The war between the clans Kalbrin and Reginthar was over, ended by the miraculous appearance of a stranger on the final battle field. Without his intervention, many agree the clans would have been decimated and their names consigned to history.

Though the war was ended, the clans' trials were not over. Winter was fast approaching and there were precious few able bodied souls to gather the harvest. Much of what had been planted in the fury of wartime would lay fallow as the sun dipped lower and the cold winds began to blow from the mountains. The clans had made their peace, but the mantle of suffering would not be lifted just yet.

Regina Kalbrin and Pentor Reginthar - the Lords of the now mended clans - had met several times since the Battle of Falling Swords (as the bards now called it) to discuss plans for survival of the two great families. Though the ways of peaceful exchange were strange to them, both leaders made every effort to preserve the dream their people had chosen. Regina in particular showed herself to be an able diplomat, cooling the passions of the Reginthar council when tempers ran hot as the winds grew colder.

"What of the stranger?" Regina offered during a lull in one of their discourses.

"What of him?" retorted Pentor.

"Well," The Lady of Kalbrin mused, "he instigated this truce between us. Perhaps he could offer some useful insight."

"Feh," snorted Langos, Pentor's lieutenant. "He is a swordsman, a warrior. He spoke pretty words that ended the battle and then walked away, leaving us to sort out the mess. What possible use would he be to us now?"

"True enough," Regina agreed. She marked the ascension of the gathered councilors with Langos's assessment, a seed of intrigue taking root in her mind. "Still, his presence might do much to ease the hearts of our people. There is a growing panic and some of our people have abandoned us, packing their lives off to greener fields."

Pentor grumbled his acknowledgement. "But even if he COULD help," he snapped, "he's gone. Wandered off, doubtless to reek peace and contentment somewhere else. We'll never find him."

"Oh come now, Pentor," Regina purred. "Don't be so gloomy. We've come this far... surely the Gods do not punish those who choose life over death, hm?"

"Some do, Regina... some do."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wind blew cold, causing Devon's wound to throb painfully. The bandage that covered half his face was damp with fresh blood and he knew his exertions had reopened the still-healing cut that had left him blind in his right eye. He paused to catch his breath.

He stood at the mouth of yet another canyon, one of the many that reached into the mountains from the plains he had grown up on. As a child he and his friends had explored these rifts and made up wild tales of the rest. One in particular - the one he stood before now - they had never entered. It was a treacherous path, ill-suited to any kind of travel, that wove its way like a tortured maze. The townsfolk of Fallon whispered of demons and dark sorcery, of ghosts and the walking dead wandering the ragged rocks in search of living souls on which to fed. Devon had never found the courage to face those tales and learn the truth.

That is, until his family had lost their last ewe to the butcher's block and the markets had closed for lack of wheat or bread or cheese. As the threat of starvation - or worse at the hands of marauding groups driven to thievery for their food - Devon had found the courage to go out and seek help from the one source he had come to rely upon.

The Stranger.

Devon's was the first sword to fall after the Stranger's impassioned call at the final battle between the great families. His life had grown gray and shadowed by death under the tyranny of the feud. He had long since abandoned blame or cause - he had become dead inside, waiting for the next atrocity, the next call to arms that had inevitably come.

But then the Stranger came, with his flashing sword and his fiery words, and Devon awoke from the dark slumber he allowed himself to fall into. For the first time since his youth, the spark of life and the hope of living had flared, and he seized the warmth like a drowning man seizes a branch. If there was any hope for salvation from the encroaching winter, Devon was certain he would find it in the Stranger.

The fact that no one knew where he was did not dim his conviction. Devon knew in his heart that the stranger had not left, had not abandoned the people he had saved from extinction. To his simple way of thinking, there was no sense to it. He was waiting somewhere. Waiting for someone to find him.

A cry startled him from his thoughts and he looked up to see an enormous raven perched on a twisted knot of tree limb. The creature's wings spanned as wide as Devon could reach and it's yellow gaze was fixed firmly - and to Devon's mind, hungrily - upon him. He shifted his grip on the staff he bore and backed slowly away, keeping the great bird clearly in his line of sight.

So intent was he upon the creature, that he did not see the gnarled root that looped from the hard ground behind him. He fell with a cry, tumbling down a narrow cleft in the terrain, landing with a crash against a jagged spar. He cried out again as the rock bit his flesh. His senses left him and the world swam like troubled waters in his good eye.

He awoke to the smell of tobacco and apples and the warm crackle of a fire near his face. He shifted and winced his shoulder sang with sharp pain. Across from him, on the other side of a small fire ringed with stones, was the Stranger.

"Welcome, Devon of Fallon," the Stranger smiled, tendrils of smoke from a clay pipe curling about his head. Devon was tongue-tied and could only nod.

The Stranger reached down to a pot nestled near the fire and lifted a ladle from it, tipping amber liquid into a clay cup. "Here," he said, offering the cup to Devon. "This will help take off some of the chill."

"How do you know my name?" Devon managed, taking the cup gratefully.

The Stranger smiled and shrugged. "One hears things, whispered on the wind. Or in town squares, for that matter. Tales of the first sword of peace, of a one-eyed blacksmith with an empty larder. If you listen closely, the whole world will speak to you... or so I'm told." He poked at the fire absently, smiling into the dancing flames.

"M-May I know yours? You name that is?"

The Stranger's eyes looked over the fire an met Devon's gaze squarely. "Why?"

Devon was confused. "So I know what to call you. Everyone only knows you as the Stranger."

"What makes you think I want to 'known' at all?"

"Well," Devon offered hesitantly, "you're still here, aren't you?"

There was a silence, and then the Stranger chuckled. "I can't fault that logic, Devon of Fallon." He paused then, wrestling with some inner quandary. Then, with a shrug, "I am Veritos," and Devon felt a warm pride spread across him, as though he had been entrusted with a sacred oath.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Veritos."

"And I you," Veritos replied. "Tell me, blacksmith... why have you braved the chill and rocks to seek me out?"

Devon's tongue froze in his mouth. Now that he had achieved his quest, it felt ungrateful to make his petition to the man who had just given him so much. But a direct question calls for a direct answer, and Devon plunged forward.

"There is trouble... Veritos. The crops lay rotting in the fields and there are no stores to see the people through the winter. If something is not done, hundreds will starve and all will suffer."

Veritos nodded. "I see. And what does this have to do with me?"

"Well," stammered Devon, "...nothing I suppose. But..." the words dried up in his head. He had assumed the Stranger, Veritos, would have a plan or some suggestion. At the very least, he would have an interest in the plight of his people. Devon began to feel uncomfortable under the heat of the fire and the gaze of the man across it.

Veritos waited and watched as Devon squirmed.

"Well, why did you save us, if only to watch us perish in the winter snow?" blurted the blacksmith.

Veritos nodded slowly and turned his attention back to the fire. "Ah, I see," he said quietly, then, "You're question has faulty roots, my friend. I did not save you... YOU saved you."

Devon turned the man's words around in his head, trying to find some logic in them. "But you stopped the battle. You made us see the foolishness of our ways."

"I did no such thing. I gave pause to the battle, true enough... but stop it? I could sooner stop a mighty river from flowing to the sea. No Devon... I only opened a door, a portal of possibility. You were the ones who chose to step through it."

"But why? Why do such a thing?"

Veritos's eyes grew hard. "I'm not accustomed to explaining myself, smith," he snapped and then winced as though the sharpness of his words had bitten him as they had bitten Devon. "Forgive me," he offered, not meeting Devon's wounded gaze. "You did not deserve that."

"Perhaps I did," mumbled Devon. Clearly he had set his hopes upon a false star. Meeting the stranger had not given him the answers he had sought, only raised more questions... and doubts. "I am sorry to have troubled you Veritos," the blacksmith said, rising slowly. "Thank you for the cider and your time. I have much to do to see my family safe. Good bye"

As Devon gathered his cloak and took up his staff, Veritos pondered the fire, seeking something deep in the flames. "Devon?" he asked as the smith began climbing out of the warm cave.

"Yes?"

"Do your clanheads think as you do? That I saved them?"

"I do not know, Veritos. I don't join their council. I'm just a smith."

"Oh you're much more than that, Devon of Fallon," Veritos intoned. "Much more indeed. Tell them, if they want my help, they shall have it... but I shall ask a price equal to their request."

Devon paused at the cave entrance, thinking. Then he nodded and - without looking back - emerged from the cave into the cold wind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many days later, the town square of Fallon was filled with noise and people as a Far-Speaker, messenger from the Clanheads, climbed a platform and rang the bell calling all to attend him. When the crowd quieted sufficiently, the woman began to speak.

"People of Fallon! I bring news from the Union Council!" The crowd hushed, eager to hear what had been decided. The leaves had fallen from the trees and the bare branches whistled the tune of winter in the wind. Many heard a song of doom there while others clung to faint hope that some miracle would deliver them.

"The Stranger has returned and offered his aid in seeing us through the winter to come!" A murmur of excitement mingled with cheers echoed through the square. The Stranger! The Stranger had returned! Backs were thumped in joy and in some cases coins were exchanged with a wager lost or won.

"He has claimed two things from us for his assistance!" Shouted the Far- Speaker, and the square grew quiet once again. To a people accustomed paying the highest price to the will of their leaders, any debt incurred would be a sorrow shared by all. They listened closely to the Far-Speaker's words.

"One is a tower," she said, no longer needing to shout in the sudden hush, "to be built in the shadows of the mountains to the north." Another whispered exchange passed among the townsfolk. A tower? Hard labor to be sure, but a small price for a full belly. "The second is a call for volunteers. The Stranger - whose name is Veritos the Wanderer - is mounting an expedition to enter the Shadowed Vale. He requires seven hardy souls to accompany him"

A darker and resigned rumble greeted the declaration. THERE was the price. To enter the Dark Vale was doom to any who dared cross the threshold. Veritos was claiming souls for his service. With grim nods and quiet resignation the people accepted another sorrow into their hearts.

"And what if there are no volunteers?" came a call from the crowd.

"Then a lottery shall be drawn and the group shall be gathered at random from the towns," replied the Far-Speaker.

"It's death to enter the Shadowed Vale!" someone cried.

"So is an empty belly when the ice winds blow, you fool!" called another.

The tumult rose and the Far-Speaker was forgotten as the people vented their dismay. Then a figure pressed to the front of the crowd and moved to stand before the Far-Speaker's platform.

"I will go," said Devon the blacksmith.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wagon trains of provisions arrived in each town from the east one week later, driven by strangely dressed men with skin the color of dark wheat. They did not speak but unhitched the shaggy steeds from their harnesses and led them back the way they came. The crates and boxes in the wagons bore strange markings and the foodstuffs within them were equally bizarre, but it was abundant and palatable. It seemed Veritos had kept his end of the bargain... the people would not starve this winter.

The sky was low and heavy with the promise of snow when the volunteers assembled. They gathered at a crossroads designated by the Stranger, five men and two women with cloaks and furs wrapped tight against the cold. Most were armed but others, like Devon, bore only a staff or a broad pack of supplies. There were no pack animals - Veritos had left instructions for each to bear provisions for five days of travel and whatever equipment they chose to carry. Nothing else would be permitted or required.

They gathered in silence, staring at the ground or off to the mist-shrouded eastern mountains that held their doom. Their thoughts were as diverse as their appearance. Sythor, the tracker, checked his gear one last time making certain he had prepared for all contingencies. Melassa leaned carelessly against the marker stone of the crossroads, cradling the bow that had been a gift from her grandfather. Kyros gnawed on a strip of dried beef, hitching his wide belt up to balance the weight of the great axe at his hip. Arida sat with her satchel clutched to her chest, the scent of herbs and salves rising from it comforting her. Perrik paced nervously, kicking stones and fingering the bright silver pummel of the sword that bore his family's crest. Rallon only stood, arms crossed over dark-painted mail, his eyes sharp and gazing north along the path Veritos would arrive upon.

Devon, his face still bandaged, leaned upon his staff and wondered how the world had turned so quickly beneath his feet. He did not long for the past - those days were dark and filled with a sea of sorrows whose tide still washed against his heart in the quiet hours of the night. But there was a strange comfort then, a knowledge of the world and the way things worked that was gone now. It was like... like standing at a crossroads and knowing only the path you came from. You could not go back (could you?) but the paths ahead were strange and foreign. Devon could not grasp the fear that made his hands clutch the staff tight, but it troubled him greatly.

The muffled thump of pounding hoofs came from the South, and they all turned to see a small rider racing up the road from Fallon towards them. The horse was reigned sharply, scattering stones and dust, and Devon recognized the rider as she glared at hem defiantly.

"Nina," Sythor said, returning to his gear, "Go home."

"I'm coming with you," she said, rebellion and fear sharpening her words.

Arida rose and went to the girl, calming the horse that stamped and blew in agitation. "Child, you can't. The Stranger said only seven."

"Veritos," Nina corrected her harshly. "He's not a stranger... his name is Veritos. And if he's going to kill you all, then I will be there to watch it."

Kyros chuckled. "If that's his plan," the stout man said around a mouthful of spiced beef, "then he'll be the one who falls." He patted the wide-bladed axe confidently.

"You're all fools!" shouted Nina, tears from the cold or from her heart washing her face. "He is a devil who has bought you with a few boxes of wheat and dried apples! Why are you doing this?"

"Why do you care?" asked Melassa quietly.

Nina ground her teeth, but would not answer.

Devon kept silent as Perrik stepped forward then. "Devil or not, we have made a bargain," the noble son said reasonably, "and we are honor-bound to carry it through. Surely you can see that?"

"All I see is a walking corpse, Perrik Allenson."

Arida touched the girl's leg, trying to calm her as she had calmed her steed. "Nina, hush," she purred. "You are needed back in town. There's still so much to be done. We are doing our part... you must do yours."

"Arida... I want to go."

"But you can't," came a quiet voice from behind them. Eluding even Rallon's vigilance, Veritos stood behind them. He was dressed in a warm cloak of russet lined in coarse fur, the dull glint of woven mail showing beneath it. His gloved hands were empty save for a staff. A blade - the same he bore at the Battle of Fallen Swords- was slung across his back, and a wide satchel was hung from his shoulder. The smile he always wore was gone, but the promise of it still shown around his eyes.

"You have no right to do this!" Nina shouted at him.

"I claim no right, Nina of Reginthar. I have asked... they have come. No one has power over choice, girl. It's the one thing we all have." He turned his attention to the seven volunteers. "Come. We have a bit of a hike ahead of us." He turned and began to walk the Northern road that led to the Shadowed Vale.

"I hate you," hissed Nina.

Veritos stopped and turned. His gaze was clear and straight as he looked up at the angry girl. There was a long moment and something passed between the two, but Devon could not fathom it. Veritos turned to leave.

"I know," he said into the cold wind.

Each gathered their gear and joined the Stranger, leaving Nina at the crossroads and setting their course upon an unknown path.

© copyright 2000 David Robison
All Rights Reserved