Chapter Twenty – Kell the World Weaver

“Help! Oh, help!”

Tara had to admit, in reality Swords of Allerion could be pretty exhausting. Just getting from one point to another was a hassle. First a slave ship, then grimps, and now this—Tara would never fantasize about riding a horse again, that was for sure.

But she should have expected it. In the game, it wasn’t uncommon for one quest to be interrupted with another interaction, however brief or demanding. There were usually clear markers for quest-starter characters. Sometimes, in the rush of completing one errand, Tara had ridden straight past civilians pleading for help, knowing she could come back to them when she was finished with another storyline.

Tara was beginning to find quests could be very inconvenient, with no consideration for a person's schedule at all. She missed the artificial, unhurried steadiness of the game she had grown up on.

As a teenager in foster care, Tara had depended on the inherent security of Allerion. Choices mattered in the game, but you could take your time, and nothing was overwhelming. You even had the luxury of pausing when real-world chores interfered.

Technically speaking, Tara could “pause” if she wanted to now. There was always Altheria’s Vale. Time stood still in Allerion while Tara was with the Shieldmistress, and no one in this world was ever aware of how long she had been gone. That she had disappeared for a second they knew, because there was always that rush of blue light and a second’s wink out of reality. But they had no idea that what felt like one second to them could stretch for hours, depending on how long Tara stayed.

But going to the Vale wasn’t an option this time. The cries for assistance were too urgent. As they neared the source, Tara looked around Wenrik’s shoulder to see what was happening. She really hoped Horon was wrong and this wasn’t a bandit trick.

A massive bear was pacing under a small, crooked tree. The animal’s intended prey had managed to escape into the branches, which were just high and gnarled enough to cause the bear difficulty. Even so, the bear wasn’t giving up, and its massive strength made the tree’s dry branches rattle.

“Help!” cried the person in the tree. “Don’t just stand there! Do something before this monster eats me alive!”

Wenrik leaped off his horse. The Borzerk warrior assumed a two-handed defense stance as he approached the bear. His shout made the hungry animal turn.

“Ho! Why don’t you try me, you brute, if you’ve an appetite?”

The bear swung around on his haunches. Seeing Wenrik, Horon, Tara and the rest, he swung his great head and roared.

Wenrik didn’t back down an inch. Tara was impressed that he didn’t seem phased at all, as if he were looking forward to fighting this huge, burly animal. She could understand Horon’s exasperation at the Borzerk’s recklessness better in seeing the man roar back at the bear, both arms raised over his head, his sword brandished.

To her astonishment, the bear backed up. Something about the combination of Wenrik’s barbarian roar and the man’s raised, moving arms made the animal reconsider if his meal was worth the trouble. Growling, the bear backed away, licking disappointed jaws.

As soon as Tara dismounted, she regretted standing on her poor, aching legs. How was it possible that riding a horse could be so exhausting?

“Do you think it will be back?” she asked. “That was a pretty big bear.”

“If it does, thank the Maker, he has bigger and more impressive meat than mine to feed on now,” said a sly voice from the tree. The person above them began to climb down one hand at a time, and in moments was standing on firm ground.

He was a curious, stooped little figure. His back was gently bent under the weight of a hurdy-gurdy. He wore a thick fur cloak and his arms and legs were as thin as a beetle’s, wrapped in patched cloth and rags. Under a pointed cap, his hair was thin, brown, and lank. Amber eyes glittered from a sallow, thin face.

Yellow eyes. Sallow skin. Tara’s heart began to pound. This has to be a fey, one of the elder-kin.

Character Class

Class Details

Attributes / Stats

Fey / Elder-Kin

The Fey are an ancient and mysterious race. While they survive on the consumption of others’ life essence, they are not known for any particular strength. Rather, the Fey are mysterious and secretive, keeping to their own and seeking little interaction with others. They are a clever, occasionally dangerous people with an extraordinary love for storytelling and song.

Strength: 20

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“I am the World Weaver,” said the fey, his smile showing uneven teeth. “You may also know me as Kell, professional madman and juggler. Who might you, my rescuers, be? Wait! Don’t tell me. Let me think.”

The fey tapped his forehead with a lean finger, ignoring Horon’s impatient grunt. “Yes, yes— Wenrik, the wolf who will never be satisfied until he finds someone whose teeth are sharper than his own. Elita, the little heart of great courage. Horon, the Fenman with the heart of an ox and the head of an ass.”

“Head of a—” Horon spluttered. “Why, you little—”

“And Tara MacQueen,” continued the fey, going to Tara eagerly. “Here at last. You are a strange one, aren’t you?”

Tara backed away, uneasy. There weren’t many fey that she had encountered in the game—they certainly weren’t a playable character class. The few she had encountered always had a slightly disturbed edge to their behavior.

She didn’t remember ever encountering a fey called Kell, not off the top of her head.

“You know me?” Tara asked cautiously.

“Of course!” exclaimed the fey. “All my people know you, and the peoples surrounding them. The trees whisper and the rivers murmur, and the stars are spelling your name. My eyes can see it, Tara MacQueen, even if yours cannot.”

“Because of the prophecy?” asked Horon impatiently. “This business about the ‘Last Hero of Allerion’ is all gnome’s natter, if you ask me.”

The fey was suddenly curious. “Is that what they’re calling you?” he asked Tara. “I wouldn’t call you the last hero, not at all. Certainly not the first. But the last? Goodness, that is a bit of stretch!” And he laughed, his sallow cheeks wrinkling under his eyes.

“Enough,” growled Horon. “How do you know us, imp?”

“The truth is, I followed you,” said the fey. “I was there, in Regan, that day you visited the tavern. I wasn’t the only one to see the miraculous words that formed the instant this young woman decided to help Berga in her sentimental quest. Folk talked after you left, and I listened. Many were afraid. The last thing, you see, that some of us want in Allerion is a hero.”

“You’re an assassin,” accused Horon. “You were sent to kill us!”

The fey appealed to Tara, spreading his thin and callused hands. “Didn’t I say he had the head of an ass?”

“Um.” Tara intervened quickly, sensing Horon’s increasing anger. “You did say you were following us. In my experience, your kind has little to do with the comings and goings of Allerion.”

“Your experience?” mused the fey. “What is that experience, Tara MacQueen?”

She felt a slight twinge of unease, almost fear. “Why do you keep saying my name like that?”

The fey didn’t answer directly. To her surprise, he began to clap and dance, skipping on narrow, point-toed shoes.

A hero and companions three

Set out to solve a mystery.

One was looking out for coin—

Another battles he could join—

The third was mother to them all,

Standing less than three feet tall.

And what about the hero bold?

With her nose and fingers cold?

Where to go and what to do—

Everything was old and new—

Like evening mist and morning dew,

Or head and feet, and two and two!

“By the beards of our forefathers, I hate minstrels!” complained Horon loudly. “Say what’s on your mind, goblin, and be done.”

“Let me come with you,” said the fey, standing still. He turned to Tara once more. “I know I can be of service. I don’t know how, but I felt it, as soon as I saw that wonderful sign in the tavern that read Quest Begun. There is something about those words, isn’t there? A calling? A hope?”

Tara felt the beginning’s of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “I see what you mean,” she said. “I like it, too. It feels like a new beginning.”

“I bet you know a great deal about beginnings.” The fey tapped his narrow nose lightly. “Let me join you, Hero, on your quest. Is that what they are calling you now? Hero?”

“Tara is fine,” said Tara. “I prefer it.”

“No.” Horon was firm, taking a solid step towards Tara and the fey. “He is not coming with us. What can he bring that will be any help in a necromancer’s cave? The fey are good for nothing but merrymaking. The last thing we need on our journey is a juggler.”

“Not just any juggler,” corrected the fey. “Kell the World Weaver.”

“World Weaver,” murmured Tara. “What does that mean?”

“Why, everything and nothing,” grinned the fey. He spread his arms and breathed in the frosty morning. “I have heard many things in my wandering. I have heard of fantastic creatures, terrible demons, and heroes beyond imagination. And I have dreams, strange dreams, that bring me from the mountains of the first moon to the black depths of the sea. I believe that all dreams have the iron of truth in them. Don’t you, Tara?”

From the look on his face, Tara had the uncomfortable feeling the fey could almost read her mind. The sensation was disturbing.

“Not all dreams,” she replied, forcing lightness into her voice. “Only the good ones.”

The fey pursed his lips. His piercing gaze narrowed. “I didn’t think you were afraid of the dark.”

“I’m not,” said Tara immediately. “I just—don’t want to think about it.”

To her own ears, her words sounded childish.

“Well,” said Kell. “You must truly be a hero, to chase the shadows from your mind so easily. I wish that gift were mine. But what am I saying? You have my thanks for saving me from that jaws of that fearful beast, you and your companions together. Since I find myself alive and in your debt, I desire greatly to join you in your quest to Wanderer’s Bane.”

Tara shifted on her feet. She glanced at Horon. “I don’t know—”

“I promise, I will be no hindrance to you,” pressed the fey. “The Maker is my witness.”

Elita adjusted her goggles, peering closely at the fey. The gnome had been silent and listening for most of their conversation. When she spoke, there was no hostility in her disapproval, only practicality.

“We are hunting a necromancer,” she said. “What we face, Elder-Kin, is nothing as delightful as the dreams you describe. We cannot guarantee your safety, and your kind are not known for their skill in war.”

“Neither are yours, Elita,” said the fey. “But you are here—and a help to those around you, I am certain. Your concern speaks of a kind and generous heart. But don’t you think I will be safer in your company than retracing my steps to Regan alone?”

Tara saw that the little gnome was baffled and uncertain how to answer the fey.

“Wenrik,” Tara said. “What do you think?”

The Borzerk warrior had taken advantage of the encounter to sit and rest. He turned his head at Tara’s question. The rasp in his voice was good-humored.

“Let him come. Horon is an ox after all, but I like music. And I see no harm in adding another to our number.”

“Another mouth to feed!” protested Horon. “We barely have provisions for the four of us!”

“The five us,” corrected Wenrik, getting to his feet. “That is, if the Hero of Allerion approves?”

I wish they’d stop calling me that, thought Tara.

Even more, she wished she knew who this Kell the World Weaver was. The more she watched him, the more a vague, almost distant recollection threatened to enlighten her. He must have been a very brief encounter at some point in the game, but she couldn’t remember.

“Alright,” she said. “If you want to come, I don’t mind. We can use all the help we get.”

The fey chuckled his pleasure. “I am grateful to you all. Truly, I am certain there will be a song or two out of this adventure.”

Tara didn’t quite share his eager sentiment. She had an uneasy feeling about their new companion. She only wished she knew why.