Print

          “What story shall I tell today?” The Old Storyteller looked across her anxious audience. She knew each by name. She could see their mothers, fathers and even grandparents in their jovial faces. She had to admit, she truly missed her favorite little listener. Dey Pa Rue, the brave one, had finally ventured forth from the safety of Izarak’s loyal priests. She had made the two day journey to the powerful Kingdom of Remlick where she would continue her training on her way to becoming a great warrioress, on her way to becoming what she was meant to be.

          “Yes,” She noticed the handsome, dark-haired Torian apprentice who stood at the base of the stairs with his arms folded across his already broad chest. He glared at her with skeptical brown eyes. “My brave warrior?” She tilted her head to the side. “You do not serve Izarak and have never sat among these children though… I recognize you still. You take after your father. Now, he once stood before me though not as a child. He had that same look in his eyes. He sailed across the sea from Mignon, leaving behind his homeland and all that he knew because his destiny did not lie on that distant island among the Nevajee. I asked him this same question, what brings you here?”

          “I’ve heard nothing has ever occurred on all of Marrle, in all of her history, you don’t know about.” He spoke with a forceful voice. “You are the Storyteller, there is a story I would like to hear.”

          “And what is that, Alric Madra Firemaker?” She displayed her pink toothless smile as amazement briefly flashed in his eyes. “Would you have me tell you of your birth? When Laey Kroix and Gunnar Hessen left the Crossed Swords Tavern where the priestess of Izarak found them? When-”

          “No,” He growled pushing the small children aside as he mounted the steps. “Many things on Marrle have happened here, down there on that street, involving Laey Kroix…”

          “You want to hear how she died.” The old woman looked up without a hint of fear as the intimidating teenager glared down at her. “To hear the sad fall of the great warrioress.”

          “Just get on with it already!” He ordered with the force of a man used to having his every word followed without question.

          “As you so command.” She bowed respectfully at the waist.

          “Unlike many of my tales, this one does not take place long ago. Only a few short years have passed.” The Old Storyteller ignored the boy and lowered her eyes to the children.

                                                                   *              *               *

          Rain poured down in heavy sheets over the dark, barren countryside. Water pooled in the thick wagon wheel grooves carved deeply into the road. The midnight black mare charged along the trail splashing a wave of mud behind her. The petite rider, concealed in a thick cloak, leaned over the beast’s neck as the lights of the Port City of Writt shimmered in the distance. A rumble sounded as the mare and her master drew closer to their promised sanctuary.

          Lightning flashed illuminating the path and the twenty-one horses and riders as they galloped with relentless determination along the trail after their quarry.

                                                                   *              *               *

          “The rider knew she was being pursued. Over the loud thunder, she could hear the pounding of their horses’ hooves and knew she would find what she sought in the heart

of…

                                                                   *              *               *

          Writt nuzzled in for another quiet night as the torrential rains from an offshore hurricane continued to batter the city. The usual patrons from the towns many taverns and restaurants remained safely within the shuttered businesses. Music and laughter could barely be heard from the Crossed Swords Tavern as the ebony figure hurried along the barren cobblestone street. She charged up the white stone steps leading to the magnificent Cathedral of Izarak. Torches mounted on either side of the massive wooden doors flickered violently throwing frightening shadows across the façade of the temple. She banged powerfully on the doors. In an instant, they opened and she was allowed to step inside before the doors closed securely behind her.

          “Lady Warrior.” High Priest Talida bowed his head to his guest with reverence. He wore the long white robes of his station. His full beard and mustache made him appear quiet