Vivec Saga Part I: The Black Sword, Prologue

Soirse's day began much as each previous one had since she arrived in Altair. Her attunement to nature felt dull and gray. She could scarcely appreciate the new sun streaming through the canopies of the surrounding forests because she knew her search was unlikely to be any more fruitful than any other since she came to the city. No one seemed to know or care about the life being sapped from the land near her home near Westerwale. Nonetheless, she readied herself for the day. Strapping on her scimitar, she called to Fenrir, her gray wolf companion, who came trotting to her side with far more enthusiasm than she felt. Soirse managed a smile, same as she had every day since her arrival.

Some motion showed on the horizon. The indistinct disturbance became a shadowy figure and then a young boy, dressed in a messenger's vest. Soirse raised an eyebrow, never having received a message before. "Are you Soirse, ma'am?," the boy asked. She nodded. He extended the thin wooden tube toward her and she reached out to take it. The boy bowed and ran back toward the city.

Soirse popped the cap off the wooden tube, dropping it to the ground, and slid the small rolled paper from it. "I may be able to solve your problem..."

***

Sparks flew away as the hammer struck the flat, white hot metal, bending it into a more subtle curve. The hammer fell again and again. Malcolm hadn't noticed the passage from night into morning. His craggy hand reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow when he saw the sun glinting in through the one window in his workshop. Finishing the last few strokes, he doused the unformed breastplate he was making and covered the furnace. He would require more metal to finish the day's work.

Passing into the morning air of Altair briefly and then into his modest home, he splashed his face to wash the soot away, though his clean skin looked little different than when it was dirty. He counted a few gold pieces into a sack, hooked it to his belt, and stepped outside. The stout, brown dwarf grabbed the handle to his wagon and began to pull it to market. The Kaldorn traders had their ingots for sale today.

Struggling despite his sturdy build, Malcolm stopped with the steel-laden cart in front of his shop. A wooden messenger tube was tied to the door-handle. He puffed his chest as he strutted to retrieve it. From the looks of the tube, this could be a big order. Popping open the cap, removing the paper, his small, coal-black eyes narrowed.

"I may be able to solve your problem... "

***

Ghaleon awoke with a start, as he had every day for the last twenty-six years. His eyes fixed themselves on the nervous, sunken-faced servant in his room, placing a wooden tray laden with food on the bed table. "I told you not to disturb me!" he barked, causing no reaction in the servant.

In a tremulous voice, the servant replied "My apologies, Master Ghaleon." The man was capable only of resigned nervousness after years of berating.

"Forget it, Schnibbins," Ghaleon grumbled, "Fetch my tunic." He bit into a lean fig from the tray. In moments, Schnibbins returned, and Ghaleon left his breakfast unfinished as he dressed and stepped out into the morning air. He surveyed his fields, most of which lay fallow, though the one in front of the decrepit serfs' huts showed small buds emerging from its soil. He failed to notice the clack, clack of wood against his farmhouse door.

"Why isn't that lazy dog out working?" he seethed to no one in particular, eyeing the sole intact hut. Schnibbins approached from behind.

"Archie is tending to Nat; she's not feeling well, Milord."

"He's feeling fine. Let him work."

"Yes, Lord," Schnibbins sighed, shuffling off toward the cabin.

Turning to enter his house, Ghaleon spied the tube he had missed before. Curiously, he opened it.

The small slip of paper read,
"I may be able to solve your problem. Meet me on the east bank of the River Lene at one hour to midnight. Come alone.

In case you were considering ignoring this invitation, you should know that this letter is covered in contact poison. I have the antidote.

-V"