Montoya Valley, chapter one

Diego grinned, and easily parried the strike. He did a little hop step to the side, and parried another goblin spear thrust, before lashing out with his sword. The poor monster jerked back, as Diego's sword caught underneath its chin, slicing open the goblin's throat. It fell heavily to the ground, and Diego wasted no time wiping the blood off and searching the body. "Huh, a lousy three silvers?"
Diego got a monthly salary as a forest scout for the Duke Montoya, to do exactly this job -- keep the forest free of goblins, kobolds, and other petty monsters. But over the past month the number of monsters had been increasing. Something was driving them south, out of the unpopulated valley. Some believed that the valley was cursed, but Diego didn't believe that. He'd traveled through the valley often enough with no more trouble than a few goblins.
Sighing, he stood back up and sheathed his sword. Climbing up into a tree, he sighted for the castle and nearby village, and started back.

In the valley to the north, in a clearing, stood a man. Looking at him, it was hard to judge his age. His hair was still a dark brown, and his eyes were a pale green. His skin, though tanned, was heavily wrinkled and cracked. His arms were crossed, leaning against the hilt of a massive sword. Even with a foot of the blade stuck into the earth, the crossbar was almost up to his shoulders.
Licking his lips, the man stared at the pass south. He knew that from the pass, the castle Montoya would be easy to spot. "So, my brother ... at last I will return, to take back my throne! You may have tricked our father into banishing me, but your mistake was not killing me when you had the chance!" Grasping the handle, he pulled the sword loose from the ground, and swung it over his head into the sheath on his back. Even with his sturdy, 6'3" frame, the sword almost made him look short.
The man started striding through the trees. More goblins saw the warrior passing, and one was foolish enough to step out and try to bar his path. The man did not even reach for his sword; instead he kicked out at the monster, watching the already dead body fly twenty feet backwards to land in the branches of a tree. The other goblins, like so many before, fled before him, running through the south pass and into the valley Montoya.

Clouds passed over the sun as Lenk quickly scrabbled over the large rock and hid his small wiry frame between it and the side of the mountain pass. Another goblin party was coming through... a big one, by the sound of it. They would kill him if they found him. Quietly, he placed his pike at his feet. Then he held his breath and peeked through the crack between the rock and the side wall of the pass. He counted eight, no nine... nine goblins. Nine goblins scurrying south through the pass. At least, Lenk thought to himself, they were travelling in the opposite direction than he. The goblin party passed, and, after a tentative peek around, Lenk grabbed his pike and hoisted himself back over the rock onto the path. The clouds moved on and the sunlight shone down upon his small body, green skin, and large ears. He fingered the brand on his left shoulder. If they see this, Lenk thought, they'd kill me. Lenk grasped his pike firmly and started back through the pass, hoping upon hope that the goblins, his own kind, would not kill him upon sight when he got back home.

Diego snorted and tossed three silvers, his entire day's earnings, onto the bar counter. "Here," Diego said to the bartender, "enjoy it. Three silvers for ale. Bloody robbery!" This is totally bogus, Diego thought to himself as he stormed out of the bar. I'm the best fighter of all of the Montoya Scouts, and what do I have to show for it? I just have bad luck. Diego could practically hear that rat, that coward and disgrace of a Scout, Flynn, jeering at Diego behind his back. Flynn! How Diego hated Flynn! Diego gritted his teeth. The kid kills a few goblins and thinks he's hot stuff, Diego thought. He wouldn't last two seconds against me. He would have run from that... thing, whatever it was, faster than I did! Diego sat down near the grassy knoll, the foliage of the giant tree blocking his view of the moon and stars on the dark night sky. Diego could hardly remember what happened... the thing had come at Diego out of the pitch darkness, as if it was part of the darkness itself. It clawed at Diego, grasped him by the throat, bludgeoned him with what felt like a hammer. And yet, although he had swung out with his sword, he hit nothing. He looked up at the towering tree... a tree that always had sweet fruit, no matter what season. Diego yawned, tired. He realized he should get back to his quarters, but some voice in the back of his mind told him to lay down right where he was, under the giant, peaceful tree, amid the green grass and fragrant flowers... and sleep. And that night, Diego dreamed...

Sunset was fast approaching when the winding mountain trail finally crested over the last ridge overlooking the small valley below. The bard paused there for a moment and gazed at the scene that sprawled before him. A vast mountain range had divided the area into a number of small, isolated valleys filled with thick forests and nourished by a myriad of mountain streams. A heavy fog flowed off the mountains, covering the ground in a thick misty blanket colored gold by the dying sunlight and broken only by the tops of tall trees, small ships in an eerie harbor. Nestled below the ridge, slightly beyond the tide of that hazy sea, a small hamlet stood. It lay near the protective walls of a small castle.
The bard took a deep breath of the chill mountain air and pressed foreword into the valley. As majestic as the scenery was, he neither had the time nor the mood to appreciate it. The sun would soon be vanishing beyond the valley's borders and he had no wish to spend one more night on that infernal mountain. As he walked down the twisted path toward the town, he chided himself for his stupidity. Kiwin, if you hadn't been so careless, you would be half way to Silmaria by now instead of the middle of nowhere.
It all started over a week ago, when one of the more nosey members of the caravan he had been traveling with encountered a goblin raiding party that had strayed peculiarly far from the high mountain passes they frequent. The sell-swords that had been hired to protect the caravan were able to repel the poorly executed attack, but unfortunately the vile creatures managed to run off with their entire supply of healing potions. One of the guards was wounded particularly bad in the struggle and without the healing potions, he was not likely to survive the journey to the next town. Without thinking, Kiwin mentioned that he kept a spare healing potion for emergencies. As the caravan master was rummaging through his sack for the potion, the bard was suddenly reminded that he had placed the potion in the bag, right next to his set of lock-picks - why did he still carry those things around? Apparently the caravan master took a rather dim view of thieves and was prepared to put a drastic and rather permanent end to Kiwin's career. It had taken quite a lot of convincing, a considerable donation from his own meager funds, and the gratitude of the guard who had been saved for Kiwin to convince the caravan master to merely leave him on the side of the road. Luckily, the guard also managed to "accidentally" drop a small bag of provisions before the caravan had disappeared down the road. Inside the bag the bard found a crude map that depicted a small village nearby.
Without any weapons, it had taken all his skills to avoid the goblins and other things that roam the mountain passes during the night, but finally this nightmare sojourn through the mountains would end. It was just after dusk when the bard reached the town. It did not take too long for him to locate the only tavern in town, The Black Boar; all he needed to do was follow the scent of roasting lamb and the growl in his belly. Before entering, Kiwin paused outside the inn, considering his options. After his "contribution" to the caravan master, the bard was left with nothing more than the clothes on his back, and a small silver flute that he kept hidden in a secret pocket of his tunic. While the flute was most likely valuable, he had no desire to part with it, for sentimental reasons. He could try to pick a few pockets in order to gain a few coins, but he needed help and that would require their trust; the town was small and the locals would be suspicious of strangers. Besides, the bard told himself, he wasn't a thief anymore. Putting on his most disarming smile, Kiwin entered the tavern; he decided he would have to charm his way through this.
It was a busy night at the Black Boar; a number of scouts returned from patrol and were spending their newly acquired earnings. The tavern owner was occupied running back and fourth, making sure everyone was happy. However, he wasn't too busy to notice the stranger walk trough the front door. The figure at the door seemed to pause and scan the room. Through the layer of smoke that permeated the common room, the stranger deftly navigated his way across the tavern until he stood directly in front of the owner.
"Greetings Sir, my name is Kiwin Farwalker," the stranger said with a stupid grin on his face, "and I have a business proposition for you."

As Higgins heard the bar door close he turned, he saw what looked like a thief but had a lot of charm about him. Higgins hated strangers, for when he was a boy his parents were murdered by them. He picked up his axe and went to question the stranger when he saw him go off somewhere with the bartender. Furious that his friend the bartender would just welcome a stranger into his bar without questioning him, Higgins stormed out of the room in a mad rush. He ran straight to the forest in a blind fury hoping to let his rage out on a few goblins, where he saw a little goblin skulking behind some bushes with a pike. He crept up to it only to feel it run straight into him. The goblin screeched so loud that a goblin patrol that was passing quite far away ran straight towards the scream. Higgins threw the goblin away and turned to run only to find another patrol of goblins, only they weren't looking at him, they were looking at the small goblin Higgins had just thrown aside....

Irini Montoya wet the cloth and placed it on her father's forehead. Her father's eyes fluttered open a bit, and he tried to whisper a thank you to her. "Shh," she quieted him. "Don't waste your energy trying to speak. Just stay in bed and sleep. You'll be okay ... Cirra is coming tomorrow, and she'll get rid of this disease you have." Her father smiled weakly and grasped her hand. Then he was asleep. Irini sighed and looked out of the tower window onto the courtyard. Gerard, her older brother, was out there, training with the guards in the moonlight.
Irini glanced back down at the sickly old man on the bed. If she didn't know better, she would never guess that she and Gerard were the children of her father. She and Gerard were both blond-haired and brown-eyed, a stark contrast to their father's dark brown hair -- what was left of it that hadn't turned gray, anyway -- and pale green eyes. And neither she nor Gerard had inherited their father's massive frame. Irini was short and petite, and Gerard was not much bigger. She laid a hand on her father's forehead... tears welled up in her eyes. She could do much with her magic, but against a disease like this, her spells and incantations were useless. She only hoped upon hope that Cirra, her cousin and a healer, would arrive in time. Irini wiped her eyes and stood up. She shut the door quietly behind her as she left her father's room and descended the tower stairs.

Lenk had supposed that, when he had been driven south out of the path, the opposite direction he wanted to take, by a goblin party, that his situation could not have been much worse. Now, he was cornered by yet another goblin party, his position given away. The brand on his left shoulder was in plain view -- and the goblins just stared at it. "Cousins!" Lenk shouted. "Please! I only return to prove myself once again!"
The goblins turned and stared at him. "It's you!" One of them shouted. "It is your fault we have been driven from our homes! The return of the Exiled One brings curses and doom upon us all!" Lenk took a step back and brought his pike to bear. They had been driven out of their homes? Was that the reason he had encountered so many goblin parties through the pass? Lenk wondered what had happened to his family.
"Please, I tell you it was not me!" Lenk shouted, desperately. "I do not wish to fight you, but if I must to save myself, I will!" But his words had no effect -- the six goblins charged him. Lenk hopped to one side and swung the thick handle of the pike, knocking two of the goblins flat to the ground. Two more swung their blades down at him, but he parried the strike with the handle and threw them off. He heard the whistle of a blade swinging down in an arc for his head. Quickly, he rolled to the side and thrust out, skewering his attacker on the 5-foot weapon. He threw the corpse at another goblin cluster, bowling them over. Another goblin blade swung at him, slicing his pike in two.
Quickly, he dove toward the dead goblin's body in hoped of reaching its sword, but the hands of his attackers gripped him and pulled him back. Well, Lenk thought, this was the end. He closed his eyes and waited... there was a shriek behind him, as a stout man wielding a giant axe cut through the goblin party. Two of the goblins already lay in pieces on the ground, and the three remaining hopped out of the way of the swinging blade. Lenk quickly took two swords off of his dead comrades, took to one knee to quickly pray for forgiveness, then scurried off into the night, leaving the man, the other goblins, and the sounds of battle behind him.

Irini branched right and ascended the spiral stairs leading to the topmost chamber of the tower. The gloom was lit by sparsely positioned candles, which seemed to enhance the darkness, instead of banishing it. After several passes, she came upon an oaken door with no apparent handle. It's only adornment was a silver rune that shimmered in the candlelight. Closing her eyes, she reached out to the rune, tracing the pattern on the door while whispering soft words of power. A white light burst from within the rune and trailed after her scrolling finger. Her mind raced with delight and her body suffused with ecstasy as her magic filled her soul. In her mind's eye, she saw the door as it's true nature. She registered not a door, but a matrix of energy that she could bend and shape. She focussed her will upon the latticework and shaped it to form something different. She opened her eyes and the door had vanished revealing a chamber within.
Slowly, she entered the room, feeling drained from her performance of magic. Behind her, the door reshaped itself, ensuring her the privacy she desired. The room was small and the granite walls were layered with dust and cobwebs, yet the floor seemed meticulously clean. A small blanket was laid out in the center of the room, a place where she could sit and focus her thoughts. The only light came from a small window permitting the moon to illuminate the room's tiny interior.
Staring out at the countryside, the tree tops glimmered emerald green in the moon's rays; everything seemingly peaceful, but she felt otherwise. The valley cried out in desperation, the spirit of the forest shuddering beneath the Goblin's charge through its domain. They were fleeing, an unlikely course for the normal pattern of Goblin behavior, but fleeing nonetheless. They knew, as did she, that the time of the Exiled One's return was close at hand. She shivered from the night air and unconsciously fingered the brand on her left shoulder.

Diego suddenly jerked upright. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to shake off the last effects of the nightmare that he had just been through. Unconsciously, he rubbed his left shoulder through his shirt. He remembered little of the dream, as it fast faded away from his thoughts. Something about banishment ... he remembered only one thing clearly -- a six pointed star, surrounded by a circle, burned into his shoulder.
He shuddered, trying to drive off the memory as he gazed out into the stars. He had a feeling that the strange shadow creature was part of it ... an omen of worse things to come. He glanced up at the moon, round and silvery. It was almost an hour until dawn, but Diego had no desire to return to sleep.

Kiwin almost jumped in surprise as the short man brushed past him. With his only brief glance, the bard truly wasn't sure if he was a dwarf, human, or something else ... Kiwin shrugged away the thoughts, and turned his dazzling smile on the bartender. "You have a lovely tavern here, sir, but perhaps a bit of music and storytelling could liven it up?" Kiwin had a wonderful voice, and knew many songs. He had been a minstrel for some years, as a cover for his thieving operations. Nobles in a large city, such as El Marid, were always looking for entertainers for their decadent parties. The thief-turned-bard had used many such parties as scouting opportunities, giving partial maps and information to the Chief Thief in return for money.
Kiwin smiled again at the bartender and owner, then turned towards the room, leaned against the counter, and started to sing. He had picked up an interesting song in the last village he passed through, about the Prince of Shapier. It was a long song, but by the time he was through, the scattered patrons smiled at him, and a few clapped quietly for the bard.
The bartender grunted, wiping down the bar with an old rag. "Not bad. Ya've got a good voice on ya. Tell ya what, I'll make ya a deal. Ya be here in the avenins, and sing for ma customars. I'll give ya a meal at the end of tha night, and let ya sleep here by tha fireplace." Kiwin thought for a brief moment, and nodded. A safe place to stay, and one meal. Plus any coins that the patrons of the tavern chose to toss to him. And, unless he was very unlucky, no one would learn about the flute, or the supposed magical enchantment that had led him to steal it, and flee El Marid in the first place.

Gerard narrowed his eyes, facing off against the guard. He enjoyed the practice sessions, since his father no longer had a trainer for himself and his sister. He made a feint, then another, and moved his sword too far to the right. The guard, always predictable, came in hard from the left. Gerard was ready for the attack though, and batted it aside, rolling forward over his shieldless left arm, and tripping the guard as he went. Their swords both had protective wooden coverings, but many guards learned the hard way that those coverings did nothing to stop a bruise. Gerard was back on his feet in an instant, sword ready. The guard, however, had managed to catch his sword between his legs as he fell, and was clearly in too much pain to rise again. Gerard looked up to the window, and gave his sister a brief salute as she looked out.
Gerard helped the soldier back to his feet, and replaced his weapon to its sheath. Walking back towards the central keep, he thought about what was going on. His sister had always been sensitive to the magical arts, rather like their mother had been. Unlike their mother, Irini had a strong conscience and a bond of love and compassion with her brother and father. Gerard could remember, as a child, some of the fights his parents had, mainly over his father's searching for knowledge and books, while his mother complained the money should be used for more luxuries, not the worthless books that his father, the Duke, collected with so much care. Gerard remembered, too, the false care and love his mother would use on himself and Irini, remembered one day in particular as a young man when his mother summoned him to her chambers...
Gerard shuddered and pushed away the brooding memory again. He had taken no pleasure in his mother's death, unlike many others in the castle who were glad she was gone. The Duke's marriage had been one of political strategy, not love. Gerard knew his mother was surprised when his dagger hilt struck the back of her neck, surprised and dismayed at the treachery of the son she had done so much to hurt, as she tumbled down the staircase of the tower. He knew his sister knew, and approved. No one had questioned the Duchess' death as anything more than an accident.
That had been almost three years ago, and Gerard had long since forgiven himself for the killing, as had Irini. Anything was preferable to what she had done to him, and with him. Gerard climbed that same staircase to the third floor, and stopped next to the guard at the Duke's chambers. The guard shook his head to Gerard's unspoken question, and the young man nodded sadly. His father was dying, from what they did not know. The Montoya family was rumored to have been cursed, generations ago, and it seemed like the uncle Gerard never knew might indeed be that one. Stronger than an ogre, Gerard knew of his uncle Caine only by reputation. But if, as was rumored, Caine had been cast out for demon-worshipping by his father ... Gerard shuddered again, walking away, towards his own room.
A servant brought him a simple supper, roast lamb with bread, and a glass of wine. Gerard ate methodically, not even noticing most of the taste. Was there some reason he had thought so much of his mother and exiled uncle so much over this past week? Gerard knew the strengths of belief well, knew that seldom did coincidences happen without a motive behind them. Sighing, he drank the last of the wine, lit a candle against the approaching twilight, and moved towards the book on his desk.
He had found the book by accident about six months ago. Gerard had actually been looking for an old book of bardic tales, stories of hero and monsters from centuries before, when the world seemed younger. This book had been in its place, and Gerard thanked whatever Fate had put it there. He read through two pages, then stood up and stepped to the clear space in the center of his room. Closing his eyes, he began his meditations. Slowly the room around him disappeared in a formless blackness, an emptiness of peace and tranquility. His body began to move, practicing the moves and disciplines that were new and foreign to him. Raising one leg, he jumped into a circle kick, the air swishing past over his foot. He rolled, kicked, punched, demolishing the air in front of him as though it were a monster. Eventually, a half hour later, he came to the move that had so far defeated him. He jumped, a triple kick lashing out, coming down to land on one hand ...
The unearthly sounding wail shattered Gerard's concentration and meditation completely, and he fell heavily to the floor. Cradling his bruised wrist, he rose and dashed to the window. The wail, a death keen of something unearthly ended after only a few seconds. Gerard wished, vainly, that the small thick windows would shut then, close into the stone that he sometimes hated so much. Something evil walked the land, that much he knew.