Night drove like a dagger deep into the heart of the sun-blessed land of everlasting summer.  Darkness stole across copses of pines, green hills, and lakes deep as time.  The beasts of the land knew it best, stealing away to burrows and dens that would see them through till morning.  When daytime’s warmth faded from the forests of Kemp, human minds were left longing. They searched for something to make them whole: closeness of kinfolk, a lover’s touch, or a sweet libation. All three could be found in Arden Hall, principal tavern, and inn of the selfsame village on the kingdom’s frontier. Not far away was Scarlet River, the natural border that separated them from the cold northlands beyond.

            Hunters, farmers, fur traders, and lumberjacks came from across the western lakelands to convene under the watchful gaze of Innkeeper Pious.  A devout follower of the Lily Maid, Pious only permitted respectful speech regarding Kemp’s goddess within his hall. Pious made sure every meal and drink passing through his hall was properly blessed by the Lily Maid before it was served.  The village abbot who made sure of this. He had no temple for his flock but treated Arden Hall almost as such. Ever present on Frigg’s Eve, the abbot muttered a prayer before raising his flagon to Pious from the end of the bar.

            “A typical Frigg’s Eve, eh Pious?” grinned the abbot.

“With a typical turnout,” the innkeep sighed, approaching. “I see the rangers turned in an hour early from their patrols to grab an ale.”

“No one’s worried about the roads leading into Arden, not in high summer,” the abbot laughed. “Every villager knows northmen raid in early spring, not fearing the cold but avoiding the heat. Marching in their shells of iron like great machines, so unnatural… Their bodies turn to ovens in high summer.”

  Pious nodded, but still unconvinced this was enough reason for border rangers to shirk patrol duties. A chill swept through the inn as six men under heavy black cloaks piled in. Villagers parted, offering odd glances at the strangers as they stalked toward the bar, throwing off hoods. A man with long grey locks spilling over broad, thin shoulders leaned toward Pious.  One cheekbone was crossed with a scar and though he looked to be fifty, pale blue eyes still gleamed of youth.  He laid a doeskin glove on the bar and left twelve gold lilies. Pious and the abbot’s eyes locked on the fire-lit coins.

“Six Deerpeak Lagers,” he said, turning back to his men.

“Pardon, sir, but we don’t carry Deerpeak,” Pious went on polishing a flagon.

“What kind of backwater is this?” the grey-hair demanded.

“Arden, sir,” said the abbot, extending a wrinkled hand. “I am its abbot, a pleasure.”

The grey-hair looked down his hawk’s nose at the abbot, pulling one lip back to reveal yellow teeth, one of them gold. “Raven’s Hill Rieslings then. Right, boys?” he looked to his five men who slapped their gloves on the bar, howling like wolves.

“Pardon, but we don’t have that either.”

At the far corner of the tavern, sat a girl of fifteen years, golden curls bound beneath a brown kerchief.  She wore the simple garb of a stable girl: mud-stained tunic, wool leggings, and leather boots. Beneath her tunic, however, lay something no stable girl carried in all the kingdom of Kemp.  Its cold steel pressed against her abdomen, tucked under her belt. Beside her were two grimy stable boys, her escorts through this border land that seemed lawless and wild beyond measure.  She listened to the words of the grey-hair and watched the innkeeper’s reactions. Pious would not pay the grey-hair the deference he seemed to be owed.  One of her escorts leaned close, his lips almost touching her ear.

“The grey-hair may be the man you seek,” whispered the dark-haired stable boy, catching a hint of her lavender perfume.

“Observant for a stable boy,” she grinned. “Perhaps you deserve a raise, Rem.”

“If he gets a raise, I get one too,” the second, light-haired boy squirmed in his seat.

“Prove yourself brave and loyal, Lake,” she said, “And my father will hear of it.”

“Kaelyn, do you want your father to hear of any of this?” Rem whispered.

Kaelyn shook her head, almost spilling a golden curl before resigning to a sigh and waiting for events to unfold.

“What do you have then?” the grey-hair demanded of Pious.

“We have the house ale, I brewed it myself, and gutdrink.”

“Six ales and six gutdrinks then,” the grey-hair narrowed blue eyes. “This ale better not taste like piss.”

“Look at him,” laughed one of his black cloaks. “Look at his face, it’s going to.”

“Why don’t we just burn this place to the ground?” asked a second black cloak. “They’re not doing the locals any favors by serving swill. Your king would not approve.”

The innkeeper poured them their drinks, gathered up their coin, then moved to the bar’s rear, descending some stairs to visit its wine cellar.

“His Majesty drinks only mushroom grog,” the grey-hair blurted out, “to keep his mind erased. He cannot face what the world’s become: a world where northmen take our daughters every spring, a world where his goddess grows old, a world where I am Kemp’s true king.”

“Our goddess does not grow old,” the abbot spoke up. “She is as the sun, eternal.”

“Twenty-five years ago,” the grey-hair’s eyes flashed, “I saw the goddess in the Wilderwood. She was alive then, young as morning, her skin iridescent, eyes like emeralds, hair like melted gold.  My patrol needed water and I stumbled upon her pool.”

“No man is permitted to enter the Wilderwood!” cried the abbot, slamming his empty flagon.

“How I wanted her,” grey-hair continued, “how any man would have. I hunted for years. Never would I see her again. Tales of that fool-king hearing her words are all lies. To think he claimed to share her bed. If His Majesty knew the goddess’s will, our lands would still shine like gold. Wilderwood beasts would not snatch young from the heartland, black omens would not spill over the mountains and northmen would not plague our coasts and rivers. No one knows the goddess’s wishes, and no one knows how to return our land from ruin. Least of all the king.”

“I suppose you do then?” asked the abbot.

The grey-hair kept his eyes trained on the abbot but leaned back on his stool and flicked a finger to one of his men.  Standing, the black cloaked man placed a glove on the abbot’s shoulder and pulled him to standing.  Not a word spilled from the abbot’s mouth as he was guided away from the bar and out the front door of Arden Hall into the night.  Returning from the wine cellar with a furrowed brow, Pious looked to the empty spot where his abbot once sat. He frowned deeper as a stable girl of little more than five feet hailed him.

“Is anything amiss, sir?” Kaelyn asked.

“No ‘sir’ is needed, lass, only Pious,” he sighed. “I checked for my barback in the wine cellar but he’s nowhere to be found. Now, I return to see one stranger and my abbot missing all at once. None of this bodes well.”

The five remaining men clinked their gutdrink glasses together and howled, “Raven’s Hill!” before downing them to slap the bar like a drum skin.

“One guess who they are,” Kaelyn raised a gold brow to Pious.

“The Raven’s Hill Gang? In Arden? Not possible,” he dismissed the notion, running a calloused hand through his beard.  “Those damned bandits, it cannot be. They were chased through the mountains by the Lion of Kemp. They would not dare return to this valley.”

Two of the bandits moved to either side of Kaelyn, peering beneath her kerchief to see the splendid hair and lovely face beneath.  Her skin was the color of cream, unblemished by toil, eyes green like sunlit forests.  They did not see the face of a stable girl and so they stayed, leaning on the bar, and tugging her kerchief back. Kaelyn slapped at their hands, pulling away as Rem and Lake arrived, each boy barely older than she.  Reaching for knives, the bandits turned on the stable boys who began to quiver.  Pious slammed a flagon on the bar, catching wild eyes as rough hands turned to fists.

With a great crash, the front door was thrown open, nearly slamming off its hinges. In came a towering bear of a man with shaggy brown hair. A green cloak pinned with the golden lily trailed from wide shoulders, marking him as a ranger. He moved to the bar, cradling a bandit’s head under his armpit. Thankfully for the bandit, his head was still attached to his body, but his captor had no intention of releasing him.  The grey-hair stood at once, recognizing the captive as his sixth man. Blue eyes grew as he looked the bear-like newcomer up and down.

“This man serves Diomedes Greylocke,” growled the green cloak, tightening his grip on the bandit and provoking a yelp.  “The Raven’s Hill Gang has broken the king’s peace for the last time. I’ve come to collect its members for the murder and kidnapping of good Kempish folk.  I’ve chased the snakes through mountain and vale and have reason to suspect Dio might be here.”  The ranger’s dark eyes settled on the grey-hair.

“Barric, the so-called Lion of Kemp,” the grey-hair spat.  “Seems you’ve found me.” He drew a long knife and pointed it at Barric’s barrel chest.  “Men, seize that girl. Peasants, leave!”

Arden Hall’s regulars grumbled as the bandits seized Kaelyn. When her stable boys protested, Rem got a backhand to the jaw, launching him over a table, flipping flagons of ale to spatter the faces of stunned villagers.  Lake grew silent as the second stranger drew a knife and pressed it to Kaelyn’s throat.  The bandits dragged her away, passing stone-faced villagers to cross the tavern and descend the cellar stairs.  Pious dropped his flagon and drew a loaded crossbow from beneath the bar, levelling it at Diomedes and clicking his tongue.  The grey-haired fugitive backed away, keeping the knife and his last three men between them until he reached the end of the bar. They leapt over it and dashed down the cellar stairs.

Kaelyn was brought into the dark and musty cellar, surrounded by kegs of ale and wine.  Finding some space at its rear, the two men found twine to bind her wrists and threw her down on a sack of oats.  She laid back, staring at the rafters as dust hung in a shaft of light illumined as the door above opened and closed to let the rest of the criminals in.  Turning her head, Kaelyn looked through barrels to a mound at the rear of the cellar. There it lay, covered in a wool blanket but betraying the shape of a female form, rising with breath.  A jerk of the head revealed a familiar face to her, eyes bruised, and lip bloodied but still, she would recognize those green eyes anywhere.

Diomedes paced as two of his men held back the door at the top of the stairs. Soon, a tremendous crash shook its hinges.  Blue eyes flared at his men as Dop’s curses flew from his mouth like a sorcerer.  Drawing broadswords, they readied themselves as orders fell like arrows.  Kaelyn closed her eyes, thinking how foolish she had been to come here with only two stable boys for protection. Why had she not sought the Lion of Kemp directly? Her father never would have permitted it. She feared for Rem and Lake, who she had ordered to escort her and hoped they did not prove too brave in her defense. Then a scratching came from the mound of wool and Kaelyn looked back to see the battered, green-eyed prisoner mouthing words to her.

The cellar door burst off its hinges and Barric poured through, kicking the first bandit at the top of the stairs full in the chest. He toppled ten feet down onto a crate of melons that sprayed juice across the cellar’s inhabitants. Driving down the stairs, Barric’s broadsword swept aside the second bandit’s sword and wove back, hilt slamming his throat.  Landing on the cellar floor, the Lion of Kemp parried the sword strokes of two more bandits.  Diomedes yanked Kaelyn up by her golden curls and put a knife at her neck, using her as a shield.  Barric’s eyes burned at Dio through the bandits’ blades.  Kaelyn and the prisoner strained but could not break their bonds.

In that moment of chaos and blood, an idea dawned. Kaelyn wiggled her waist and spread her legs wide to catch a falling object. Raising her hidden dagger, Kaelyn severed the twine on her wrists. She sucked in her breath, as Dio had still not seen her weapon. He wrestled her close and his knife nicked her throat, forcing out a gasp of rage. The only time was now. She jabbed her blue steel dagger at Dio’s hip behind her. He grabbed her hand, but not before her blade pierced his cloak and armor beneath, drawing blood.  Savage growls filled her senses as he convulsed. Looking down, she saw crimson scalemail covered his hip, its surface scalding hot as it pressed against her.

He crushed her wrist in one hand, bending it back to leer into her face.  Dropping from her fingers, the blue steel blade clattered to the floor. Kaelyn kicked, scuttling the dagger through stacks of crates to the cellar’s rear.  Dio swore and grabbed Kaelyn by the neck so that her body blocked Barric’s progress once more. The ranger stood bloodstained and heaving, the last three bandits dead in his wake.

“Release her if you are a man,” Barric seethed, gripping his broadsword in two hands.

Dio laughed, drawing a curved scimitar with a golden hilt.  He brought the sword up over Kaelyn’s body as Barric growled.  Then he threw Kaelyn to the floor and lunged to slash at Barric from on high.  Barric parried the blow, but its strength and speed surprised him.  His fist thrust into Dio’s gut but met unyielding resistance.  Pulling back his hand, Barric grimaced, barely blocking the bandit’s next slash.  Alternating diagonal slices peppered Barric’s blade as Dio pressed the attack.  Kaelyn shook her head, looking up the stairs to see Rem and Lake standing in the doorway. They made their way down, though she motioned for them to scram. Picking up bandit swords too big for them, the boys waded into combat.

“This is the Lion of Kemp?” Dio howled as he attacked with abandon, ringing around Barric, and taking swipes at the two stable boys as well. Rem and Lake dove away, cowering at the foot of the stairs.

“Face me!” Barric screamed, stalking forward.  He threw off his cloak, revealing silver chainmail that clung to rippling muscles.  Dio grinned, returning to his foe.  Barric battered the scimitar away with each stroke now.  His movements guided by rage, the warrior slammed his broadsword down again and again.  Then he kicked Dio square in the groin and brought his blade across in a horizontal slash fit to tear him in half.  Instead, the blade slammed against Dio’s abdomen but went no further.  Beneath the cloak, Barric saw Dio’s red scale armor now.

“Dragonmail,” he breathed.  Dio cackled, trapping Barric’s blade with his own sword hilt and drawing a knife that he jabbed straight at Barric’s throat.  Barric caught the hand, but surprisingly could not make ground against it.  Dio’s grip was strong as iron, and the knife moved closer. “Impossible,” Barric grunted. “You cannot be this strong.”

“Ah, but I’ve eaten the Fruits of Paradise,” Dio sneered, “stolen from the River’s Mouth.”

Then Barric saw her standing there, her green eyes and long blonde hair unmistakable. She perched just over Dio’s shoulder, before the blue steel dagger’s hilt crashed against the back of his head. The bandit fell forward, his scimitar flying across the cellar.  Rem yelped, ducking just in time to keep his head.  Barric tore the knife from Dio’s hand, kicking him for good measure. The green-eyed prisoner bound the bandit king’s wrists with rope before bending to help Kaelyn to her feet.

“Sister,” she said to Kaelyn, returning her dagger. “Blessed of you to join us.”

“You’re safe now, Ami,” Kaelyn breathed, embracing her sister.

“My little Kae, how much you’ve grown.”