“You’re not a deserter, are you, Gus?” the scrawny old farmer asked, a wooden pipe clenched between his teeth. “If you are a deserter, the King’s men will find you, eventually. Even if they don’t, my Lord’s men will.” Sitting atop his wagon, the sunburned farmer took his pipe from his mouth and spat. “Better to turn yourself in.
“I’m not a deserter,” Gus assured.
“I hope not.” He eyed Gus. “The name’s Ribald.” The old man nodded. “Most call me Farmer Ribald. Where are you heading?”
“Shepshed,” Gus said. “And, afterward, west.”
Ribald grunted. “I’ll go ahead and tell you: I’m dirt poor. Unless you plan on stealing my potatoes and onions-” he pointed to the bed of his wagon- “don’t expect to find much. I’m not heading to Shepshed, but you can hop on until I reach the market in Stoneborough.” Gus approached the wagon's bed and slung his backpack beside a pile of dirt-covered potatoes. The old farmer watched his every move. Next, his bedroll hit the wagon bed, wrapped around a sword concealed by a blanket. “What’s that sticking out right there?” Ribald asked. “What are you hiding beneath that blanket?”
Gus met Ribald’s wisened eyes. In the wrinkles of the farmer’s face, he saw the ridgelines of the Red Hills–years of toiling in tough soil. “A sword,” he said.
“What?” Ribald startled. He nearly spat out his pipe.
An eastbound breeze carved through the hills and the rocks, cutting through Gus’ gray cloak. “I’m not looking for a fight.”
“What are you looking for?” Ribald asked.
Gus chuckled. “A ride.”
“Are you sure you’re not a deserter?” the farmer asked.
“I would know if I am,” Gus said. He climbed up beside Ribald, sitting on a large wooden bench.
“Deserters bring trouble. The last thing I need is more trouble! The Red Hills are teeming with gnolls, bandits, and deserters. War makes life hard for us small folk.” The Red Hills made for rough travel, even on the roads. They wound up and down and around valleys, hills, and cliffsides. In places, landslides or flash floods washed away the roads. Farmer Ribald’s muscular oxen moved slowly but surely, carrying their cargo with determined ease. The wagon rocked. The cobbles of the road were woefully uneven; potholes and fallen boulders added to the misery.
Augustus wished he could wash away the past few months of his life. Was it worth it? He wished to hold the sword again. And yet, it isn’t mine to hold. I stole it.
“What are you doing with a sword, anyway?" Ribald interrogated. "Are you a mercenary?”
“I am,” Gus said.
Ribald, gnawing on his pipe: “Why go west? Are our circlings not good enough for you?”
Gus chuckled. “I’m tired of the Eastern Front.”
Ribald removed his pipe and stared at Gus, ignoring the road. “I wish the King and all the other kings would put down their swords. But wars make them rich. They tax us smallfolk to pay for their wars and send our sons to die in them.”
Gus shrugged his shoulders. “How do you stop the Fergonians from sweeping in and conquering your lands if you don’t meet them in the field?”
“Bah!” Ribald protested. “It’s no good, Gus. ‘The Three-Hundred-Year War’ is what people are calling it. But kings have been fighting wars since the beginning. And nothing changes! One master’s about as good as another or, at least, that’s how I see it.”
A wolf’s howl pierced the air, resounding through the rocky hills.
Others answered.
“That’s close,” Ribald said.
Atop a rocky knoll, they scanned the surrounding hilltops. Green and brown patches of grass masked the earth below, the Wrendilynn Peaks pierced the southern sky, while the Eerie Peaks grayed out the north. Gus spotted a pack of large dogs dashing across a distant ridgeline. “There!” Gus pointed. The dogs disappeared behind a high hill.
The old man ducked low. “Sh!” Ribald’s pipe fell from his mouth and landed in his lap. “Those are gnolls! They’re not after us, though.” The old farmer retrieved his pipe, stuck it between his teeth, and relit it. His hands shook. He drew in a deep draw, then released the smoke. Shoulders slumping, Ribald sighed. “They know we’re here. They’re just chasing easier prey. Let’s hope whatever they find fills their bellies. These oxen are too slow to outrun them.”
A shrill cry of terror pierced the air. It sounded like a child–a human child! Gus looked at the old farmer. Ribald looked back at Gus with a horrified face. “That sounded like a mountain cat.”
Gus eyed Ninathril.
The child shrieked again. Gus' heart pounded. He wanted to hold the sword. The old farmer clutched his shoulder and shook him. “Gus?” He met Ribald’s eyes. “It’s a mountain cat,” the farmer said. “They sound just like a kid when they scream.”
“Stay on the road, Ribald. I’m going to check it out.”
Gus cut down the side of a large hill, running over rocks and sliding down patches of gravel until coming to the bottom of a narrow valley. A creek bed trickled with water. He left his belongings on the wagon–save his weapons. Ninathril rested at his hip, clanking against a dagger hidden beneath. Out of sight from the farmer, Gus flared his gray cloak and a gust of wind swept through the valley. His cloak caught in the wind like a sail. He soared. Jagged cliffs and steep ravines passed in a blur.
“Help! Please! Help me!” The shrill voice echoed off the rocks.
Augustus sped up, shoving off the narrowing walls of the valley, skipping left to right. He followed the creek bed to a bowl-shaped basin with rocks and stones littering its floor. The floor itself was green with thick grass. Multiple creeks fell from high places, gathering into a little pond at the center. The tributaries formed a lazy little river running east. Beside the pool of water lay a horned creature with furry legs and hooved feet, but a human’s body and head. The goat man crawled toward the water. Thick red patches stained the fur of his left leg. It was not a child. A satyr, Gus realized. He felt like a fool.
Six gnolls snarled their houndish snouts, eager to gnarl the bones of the goat man. The gnolls stood on their hind legs, cackling, and growling, bearing fangs. Thick fur around their necks and shoulders bristled. Loin cloths adorned their sensitive areas. Bone-strewn cords decorated their necks and waists– their ears embedded with little bones and beads. The goat man looked terrified but determined. Come on, little guy.
A gnoll leaped at the goat man and was met by a hoof to its jowl. The gnoll yelped and retreated. The other gnolls growled harmoniously. “They travel far, but their tales travel further,” the expression went. I can’t intervene. Gus thumbed the black-jeweled pommel of Ninathril.
Another gnoll lashed out. It clawed the goat man’s injured leg. The satyr released an agonizing cry.
Gus sighed. Some things carry through.
Gus flared his cloak and pushed off the lip of the cliffside. He twirled mid-air. The inside lining of his cloak shimmered silver, signifying his invisibility. Hiding beneath the magical cloak, Gus glided over the basin. Two gnolls charged the satyr. Gus fell from the sky, hurtling toward them, closing in. A gnoll leaped, its mouth agape, displaying vicious fangs. Gus drew his sword and sliced through the gnoll’s neck in a single, fluid motion. Its head thumped the ground before its body slammed into the dirt beside the satyr. Black smoke curled away from the raw wound, escaping the gnoll’s corpse, drifting into the air. The black smoke wafted toward Gus, captured by the wind, yet his cloak did not stir. The smoke gathered at the black jewel of his sword’s pommel. It disappeared–absorbed into Ninathril. Augustus spun and assumed a defensive position. Energy surged, pumping through his blood. Holding Ninathril, Gus felt like a hero of old, reacquainted with his familiar friend–the battlefield. The other attacker backed off.
The largest of the six gnolls stood tall on its hind legs, snarling. It stalked toward Gus with death in its eyes. Gus drew his hidden dagger–its bone handle carved into a wicked point. Its silver steel shone fiercely. Holding both sword and dagger, Gus spread his arms wide. He growled at the gnoll.
The big gnoll hesitated, but the leader regained his composure when his pack winced and complained. He would fight to see who claimed the goat man: one on one. The big gnoll snarled, frothing through yellow fangs stained by years of carnage. It stalked toward him, towering overhead. Gus stepped toward the beast, his weapons at the ready. The large gnoll growled. It charged Augustus. The gnoll leaped, sharp fangs awaiting his flesh, claws ready to tear at him.
Gus rolled out of the way and sliced the pack leader’s belly with Ninathril.
The giant gnoll yelped, then thumped against the ground, sliding across the blood-soaked grass. Black smoke escaped the slit in its belly, finding a home in Ninathril. The gnoll pack scattered, yipping and crying–fleeing back into the hills.
“Woah!” the goat man shouted. “Thank you!”
“Let me look at your wounds,” Gus said.
“Oh, thank you!” the satyr said. He lifted his back off the dirt, resting on his elbows. “Those gnolls almost got me.”
Gus knelt beside the man-beast and inspected his furry legs. “They did get you. That left leg is going to take a long time to heal.” The satyr winced and groaned at every touch and movement of his lower limbs. Bruising and swelling were severe. “My supplies are on a wagon, but I have a bandage or two in my packs. Hold still.” Augustus retrieved a jar of ointment and dabbed the ointment on each wound. He wrapped the leg with bandages. “Can you stand?” He offered the goat man a hand.
The satyr knocked it away. He struggled to his feet. His furry legs wobbled, fighting to carry his weight. He fell. Gus walked over to him and grabbed the goat man by the pits of his arms, dragging him to his hooves. “I can help you.”
“No.” The satyr pulled free of Gus’ grasp. His hooves heaved, but his stout little body was too heavy. He fell to the earth like a circus dwarf, tumbling about. “O-o-oh!” he bleated.
“Stop that!” Gus chided. The goat man took a seat on the rocky ground. “Let me help you,” Gus said. “What’s your name?” The goat man’s eyes grew wide then darted towards the dirt. “I saved you. The least you can do is tell me your name.” Gus walked over to the goat man. He’s a stubborn fellow, but I can’t leave him in this condition.
The satyr stretched out on the ground. “My name… is Padair.”
“Well, Padair, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Augustus.” Gus studied the goat man. “Despite the unfortunate conditions of our meeting.”
“Don’t take my name lightly. I am a satyr, after all. O-o-oh… It was a most fortunate meeting for both of us. I’ve traveled these hills many times and I never came so close to being caught by gnolls. And then, poof! You showed up. I’m getting old. I’m getting slo-o-ow. Say, that sword looks familiar.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“Which way were you heading?” Gus asked, changing the subject. You never asked where a satyr was heading. They traveled continuously, in solitude, until finding their life mate. Then, they settled for a time to rear children, before returning to their ceaseless march across the lands of men, elves, and dwarves.
“West,” the satyr said. “How’d you do that? Just appear out of thin air?”
“It’s a long story.” Gus stood up.
“Is that Ninathril?” Padair asked. “Your sword?”
Gus laughed. “And I am King Arthur!”
The goat man shook his head. “No, you’re Augustus.” The furry man groaned. “What good is a satyr who can’t walk on his own two legs? You might as well kill me here. I’ve sired enough children, I’ve turned every stone in this land. Put me out of my misery!”
“But you haven’t heard my story, yet. Don’t you want to hear it?” The satyr’s eyes lit up at the promise of a good story. “Besides, it would do my soul good to see you safely on your way.” Gus offered the satyr his hand once more. Does he even know what a soul is?
Padair grabbed Gus’ hand. Gus tugged the goat man up to his feet. “You seem like a good man.”
Padair clung to his neck and cloak. Gus marched up a steep hill, legs and feet burning with aches. “You’re heavy for a little guy.”
“I’m big for a satyr,” Padair said. “Why do you have two swords?”
A pearl-handled rapier pressed between them, hid away beneath Gus’ cloak, clashing against his shoulder blade. “I found the long sword. The rapier was a gift.” Gus’ foot slipped on a rock. He nearly toppled over.
“O-o-oh!” Padair said. “By found, do you mean stole it?”
Gus corrected himself and shifted the straps of his rapier’s harness, so they no longer pinched his skin. This old goat is pretty smart. Satyrs don’t express themselves like humans, they merely replicate languages. Padair, however, seemed slyer than the usual satyr. Or, perhaps Alatar’s books were wrong about them. “No,” Gus said. “I mean found.” They crested the knoll and found the road. West, cutting through valleys, and crossing over ridgelines, they marched as long as Padair’s injuries permitted. His left leg would take weeks, even months, to heal. The treacherous road pained Augustus. The satyr on his back slowed him. He had plenty of time to think of a good story. Padair clung to every word and asked a thousand questions.
“How did the witch get your blood?” Padair asked.
“She enlisted the help of the Goodneighbors. They sent a thief in the night to prick me with a needle, then gave the needle to the witch,” Gus explained.
“Well, doesn’t that beat all? Bah-ha-ha-hah! O-o-oh!” Padair’s grip tightened, choking Gus. “Ow!”
“Keep still or your wounds will never close.” Gus pushed on. As darkness closed in around them, a wooden post, holding a candle-lit lantern, and fixed with a sign, marked where the road to Stoneborough split away from the Western Road. Ribald must be staying in town. We should’ve passed him on his return trip. I need to find him and get my stuff back. Gus sat down on a saucer-shaped boulder.
Padair clambered down from Gus’ back and leaned against the rock. “Thanks again, friend.”
“Friend?” Gus asked. “The only thing more loyal than a dog is a satyr. And the only thing rarer than befriending a satyr is learning to fly,” the Court Mage of Alexandria once told him, just before handing him a magical cloak.
“You know my name,” Padair said. “I will follow your road.”
“I don’t need a pet,” Gus retorted as he pulled off his boots and inspected the blisters on his feet. And the last thing I want is a satyr following me around.
“I don’t need a master, but everyone could use a friend.” Padair smiled.
Gus sighed. “I didn’t think satyrs like big cities, though?”
“What?” the satyr scrunched his face.
“I’m going to Stoneborough tonight," Gus explained. "But I’m leaving for Shepshed in the morning. Then, I’m making for the City of Ottoburg."
“I will wait here tonight. Tomorrow, I will follow your road. At Shepshed, I will wait until your business is done. Then I will follow your road wherever it leads us next.” Padair climbed atop the boulder and stretched out, interlocking his fingers behind his head and staring at the evening stars above.
“My business in Ottoburg is home," Gus said. "I won’t be leaving again. I’m afraid tonight is when we part ways.”
“I will wait for you, my friend,” the satyr assured.
“Do as you wish.” Gus stood.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Padair rolled over and rested his head on his folded hands.
Augustus followed the road, winding between tall canyons and rocky cliffs. The canyon opened to him. The village slumbered in a valley. Round hills sat on top of each other like layers of stone disks. Sprigs of brown grass sprouted here and there. Cedars buried themselves by the banks of a creek, whose gentle waters wound through buildings of stone and mortar–boulders scattered across the hills. On a hill overlooking the valley, the Stoneborough Inn and Tavern was the largest building in town. Gus made his way down a slope, out of the canyon, following a road carved into the cliffside. He longed for rest–to put his feet up. Nearly two months on the road weighed heavily on him. A gust of wind cut through his cloak, sending chills across his skin. The doors of the inn stood open. Firelight spilled out of their wide frame, lighting the stairs, the road, and the hillside above. Its yellow warmth beckoned him up the hill.
Augustus pushed through the patrons, ignoring the eyes that pressed upon him. The small folk disliked strangers. They didn’t trust them–especially strangers who carried weapons and looked disheveled. He scratched his short beard and kept his eyes cast low. The tavern was lively for a small mining town. The hour was late, but the tables were full, and a bard offered music on his lute. Gus walked up to the bar and hailed the barkeep. A lively young woman with bouncing blonde curls swooped in with a bright smile. “How can I help you?”
“I need a room,” Gus said.
“Just you?” the woman eyed him.
“Yes,” Gus answered.
“The supper stew is a bit overcooked," she said. "But you’re free to eat as much as you want. Would you like a drink?”
“I’ll take a pint of Hunter’s Honey,” Gus said.
“A woman’s drink!” a fat old miner with long curly hair said. The man wore a red sash around his waist. Gus ignored him.
The woman smiled and nodded at the fat man. “Coming right up, mister…?”
“Augustus,” he said.
“I’ll get you a drink while my father prepares your room,” the barkeep said, dashing away to grab a pint mug.
Gus felt a fat hand smack his shoulder. “You look like a mean man, Augustus!” the fat man bellowed. “That’s a pretty knife you’ve got on your hip!” He wavered about, ale swashing from his mug, spilling onto the stone floor. The attention of the tavern turned on Gus and the drunk Red Sash. “You a sellsword?” the fat man asked.
“I was, but I’m retired,” Gus said. “Now, I’m going home.”
“You’re too young to retire! What are you, twenty-something? One, two, three?” He counted on fat fingers as he spoke.
“I’m older than I look,” Gus answered.
The fat man laughed and clapped Gus on the back. The barkeep returned with Gus’ mead, set it down, then whisked away to other business. “How about a toast?” the fat man bellowed. “To Agustus, the best swordsman in all of Alexandria!” The tavern roared, clapped, pounded tables with their fist, and stomped their feet.
“Thank you, but It’s been a long road,” Gus explained. "I just want to go to sleep."
The fat man guffawed and leaned his head back. “Come on, Gus! Give us a reason to keep drinking!” The tavern cheered.
Gus sighed. “Okay,” he conceded. “To retirement!” Augustus grabbed his mug and chugged. The whole tavern grew quiet as his sweet mead grew less and less, then slammed his empty mug against the bar. The tavern burst into a clatter of mugs and a cacophony of merrymaking.
“Ha-ha!” the fat man clapped his back again. The tavern returned to its normal broil of drunken tension and chaotic energy. “Mind if I hold your knife, Gus?” he asked.
“I do.” Gus hailed the barkeep. I can’t deal with this drunk all night.
The fat man pushed him. Gus crashed into the bar and then fell to the floor. The drunk’s face burned red. “I thought we were friends?”
“Fight!” a voice cried.
Gus stared into drunken eyes. A wooden stool struck the fat man’s head and the fat man struck the floor–hard. A scrawny old miner with a scraggly beard and a broken chair in his hands stood wavering where the fat man once stood. The whole tavern erupted into a battlefield. Stools and mugs soared through the air, bodies slammed into one another, and everyone fought for themselves. There are too many eyes! I can’t use my magic! Gus danced his way toward the door. Perhaps I can–A patron slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. He regained his bearings and found his feet once more.
The door was so close. Fiery pain shot through his skull. The world went black.
His eyes peeled open. A pale light poured in from overhead. Iron bars stood from floor to ceiling on three sides. Hard stones held his weight, biting his bones. Where am I? Gus pushed himself up. Stone scraped his scalp. Pain shot through his head. His strength fled. He closed his eyes and rested, waiting for his strength to return.
The loud creak of rusted hinges sang a shrill note. Light spilled into the chamber. A shadow stood amid the light’s yellow glow. “Dead man's still hanging on,” a strange voice said. “Not for long, though. They're going to string him up tomorrow.”
“What if he’s innocent?” an unfamiliar voice answered.
Gus’ vision blurred. His eyes felt swollen, pressing against their sockets, ready to burst. Shadows approached. “You know that doesn’t matter. Bob was bound to get himself killed, eventually. He always acted like a damned fool." Gus recalled the fat drunk. "Nobody is mad that he's dead, but they've got to blame it on someone. Who better? One of our own or this poor sod? He was armed to the teeth: swords, dagger, and odd stuff in his pockets.”
“He’s a dead man, alright.” Footsteps fled. The door slammed shut.
Gus slept.
When he woke, his head no longer swam, but the pounding remained–and sharp pain, like a dagger digging into his skull. Rain fell outside, pattering against stone, splattering into his cell, and splitting his head. The throbbing never ceased. The cool wet carried memories: holding his rapier at a man’s throat, staring into death’s eyes, holding the sword of a fallen enemy. Ninathril must return to its rightful owner. I must return the sword.
The pain made it impossible to sleep or find comfort. His mind wandered through the darkness of his dungeon. I hope Ribald sold plenty of produce. And Padair finds his road. Where will you wander, Padair? Will you find your life mate again? Gus’ head throbbed. His thoughts knocked around the cell of his mind. Cold settled into his skin. He shivered. His vision blurred again. “I hope you find her. And I hope you travel somewhere warm and safe and free of gnolls. Where will you go?” he wondered aloud, half delirious. He smiled, but even that hurt. “Where are you now? Still waiting?” The rain fell harder. “Will you come to save me if I don’t show up in the morning? Does anyone ever come to my rescue? No, I’m just the butcher. My life doesn’t matter. I’m not even real! I have no name.” His breath caught in his throat as tears escaped his eyes. “My name...” A pool of rainwater gathered below him, soaking his trousers. “Means nothing.” He grinned, despite the pain.
He stared into the water pooling on the floor and caught a reflection of himself. Gus smacked the water, destroying the reflection. He chuckled. “Where are you, Padair?”
“Over here, friend,” Padair answered. Augustus startled, shuffling across the floor on his hands and knees, sending a shock of pain through his body. “You’re hurt!” The satyr ran to him. His hooves clapped against the stone floor.
“How’d you get in here?” Gus' heart pounded along with his head.
“You summoned me.” Padair took Gus’ head between his fuzzy hands and inspected it. “They got you good, friend. Looks like a shard of glass embedded itself into your skull. How’d that get there?”
Gus grimaced. “What do you mean, I summoned you?”
“I’m a satyr," Padair said. "I’ll follow your voice to wherever it leads.”
“How?” Gus asked.
"We better leave that in there for now." Padair lifted his hands from Gus' skull and stepped away. “You wouldn’t understand. You're just a human, after all."
I think there’s more to satyrs than the Court Mage realized. Gus studied the goat man. “Can you get me out of here?”
Padair tugged at the long brown tuff of hair attached to his chin. "We need a plan."
“Can we go out the same way you came in?” Gus asked.
“It doesn’t work like that, friend,” Padair informed. “I can travel to you but can’t teleport anywhere I want to be. Otherwise, I would've teleported myself away from those gnolls.”
Gus rubbed his cheek. “Okay, listen, Padair.”
“Be careful with that!” Padair’s puffy brows furrowed. “Don’t take my name lightly.”
Gus sighed. “Okay, listen, friend…”
Staring into the dark of his damp dungeon, Gus counted the seconds. He tapped his fingers upon the stones in rhythm with the rain. The door creaked. A little shadow entered the room, then scurried across on clicking hooves. Gus’ heart swelled. He made it! Padair ran to the cell and squeezed between its iron bars. In his arms, he carried Gus’ gray cloak. He held it out to him. “Did you have any trouble?” Gus asked, taking the cloak.
“None.” Padair shrugged. “The guards were fast asleep.”
Gus hung the cloak around his shoulders. “Now, I just need a way out of my cell.” He approached the iron bars.
Padair held up a set of keys on an iron ring. “Have a little faith in a friend.”
The sun rose above an unforgiving land: treacherous roads, barren rocks, and strange people. Gus was thankful to have a friend. Padair walked on his own two hooves. The satyr’s leg mended incredibly fast. A long scab covered a scarring rip in his thigh. Padair was a tough old goat, to be sure. “So, Ottoburg is where you were born?”
“It is,” Gus lied. In truth, he missed Alexandria and its soaring buildings, steep walls, and diverse citizenry.
“How long have you been gone?” Padair asked.
“A long time,” Gus said.
“Is it a long story?” The goat man eyed him.
Gus grinned, thankful to be rid of the glass in his skin. “Yes, it is.”
“Good.” Padair smiled.
Gus stopped. “Look, if you’re going to travel with me, then you must promise me something.”
The satyr stopped, too. “What’s that?”
“Do not share my tale with anyone,” Gus said. “If you are my friend then you will keep it secret.”
Padair sighed. “You have such a good story, though.”
“Promise me.” Gus reached out a hand.
The goat man took Gus’ hand in a small furry paw and shook it. “I promise.”
They wound down a rocky hill, back and forth, like walking a snake’s spine. The road bent along the hillside, leading into a forest of towering stone spires and earth. The stone forest cleared near the mouth of a canyon, revealing the scene of a wreckage. The wagon never entered the canyon, for its back wheels shattered against the stone. Wood splinters, potatoes, and onions littered the surrounding area–left to rot. Flies swarmed the rotting vegetables and the corpses of two big oxen. Blood stained the wagon, the earth, and the eviscerated bodies of both beasts.
“Gnolls got them,” Padair said. He searched high and low with wide eyes.
Gus hurried down the road, followed by his newly found friend. Ribald’s body lay mangled, cast to the side. Why did he come this way? Was he looking for me? The wagon was empty, save vegetables and gore. His backpack and bedroll were gone. Gus stared at the satyr. Was it worth it? Is one life worth another?