Story Archive

The common room of the Wayfarer’s Rest was never truly empty, but at this hour it held only the smells of last night’s fire and this morning’s bread. 

Lowen sat in a comfortable chair near the hearth, his feet swinging beneath him, hands wrapped around a mug of bitter chicory, while Briala settled at his feet. The large marsh hound had earned some rest as well, Lowen reckoned. The night’s ride had been hard on all of them. The pack on the table beside him carried sealed letters—not many, but each one weighted with the same warning he’d been spreading south-to-north along his trading route. Rook’s Rest was his next to last stop, but the hill dwarves to the north could wait a bit longer, as they were better prepared for what might come.

Yannos’ niece, Mara Vogar, moved between the tables with practiced quiet, setting fresh-baked bread and butter near the hearth next to Lowen—bread that she and her mother had made that morning. With a quiet nod in his direction, she headed back toward the kitchen to check on the morning tea. Lowen thoughtfully took up the small loaf and spread butter across the bread.

Encroachment. Organized. Moving with purpose. This time, from the northwest, an oddity to be sure.

He popped a bite of bread and butter to his mouth, his eyes widening upon the taste—warm sweet bread with fresh salted butter melting on his tongue. “By the Spirits, that girl can bake,” he said to himself. Briala glanced up from her resting spot, hoping a wayward crumb, or more might fall her way. 

The first to arrive was Garrik Veller, still wearing his night captain’s face—alert, assessing, not yet softened by morning routine. He surveyed the room in a glance, registered Lowen’s exhaustion, and pulled out a chair without preamble.

“You look half-dead, Reedwhistle.”

“Rode through the night.” Lowen leaned back into the deep cushions of the chair.

“That’s not your way.” Veller’s fingers drummed lightly against the dark wood of the table; three fingers in quick succession, his fourth resting against the grain, an old sentry check. “What’s moving out there?”

Before Lowen could answer, the door opened again. Yannos Vogar entered with the easy warmth of a man at home in his own hall. He’d lost his wife, Ellie, to illness years ago, and since then he and his extended family had kept the Wayfarer’s Rest running—longer than most folk of the settlement could recall. He carried three bowls of porridge—one for himself, one for Lowen, and one he set pointedly in front of Captain Veller, tossing a nod of familiarity his way. 

Yannos set his ponderous frame down across from Lowen, taking up spoon to porridge. He paused, spoon halfway to his mouth, and grinned at Veller. “Feed him before you interrogate him, Lieutenant. The man’s been on the road.” The old title landed on the Captain like a thumb on a bruise, another reminder they’d both been younger once. 

“I’m not interrogating, I’m—”

“Your posture says otherwise.” Yannos quietly set his spoon back to the bowl, then settled back into his chair, grey beard still sleep-mussed. “Now, Lowen. What brings you back early and looking like you’ve been chased?”

The door opened again and again in quick succession: Master Durnic, moving with that lean economy that never wasted motion, and the Deacon, Orrin Brekmar, who touched his pendant once before taking his seat. Rennic Harrowe arrived next, ink-stained fingers already reaching for his counting pouch, followed by Alysse Sallow smelling faintly of smoke-herbs and morning salves. Last came Elda Fenmark, who took one look at the gathering and shut the door firmly behind her.

“This is everyone?” Lowen asked. He looked around the table, all Common Men—men and women—save himself.

“Everyone who matters for news from the northwest.” Veller’s tone carried weight. “Now, talk to us, what brings you in such haste and rousing us all near the crack of dawn?”

Lowen set his mug down, looking from face to face. “I met a trader coming south toward Saltfen,” he said. “Half his wagon burned.”

Faces stilled, all listening intently.

“He called them a patrol,” Lowen went on. “Not cutpurses. Not road bandits. Uniformed.They asked for tribute like it was the law.”

Elda snorted. “Uniformed?” She looked about the table. “Apparently, now bandits love costumes.”

Silence took the room.

Lowen looked at her evenly and slid Ironglen’s letter onto the darkened wood of the tabletop. 

“Bandits scatter. These didn’t.”

Elda held Lowen’s gaze. “Say it plain, Master Halfling.”

Veller didn’t look at her. “He did. Now give us the rest.”

Lowen tapped the seal on the letter. “Two of their scouts sent north didn’t return. When they sent a larger party, they found tracks—boot prints, campfires, formations.” He glanced around the table. “Elda’s right that bandits work those roads. But bandits and brigands are disorganized. These forces are staying together. Moving with discipline.”

Master Durnic leaned forward, his forge-scarred hands flat on the table. “How many?”

“Ironglen’s scouts estimated two dozen, maybe more. But they’re not alone. I’ve got three more reports like this.” He laid the remaining letters on the table. “All from hamlets and hearths northwest of here. All describing the same thing: organized groups, military bearing, moving south and east.”

“Toward the elven lands,” the Deacon said quietly.

“Toward Derwen Elyll,” Lowen confirmed. “And after that, toward you all.”

Mara had entered the room. Approaching the hearth, she took up the poker in hand, adjusting logs to better warm the room. Her gaze flicked toward the door, then back to the table. With a slight nod to no one in particular, perhaps just to herself, she headed back toward the kitchen.

Ever the steward, Rennic Harrowe’s chalk tapped twice against the table. “How much time?”

“Unknown. Could be weeks. Could be longer.”

“Then it’s the elves’ problem.” Elda’s bluntness cut through the gathering tension. “Let them deal with it. We’ve got our own concerns—we barely made it through winter; the fields need planting now and with thin work crews to boot. The season’s already upon us. The farms can’t spare hands for someone else’s fight.”

Mara returned with a pot of tea, steaming, filling the room with warmth and the scent of chicory as she passed, moving quietly around the table and topping off mugs without interrupting. Her hand paused over Lowen’s cup, and she caught his eye briefly—concern there, unspoken.

“The elves fall; these forces keep moving south and east.” Veller’s voice was level. “We’re next in line.”

“If they fall,” Elda countered. “The elves have been in those woods longer than we’ve been building walls. They know their ground.”

“And if the elves don’t fall?” Alysse’s quiet voice drew attention—the same steady calm she brought to birthing rooms and sickbeds. “If they hold, and these forces turn east instead? We’re still too close to their path.”

“Speculation.” Elda shook her head. “We can’t strip our own defenses for a threat that might not come.”

“Forewarned is forearmed.” Yannos spoke mildly, but his eyes were sharp. “We don’t need to strip anything. We need to know.”

Master Durnic’s forge-scarred fingers drummed once. Quietly, nearing a whisper, he said, “Send scouts.”

Veller nodded. “Old Thorn’s right. Agreed.” He looked around the table, catching Yannos’ sly grin at the mention of Old Thorn. Master Durnic grimaced faintly at the old familiarity. Veller continued, “We send two scouts. Tavin takes the north route toward the foothills and ridges. Tessa goes west along the trade roads. Standard patrol range, nothing that risks them. We confirm or deny the pattern. Then we decide.”

“And if they confirm?” Elda asked.

“Then we send someone northwest.” Veller’s gaze settled on Lowen. “Someone who can read what the elves won’t say aloud and can come back alive.”

Lowen nodded slowly. He’d known that was coming. “I know what you’re askin’, Veller, and I don’t disagree, but with Wick laid up, and my short legs, I’m not the man for it. What I can do, though, is lend Whisper and Briala here to assist your choice of scout.” At the mention of her name, Briala lifted her head, ears cocking toward Lowen. He scratched behind her ears, letting her steal the last bite of buttered bread. 

Deacon Brekmar touched his pendant again. “The council agrees?”

Around the table, heads nodded—some reluctant, some resigned, but none dissenting.

“Two weeks,” Veller said. “Tavin and Tessa out and back. Then we reconvene and decide the next step, and who to send to scout.”