more than half wanted to hurt, maim or kill you." Her finished with a big smile.

Arthur couldn't help but smile back. "Well, those are pretty good numbers for me, Belon. In fact, only half the people in the world hating me would seem quite an improvement at times. I've always assumed it was pretty much everyone." He gestured toward the bartender. "With the exception of some good friends, of course."

"Ha! Glad to be in such... prestigious company." He emphasized the word like he needed Arthur's help to decide if it was the correct one.

"You should be, it's a very select group."

"Oh really?"

"Absolutely. Why, aside from you, there are no more than five or six other people in the whole world... At any given time of course." Belon gave him a quizzical look and began cleaning again. Arthur just shrugged. "What? It fluctuates." He grabbed one of the newly cleaned mugs, and walked around to where the barrels stood behind the bar. "You can't expect me to keep friends forever." He said, while his cup filled.

"Is that so?"

Arthur took a long drink. "Well, except for the ones that give me free ale of course."

"Who ever said it was free?"

Arthur did his best to look hurt. "Now, didn't I just get done saying we were friends?" Belon shook his head but kept quiet.

Arthur finished his ale quickly and slid the empty mug into the pile with it's ill-matched compatriots. "I'm supposed to meet someone here. Or rather was supposed to meet them here, a few days ago. My last trip went a bit long. Anyone say they were expecting me?"

The bartender wiped his forehead with the once white apron that straddled his wide girth. "There was one fellow, rented a room upstairs. Asked about you every day for the last week or so. Second room on the left. Not sure if he'll be there. Seems to keep strange hours."

"Thanks, Belon, and just put the beer on my tab." He said as he gathered his things and headed for the stairs.

"No reason to. What's one more farthing that I'll never see?"

"That's the spirit." He said with a smile and ducked into the stairway.

Madrigo

Arthur stepped from the gently swaying deck of Osprey, and onto the wharfs of Madrigo. Docks and quays spiderwebbed out before him: great ripplings of wood and stone rising from the water. The lanterns that hung intermittently from rafters, beams and ship's prows lit the whole construction like thousands of swaying fireflies whose light reflected off the water creating an illusion of illumination, which was broken if you tried to peer into the obscurity around you. The soft sound of water lapping on wood was broken only by the occasional sounds of ships docking somewhere off in the dimly lit distance.

He grabbed his pack from where he had thrown it off the deck. Slinging it solidly over his left shoulder, he began his long walk toward the city of Madrigo. He could see it rising on a gentle incline from the beach, where it met the docks, up he gently rolling hills that eventually gave birth to a range of mountainous peaks, on which few lights shone, except the great watch fire at the pinnacle.

Progress was slow. The dock twisted and turned at irregular intervals, sending you back  in directions you had just come from, and forcing you to choose from as many as eight divergent paths.  The dock's growth in recent years, had outpaced any one person's ability to plan, so they had been constructed in the most haphazard way by individual merchants, nobles or captains that had purchased rights. The result was a maze with no walls that was difficult to navigate even during the day.

He was not alone out in the darkness. The sound of music and the smell of cook fires floated down from the decks of nearly every ship. Crew members who had decided to wait till the morning to make the trek into town spent the night singing, or dancing, or dicing. And drinking - obviously drinking. Constables walked up and down the docks in pairs or small groups. Most eyed him suspiciously, while a few gave him polite nods before ignoring him as a non-threat. Women, who claimed to be cooks, cleaners or musicians, walked from ship to ship selling their services. Others just stood in the corners waiting for lonely sailors with a few coins in their pocket. A few peddlers even hawked their wares as he strode past them. The wharf was like a small town, and at night, it had a character all it's own.

After dozens of detours and turns, Arthur found himself in an area of wider, more solid docks, that were laid out in much simpler - and more logical - patterns. Projections came off at nearly right angles on both sides of him, and nearly every one had a vessel anchored at it. The ships here were larger, the constables better-armed, and the "cooks" decidedly more attractive. These were the proper docks, that had been around for generations. Here, those captains with coin could pay to dock themselves a little closer to the city. Although the walk from here was still quite a distance.

Madrigo was not a huge city, at least not compared to the massive trade ports of the Inner Sea, but it was the only suitable port on the whole of the island that shared it's name. Which, in turn, was the only civilized island for at least five days sailing in any direction. It received more sea traffic than most cities three times its size, and with only a small part of it's surface suitable for landing ships, the docks had been forced further and further out into the sea. And they were always busy. If you were any kind of traveler, you had been to Madrigo at least once or twice. Arthur had been here more often than he could remember.

Soon, he found himself standing firmly on stone. The docks here were wide enough that the far side was lost in the darkness wherever it wasn't lit by increasingly frequent lamps, and was surrounded by a chest high wall. The ships moored here were impressive warships, or massive, low-hulled grain barges or the occasional sleek and slender pleasure barge of the rich. The constables wore iron breastplates polished until they sparkled in the lamplight. There were no cooks, or peddlers or music, just a calm silence, upheld by the might of Duke Leovaine, whose high-walled palace was visible now, staring down at the city below from a cliff-like hill that soared above Arthur, jutting out into the sea on his left.

His shoulder was starting to ache from the weight of his pack. He was a very light traveler, but his oiled leather armor, and the chain mail he wore over it, were both tightly rolled in his pack. Added to the odds and ends that he normally traveled with, and the fact the he was already bone-weary and exhausted, made a normally annoying shoulder ache nearly unbearable.

By the time he reached the streets, which blended seamlessly with the stone of the docks, so that you could not tell where one ended and the other began, he had to switch shoulders. He didn't like to incapacitate his sword arm, but he was probably safer here than he would be anywhere. He sighed and passed under the gate that signaled the start of the city.

Madrigo Street started as a large plaza dominated by a fountain. Across from him, the wide stone-paved street cut the city in half. Lining this were trading houses, palaces and inns where one night would cost more than some people could spend on food for an entire year. Even if Arthur had wanted the treatment that came with one of those places, the few loose coins rattling in his pocket wouldn't have even gotten him into the common room. And besides, he was here for work.

So he turned onto one of the side streets, and followed it for a while, before turning onto another side street. After several rounds of this, he found himself standing under a sign whose paint was so chipped and faded that it could barely be distinguished as blue, and if the word "Mara's" had been written in letters any smaller it would have been all but unreadable, even to someone that knew the name. The inn itself had seen better times. Half of it had once been covered in white paint that had peeled itself into almost nonexistence. It was impossible to see what had once covered the other half, because it was now covered in a thick, darkly-colored mossy growth.

On a barrel near the door, sat a man with arms as big as Arthur's legs, and a smile that probably could have killed the mold on the wall behind him - or at least scared it into submission. "Been 'while since I've seen you." He said in a voice the matched the body too perfectly.

"Had a lot of stuff to do, Hal. You know me, always keeping busy." As Arthur approached, the big man playfully punched him in the arm.

"Oh, I know you. You always got your hand in something." When Hal laughed, Arthur was reminded of what had happened to all the paint that had once been on the walls. It had left. Trying to get away from that sound.

"Anyone been looking for me recently?" Arthur asked while he opened the door.

"Someone's always asking 'bout you." Hal raised a massive hand to scratch the stubble on his chin. "But I seem to recall some people in there looking for you for the last couple o' days."

"Thanks, Hal." He said, and stepped into cacophony of sights, smells and sounds that made up Mara's Tavern.

Something

In the temples of Kaulang, they had named it the Year of the Dragon. Upon the islands of Vestris it was the last of the years of Sorrow. Across the lands of the Once and Again Empire, it was the beginning of the Fourth Cycle. If you asked the renegade monks of Soltris, they would tell you that it was once more, - as it was every year - the year for repentance and grief, although, they said, men would have more to grieve now than ever before. To the shipwrights, sailors and those who followed the Book, it was to be a season of shifting weather and deceitful seas.

And to the common folk spread across the Hundred Isles, who tilled fields, mended thatch and fished the open waters, it was just another year, if unnaturally warm. But, if you looked close enough, and listened hard enough - in hushed tones in the corners of a dark tavern over tankards of half-devoured mead as late night crept toward early morning; along a dusty and dreary road as a pair men listened to the trees sing, touched their weapons reassuringly, and let slip the thoughts they had long kept inside; or at the bottom of a trade ship that had been at sea for too many days and the swaying of the waves led men to tell tales - you would hear it.

"Change is in the air." One of them would say. Their voice barely loud enough for those around them to hear, as if they feared that letting loose those words would cause them to come true. "Something is coming." Then someone would order another round of ale, or tell an overused joke, or pretend to see a shape in the distance. The moment would be broken, and they would all pretend it had never been said. But they would none of them forget.

For they felt it too. In subtle stirrings of the air, in the feel of the waves, in the early morning silence that said so little, and yet so much, they could feel something. And it mattered not what religion you turned to. Even the Relians, who claimed to hold to all gods, could find no reprieve. For all faiths told of a year of change, a year of new and old, a year of something.

So men toiled, and the days of a new year turned to weeks, which turned to months. Men began to breath a little easier, and to laugh at the quaint fears of their fellows. Some would even utter aloud their thoughts of these things for all to hear, and no one would care. At least for a time. But soon, dark and spiteful eyes would turn toward them. For no sooner, it seemed, were these words spoken, than the next wind would bring a ship, and the ship, as they tend to do, would bring news. News of something.

News of Lerial.