Turlon woke with the sun feeling refreshed after the most comfortable night's sleep he'd had since landing on Taron. He had been undisturbed during the night and all his equipment and gear was untouched. Turlon gave a 'Thank you Waltiz' as he examined his gear and dressed for his upcoming journey. Leaving his room he glanced at the other doors and entered the common area on his way to the stables. At the stable, his resgool was ready and the stableman wished him a good day as he mounted. Gently, Turlon kicked at the Resgool's side and coaxed the beast toward the south in soothing tones like back home. He had scarcely begun to move off when he heard a hue and cry from the Shrine. "Murder! Robbery!" Turlon pulled back on the reins and leaped off the Resgool in a quick stride back to the temple. A crowd was milling about as a young Taronian gesticulated and screamed, "Riulis was murdered and robbed as he came home last night. Cut down by a warrior and his money taken." He saw Turlon, "There is the warrior, he must have done it!" The crowd turned to Turlon. Turlon stood his ground and responded confidently, "Surely I would not come back were I to have commited such an act. Besides, only a coward attacks in secret." "But you are a warrior, and bear a sword such as gave the wound. You are the only warrior here, it must be you!" cried the hysterical youngling. "And there are many here who need money, so they must have taken it," Turlon offered. "Tragedy does not call for abandonment of clear thinking, you dishonor Waltiz with such foolishness," he gambled. Turlon stepped forward, "Where is this Riulis?" "He is coming, borne by my brother in his own cart. He will be here soon," said the boy. "Where did this happen?" Turlon asked. "Early this morning, before light," said the boy. Turlon looks at a nearby monk, "Did anyone leave the Shrine before daybreak?" "Possibly, the doors are open. None of those who were in the rear chambers departed, for there is a monk in attendance near the idol who would have seen them, but other travelers might well have slipped out," came the answer. Turlon, relieved at the appearance of this alibi, continued his questioning. "Did anyone else see a man armed with a sword around here?" A few round of questions went back and forth until someone piped up, "Yeah, there was one. And he was sitting and talking with you!" It was then that he remembered the scruffy man who commented on his equipment and seemed very interested in acquiring wealth. "He said he was going north to look for work as a caravan guard." Turlon described the man to the monk as best he could and asked when he might have left, and then followed up with where the slain man was found, was it north of the shrine? "That man, I don't know. I don't recall seeing him at the morning meal, he might have left earlier," said the monk. No one else could pinpoint his time of departure either, although no one could remember seeing him after light. The body was found to the East, rather than the north. Conversation stopped as the cart pulled into the square with the body. One monk went over first, "He is with Zalro now," he commented after looking at the body. "Let us hope that Zalro commends him to the Fields of Delight." Turlon went to look as well, and found he recognized the body. It was the other man that he had spoken to last night. "This man was a farmer," Turlon began to recount his story of delivering fruit to the monks. "The other man heard this and saw him as an easy target for money." Turlon asked if anyone knew when this man had left the Shrine, in hopes of determining a time of the attack and subsequent distance the murderer could be away by now. "Yes, he had just made a delivery and received payment," said the monk. He usually left a few hours before dawn to get home. "Is that not so?" He asked another monk. "Yes, he bid me farewell as is usual," said the monk. "So this tragic act of cowardice occurred only hours ago?" Turlon concluded. To the man who drove the wagon, "how far of a ride from here did you find the body?" With any luck, Turlon surmised, the trail would still be warm. "Not far, perhaps an hour from here. I had gone to meet mother about midway between our farm and the Shrine. When he wasn't there I kept walking and found him," said first youngling. "Then we must hurry if we are to catch the man who did this, does anyone want to join me?" Turlon asked as he returned to his Resgool. The two younglings hurriedly unhitched the resgools from the cart and mounted up, a monk, too mounted up saying, "This man served us well and honestly over the years, this touches upon the honour of Waltiz." "Good, then let us bring this man to justice," confirmed Turlon. He then asked the wagon driver where exactly the body was found so they could begin their pursuit from there. The wagon driver, one of the younglings, immediately led the way back to the West. After half and hour hard riding he reined in and dismounted. "Here, it was here." He pointed to a few splashes of liquid in the dirt. "You can see the blood." Turlon kneeled beside the blood and reached out his hand to the stained ground. He felt the glow of Meowr'Hiss rise inside him as he descended into the river of time, reaching out to the unseen forces that ground us in the present but connect us to the past. He reeled, and almost fell. The vibrations from the blood were strong and extremely negative. That it had been shed by violence seemed clear but there would be nothing else that he could read from it until and unless the vibrations cleared. Turlon gathered his balance and turned to the men. "We have lost much time," Turlon then began to look for any tracks on the ground. If the murderer had been mounted then hopefully that could be ascertained which meant the pursuit would be more time intensive. If he were on foot then hopes of overtaking him increased. Turlon cast around, moving off the relatively hard packed road into the soft ground by the side. There he found several good prints of a booted Taronian. A little further work convinced him that the man was afoot. Pointing at the bootprints, Turlon called out "We are in luck, the man who did this is on foot. We can overtake him quickly." Turlon mounted his Resgool and asked aloud "Where might a traveler go from here?" If they could get a direction, he guessed, then intercepting him would be much easier. Certainly the man did not come back toward the Shrine, so he must have continued on away from it. "He did not continue along this track, for I would have seen him," said a youngling. "Would he flee to the south or the north?" Turlon examined the ground again, and decided that it looked as if the man had at least started off to the north. "We go to the north," continued Turlon bringing his Resgool to bear. Turlon remembered the man saying he was looking for work as a caravan guard, perhaps that was the truth and they would find him doing just that. With his posse in tow, Turlon headed north with an eye for any signs that would cause them to alter course. Turlon speculated that the killer headed north cross-country and joined back up with the northern road. Since time was of the essence, he decided to follow the same path, "We go this way," he pointed northward across the terrain. The party took off cross-country following the tracks of their man. Every so often Turlon dismounted to check the tracks more closely. After a few kilometers, the man turned more northwesterly and after another few kilometers the track ran into the road. There Turlon lost the track on the packed surface. Turlon continued northward on the trail across familiar ground looking for signs of their quarry. Soon they began to pass workers in the fields. Turlon rode over to some to ask them if they had seen anyone moving along the road. Several had seen a few travelers, including one man moving quickly on foot that might meet the description of the swordsman they were seeking. "How long ago did you see this man?" Turlon asked the worker reaching into his pouch for a small coin. "About two hours, milord," was the reply. Turlon tossed the man a meager amount of coinage before heading back to the party and relaying this hopeful information. "Two hours can be made up quickly, if we hurry." Turlon headed off in the direction. The men rode as quickly as they dared, an hour passed, then another. Then a third and they saw ahead of them a pair of riders walking their resgools. Turlon slowed up, patting his resgool as he approached the men. They appeared to be a pair of merchants. They were moderately well dressed, but were not armoured and were armed only with the Taronian version of a crossbow. As the party rode up, the monk exclaimed. "These men were guests of Waltiz last night, but did not leave until after we had done so." "Is that true?" asked Turlon of the men. "Indeed so, are you on the trail of the murderer?" said the elder of the two. "That we are," said Turlon. "Have you seen any sign of trouble?" "No, nor have we passed anyone on the road," said the man. Turlon looked further up the road, and began to tap into the Meowr'Hiss looking for the rays of truth which emanate from an honest heart. The man was telling the truth that they had passed no one on the road. "Where are you going? it isn't safe to be out here especially with a murderer on the loose." "We travel to Presda, and we are armed as you see. A single murderer would not find us easy prey," said the man. "And our business will not wait." As the man spoke, Turlon concentrated. To the best of his skills the man spoke true. "Safe journey," bade Turlon as he gathered his band and headed onward. Another hour brought no sign of their prey. The monk rode up next to Turlon, "We must have missed him somehow, on foot we would have overtaken him by now." "This is true," agreed Turlon. Gathering the group, he expressed the same sentiment as the monk and offered that the man must have gone somewhere else or was taking a different path. Disappointed, Turlon suggested returning to the Shrine. The group agreed with dissappointment. "We shall watch as we return, though, and perhaps we shall find where he left the road," said the monk. They turned around and about half an hour later passed the merchants still heading northward. They had no new report. Turlon again warned them to be careful before continuing on their way back to the Shrine. The trip back would be done with greater care to look for anything unusual, maybe they did miss a sign in their haste. They rode a bit more slowly and Turlon was struck by how easy it would be to slip off the road to the west and hide in the woods unseen if one could see who was approaching before they saw youe. Turlon expected as much. This man was shrewd and had heard their noisy pursuit only to hide in the brush for them to pass. Turning to the monk, Turlon said "I am concerned for those merchants traveling unguarded. Perhaps you should lead the group back to the Shrine while I go check on them." By now, the monk was convinced of Turlon's innocence and had no qualms about hurrying home with the two younglings. The three headed off quickly to the south, hoping to be home before dark. Turlon watched them hurry off as he turned his Resgool around and started back toward the two merchants at a hurried pace. For someone as highly trained as Turlon was, he made an ungodly amount of noise as he raced towards the merchants. He caught back up with the merchants in half an hour or so and after a few moments of small talk let them ride out of sight. Then he slipped off the road and found a place to hide his resgool and then himself. He settled his helmet in place and loosened his weapon in its scabbard and waited. Forty minutes later, his patience was rewarded. Hurrying up the road came the scruffy man that he had spoken to last night. As he reached a high point in the road, the man stopped and looked around in all directions, then satisfied he was unobserved, began moving again, toward Turlon. Turlon reached for his helmet and stepped out from the brush when the man was about ten metres away. Swinging his sword around in a kata learned at the dojo, Turlon said "Justice rides more swiftly than the legs of a guilty man." The man jumped, then snarled, "You! I thought you'd all given up by now." He placed a hand on his sword hilt. "I've no quarrel with you." "Then make a quarrel with me, you killed a man and for his family you must be brought to justice." Turlon circled the man ready to adopt a battle position. The man circled as well, "I don't suppose you want to just split the loot?" he asked, then suddenly drew and leapt at Turlon. Turlon's trained reflexes took over. He drew sidestepped and cut. The blow was perfect, slipping above his opponent's blade and taking him cleanly in the side of the head. He felt the faint thrum of the monoblade as it chopped through the helmet and then his foe crumpled at his feet, blood rushing from his head wound. Turlon approached his fallen foe to check on him. The man was alive, but in shock. Turlon was no medtech, but he guessed that without medical care, the man would be unlikley to survive the night. Evaluating his condition, Turlon decided to bind his wounds the best he could with a strip of fabric ripped from the man's tunic. The Shrine was the only choice, and Turlon hoped that the ride wouldn't cause any more damage as he slung the man across the beast's back and started off at a steady gait. The man's bleeding slowed and his breathing steadied as Turlon rode back to the Shrine. By the time Turlon arrived, full darkness had fallen and only the few torches in the shrine provided light for the room. Turlon rode up to the Shrine doors and hopped of his resgool gently taking the man down and laying him on the ground. Then he went and knocked on the Shrine door, hoping the monk on duty would answer without waking any of the travelers within. The door was open, and he could see a single monk back by the rear doors and a few travelers still settling in. Gently, Turlon hoisted the man up to the entryway and set him propped by the frame. Turlon entered the shrine and approached the monk, "I have returned with the murderer who brought shame upon the Shrine of Waltiz." The man's eyes got large, "I shall fetch Rasmus." He vanished into the back and returned a moment later. "He comes." Another minute or two passed, and then the monk who had ridden with Turlon appeared. "You found hiim?" "Yes, but he is not well. He attacked me and I was forced to defend myself." Turlon pointed to where he left the man and led them over. Rasmus nodded, then ducked into the back. When he returned there were two other monks with him. They followed Turlon to the bandit. They examined him then the two monks bore him off to the rear area. Rasmus remained, "This is a grave wounds. He may not live through the night." He beckoned Turlon to follow and led him back to a small chamber in the rear. It was homey and comfortable, with a fire in a small fireplace giving light and heat. He offered Turlon a cup of some sweet warm beverage and then asked, "Now tell me what happened?" Turlon accepted the beverage and sipped it before beginning his tale. He began with sending the posse back to the shrine and his lying in wait for the suspect to come up the road, "I suspected he was hiding from us as we rode by." Turlon told of confronting the bandit and the man's offer to split the ill-gotten gains with Turlon to avoid capure. "It was then that he leapt at me and I was fortunate to divert his attack. My blow was not countered," he said solemnly. "I brought him here for justice and to return the stolen money." "I see," began Rasmus, before another monk entered. "Sir," he said, "we found this on the warrior." He held out a leather wallet. "It is full of money, sir." "It was Riulis'," said Rasmus. "I recognize it." He took the wallet. "Thank you." Turning back to Turlon, he continued, "It seems that your tale is the true one. It fits with what we know and you would have no reason to return with the money otherwise. Stay with us, will you? Until we know if the man will live or die." Turlon looked discomforted, "I had hoped to be on my way soon. Do you need me to stay for the legal proceedings?" "It would be appreciated," said Rasmus. "Although I can not detain you, a few days will most likely tell the tale." Turlon sighed, "Two days, I can spare no more." "By the grace of Waltiz and Zalro, that will be enough." Rasmus called for a monk to show Turlon to his room. It was much the same as it had been before, but where the other monk that had conducted him had been aloof and slightly surly, this monk was gracious and polite. He brought Turlon a full meal, which was surprisingly good seeing as it had been cooked to alien tastes. Turlon slept the sleep of the just. The next day, Turlon found himself at loose ends as he waited for the situation to play out. Around noon, a monk called him. "The man's wound has festered. He will not survive much longer. Will you come? Rasmus will give him a treatment of herbs and juices which may bring him to senses for a few moments, and he may speak to prepare himself for his meeting with Zalro." Turlon accompanied the monk to witness this strange ceremony. When they arrived, Rasmus was waiting. The bandit was lying in a bed and the room was filled with a sickly odor. The man was clearly dying. Turlon entered and was seated. Rasmus nodded at him and leaned forward and began to pour liquid from a cup into the man' mouth. By reflex the man swallowed a bit, then a bit more, then a bit more. His eyes slowly opened. "Can you hear me?" said Rasmus. "Yes," said the man. "Then know this, you are dying. The medicine I have given you is combatting the festering of your wound, but only for a few moments. Only for a few moments will you have clarity of thought, then you will sleep and never wake. Do you understand," asked Rasmus. "Aye." "Soon you will meet Zalro." "Aye, and Zalro hates hidden things," said the man. "I will speak." "I robbed the farmer, I did not mean to slay him. I meant only to wound him, knock him out. My foot slipped and my blade struck deep. I sorrow for his family. I have nothing else to say." The man closed his eyes. "May Zelro be merciful on you," said Rasmus. He watched for another moment, then the man began to moan and his breathing became erratic. "Now it is only a matter of hours." He led Turlon back to his study. "Thank you for your service to Waltiz. Take this," he produced an amulet with Waltiz symbol on it as well as other writings. "Waltiz protects all travelers, but he takes special care of those who have done him service. We are in your debt." Turlon accepted the amulet with grace and reverence. He returned to his room and examined it closely, identify the symbol of Waltiz and a few other 'magical' signs. Turlon concentrated and attempted to read the object on a deeper level using his Meowr'Hiss. However, the excitement of the day or some other effect thwarted him and he was unable to discover anything of interest. Retiring for the evening, Turlon made a mental note of the next day's travel plans and drifted off to sleep. Turlon rose with the sun and found that a pack had loaded with food and placed in his room while he slept. He breakfasted and recovered his mount from the stable. Soon, he was headed south. The population density grew greater as he began to near the coast and Varishanoor. Fields and cultivated areas became larger and more frequent. In late afternoon, he saw another settlement ahead. It was laid on much the same lines as the one he had just come from, but appeared to be a little smaller. Turlon wasn't used to riding and felt that a night's rest would his weary bones some good so he looked for lodging of sorts. The central building in this settlement, too, was a Shrine to Waltiz and near it was a small stable. Turlonn approached the stable and looked to put his resgool up for the evening. Then he turned his attention to the Shrine and entered to grab a bite to eat and rest. The Shrine was laid out upon nearly identical lines as the one he had seen before. A monk greeted him at the door and gave the same ritual greeting he had received previously: "Welcome Traveller, to this Shrine of Waltiz. Enter in peace, bathe in the goodwill of Waltiz and refresh yourself to his glory." The monk bowed and pointed out the beds and the sideboard. Turlon looked for a table with no one else and sat there. 'Better to be aloof than run into any trouble like last time,' he said to himself. Turlon finished his meal and decided to bed down for the evening in hopes of getting an early start. He stretched from the long ride and adequate meal, spied an empty cot and sat down. As he unbuckled his armour, Turlon let the amulet rest upon his chest as he laid down to relax. He rested for a while as the bustle of the shrine moved around him, then opened his eyes as footsteps stopped near him. A monk was there watching him, "Are you comfotable, sir?" he asked. "Would you perhaps like a quieter chamber?" Turlon looked up at the monk, "Yes, that would be pleasing." "This way," the monk led him back to the rear of the building and showed him a room like those he had seen before. He bowed out then returned with food and drink. "I thank you for your service to Waltiz," he said indicating the medallion. "Is there aught else you require?" "I thank you. There is one thing I would like," Turlon began. Not expecting much beyond what he already knew, Turlon asked the monk about Varishanoor, Vrestnoor and the roads onward. Some local flavor was always important for any mission and that couldn't be acquired from maps. Just knowing a pass to avoid or merchant to seek was worth its weight in gold. The monk was helpful although he knew little. There was only this road, and Varishanoor was another three days travel. He was able to give the names of a merchant or two with which the Shrine did business and who were honest and reputable. Turlon thanked the monk and readied himself for a full night of sleep. As he laid awake he held up the amulet and wondered if Waltiz was going to be more hindrance than help -- maybe, he thought, 'Buck may want to buy it off of him if he came up with a good story behind it, maybe a fertility charm, yeah....Buck would buy that.' Turlon drifted off to sleep thinking about how much Buck would shell out for the charm. The next day was much like the previous. Now, though, he was nearing his goal. The next day, the monk's said, he would arrive at Varishanoor. Finally, he thought. Turlon was hoping all his sidetracking didn't throw him too far off his schedule, but he couldn't let that crime go unpunished. He patted his regool on the head and loped along toward Varishanoor, humming a decidedly un-Taronian tune. Perched on the coast, Varishanoor was moderately sized city, with walls surrounding it on the heights outside the city. The guards at the gate gave him only a peremptory check and warned him that violence would not be tolerated within the city walls. Once inside he could see the sweep of the bay and the ocean beyond. The city stank. The mass of Taronians living in close proximity created an underlying reek, but at the same time, odors of food and spice crept through. The city was built low to the ground, no more than two stories in most places. A few larger buildings stood out, though, some reaching as high as thirty meters. Ships moved in the bay, square sailed boats mostly, that looked vaguely Roman or Greek. Turlon went to the bay to check on ships bound for Vrestnoor, so he could set his schedule. There was no need to spend any extra time in Varishanoor that wasn't necessary. He went down to the harbor master, who for a small consideration gave him the names of the ships that were in harbor and expecting to ship out within the next few days. Turlon was pleased to see that one of the recommended ships was on the list. That gave him some time to peruse the city, so Turlon boarded his resgool and decided to find a cantina, of sorts. He was armed with the names of several from his days with the monks and after a little riding around and asking of directions, he found one of them. It was a little inn with modest stabling facilities. A boy took his resgool and he went in. Small and smokey from the fire, the room held perhaps half a dozen Taronians all with bowls in their hands from which they drank. They looked incuriously at him as he entered, then returned to their drinks. As he watched, two of them were served a plate of something which smelled savory and delicious. There were several empty tables, but nothing resembling a bar. Turlon headed for one of the empty tables and got the attention of the server. "I am starved, I'll have what my fellow travelers are having." "Very good," said the man. A moment later a bowl of something appeared on his table for him to drink. He had a few minutes to look around the tavern before a plate of some sort of thick stew or heavily gravied meat appeared. The server quoted a price which seemed reasonable to Turlon. Slowly Turlon swirled the gravy-like substance around until he found something solid and then partook. Surprisingly, it wasn't all that bad. He settled in for a hot meal and looked around at his dining companions. First he looked at the other men eating and tried to assess their wealth and status. Turlon guessed that most of the habitues of this establishment were locals, probably craftsmen of modest means. There did not seem to be any great wealth apparent, but they did not seem to be living in poverty. Finishing his meal, Turlon settled his tab and walked out into the city air. 'I wonder what is happening on my new world,' he thought to himself and looked for newsboard or some print media. Satisfied that there was none to be found he decided to look for a more lively tavern where he could hear some gossip. Thinking that perhaps the docks would be a better place to start, and might also allow him to find a ship, he headed back down the slope. He wandered for a bit, then picked a likely looking establishment. Inside, he saw a number of tables scattered around the room, but still no bar. People sat at long tables chatting and drinking and a few tables clearly had some kind of gambling going on involving what looked like runestones or something similar. Turlon watched the gaming, trying to determine the rules. He glanced around the onlookers, watching if anyone made eye contact with him in order to begin a conversation. After a few minutes, Turlon felt he had the rudiments of the game down. Turning his attention to the fellows around him, he soon made eye contact with a group of what he took to be sailors seated at a table a few feet away. Turlon looked back to the game briefly and then approached the table. "You do not wish to use your luck up on games, eh?" he said as an ice breaker. "We gamble with the sea every trip," was the reply. "Our last gamble paid off and we are rich men, drink with us?" "Aye," Turlon answered sliding the bench out with his foot before plopping down. "Where did you sail from?" "Vrestnooram, carrying spices. Long tough passage, but we made it fair enough. Where are you down from?" Turlon told of his life wandering from here to there, wherever there was the need for a sword. He was intentionally vague as to his origins since these were men who had been all over, but he did tell about his latest escapade with the theif. "And now I am headed to Vrestnoor, to see if there is a fortune to be gained." The men chuckled. "Many fortunes to be made, there." "And lost, too." "Aye, another things to be gained and lost as well." "Like heads." They chuckled again. Turlon laughed along with the men, "Danger is what makes anything you grab worth having." He leaned close, "do any of you know of someone who needs a strong arm?" One of them leaned in shrewdly, "On board a ship or here in the city?" Turlon paused as there was revelry over a winning hand in the nearby game. Quietly, he answered "Vrestnoor." "Ah, no. We don't get as far as Vrestnoor. We're a seagoing ship, not rivermen," the way he said 'rivermen' made it clear that it was an insult. "I see," Turlon answered disappointedly. "Have you any advice on which riverboat will not capsize on the trip? I would like to arrive alive and dry!" he joked. "That river is as smooth as a baby's bum, any scow will get you there. The trick is getting to Vrestnooram." He took a swig. "Although, there are a few of 'em that are decent enough I suppose. We work with a couple regularly, loading them up with what we bring from here and taking on what they've brought downriver." He mentioned a couple of names. Turlon made note of the names and inquired in a round-about way as to these men's ship, their homes, and the like in conversation. The men were all from the same crew, a ship with which Turlon was unfamiliar. The most talkative carried a rank that Turlon mentally equated as first mate, or co-captain. In fact, the men were also a family unit and "men" was not completely accurate, the mate was female, as were two of the others, and the "captain" was also of the family group. They lived on their ship, and took on other unrelated crew as situations warranted. Turlon got the impression that this was not an unusual relationship. Turlon continued with the small talk and listening to the tales of the sea as sailors are wont to do. "I have been on the road for so long, good conversation beyond the crops has been limited...I hunger for word from the cities," Turlon probed for any political talk or current events that would benefit him. The only thing that struck him at this point was a rumour that Vrestnoor was preparing a push to the Northeast to clear out some tribesmen who have been interfering with their lumber operations. Turlon listened with care. Maybe this was what he was looking for, tribesmen could be protecting some tribal artifacts while the government looks to expand for politically or economic reasons. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last that progress confronted tradition and the past. "What else is there to do in this city?" Turlon asked. "Visit the shrines, that's about it," said the Mate. "Spend some money and get some rest." Turlon was disappointed, but finished the evening of talk with the crew and then retired for the night. Turlon wandered down to the docks and sought out the master of the 'Hunter on the Tides of Sea', the ship that had been recommended him. The master was a lean Taronian of above-average height, who seemed amenable enough to taking a passenger on board. He named a price which seemed fair enough, and said that should they be attacked by pirates, Turlon would be expected to lend a hand in the defense. That done, Turlon found lodgings and slept. The next day, he visisted some of the shrines. The Taronians had many gods, and each had their own character. He saw the shrine to the god of the city, to Zalro the guide of the dead, to Lastiz the god of the winds and Lasro the god of the tides, two very important gods in a city dependant on sea trade. He also saw the shrine to Waltiz, here a very different structure than the ones he had seen before. Gone were the rows of beds and the tables of food. Instead there was a much smaller room with the obligatory image, and a large mosaic on the opposite wall. After a moment, Turlon realized the mosaic was a map, with roads and Shrines to Waltiz marked clearly. Studying the map, Turlon tried to locate Vrestnoor and then made some notes to nearby Shrines which could benefit him. He felt that programming their general location into his map locator should kill some time in the evenings when he was alone. Finishing with the map, he noticed that there was also a door leading further into the building with a single monk unobtrusively placed just inside it. Turlon approached the monk, "Greetings. I was admiring the craftsmanship of the mosaic." The monk replied, "Thank you good sir, it is fine isn't it? And very clever. Since it is a mosaic, if something changes we simply switch tiles. One of the monks here had the idea. May I inquire about your medallion? We see them so rarely, what service have done for Waltiz?" Religous fervor shone in the boy's eyes. Turlon held the medallion out and looked at it as he began his story of how a man had murderered a farmer who provided food for the Shrine and Waltiz allowed the man to be found and punished. With minimal embelishments, Turlon fed off of the youngster's enthusiasm and attempted to weave a good yarn giving praise to Waltiz wherever he felt it would do the most good. "That is most marvellous, there are not many who would so inconvenience themselves and then risk life and limb for another as you have done," said the boy. "Waltiz is great indeed. Would you like to see the rest of the shrine?" "Yes, it would be a great honor," he responded. "My name is Turlon, I know it is an unusual name yet it has been in my family for generations," said Turlon by way of introduction. "I am Siular," said the boy. "One moment." He vanished into the back and reappeared a moment later with another monk in tow. "This is Saris, he will watch the shrine. Come." As the boy chattered, Turlon learned much more about the workings of the shrines of Waltiz. They were placed roughly a day's ride apart on the major roads when possible, since Waltiz was the god of travellers. The donations given by the patrons were just that, no one was denied lodging or food for penury. Still, culturally, it would be a great disrespect to not pay if possible. As Turlon had deduced, larger and finer quarters were available for a larger donation, but no one was denied. Since Waltiz was the god of travellers, the crime Turlon had avenged was of great magnitude since it was a violation of Waltiz' hospitality -- indeed, it was blasphemy. Waltiz, though, was concerned mostly with the travel and not the destination and was mostly a rural god. His shrine here was small and did not provide the usual facilities. The shrine was rich, though, since most caravans or travellers would prudently make an offering to Waltiz before departing. Siular went on to explain that these monies were then used to arrange shipments of goods needed by the other shrines or sent directly to the shrines to arrange the purchase of needed items. "Such as food from this poor murdered merchant." Turlon was impressed with the organizational structure of these shrines and could see the almost militaristic precision with how the network functioned. "I will be traveling to Vrestnoor on 'Hunter on the Tides of Sea' soon. Do you know of that ship?" "Oh yes! A merchant with whom we have many dealings is a part owner of the ship," said the boy. "We don't see many sailors in here. Waltiz is not a sailord." "Let us hope that Waltiz will bless our journey, then." Turlon asked the boy where he was from. "I was born in Presda, all monks must travel to reach their final home, it is the will of Waltiz." "What do you know of the area Northeast of Vrestnoor, I have heard of trouble there." "Nothing really, I have never crossed the mountains," he replied. "The rumour though is that there is trouble over logging. The hill tribes control the lumber but Vrestnoor would like to." "Waltiz hears all, as travelers share of their travels," Turlon composed aloud. "Do you know of any who may know more about this trouble? As I will be going there soon, it is best to be informed. Has Waltiz brought any from there?" The boy thought for a moment, "There is one. Cjalus has but recently come from Vrestnoor. But any news will be old. It is two weeks sail or more to Vrestnooram, and then a slow trip up river, another week at least." "That is better than nothing," Turlon grinned. "Where is this Cjalus?" "This way." The boy led Turlon back to a room where an old Taronian rested in a bed. "This is Cjalus. He has made many pilgrimages for the glory of Waltiz. Cjalus, this is Turlon. He has done a great service to Waltiz and wishes to talk to you about Vrestnoor." Turlon bowed out of respect and asked, "Cjalus, I will be traveling to Vrestnoor soon, Walitz willing, and have heard of trouble in the forest. Can you tell me about this?" Cjalus nodded, "A little. Vrestnoor has a thirst for wood, to build to burn, to carve. The best woods come from the mountains and the hills. That is where the tribes live. For years, they have traded amicably for the wood, but now ... "Vrestnoor claims the tribes have begun to raid in toward the city, but others think that this is a ploy, that Vrestnoor merely wishes to take control of the lumber regions directly." "Often progress clashes with tradition," Turlon commented. "I have heard tales of ancient shrines deep within the forest and mountains, could Vrestnoor be looking for these?" "There are often tales of such things, cities or shrines lost in the wilderness, ruins from the past," he smiled, "I think the rulers of Vrestnoor are too pragmatic to waste such resources on such fancies." "You are right wise one, but an adventurer's heart holds visions of those things high," Turlon returned his smile. "Do you know of anyone I can seek in Vrestnoor that may know more about this conflict?" "Take care, questioning the motives of the Doge and his council might not be the wisest course. Of course, the monks at the shrine of Waltiz will tell you what they know," he said. "Many thanks, that is valuable advice." Turlon passed another day in the city enjoying the sights. Although they seemed very everyday to the inhabitants, the monolithic stonework was a novelty to him. Then he reported to the ship at the appointed time, and the crew set sail. The ship was a fairly light drafted affair, with both sails and oars. Even to Turlon's untrained eye, it was pretty obviously a coaster, not suitable for open sea travel. The wind was not terribly favorable, but they were able to get under way. Turlon spent most of his time on decks, since the below decks area was rank and cramped. He was the only paying passenger, although there were a few extra swords which had been hired -- but they were also working as stevedores, so Turlon didn't feel too bad. The terrain began to change almost as soon as they left Varishanoor. The land grew more mountainous and craggier. On the third day, the ship took further out to sea as they rounded the cape. The weather was rough for a couple of days as they made the passage, then the land began to slope back down. The remainder of the trip passed along verdant forest, dotted with occasional settlements where the ship put in for water and food once or twice. Finally, after sixteen days, the ship pulled into the harbor at Vrestnooram on the delta of the river Vrest. The city was similar to Varishanoor but smaller. It was clearly mostly a way station for goods travelling up and down the river. Turlon made land fall and jumped up and down slightly, 'It is good to be on solid land again' he said to himself. Bidding farewell to the men he had met on the ship, Turlon walked into town and asked person where the Shrine of Waltiz was located. He received directions and dodged carts and draft animals until he found the shrine. The shrine here was of a smallish building, smaller even than the one inf Varishanoor. It was sitting next to a building that looked like the shrines he had seen on the road, but which now seemed to be serving as a warehouse. He entered the little shrine. The interior had the obligatory image and not much else. There was the usual passage to the back and a monk seated on a bench which ran along the space of wall between the passage and the image. The monk rose and came to greet Turlon. After the usual formula, he paused, noticing the amulet. "Praise be to Waltiz! What may I do for you?" Turlon greeted the monk and informed him, "I will be traveling on to Vrestnoor, could you assist me in finding a reputable resgool dealer?" "Indeed," said the monk, and gave Turlon careful directions to the merchant. "Are you leaving soon? We have a small caravan departing the day after tomorrow, if you would care to wait and accompany it." "That would be fine," he replied. "Where might I find the leader of this caravan, so I may introduce myself?" "I will fetch him," said the monk. He went into the back and returned a few moments later with a solidly built Taronian of middle years. "This is Erasius, who will be leading the caravan to Vrestnoor." "Welcome to the Shrine," said the monk. "Please, enjoy our hospitality." He invited Turlon back to a small but comfortable room and asked for food to be served. "May I inquire as to your story?" he asked indicating the medallion. Turlon shared the story as he had before, and offered a question of his own "Will you be needing a strong arm of protection on your trip to Vrestnoor?" "It would not be amiss. The road is fairly safe, only very occassionally do raiders come down from the hills. Although with the push to the north, they hill tribes are more restless than usual," was the reply. "Waltiz will watch over you, I too am heading to Vrestnoor and would like to accompany you," Turlon offered. Then he grew curious about this 'push' to the north and inquired further. "The Doge is expanding Vrestnoor's area of influence to the north and east, into the woods," explained Erasius. "He has raised troops and sent them into the hills and wood to build forts and chase out the tribesmen. The tribes cannot stand against the army, so they fall back, some to the mountains, but others slip sideways and raid to the south. I suspect there are some sympathy raids from the more southern tribes as well." "Let us hope that we can arrive safely," Turlon commented. "What is the purpose of your journey and how large is your caravan? Considering the trouble we may face there may be a need for more guards." "We are transporting goods and money to the shrines along the route," he said. "We have three carts, four monks to drive them, myself, five warriors, and now you. That should be sufficient." "Very well. When do we leave?" Turlon bade the man peace and told him he would meet at the appointed time for departure. In the meantime, he needed to acquire a new mount and went resgool shopping. The purchase of the resgool at the recommeded merchant was accomplished easily and Turlon found himself with time on his hands once again. 'Hurry up and wait,' the words crept back into his brain. The mantra of StarForce, Turlon shuffled about town looking for some carousing taverns that he could impress Buck with when he returned. He found himself spending more and more time in one specific tavern. Although the conversation was less pronounced, there were two Taronian entertainers more or less in residence. One played a haunting reed-like intrument, while the other played simple percussion and sang, or perhaps, chanted would be a better word. The music and tales they performed helped Turlon to get into the spirit of the planet and culture. Three songs particuarly stuck in his mind. The first spoke of a noble warrior who had sacrificed his whole family to save his city, likening the city to an extended family. The second was a lament to a race of wizards who lived on a continent to the West which sank into the sea. The last was a story of a proud people who built a great city in the mountains to the East, but who vanished one day, leaving only ghost and demons inthe city, and of a lone warrior who travelled there seeking fame but found only madness. Turlon enjoyed the tunes and ballads, inquiring as to the name of the mystical city to the East. He thought that it could fit the bill of his mission, but a song performed by bar entertainers was hardly enough information to alter his itinerary. The name was Tanekoor, and the entertainers were happy to talk about it. There were many songs and stories about it told in the lowlands. No one seemed to know where it was, other than on a plateau somewhere in the mountains. They sang Turlon a snatch of another song about the high plateau where the city sat, surrounded by peaks. Tanekoor, he noted. It sounded like it was real, but Turlon had spent many nights listening to the nomads talk about cities of gold and he never saw one -- on any planet. For curiosity's sake he jotted down the lyrics and decided that later that night he would plug the geographic description into his minicomp and see if anything came up remotely sounding like this plateau. Perhaps modern science and geological surveying could shed some light on this folktale. He left the tavern humming the catchy tune, and headed back home to get a good night's rest before the caravan escorting mission he had signed up for. * * * * The next day the carvan set out. The pace was unhurried, since they only wished to reach the next shrine. Luck was with the caravan and they travelled unmolested along the river. Each night they stopped at the shrine and unloaded their cargo, learning whatever news there was and picking up messages and cargo for transport northwards. On the evening of the eight day, they were at the last shrine before entering the city of Vrestnoor proper. They were well within its sphere of influence and the farms were clustered thickly about the river. Turlon did his best to glean information from his fellow guards over the journey. Where were they from? What were they going to do upon arrival at Vrestnoor? Did they have any leads on any jobs which could fit into his mission? Turlon's fellow guards had no plans beyond their arrival at Vrestnoor. One had been travelling toward the city for six years, he said, but had been sidetracked and stalled on various occasions. When pressed, several of them made vague noises about joining the forces pressing East, as that seems most suited to their skills. One was a devout follower of Waltiz and planned to wait in the city until the monks needed an escort somewhere else. They shared with him the stories they had heard, and the legends. One told a long tale of Tanekoor and swore that his brother's wife's cousin had once seen it. He placed it almost due East of Vrestnoor in the mountains overrun by the tribesmen. Turlon made a note of this "location" of Tanekoor just to see where it fit into his geological survey, he'd check it later and see if these legends could have some truth in them. Wild mountain tribesmen didn't sound very hospitable, but if there were something to the tales that could be the place he was looking for. After some talk, he sided with the men pushing Eastward and decided to tag along with them in hopes of getting a line on just what lay to the East worth fighting for. And maybe he would see some of these dissidents and see what they had to offer. That night, he checked the story against his survey and found that it was not impossible. There were a number of places that a smallish city could get lost in the mountains there. The next day, they pushed on into Vrestnooram. The city was impressive enough, in a primitive way. High stone walls surrounded it, and inside all was busy and alive. The caravan made its way to the Shrine to Waltiz and, after unloading, the guards were released. The pair that Turlon had decided to hook up with immediately headed out to a tavern recommended by the monks to have a piss-up before seeking employment the next day. As Turlon tagged along to the taverns, he gently probed his companions for more information through ribald cameraderie, "Eastward to riches," he bellowed. "What do think the tribesmen are guarding? They will not keep my strong sword arm from grabbing what I please." "Nor mine!" came the chorus from his companions. As the night progressed and his companions became more intoxicated the stories flowed more freely. Turlon went to some effort to avoid drinking the shress while pretending to become intoxicated himself. The talk centered around wages and loot to be had fighting tribesmen in the East and the patrons were able to tell the three newcomers where the local recruiting station was for those who wished to join the army. Feigning imbalance, Turlon staggered over to the wiser of the patrons who offered such information. "Tell me," he slurred, "how can mere tribesmen hold off such an imposing force? surely guarding one's crops is no motivation to withstand skilled armsmen." "They've no crops! Well, none to speak of. They're nomads, they just ... slip away and ambush patrols. They can't hold ground, and aren't," was the reply. "They sound daft," belched Turlon with a ferocity that Buck would applaud. "Only the foolish would fight for nothing, what do they have that is worth their primitive hides? what are they protecting?" "Who can say?" said the man with the unconscious arrogance of the urbanite. "They fight because they are savages, why else?" "Bah!" spat Turlon to the side. "By calling them savages you give them too much credit. What can they do against a trained warrior?" Turlon hoped that the question would give him an idea of what to expect from these tribesmen. It was always advisible to know something of a potential enemy and he was curious about what strategies they used. Granted, legend and lore from a drinking hole could have them fighting with disruptors and blaster cannons, or whatever the fantastic equivalent was on this planet; but perhaps some valuable information could be gathered on their fighting tactics. "I would think nothing at all, that's why we're winning!" "Aye," agreed Turlon disappointed. Returning to his partners, Turlon began to sing one of the tunes he heard earlier with robust zeal and continued the merry evening hoping to pay the recruitment tent a visit the next morning.