Memoirs of a Ranger - Lambe Arkolyn

[Lambe]

4 - 44



To bring back a burden is not the same as mending what was broken.

Ivan carried the Unicorn back into the Grove after we found her by the river. I can still see that more clearly than I’d like. Her blood had been taken. Her horn was gone. The Shadow Druid’s words were still fresh in us, and the mud of the riverbank had not yet dried from our boots. We brought her home because leaving her there was worse.

There was not much I could do. My throat was still wrapped from Kaltyra’s bite, and my strength came and went like a poor lantern in wind. I walked and stood because I still could. When Ivan lowered her near the place chosen for burial, between the great tree and the waterfall, the Grove seemed to go still around us.

That was right, if anything about it could be called right. The tree had watched over the heart of the Grove longer than most of us had known its paths. The water gave sound where words failed. I do not know what Ivan said over her. I know he offered what prayer he could. Mendel stood nearby, and Alyndra was there with us, having seen what waited by the river. Nai was in the Grove when we brought the Unicorn home. Her grief was its own creature after that, and I won’t pretend to measure it. The Unicorn had been more to her than a guardian. She had been friend, pack mate, and something almost older than either word.

Until then, the Unicorn had belonged more to the Grove than to any telling of mine. We did not make her safer by speaking of her where any curious ear could hear. She had simply been there, part of the place’s shape, old enough that I thought of her less as a guest than as one of its truths. Then there was a grave where that truth had stood.

Soon after the river, close enough that memory gives no clean edge between one hurt and the next, the Circle began trying to put its hands around what had happened. It was not a normal gathering. Normal things had little say after the mound was raised. People came because Ivan’s report could not be ignored, because the Shadow Druid had named the Purge, because the dream had been shared, and because no one wished to be the one who waited too long.

I was on my way toward that business when Kaltyra found me. Perhaps she had waited for me. Perhaps she only guessed my path. I have had enough years since then to wonder over small details that mattered little at the time. She came near enough to speak, and I had my sword in hand. Sora stood at my side. That was not ceremony. It was not bravado. It was sense.

Kaltyra saw the anger without my needing to spend words on it. She had lived too much of her life close to claw, fang, and blood to miss such a thing. I was standing still because movement would have chosen too much for me. My throat was not made for shouting then, and I was never much for outbursts.

That was when I noticed what she had brought.

The locket.

I had not known where it had gone after the bite. In the grass, in the mud, in Kaltyra’s hand, under someone’s boot while they tried to keep me alive. I had thought through all of those and liked none of them. The little flower had been missing from my chest, and with it had gone one of the few pieces of Flora I could still touch. When I saw it, the sword felt heavier. The chain was broken and muddied, and the little flower looked too small in Kaltyra’s hand.

Kaltyra tossed it to me. I caught it with my free hand, the sword still held in the other. My fingers closed too hard around the broken chain. Some of that was weakness and some was anger, but more than either was the old wound opening in a place I had not expected. Flora had been gone for years. A man can learn to live around such a loss, but he never owns all the doors it may use to enter him again.

Kaltyra knew what she had done to me. I will not dress it up into more tenderness than I felt. There was no clean forgiveness in that moment. There was barely room for speech. She stood before me as the woman who had returned my locket and the beast who had nearly torn the life out of my throat. Both were true. She knew Ivan’s magic had stood between me and death. She spoke of regret and blood-debt. Two prices, mine to name. One had already been named, for her to stay away from the lich bound up in her troubles. The other stood between us now.

The Circle needed answers. I could have asked Kaltyra for something meant only to hurt her. It had crossed my mind then, and I had enough cause. Instead I asked for what she knew of the Shadow Druids.

That frightened her. Not me alone. Not even Sora, though Sora made no effort to look harmless. Her fear went deeper than the moment. It had the look of old snares and old cages, of choices made badly and enemies that had not forgotten her. Kaltyra was dangerous. She was afraid all the same.

She gave what she could. Not a neat answer. Not a path laid clear from root to river. Her knowledge was partial, and much of it came from her own troubles rather than ours. Habits she had noticed. Materials she knew they favored. Days or signs that mattered to them. The sort of thing that might mean little alone, but could matter later beside a track, a wet stone, or a bit of ash. I listened more than I spoke. My throat made a poor tool, and I did not want to waste what little she was willing to give.

Even then, nothing about her came clean. She spoke often enough of the Balance, and she was Grumbar’s. I do not say that as insult. Earth has weight. Stone holds its shape. Oaths matter to the Earthlord, and change is not welcomed for its own sake. In many ways, she should have fit the Circle. She had been one of us once, and not by mistake. There was a strange thing in that. Kaltyra hated change as fiercely as any servant of Grumbar might, but she seemed to think striking first was the same as standing firm. Whatever tie Kaltyra had to the Balance came through the druid’s path and through her own judgment, and that was where the trouble had always lived. Her judgment had teeth. I had felt them.

The Circle’s way was not always clean. We had delayed when perhaps we should have moved. We had failed to mend every wound that later bled into worse. Still, our service was not meant to answer one temper. The Shadow Druids saw restraint and called it cowardice. Kaltyra had done much the same in her own way. Some of the accusation found meat. Some of it only wanted blood.

Before she left, Kaltyra asked one thing of me. She wanted Celduil told that she wished to meet him alone. That request sat poorly with me. Celduil was High Ranger. Sending him alone toward Kaltyra, after what she had done to me, was not a small favor carried between acquaintances. Yet I had asked her for knowledge under the shape of a debt, and she had given what she was willing to give. If I was going to refuse her request, it needed to be for a better reason than my anger.

I told her I would carry the message. No promise of safety. No promise of trust. Only that I would pass the words on. Anger was still there, close enough to my hand that I could feel it in the grip of the sword. I had given my word. Anger did not change that.

Others were drawing near by then. The day’s business had begun to gather around us, and Kaltyra noticed before I needed to warn her. Whatever courage had carried her to me began to fail. I saw her measure the shape of more than one Circle member approaching, and I saw what she thought it meant. She had not come to stand before the Circle. She had come to return what she had taken, speak what she dared, and leave before judgment learned her scent. She left quickly.

I stood a while later with the locket in hand and Sora at my side. It should have felt like relief. It did not. The locket was back. Flora was not. Kaltyra had returned what was mine, but she had not unmade the bite. The little flower lay in my palm, small and familiar, and I hated how much comfort it still had power to give me.

When I reached the others, I passed along Kaltyra’s information first, then her request for Celduil. I do not know how rough the words came out, but Celduil heard enough.

Tyn brought back another burden soon after. He returned from Cloakwood bloodied and beaten. Much of what he learned came to me through his account rather than my own eyes. He had gone looking for Shadow Druids and found one willing to say enough. If the Unicorn was dead, then nothing was coming. It was already here. The force moving against us was ancient, and it would run over the land until things were as they once were.

The Shadow Druid blamed the Circle. He named the burning of the Sharpteeth by Black Orcs, the lizardfolk beaten and raided, their eggs stolen, the wolves driven out. He spoke of our inaction as if the whole wound of the land could be laid at our feet. It would be easier now to say he lied. He did not need to lie about everything. There had been failures enough to gather and sharpen.

That was the worst part. Some of it was true enough to hurt, which made it easier for him to use.

The lizardfolk mattered. The stolen eggs mattered. The Shadow Druids had their own story for why the Circle deserved to be cast aside, and they had found an old force willing to make their anger useful.

The Unicorn’s grave did not feel like an ending after that. I had the locket back, but I kept touching it like I expected it to be gone again. Tyn had returned alive. That should have been better news than it felt. Each thing brought back to us only showed another place where something had been broken.

We did not yet know the full pattern. We did not know how many more guardians were at risk. We only knew the Grove’s guardian had been taken first, and that the ones who took her were not done.

[Lambe]

4 - 45



The beast had a name.

I thought first of Varak when I wrote that. Men have a way of making monsters out of what waits in the deep, wet parts of the woods. Lizardfolk were easy to make into such things if a man was careless, frightened, or too certain of his own stories. We knew the danger. We went anyway, hoping words would hold.

Celduil led, with Nai near enough to speak when speaking became necessary. Mendel was there, and Celdor, Ivan, Alyndra, and me. Those are the ones that stayed with me. I was still not whole from Kaltyra’s bite. My throat remained wrapped, and my strength went out at odd times. I went anyway.

Tyn’s report had made the lizardfolk impossible to ignore. The Shadow Druid had spoken of them, of eggs stolen, of raids, of old wrongs brought up again as accusation. We had heard enough by then to know that the Purge was not moving through empty ground.

Cloakwood was damp that day. I remember that more than the sky. Wet air under leaves. Old mud. The way sound seemed to sink before it traveled far. Celduil kept us ordered without making a show of it. He did not speak more than he needed. Mostly he watched the line and let us see where his attention went.

We found the cave system where the lizardfolk had made their hold. The passage bent more than once. Some of it may have been mine workings once, or natural stone opened wider by water and claw. Close walls came first, then stale water, then the feeling of eyes where torchlight did not reach. The lizardfolk did not attack us at the mouth, though I would not call that mercy. Celduil had brought enough of us that a fight would have cost them, and Varak had words he wanted placed before the Circle.

So they watched us. They measured bows, blades, hands, and faces. They stood with spears near enough to use. Nai and Ivan did much of the calming, or as much calming as can be done when neither side has reason to trust the other. I stayed quiet unless there was need. Mostly it hurt to speak.

One of them led us deeper through low stone and wet footing. I did not know his name then. Later I would know him as Krill’acha. He was younger than most of the others, or seemed so to me, and there was something restless in the way he looked at us. Curious, maybe. Too curious for his own safety, as young ones sometimes are. At the time he was only another lizardfolk shape in the torchlight. I remember slipping once. Not falling, but enough that Mendel looked back. The cave opened after that, wide enough that the torchlight lost its edges before reaching the far walls. Lizardfolk stood along those edges. A few shifted when we entered. Claws scraped stone. Tails moved through mud. No one in our party reached for a weapon, though I doubt any hand forgot where one was.

The Lizard King sat ahead on a rough seat that served as a throne. A war axe leaned against one side of it within easy reach. There was nothing grand about either one. No worked gold, no banner, no courtly nonsense. Stone, height, and the lizardfolk around him were enough. He was larger than the others. Even if I have given him too much height with the years, he was still the first thing a man noticed. When he moved, the others listened.

His name was Varak.

The trial came back to me then, not as a whole memory, only pieces. A lizardfolk before me. A test meant to prove whether I could stand where fear wanted me to give ground. I had thought of it as danger then. Varak made that memory sit differently.

Varak was dangerous, but that was not all he was. His people stood behind him, and they were watching how we watched him. Nai spoke to him carefully. Ivan helped steady the exchange. Celduil stood as the one leading us. The rest of us listened and tried not to turn tension into blood by moving at the wrong time. Mendel looked like he wanted to ask too much at once. Alyndra kept looking past Varak, over the lizardfolk, the air, the stone. Celdor stayed quiet and watched.

Varak wanted the Circle to hear him, and he began with the admission that the thing we were pursuing was known to his people before we had a name for it. This beast, for that is what it could only be. Ancient. Older than the coming of the furs, as he put it. That word sat strangely in the cave, and I tried to decide whether he meant men, elves, dwarves, or all warm-blooded folk who had come later than his own. It did not matter much in that moment. To Varak, the thing we hunted belonged to a time before us.

He knew what the beast was, though I did not understand all of it while we stood there. The air was close, and every word had to pass through anger, old grief, and the scrape of stone around us. He spoke of the beast as tied to Malar, or as one of his aspects. He spoke of forms. A great beast, like a tyrant lizard but wrong in the ways memory keeps sharp. A body that could run on all fours when it wished. Acidic spit. Red eyes. That was what reached me first. Not the old tooth, the Moonshaes, or even Malar. It was the red eyes. The dream had burned them into us before the river ever gave us the Unicorn’s body. I did not have all the pieces yet, but I knew that fear.

After that, the pieces came unevenly. The Moonshaes, the tooth, the temple, the old killing or banishing. Ivan’s note put it in order later. In the cave it did not come that way. He said the beast had been killed or banished on the moon islands. The Shadow Druids had taken a tooth from a lizardfolk temple. That was how they had raised the beast, or called it, or opened enough of a path for it to come back into the world. The working was beyond me, but I knew enough to understand theft when I heard it. A temple had been violated.

The eggs came next, or that is how I remember it now. Varak’s anger changed when he spoke of them. It had been hard before, but this was worse. The Friendly Arm cook, he said, had been sending adventurers to steal lizardfolk eggs. The eggs were passed to the Shadow Druids. The Shadow Druids used them to raise an army. One of the lizardfolk near the wall shifted when Varak said it. Maybe that is why I remember that part.

I had heard of adventurers taking eggs before. Usually they laughed about it, or called it a job. It did not sound like that in Varak’s mouth. I was slower to anger than I should have been. Maybe because I was tired. Maybe because eggs were still only a word until I looked around at the lizardfolk watching us. The Circle had not sent those adventurers, but standing there, that answer felt thin. His people had fought the young raised against them. How much was exact and how much came through grief, I cannot say.

I thought of the Shadow Druid’s accusation against us. The lizardfolk beaten and raided. Their eggs stolen. Wolves driven from the Sharpteeth. Black Orc fire. All of it had been thrown at Tyn like a charge read before judgment. In the cavern, with Varak’s people watching us from the dark, the words were no longer only accusation. There were faces around them. Scales. Spears. A chieftain on stone.

Varak gave us three days to bring him the cook. Bring him the one who had paid for the theft and fed the Shadow Druids their army. Three days, or whatever peace stood between us and his people would thin until it tore. He did not ask us to understand him. He did not ask us to grieve with him. He wanted the man brought to answer for his crimes, and no one in that cave mistook it for a request.

Celduil took the weight of that as leader. Ivan would later leave the note in the Grove, setting the tasks in plain order. Ask the Golden Ash tree about the beast. Investigate the Friendly Arm cook. Learn what had happened in the Moonshaes years before. In the cavern, those tasks did not yet sit neat on a page.

The Golden Ash was another piece Varak gave us. He told us to ask the tree of the Sharp Teeth Woods, the one inside our Grove. We had gone into Cloakwood to face Varak, and he pointed us back toward home.

We left Varak with more than we had brought in, though it did not feel like victory. We had a demand and three days. The cook mattered first. The rest would have to wait.

The first beast I named in that chapter of my life was Varak. I had been taught, as many are taught, to see the lizardfolk of the deep woods as things apart from us. That did not make him gentle, and it did not make his spears less sharp. It only meant I had to remember that Varak had come there by his own road, same as the rest of us.

Varak gave us the word for the thing behind the dream, the red eyes, and the Unicorn’s blood.

Before the day was done, another beast had been named.

Kazgoroth.

[Lambe]

4 - 46



Smoking is bad for a man’s health.

That was true in the ordinary way, I suppose. It was truer still for the Shadow Circle cook, who chose the wrong moment to step outside with his pipe.

I did not see Celduil take him. That should be said early. I was not there. I was not crouched beside the wall with him. I did not have the cook by the collar. I did not hear whatever sound the man made when he found out his smoke break had gone wrong. Celduil told that part afterward in his usual way, plain enough that I suspected he had left out the worst of it.

The cook had stepped out into the courtyard of the Friendly Arm while the inn was closed. Maybe he wanted a few quiet breaths. Maybe he had done it often enough that it no longer felt like risk. Men grow careless around their own habits. Celduil found his chance there.

He put a hand on the cook’s shoulder and took him alive.

That was the part people repeated afterward, though none of it was funny once the whole of it was known. The man had helped steal eggs from Varak’s people. He had helped feed children into Shadow Druid hands. He had helped the Shadow Circle’s work, whether or not he understood the whole of it. After all that, what undid him was wanting smoke.

How we had come to that point is another story, and not one I saw cleanly.

The cook had a locked room. Celduil did not like that, but the first hand put through that door was not his. Ivan was told to take mouse shape and slip inside. I can imagine Ivan’s face when that suggestion was made, but I was not there, so I will leave his face alone. He did it all the same.

A cloaked figure came in by magic and saw through Ivan’s shape. After that, the account grew hurried, as such accounts do. Tyn got inside. There was arcane magic, a fight, and the cook running for the guards. The man had thought the Wild Hunt would keep us busy. That meant the High Hunt, a Malarite rite already troubling the woods, not some Shadow Druid ceremony of its own. Ivan and Tyn took the man alive and got him out by way of the roof, which was the sort of detail I decided not to ask after too closely.

They brought that man to Varak. I know less of that questioning than Ivan did, and more than I wanted. Enough came out of it. The cook was Shadow Circle. The eggs were being used to divide Varak’s people. The eggs were somewhere below Cloakwood, reachable by the roots, whatever exact meaning the Shadow Druids gave that. Varak killed the man before Ivan and Tyn were done with him, then gave us a few more days to bring him the actual cook.

That was why Celduil took the cook lead after that. Ivan and Tyn could not safely go back near the Friendly Arm. If the Shadow Circle had eyes there, those eyes would be looking for a druid who had been a mouse and a dwarf who had come through the door at the wrong moment.

Celduil had the patience for watching and the rank to make others keep at it when waiting became dull. For the next few days, he watched the cook while the man went about his work in the kitchens.

That is one of the uglier parts of such business. A man can hide plenty of rot while doing ordinary work. He can stir pots, carry flour, complain about onions, and make himself useful enough that folk stop wondering why he is always near the storerooms.

My part was in Cloakwood, with Nai, Mendel, Alyndra, and a few others. We were there to make noise and keep Shadow Druid eyes looking into the trees instead of toward the Friendly Arm.

The Shadow Druids did not come at us in a clean charge. They knew the ground and used it. Brush moved where no wind touched it. Roots caught boots. A shape would break from behind a trunk and be gone before a proper shot could be taken. More than once I put an arrow where a man had been and found only bark when I reached the place after.

My arm still did not like being used hard. Kaltyra’s bite had healed on the outside, but not in any way that could be trusted. I could draw. I could aim. I could kill, if I had to. Each pull reminded me I was not whole yet.

Mendel stayed near enough that I noticed. He did not hover. That would have annoyed me, and he knew it. He simply kept ending up where a second blade or a spell might matter if my strength failed. Nai moved with anger in her steps. She had buried too much that tenday. Alyndra had gone quiet in the way druids do when the work has become harder than mercy.

We were not trying to clear Cloakwood. No one clears a forest by chasing men between trees. We were buying time. A figure in bark-colored leathers came at me from low ground, mud up to one knee, curved blade in hand. I saw his eyes first. Human eyes, or near enough. That made it worse in a way. There was no beast in them, only certainty.

I loosed before he finished rising. The arrow took him high in the chest and spun him into the brush. He made a wet, empty sound when he fell.

Another came from the left, and Mendel caught that one before I could turn properly. There was no speech between us. He did what needed doing. I gave him a nod when I had breath to spare. Somewhere to the west, Nai shouted a warning. We shifted toward her, and the fight moved again.

That was enough. Strike, withdraw, listen, move. Blood under wet air. Enough noise, enough danger in the trees, enough reason for Shadow Druid eyes to stay there while Celduil waited for his moment at the inn.

When Celduil took the cook, he did not kill him. That mattered. Varak had demanded the cook, but Celduil was not in the habit of delivering corpses when a living mouth still had use. He brought him back under guard, and for a short while the cook rested in the Grove.

Rested is the word that was used. I still do not like it. He had helped poison the world around us, and still he had a moment beneath our trees before judgment came for him. Maybe that was mercy. Maybe it was only because we still needed him breathing. I do not know. I was not there.

The Golden Ash woke while the cook was resting.

That is the part I keep coming back to. Not Celduil’s hand on the cook. Not Ivan as a mouse, or Tyn getting into the room, or the roof escape I still do not care to picture. The cook was there beneath our trees, breathing after all he had done, and the Golden Ash woke.

I was not there when it spoke. Celduil was. I cannot tell you how its voice sounded. I did not hear it, and I will not invent old-tree sounds to make the tale prettier. I know what Celduil carried back. The Ash warned him of the threat coming. It confirmed the cook was tainted.

That was enough.

The cook knew enough to be guilty and not enough to be useful. He was Shadow Circle, or close enough to their work that the difference no longer mattered. He collected the eggs, passed them along, and met another in that locked room, where the eggs were taken by magic. But he did not know where they were kept. He knew Kazgoroth only as a thing of destruction, which may have been more than enough for the sort of man he was.

After that, Tyn and Ivan appeared and treestrode Celduil and the cook to Varak. I have done plant travel enough times to know it is not as gentle as folk imagine. One moment you are under one set of branches. The next, the world has changed around you and your stomach has not caught up. However they managed the prisoner through it, the cook reached the Lizard King, as Varak had demanded.

I learned the rest when Celduil returned. The cook did not die well. Most men do not.

Varak did not give him long. That sat hard with some of us, even knowing what the cook had done. His people’s eggs had been stolen. Their young had been twisted and raised against them. There are wrongs too large for a neat answer, and Varak was not looking for one. Still, knowing a death is earned is not the same as hearing how quickly it was given.

Varak killed him, then promised aid against Kazgoroth. That was Varak as he had shown himself to us. Hard one moment, practical the next. The cook had been a debt. Kazgoroth was the greater enemy. Once one was answered, the other remained.

By the end of it, the cook was dead, the lizardfolk had promised spears, and the Golden Ash had spoken. The Circle had been named honorary members of Varak’s clan, or near enough that the meaning was clear. They meant to war against the Shadow Druids and send word when the time came.

The eggs were still missing. That was the part no one could set aside.

I remember standing there with mud drying on my boots and pain settling into my arm while the reports crossed over one another. The man from the locked room. The cook. The Golden Ash waking. Varak’s judgment. Varak’s promise. Our own work in Cloakwood, which had felt large while we were in it and smaller once we knew what it had bought.

No one had seen the whole of the day while it happened. That is often how the Circle survived. Not cleanly. Not with one person standing in the middle of the tale. Just people in different places doing the work in front of them and hoping the others were still alive when the paths came together again.

It did not make us safe. It only told us what was coming. Kazgoroth would come for the Grove next.

[Lambe]

I-2



A Ranger’s Wealth

A young adventurer thinks wealth is gold. An experienced one knows wealth is anything that still works after rain.

Before any coming storm, one should take stock. Not because counting makes the storm kinder. It does not. But a man should know what he has, what he lacks, and what he is pretending he does not need.

In 1349 DR, as best as memory serves, this was mine.

Worn

- A cloak given back when the Enclave still gave such things to its rangers
- A thick padded leather vest, cut for movement and patched more than once
- Boots that had cost enough to make me walk carefully for three days
- A belt with more use than beauty
- Rings I trusted only because they had not betrayed me yet
- Flora’s locket, which was not gear, no matter where it rested

The cloak had a quiet blessing in it. It helped me mend in small ways and notice things worth noticing. It still let rain down my neck. Magic has limits, it turns out.

Carried

- Bone-Crusher, a costly Nashkel bow with an ugly name and honest pull. After a long day, the name usually felt less aimed at my enemies than at me.
- An assortment of arrows, because every archer eventually learns that “enough” means “not yet tested.”
- Howling, my short blade for when distance failed. I named it that after long thought, because it howled.
- A light shield, because mobility is not always the answer. Caves teach that quickly.
- A field knife, healing kits, and a few potions I hoped were what they claimed to be.
- A fishing pole, because a man who trusts only dried meat deserves his misery.

Other Things

Straps. Rags. Cord. Flint. Needles. Bits of food too old to admit aloud. Things useful at dawn and forgotten by dusk. Things forgotten until they stabbed my hip through the pack.

The important things are the ones your hands remember without looking.

Coin

Enough to mend what broke, buy what was needed, and send some north to Lydia when the road had been kind.

Wanted

- More dry socks
- More space in the pack
- Fewer straps
- A bag of holding, because everyone wants one, and I saw no reason to be different.


Last Count

A ranger’s gear does not need to impress anyone. It needs to be where your hand expects it when the light fails. And if it cannot survive weather, mud, blood, smoke, and being dropped in the dark, it had better at least be cheap.