To my readers:
Thanks for your positive comments, and support throughout the telling of
Travels through the Wild West.
As for what's next... I don't know. I still feel the impetus to write, and am not sure if I will channel that into more "professional" stuff or continue to write this sort of fanfic. I do have plenty of ideas, including the possibility of running a group through the new Adventure Path coming out in Dungeon Magazine, but set in the Realms. True to form, I was jotting down ideas at a work-related meeting last week. I may be back in a few weeks with more stories to tell, or go on to different things altogether.
I will be producing a version of the complete story in Microsoft Reader format (*.lit), as well as a PDF (probably in chunks, since my work computer can't seem to distill such a large file). I'll post here when they are ready (currently I'm rereading the whole story for edits, and finding a lot of mistakes that need fixing). The full story, Books I-VIII, came to 462,000 words (
War and Peace was 562k
).
It's been fun.
Lazybones
Here's the epilogue:
* * * * *
Epilogue
They called the region the Fields of the Dead, after ancient battles between nations whose names were now forgotten. It was a cheerless name for a land still sparsely settled, bracketed by the Troll Claws to the north and the Wood of Sharp Teeth to the south, both full of dangers that frequently spilled out onto the plains.
And yet civilized folk did pass through this region, traveling on the trade roads or along the River Chionthar, plying the trade that was the lifesblood of the Western Heartlands between the Sword Coast and the busy city-states of the inland regions. And as the sun set on the day in this part of Faerûn, its rays struck the roofs of a small but growing settlement that was giving lie to the region’s name. Around this community, at least, the fields were very much alive.
It didn’t look like much at first glance, not more than a village, really, grown up around a place where several of the many roads that crisscrossed the region met. The most substantial structure sat atop a gentle rise overlooking the settlement. Stone from an old ruin at the crossroads had been refashioned into a slender, solitary tower, its battlements rising some thirty feet above the plain. The structure was clearly recent, but rather than having the look of most of the hastily-built fortifications common in this untamed region, its lines were smooth and sleek, its construction of obvious masterwork quality, with an air of permanence about it. A quick study of the ground around this sentinel hinted at future expansions, for the area around the mound was staked with markers, and tarps near its base covered what was already a fair collection of building materials.
The village itself also showed signs of recent building, with more than half the roofs missing the inevitable subtle marks of wear that showed that they’d survived the winter storms that blew in off the aptly named Sea of Storms. Most were the simple single-story structures common to farmers throughout the region, with just a few rooms covered by a sloped shingle roof. All were stoutly built, with heavy wooden shutters that could be secured over the windows, and thick doors that currently stood open more often than not, but which could be closed and barred at a moment’s notice. There was also about a half-dozen barns, a two-story wooden edifice that had the look of an inn, a small stone house with an open smithy, complete with a forge, attached, and a small, roofless structure that was clearly a shrine, sacred to the goddess Selûne from to the crescent moon carved above its lintel. Almost every home had a garden beside or behind it, and most also had pens where chickens, goats, cows, and other domestic animals were frequently visible. Neatly tilled plots radiated out from the village, fed by several streams that had been augmented by irrigation ditches and still ponds. The village itself contained a pair of wells, situated in the open space in the central commons before the inn.
As the sun set there was a fair amount of activity about the village, as its residents returned home from the fields, or finished their other chores in preparation for the evening meal. The whole place had the look of peace and prosperity, although its folk clearly paid heed to the dangers of the region, both through the solidity of their buildings and the wary watchman whose head could occasionally be seen above the battlements of the tower. Vigilance was a constant and necessary part of life in the West, if less necessary here than in some places. Those who might have sought to prey upon communities like this one had already learned the lesson that here, at least, there would be no easy marks. Word had gotten out about the several special residents who called this place home, and those seeking trouble went elsewhere.
One of the farmhouses seemed a bit smaller than the others, with low windows and an unusual front door, which had a smaller portal built into the frame of the full-sized door. The roof jutted out over the front of the building, sheltering a wide porch. Seated on that porch, in a small, comfortable chair, sat a rock gnome clad in a simple tunic and breeches. The gnome was still a young man, by the look of him, although his eyes looked older, seasoned with experiences that had clearly had a heavy impact upon him. He sat looking forward, his thoughts clearly elsewhere this evening, a leather-bound journal sitting closed and forgotten in his lap.
The gnome looked up when a stout figure emerged from the shadowy recesses of the now-quiet forge and headed toward his house. The figure was also shorter than most of the inhabitants of the village, although he more than made up for it in his breadth. He wore simple workman’s garb, although the axe he wore casually was clearly no farmer’s tool. All of the villagers he passed greeted him warmly, and he returned each salutation with a friendly nod.
Cal smiled as Lok came up to his porch, and stood there before the step, waiting.
“Come on in, my friend.”
Cal rose himself as the genasi came up and pulled over a second chair to join his friend. The gnome reached through the open window behind him, where a small cask had been laid upon the broad sill. He made a gesture and soon procured a pair of mugs from somewhere within, which he filled with a rich, dark brew.
“Hmm, not cold,” he said. “Easily fixed, though.” He made another gesture and uttered a brief incantation, and shortly a noticeable frost covered the two mugs. Sipping one to test it, he smiled and handed the other to his friend.
“Have you heard anything from Dana or Benzan?” the genasi queried, as he sat into the chair, the thick wood settling under his weight.
“No,” Cal said, retaking his own chair. “But they’ll be here. It’s been five years now—they haven’t missed the anniversary once yet, and I don’t think they will now.”
Lok nodded, drinking his beer.
Cal glanced over at his friend. Lok seemed unchanged, even now clad in simple farmer’s garb rather than the heavy mail that had been his uniform for those years they had traveled together. He still carried his axe, and his armor was always close at hand in his
bag of holding. Cal had seen a new side of him over the last few years, a part of his friend that he’d caught glimpses of before, but never seen developed. Now he saw it frequently, when Lok was playing with children of the village, or leading a group of men in raising a barn or repairing a roof. Lok had done as much as anyone—more than even he himself, Cal thought—in creating this settlement, and the genasi’s skills continued to contribute to its growth and success. And he was still only a part-time resident; Lok split his time between the community here and the home of his people back in the Ice Mountains, with Cal transporting him there via
teleport every few months, and returning a few months later to bring him back. A few of Lok’s people had even visited the settlement for a few seasons, bringing their stonecrafting skill and magical talents to aid in the building, learning in turn from the skills and lore of the surface folk of the West. Under Lok’s tutelage the urdunnir were gradually abandoning much of their traditional isolationism, and from what Cal had seen during his visits, they were flourishing as a result.
The two friends sat together in quiet for a few minutes, enjoying their drinks and the beauty of the sunset. The porch faced to the south, allowing them to look both into the village and at the road that led away to the west. Cal had built it specifically that way. “I heard that you got another letter from your aunt,” Lok finally said.
Cal’s expression became half grin, half grimace. “I see that the gossip-machine is still working at full efficiency,” he said, but his light tone belied the words. “Yes, Alera’s come up with another candidate for me. Now that I’m ‘settled down,’ it seems that there is nothing for it but to take a wife and start churning out the little ones.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” Lok said. “If you’re truly ‘settled down,’ that is.”
Cal nodded. “I don’t know, truly. These years... I mean, I do miss the road sometimes, and the adventures that we had together. But after...” he trailed off, but didn’t have to finish. Lok understood, in the way that only he and two others could. “It’s not as though we never get to have any fun, of course—why, it was just last spring that we helped those rangers deal with that crop of hydras that was rampaging out near the edge of the Wood of Sharp Teeth. We made short work of them, as I recall.”
Lok smiled—he’d been there, and his axe had contributed to that victory, as always.
“And besides,” Cal went on, “I’ve noticed that each time I take you back to the urdunnir, Gaera appears shortly thereafter. She certainly seems more than casually interested in your visits.”
Lok smiled. “The Elders say the same thing. They have indicated that I should marry her, to strengthen the ties between the surface dwarves and our people.” The genasi shrugged. “They wish to make me a king, I think.”
The way he said, it was just a statement of fact, not a claim of glory. “They could do worse, Lok,” Cal said seriously. “You’d make a fine ruler—you’ve already been a great leader to your people.”
“I know that Dumathoin has plans for me,” he said. “But I’m not ready, not yet. This—” he indicated the simple village about him with a wave of his hand, “This has a great appeal for me, right now.”
“Simple village blacksmith by day, dwarven king by night,” Cal said. “Sounds like a song might be coming on, to me.”
The two friends laughed, but then their attention was drawn to the west, where the sounds of someone approaching along the road were just becoming audible. They turned to see a pair of tall figures, the final rays of the afternoon sun behind them drawing their shadows out long along the road, drawing near to the town.
Cal was up in a flash, with Lok just a few steps behind. They quickly met their friends, who joined them in warm embraces, clasped hands, and laughter. The banter that had always been there between them quickly returned, with jokes, digs, and happiness shared.
After those initial greetings, Cal drew them back to the porch, where Lok quickly grabbed a few more chairs from inside. The sun had now set, leaving them in shadow, but Cal spoke a word and the lights inside the house sprang to life, shining out onto the porch through the open windows.
Dana and Benzan showed the signs of long hours of travel, their clothes stained by the dust of the road. Each looked hale, though, and as they sat each unconsciously took the other’s hand.
“You’re late!” Cal chided them. “Why didn’t you just teleport in?”
Benzan rolled his eyes. “We did. You’d think this once of these times we’re going to end up inside of a mountain, instead of a few miles off to the west...”
He broke off abruptly, as Dana jammed her elbow into his side.
“So, what have you been up to?” Cal asked, handing her and Benzan each a mug.
Dana nodded in thanks, sipping the brew before responding. Benzan, conversely, downed his mug in a few swallows, following that with a belch that drew a shake of her head from his wife.
“Well, for one thing, the Cult of the Dragon thought that they could take advantage of Cormyr’s internal distractions to set up an outpost in the Stormhorns,” Dana replied.
“And?”
“We disabused them of the notion,” Benzan said.
“Lariel and Gorath send their regards,” Dana added. “They would have come themselves, but it looks like the shades are stirring up trouble again on the western side of Anauroch...”
Cal nodded knowingly. “And when are you heading out to join them?”
Dana and Benzan exchanged a knowing look. “We can stay a few days,” Dana said. “Lariel wanted to stop by Evereska on the way up, and there’s a place I know well enough to teleport to, up by the High Forest...”
“And Cylyria? I admit, I owe her a letter.”
“She’s well,” Dana said. “We were there—what was it Benzan? Six months? Yes, it was Midwinter, I remember. She says to tell you that all is well, but that you still owe her a favor at some point.”
“Harpers,” Benzan said. “As I’ve said before, once they get their hooks into you, you never get free again.”
Lok reached over, and before Benzan could stop him, turned up the collar of the tiefling’s cloak. There, pinned against the inside of the fabric, was a silver pin in the shape of a harp.
“Yeah, well,” Benzan said sheepishly.
“Izandra is doing well. She’s visibly taller each month, it seems,” Cal said.
“I’ve missed her,” Benzan said. He looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he wanted to say more, but Dana only took his hand in both of hers, and he smiled in response to her gesture of support.
“I’m sure Elly and Georges wouldn’t mind if you stopped by after dinner,” Cal said. “She’s doing well, Benzan, truly. They’ll want to see you.”
“All right,” Benzan smiled. “But in the meantime, what’s for dinner?”
“Well, I was just about to head over to ‘The Traveler’ to see what’s on the menu. Barsa quite outdid herself last night with a quail stuffed with mushrooms in lemon-sauce, so she’ll really have to work to outdo herself tonight...”
The companions laughed, and continued their friendly back-and-forth as they gathered themselves up and left together for the inn, enjoying again the company of shared friends.
* * * * *
The moon was out, a slender dagger in the sky, and the village was quiet. A shadow made its way through the orchard behind the border where the orderly gathering of homes gave way to empty fields.
Dana found her way easily; it was a clear night and she knew the path, and it was clearly well tended, free of obstructions that might threaten a fall. She’d left Benzan to his reunion with his daughter; tomorrow they’d all spend more time together, and continue to catch up on old memories and new tales. But tonight, she’d wanted to come here first, alone.
The stones around formed neat rows, vague forms in the faint moonlight. She felt drawn to the one she sought, and knelt there in the grass beside it. She touched the
moon mote at her throat, and a pair of glimmering lights pulsed into being at her command, surrounding her with a pale globe of illumination, allowing her to read the runes upon the stone. They were clear and deep, Lok’s work. The stone itself had been shaped by one of the urdunnir, fashioned into the smooth forms of a flickering flame that seemed alive despite being frozen in rock.
DELEM
1354-1374
LOYAL FOLLOWER OF KOSSUTH, SORCERER, FRIEND
HE GAVE HIS LIFE TO SAVE THOSE WHO LOVED HIM
HE WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN
She didn’t say anything, just sat there, surrounded by the stillness of the night.
THE END
