Faren considers the stead's immediate practical problems (and does his best to suggest some solutions) as the other heroes return from their various missions and Rika tells them a story...

~oOo~

"Uz eat me, one little boy ate HOW MUCH grain?"

Faren's bellows draw knowing looks from the others eating their gruel.

"Let me see this walking stomach!"

With a sad expression on her face, Wilma brings Faren to the lean-to where Odi is popping barley into his mouth.

Seeing Odi's feathered legs, Faren deflates. "Oh," is all he manages to say.

"Oh indeed," replies Wilma. "He is a wee bairn, we cannot turn him out or not feed him. But we cannot keep feeding him for much longer either."

Faren starts to speak a couple of times, then stops again. "I need to think about this," he finally says.

Faren spends the rest of the day leading by example in weeding the fields. He cajoles others with "Be a right shame to figure out this chaos problem, then harvest only nettles."

That evening he says "You know, I saw those men of the sun stripping the seeds right off the stalk in my fields last year. When I laid out some bags of seed for them they went for those instead and got out of the fields. So they like the easy bit of having harvested seeds, stead of having to pull them off. Can't say as I blame them much, never much liked thrashing grain myself."

"Thing is, just because something is easier for us, or nicer, doesn't mean we always get it. Fact when I was little and complained about hard work, Da used to say 'Sure, an it would be easier for me just to whup you now instead of listening to your excuses first to see if you deserve it or not, but I don't see you asking for that.'"

"It seems to me Odi is plenty old enough to pick seed off the stalk. Now I'm sure he likes wheat and barley just fine, but why don't we try him on some wild grasses. Some of them are close to ripe down by the river, not sure if you have other meadows around here. I was thinking I could send out Lonno and the Darrolds with a scythe or two to bring back some hay. Then Odi can play in the hay and eat as much of the seed as he wants, leaving behind straw that we can use anyway."

"For that matter grain is seeds, and all sorts of plants have seeds. Acorns are Oak seeds for instance. Anyone tried him on acorns or other types of seed yet?"

"Course it might not work at easy as that, but I don't see much harm in trying..."

~oOo~

The Exiles are briefly distracted from the newfound sense of purpose that the Faren has brought to the stead by another arrival. A lone figure is seen staggering down from the hills, but he collapses to the ground before he reaches the stead. Two kind souls eventually think to go and help the ailing traveller, and carry him within the palisade. Wheezing and gasping for air, the bedraggled newcomer raises his head and the folk around him are startled to recognise their skald.

They crowd around him and press him with questions, but he seems unable to respond with anything more than a whisper, and his feeble voice is all but lost amidst the general hubbub. The unaccustomed effort of speaking soon leaves him exhausted, with tears of frustration in his eyes. Eventually someone thinks to fetch Lismelda, who solds them for dithering and takes the enfeebled Gyffun away from the curious onlookers.

A strong draught of lavender tea revives him a little, but does nothing for his lost voice. A strange mixture of emotions seem to play over his face as he looks up at his hearth-mother: pain mixed with wonder, fear with elation. Still struggling to breathe, and offering no explanation of his condition, he asks if LosisiOor has returned.

"Wasn't he with you?" Lismelda frowns, but the skald shakes his head, and laboriously explains that he had become separated from the Darjini when clouds descended on the Ridge.

"What happened to you up there, child?" the steadwife asks gently, but Gyffun merely shakes his head.

"Ah, it can wait, then, I suppose," she says. Then, heartily: "You finish up that tea, my lad, and I'll make you some broth. You're chilled to the bone by those clouds, I'll warrant. And you with no coat nor even a cloak on your back. It's no wonder you're ailing. Answers will have to wait until you're well again."

But Gyffun is staring wide-eyed and distractedly at the mug in his hands, and seems not to hear her. She leaves him under the watchful eye of her daughter and quietly goes to seek out Wilma.

When Yizar hears about Gyffun's return he heads over to Lismelda's house to check out his old friend's condition. He's puzzled by his state but curls up next to him to lend him his warmth.

~oOo~

Silverquill bobs contentedly on Skullcleavers pillowed shoulder, trailing a lethal plume of smoke behind him. He looks around and once again admires the fierce scenery of the Far Place. Ahead of him, the other Exiles are chatting amicably, eager to be reunited with their kin. The fully-ladened pack mule that Skullcleaver is leading along brays a protest as a sharp thorn scratches its side. The cargo it carries includes generous gifts for the leaders of the Exiles, toys for the children and spare supplies and bric-a-brac that might conceivably come in handy.

Silverquill thinks back to the last couple of eventful days - the chaos in the market square, the exploration of the temple and the encounter with the bull men.

A quackish chortle escapes him as he thinks back to the dragon. Who'd have thought that dragons were so allergic to cigar smoke?

The expedition to the temple had been a mixed success. True, they did find that important bit of information but then again, they barely escaped with their lives. And Vurth... well, that was a story all to itself. Their hurried departure from Alda-Chur and the nerve-wrecking negotiations with Karli further frayed tempers and it was only during the last couple of hours that the group had returned to a more normal mood.

Ahead, the welcome sight of the stead on the hill...

~oOo~

Faren calls Wilma outside to look at the sun-set. "You chose a good spot for the stead, nice view from here, and it's a rare cloudless evening."

Reluctantly Wilma comes out and sits on a stump, and Faren settles himself on the ground nearby. The sunset is not especially spectacular, but it is at least pretty. Slowly the light fades on the silent pair. When Faren finally stretches and flexes his hands, the sparks cut the dusk and the silence.

"I've been thinking," Faren begins. Despite Wilma's grunt of skepticism, he continues: "There are a lot of problems you face, I mean we face, at making a go of it. But they are a lot of smaller problems, not one great big one. And while climbing up and down a bunch of hills is tough, it is a sight easier than climbing one big mountain. If we all remember that these are hills, and no bigger than the hills our ancestors have climbed, I think we can do OK."

"The first hill to climb is this chaos taint. This might be the worst hill of all, the one we don't know if we can climb. If we can't get rid of it, we have to move, no question of it. That is, I don't want to find out what happens to people who live too long in chaos taint was bad enough living next to The Hollow."

"I'll get back to that in a bit. While we figure out how to climb that hill though, we've got to keep the chaos from ruining us first. Mostly I'm worried about the animals. Seems to me we need to get most of them to safer pastures. If nothing else we could drive them down to the river, but I'd hate to send enough folk to really watch over them that far away. Sides, they say the Uz travel that river sometimes, and I'd hate for them to see our herds a-grazing there peacefully!. How about up towards Sal's ridge? Is it clear of the taint there? On the lower parts of the ridge where the soil is shallow, are there safe meadows we could use? I guess I've got to spend a couple of days roaming around, seeing the land farther off than the fields. But for sure we should take action to keep our herds healthy for now. Also the hunters, we should make sure they are not hit with those cursed acorns."

"So back to the taint. We got to get rid of it. Now I'm no storm bull and just thinking about dealing with chaos makes me feel, well, scared I guess is the word. But then I think about I-fought-we-won. If we run away one by one, we lose. But if all of us work together, maybe we win. Gyffun is doing a bit better his hearth-mother was saying, and they were telling me how he was chasing this new hermit who might know a thing or two. And the good Vizz and some other heroes you all have been telling me about were trying to find some help too, and surely they will be back soon. And you have that chaos- healer guesting at the hearth. Like I said, I'm no storm-bull, and I have no idea how we fight this thing, but it seems to me you are all taking the right steps, and one of these folks will have some ideas. Then we all just have to be brave and go do that thing."

"We just have to assume we win. If we don't, well I guess whoever survives runs far and fast and takes care of themselves, but that doesn't take much planning. So somehow we beat it, what then? I don't know if that will save the crops or not. I'm thinking we should get some sort of crop, but I wouldn't count on it being a very good one. So the next hill is how we all get through Dark season."

"Shadowvale owes me some grain after the harvest. Not enough to feed everyone, and in fact we might need to save it to seed the new crops in Sea Season. Still, it helps a bit. These woods be a perilous place at times, and maybe there will still be chaos beasties around even if we get rid of the source, but they are still full of food. Like I said once before, acorns aren't my favorite food, but they help. And there will be berries, and maybe some wild apples. The hunting should be good, at least anywhere the chaos taint hasn't driven the game away. I'm no hunter, but it's a mighty poor farmer who can't snare an occasional rabbit and we should be able to bring down more game than that. But we probably need Yizar to start working with our hunters, training them to follow his lead. It will be a strange sort of hunt, men helping the alynx instead of the other way around, but if it puts venison or duck on the table I don't think anyone will complain."

I still don't know if that will be enough. We'll have to see how the harvest is and how the hunting starts off. But it wouldn't hurt to start thinking of who might do us the favor of a sledge or two full of grain. Nobody will expect us to survive long enough to take a regular favor in return. But maybe there is some deed we could do to earn the favor? Maybe Vizz would know, he normally seems up on that sort of gossip. Or maybe Gyffun could travel Jaskorvale and keep his ears open, if he recovers? Or I'm told the scholar Silver-Quill was here before, if he comes back maybe he'd know of something. Failing all else, perhaps at the fall cattle fair at Iron Spike we could hear of something. After all, when all the normal means fail, it is time for heroes."

"As for fodder for the animals, we'll see. I hope we can harvest the river banks enough, although it is a longer haul to bring it back here than I would prefer. We'll also need a goodly amount of wood for the winter. The trail I blazed to the river should help, some of those trees were partially burned, and fell or dropped branches. Gathering that should give a quick start to our winter wood pile, and make up a little for how much else we still have to do."

"We need to get in winter rye too, so we have some crop in the spring. If we burn out the trees in Yavor's way, we should get a good first crop off the fields, which I'm sure will be welcome come spring."

"Again, we have to assume we succeed, and don't become beggars around the gates of Alda-Chur, or frozen corpses left for the Uz to eat. So we survive the winter, even with belts cinched tighter. Then what? I think the next hill to climb is plowing our fields for the spring. We'll need to look at how much land we need to get under seed, and do we have enough oxen for it? One thing I'm thinking is if we need to, we could trade at the cattle fair for some young oxen, not yet trained, and break them to the yoke over the winter, and blend them in with the existing teams. I'm not a bad trainer, and I'm sure there are others here who can help. In fact, we should look carefully, maybe we could afford to trade off a few fully trained oxen for some young ones, and see if we can't get Harst's portion out of the deal."

"So all of that let's us survive for the next year maybe. But in the long run we need bigger herds. Everyone knows that. Neither raiding or trading will be easy from our position. But just because it isn't easy doesn't mean we can't do it. There are others who know these things better than me, but again it seems when the normal way isn't enough, it is time for heroics. I'm told the profits of those who survive trading in Crab Town can be rich, or again great deeds may earn rich rewards, and of course there are wealthy strangers who don't guard their wealth as well as they should. For a certainty we need to get those with skills at crafting, or trading, or adventuring, or raiding, thinking about what we can do to address this hill."

Faren finally pauses. Then adds, "Well, I've spoken my bit. I'll say it again in front of anyone you want, but I wanted to say it to you first. If we stand together and say it, I think people will listen. So, what do you say?

Wilma struggles upright, then says: "I think these bones are too old to be sitting on a damp stump in the evening's chill, and I think I'm going to find myself some sleep. I even think you look cute when you get all focused on the farming and stuff. Beyond that, I don't know what to think yet."

~oOo~

Vurth looks back upon Jenna's Hill and reflects on what just happened. Given that Karli (and his gang) had at the last agreed to accompany them he supposed it could be said to be 'mission completed' but it had only been by holding forth the 'red-eye frenzy' which had induced Karli to give up his current schemes and agree to accompany the Exiles back to the stead. Even so he had said that he and Wilma would have to have a real set-down to sort it all out. Chaotic dirt... what next?

The rest of the exiles seemed much happier to be heading back and a cheer went up as the stead was sighted and even the bullies seemed a bit happier at the prospect of hot food, a bit of beer and a bit of flat ground to sleep on.

Vurth idly wondered how Rika and Karli would 'hit it off'.

~oOo~

Faren surges ahead of most of the welcoming party, and when he sees the duck riding on Skullcleaver he makes a direct line to them.

"Silverquill! When they told me you'd been here, I hoped you'd be back, although I knew that hope was selfish. You probably don't remember me, but when last you were in Shadow Deep I was the young man pestering you with questions about the Uz. I hope at some point I'll be able to share a fire with you and discuss them more. Although I have to admit there are more urgent things to discuss first. Have you heard about the exploding acorns? And I still have a couple of batbroo corpses on a stick, although they are getting rather ripe, but still I thought they might be worth looking at. Did you learn anything in Alda-Chur about all of this?"

The rest of the exiles look on in amazement, as Faren chatters on like a six year old, quite unlike his usual serious self. As the three of them climb the final hill, Faren is gesticulating to show how large an explosion chaos acorns make, his face lit up by excitement and the sparks arcing around his hands.

Silverquill's face lights up as he recognizes the human approaching him.

"Ah yes, Fewen, is it? No... hang on... Fawen. Yes, that's it. Of couwse I wemember you. What a happy coincidence. I was hoping to speak to a wesident of Shadow Deep and there you are."

The small duck jumps nimbly down from the lofty heights of Skullcleaver's shoulder and starts to chat amicably with Faren. Noticing the farmer's sparking hands, the sage whips out his notebook and is soon scribbling away, taking down the details of their origin.

The two are deep in conversation when a screaming mob of children spots the durulz. "Silverquill is back! Yay for Featherbum! What did you bring us?"

Silverquill laughs and with Skullcleaver's help start to unload the mule, tossing balls, wooden dolls, long sticks and other lethal-looking implements to the kids.

"You must excuse me, Fawen. We will cewtainly talk at length vewy soon. I just have to pay my wespects to Wilma and the others as well."

Silverquill waddles up to Wilma and presents her with a beautiful golden torc of finest Alda-Chur craftsmanship. He also generously gifts the other senior members of the Exiles.

~oOo~

Entislar grins ruefully as he watches and participates in the welcome home ceremonies, wondering why it feels so good to return to this raggedy settlement with its strange beasties and weird vegetation. He heads for his forge, stopping outside to watch Kollos refreshing his markers and touching noses with his favorites. Kollos too, it seems, is glad to be home.

Entislar enters his forge, noting with irritation that the door - admittedly flimsy to start with - has partially collapsed, forcing him to lift it clear and to his surprise revealing a pig rooting around in one of the scrap piles. After chasing out the unexpected visitor, Entislar sets about starting his forge fire, the sound of which fetches Kollos in just like a magnet.

Once the fire was drawing properly he set some bronze to melting then he opened one of his book chests and after a short search emerged from his forge and settled down to reading "A Arte da Guerra" or "The Art of War" by Vinyartu the Valiant looking for something he had remembered seeing regarding anti-cavalry tactics, caltrops that was it, he soon became absorbed by the text until reminded of the real world by Kollos' cold wet nose.

He closed his book, scratched Kollos behind the ears and returned to his forge to make caltrops.

~oOo~

The sudden influx of beserkers, sniffing like mad at Lodi and shaking their heads, are demanding ale, which is in very very short supply, and having doe eyes made at them, especially by Rika.

While Vurth is happy to have his brethren around he finds that he is less that happy with them sniffing about Rika. Hed thought at first that he would be happy to have her attention distracted from him, but now he has taken to be quite gruff when any get to close to Rika (especially that lout Burkl he thinks hes so hot hot with that necklace od Gorp ears). Why, if Vurth wasnt the gentle, restrained creature that he was, he would just go over there and... Suddenly Vurth recalls that he is not gentle and restrained and goes over there and...

Silverquill discreetly whispers to Wilma that it might be a good idea to send the Uroxi off on a short chaos squirrel-killing expedition while the Exiles discuss what to do next , but she is mostly looking admiringly at Rika who seems to have these Bulls wrapped around her little finger.

Once the scuffle is over, Vurth pinned to the ground despite his best efforts, Rika calls Burkl off.

"Boys, boys, please," she gloats. "I have an important tale to tell and the way I see it, one of you is going to have to volunteer."

Soon she has the Bulls sat on their haunches in a ring about her, and has drawn the rest of the Exiles in by this curious sight.

~oOo~

"You wanted to see me?"

Beckoning Faren closer, the skald smiles weakly and gestures at his throat.

"Otherwise you won't be able to hear me," he explains ruefully, in a barely audible whisper. Drawing a laboured breath, Gyffun begins to tell the burly farmer what's on his mind, pausing every few words to gasp for air.

"Wilma told me... about your... fine speech the... other night." He catches Faren's eye with a wry grin. "Seems you... impressed her." Then, seeing the other's evident sceptism: "No really! Don't let her... 'tough old biddy'... act fool you. Anyway..." He pauses for a few moments. "She said... what you said... about how we can... manage to... get through... Dark Season." Another pause. "I think maybe... I can help."

His look of triumph upon completing the sentence is pitiful to behold. Faren's sceptical expression is even more pronounced this time, and the skald grins broadly when he sees it.

"Trust me," he whispers. "I may be... no farmer, but... when it comes to... sniffing out... nuts and berries... I know what I'm... talking about."

Just then, Gyffun feels a strong hand on his shoulder and hears his name spoken in a thick Tarshite accent. Turning, he is shocked to see a wild tangle of hair masking a sunburnt face and catches the foul exhalation of uncared-for teeth. The deep brown eyes within the mess of hair look deep within his, though, asking a question which it seems impossible to put into words.

"You have shown me what I must do," says Gordangorl. "Thank you."

Recovering quickly from his surprise, Gyffun, bows his head courteously to the wild-looking new arrival, prompting a certain amount of bemusement from Faren and the skald's watchful cousin Aransa.

"I must... apologise, Gordangorl....for my abrupt... departure. . when last... we met. I hope that our... intrusion... did not cause you... too much trouble. I'm afraid that... I was compelled... to leave before... I could ask you... the questions... that I came.. to ask. But I think... perhaps you know... what they were."

Gyffun sags back, clearly exhausted by this speech. Faren is taken aback by the wild looking Gordangorl, but made even more uncomfortable by Gyffuns's malady. He realizes that this can't be any more complicated than greeting a talking alynx in the middle of the woods, so gives his best go of being polite while getting out of the building.

"Gordangorl is it? Well, Gyffun seems to think well enough of you, ummmm, would you like a drink? I think those Storm Bulls that arrived yesterday drank all the beer already, but water we can give. If you would talk more with Gyffun, I think you'd best wait a bit."

"Come, I'm sure there some bread or porridge somewhere. Well, probably best to clear it with Wilma first, but it sounded like the Bulls were starting to wrestle out there, so we should probably find her anyway. Come, we'll get you something to eat and you can let us know what it is you were looking to do."

Faren steps out of the building, hoping Gordangorl will follow him. Glancing around, he sees the fury of Uroxi tamely crouched on their heels. He turns back into the building.

"Gyffun, come, let me give you a shoulder to lean on. I think you'll want to see this!"

~oOo~

"I shall tell you of the deflowering of Belveren", says Rika, stilling the boyish titters from among the Bulls with a fierce glare, "and you had better listen carefully, for at the end I am going to need that volunteer."

And this is the tale she tells:

Belveren's Deflowering

In the Silver Age, when all was twilight, Heort had led an army against Chaos and defeated it at the Unity Battle. Only fragments remained and Urox stalked the land in bloody triumph, seeking new foes. Those fragments of Chaos, though, had been forced to find new ways to survive and so they hid in all sorts of places, in the hearts of men, in deep caverns and in wild forests. Many were the beings who, unsuspecting, fell prey to Chaos and were corrupted and it was these beings which Urox sought out and slaughtered.

Many were the beings that Urox found and trampled into the dirt. Each time he returned for the telling, his hooves covered in ooze and gore, the Storm Tribe would quake in fear, for each time, among the number of the slain, was one of theirs who had been lost, corrupted by Chaos and then hunted down.

Now Ernalda's grief was the greatest, for her compassion knew no bounds. She took the Tribe's sorrow and, as Heler had shown her, shed it in an eternity of tears. She had sewn herself a new cloak which was all of nature and which recorded all those who had been lost and were still being lost. As she cried and wailed in grief, she stitched into her cloak a little bit of each of those who had been lost and so it was that she brought life back to the world.

Many are the lesser gods whose names have been lost and who are remembered only by a stitch in Ernalda's cloak. Many of these lost their names when Urox slew them for their corrupted nature, and buried their names in the Earth for Ty Kora Tek to wear in a string about her neck. Rantana, the Goddess of Small Mudpools, was one such, easy prey to the fragments of Chaos and corrupted by it, transformed into an evil ooze. But we recall her, so this is the story of how she was saved from Urox's rage.

Now another of the lesser Gods was Belveren. She still wore her hair as a maiden, but Ernalda had gifted her so that she could see past the corruption of Chaos to the goodness within. This meant that, each time Urox set off hunting beings which had fallen prey to Chaos, her grief was sharper than Ernalda's, for she knew there was another way, but could do nothing about it. She had learnt how to remove the corruption from a being and leave it alive and whole once more. But Urox's rage was too great, Ernalda's grief too consuming and the King of Gods was too high and mighty to worry about mudpools and the like. So each time, Belveren felt the pain of knowing she could save a lesser god, but could not bend anyone's ear to do so before the god was slain.

But this time, when Urox set off into the heart of the badlands, Belveren hatched a plan. She had watched all the Earth Goddesses, so it seemed, show Urox another way, and now she felt it must be her turn.

First, she sought to distract her Queen, by shaming her. "Ernalda," she said, "We all marvel at your mastery of grief, at how you take it from us and turn it into good clean water. But you only grieve when Urox returns. Surely it is better to grieve when he sets out, for we already feel the terrible burden of pain. I am but a small goddess, and this is too much for my poor shoulders."

"I know this," said the Queen in her majesty, "But it is grief which stiffens our resolve, which makes us strong. In my wisdom, I have chosen to leave you with this grief."

Dismayed, Belveren stared blankly at Ernalda on her throne, the Queen smiling beatifically at her subject. She was no good at this trickery, thought Belveren, as her plan, sketchy at best, seemed to crumble around her. "Oh Elmal help me!" she muttered to herself. Normally the Trickster would jump at the chance to sow confusion, so as the moment stretched on and on, she finally realized her mistake and was grateful that Elmal was off atop Kero Fin. "I meant the other one," she said to herself. "The tricksy one." Belveren was never any good with names, but it was this which she now turned to her advantage.

"Ernalda," she addressed her Queen more boldly now, "What I meant to say was, by the time Urox returns, we no longer even know the name of the god he has slain. Surely each of these gods, however, humble, deserves that you grieve from them properly, wailing their names and stitching their name into your cloak?"

Now Ernalda felt ashamed. Here was a minor goddess showing her wisdom and compassion. "You are right. I will grieve now for Rantana." Almost immediately, the Loom House was aflood with tears and Belveren had to make haste to escape before drowning.

Feeling pleased with herself, she sought an audience with the high king. But by the time she reached his Great Hall, a feast was under way. Orlanth had heard his Queen wailing, knew she was busy, so had called a feast. Belveren sat outside and waited politely. And she sat. And she sat. Wailing from one side, raucous merrymaking from the other, until finally she got fed up. Getting up on tiptoes to peer through a crack in the wall, what should she see but Eurmal making ready to pee in her corner! Well that was it!

Storming through the doors to the Hall, crashing them to one side, she got silence. Orlanth looked up from his haunch of venison. "Yes?" his voice boomed from behind his greasy beard, almost sending her flying back out the way she had come.

"I, er... I..." she quailed, suddenly unsure of herself. "I need some... ummm... help." Her tremulous voice seemed to touch a chord with the Storm God and, bit by bit as she stammered under the eyes of the Thunder Brothers, he dragged her story out of her. When she explained how she had distracted Ernalda, though, by making her grieve even more, his brow creased and he didn't look pleased at all.

"Well, for her sake," he said forcefully. "There is little I can do but help. But you will need to make haste if you're to stop the Bull."

So she found herself on a plain outside the Storm Village scanning the horizon. Eventually, through the gloom, she could see a cloud of dust in the distance. Working out its direction, she hitched her skirts and sprinted off and in an instant was bowled over as she collided with a chariot. Stunned by the shock of the impact, she watched for a moment as the chariot sped off, her heart sinking, but then she remembered what she was about and let out a tremendous scream of agony, some physical, some emotional but a large part just for show. Well, that was enough, and so the dustcloud took a long arc and circled back to her, Mastakos bending down to lift her up on to his chariot. "Whither to, oh vociferous one?" he asked, once she had explained her business.

Before she knew it, she was racing through the Badlands ducking out of the wind but peeking up to direct the charioteer toward the black stormclouds where she knew Urox must be. As Mastakos drew up beside the warrior, she saw that he was mightily peeved. "Where are you?" he raged, stomping across the ground and splashing through puddles. As she realised his problem, she couldn't help but laugh and in a flash a pair of red eyes were bearing down upon her. "What are you doing here?" he fumed.

"You'll never see her for all this mud you're making," said Belveren, jumping down from the chariot and standing there with her arms folded confidently. She was beginning to enjoy this!

And so she just stood there smirking as the angry God stomped around, trying to find a mud goddess in the middle of a mudbath. Eventually, defeated and feeling ridiculous, he came back to the infuriating woman. "Go on then, name your price," he said.

"Weeeeellll, first off, when we find her, she's mine, and you have to do ex-act- ly as I say..."

"No, I won't tell anyone, deary," said Belveren, scowling at Mastakos to stop his tittering as she directed Urox across the plain. As he cast flowers down at her behest, marking everywhere where the Goddess of Mudpools wasn't, they eventually narrowed it down to a small area with a foul sulphurous smell which set the Bull's scars a-burning and his mouth a-foaming.

Seeing his fury rising and fearful he would go into a beserker rage, she placed one hand on his forehead and scratched him behind the ear with the other, singing a lullaby. As he calmed down, she said, with more satisfaction than she had ever done anything: "You know, there's another way to do this."

Mastakos' humour had turned very sour by the time Urox dumped the last shieldful of the foul-smelling, filthy mewling mudpool into his chariot, but after a while, they managed to set off.

First they travelled to the icy wastes of Dozaki Uz. "Dinner time, girls!" Belveren cried as Mastakos drove the chariot around, Urox heaping shieldfuls of muck off the back. It was only the charioteer's skilful driving which ensured the hordes of trolls set upon Rantana and not the three of them, but soon, she had been all gobbled up and they drove to the midden where Belveren pointed handed the shield to Urox again and smiled at Urox.

Next, they sped off to Kero Fin. Here on the slopes, Urox summoned the winds to suck the foul stench out of Rantana and to bear them to the top of the mountain.

At the top of Kero Fin, in the brightest part of the world, they scooped Rantana into a mound and set her before Elmal's fire to dry out the seeping ooze which remained.

At the foot of Kero Fin, they entered Maran Gor's Underworld Palace and persuaded her to pound the goddess into dust, which they scooped into a bottle.

Finally, they sped back to Ernalda's Loom House, where the Queen was weeping and wailing for Rantana. Opening the door, a flood of tears swept them away and, contentedly, Belveren uncorked the bottle and poured Rantana into a pool.

There, the Goddess of Small Mudpools was restored. Urox crouched down and sniffed madly away at her. "Well, it worked," he said. "But it wasn't much fun."

And so it was that Ernalda stopped her mourning, for now there were no new deaths at Urox's hands for which they should grieve. And so it was that Rantana the Goddess of Small Mudpools survived, and we can still stomp away in her mud with our blue feet. And so it was that Belveren claimed her price of the Bull God. She had shown him another way and in return he took her maidenhead.

~oOo~

When she has finished the story, Rika looks calmly at her audience.

"Now", she says, pausing to ensure she has absolute silence. "I need a volunteer."

Leaving the request hanging in the air, her eyes wander over those before her and come to rest on Vurth. "Well?" she asks...

Vurth who was pondering both bruises, causes of bruises and the story snaps to attention. He answers quietly but stares at Rika the while.

"I'm your bull. What is I have to do?"

Silverquill had eagerly been taking notes as Rika told her tale. After she is finished, he approaches her and says:

"That was a fascinating stowy, Wika. I have heard a slightly similar vewsion before, but not so detailed. I pwesume you intend to cwoss over to the Hewo Plane and weenact this quest in owder to cleanse the land. I would love to accompany you - as an aspect of Belveren of couwse. I would have some insights that you would suwely need. I've alweady made a pweliminawy list of what we need to start the witual. What do you think?"

With that, the small duck shows Rika what he has written in his notebook:

• Women wailing for Rantana
• Skirts to hitch up
• A fine chariot
• A scream of agony
• A puddle of mud
• Big boots for stomping
• A big bunch of flowers
• A shieldful of mud
• A summoned Wind
• A roaring fire
• A bottle of dust
• A maiden deflowered

"The last bit might be a bit difficult to awwange", says the sage, blushing slightly.

Vurth is paying very close attention to Silverquill now.

(More...?)

~oOo~

Faren converses with Silverquill.

"Some of the boys and I have been doing some work on hauling in the trees from that path I blazed down to the river," he says. "A few of them are nice silver birch, from around a boggy bit. I was looking at how the soot marked the bark, and recalled how in the naming of the first tribes, Lankhor My was called the leader of the "Marks on Bark" tribe. Is it true that you can use birch bark instead of paper? If so, want us to split some off for you, seeing as how paper is hard to get at out here?"

"Oh, and one of the bulls was laughing about how you gave an earful of quacking to the men of the sun back in Alda-Chur. I'd sure love to hear that story some day soon too. And is it true you snuck into the temple there after that? I can tell you I wouldn't have wanted to be doing that!"

"That would be appweciated, Master Fawen. I can always use more witing paper. If time pewmits, I might even teach a class on weading and witing. I notice that this clan does not have many litewate members - a gweat shame."

"I did cause a bit of a wuckus in Alda-Chur, that is twue, but it was only to distwact the Uwoxi fwom their wedneck wampage. As to the temple, I have asked Wilma to awwange a moot this evening, where I will tell the clan what I leawned in the libwary and the temple of the Sun. I think it would be a good idea to have all of us gathewed, so we can all shawe ideas and suggestions."

Faren's jaw drops at this prospect. "Well," he finally opines "wouldn't that be something. Something indeed. Learning to read."

Vizz, who had been listening to the exchange, opines:

"Writing is not, in my valuable opinion, a praiseworthy function. Indeed, it is a most peculiar form of communication that I thank the sacred cult of Lhankor Mhy for keeping secret. To be fair, the understanding of letters and words may have some limited uses, but the capricious curse of careless punctuation makes it too dangerous for important discourse. Consider this written statement:

'ERNALDA..WITHOUT..HER..ORLANTH..IS..NOTHING'

The men might think: "Ernalda, WITHOUT HER ORLANTH, is nothing."

The women would think: "ERNALDA!! WITHOUT HER, Orlanth is nothing!"

Faren hears none of this, however, and soon he is seen working out the best way to strip off birchbark, and occasionally, furtively, taking burned branches and practicing making markes with them on the bark.

~oOo~

As preparations begin for Rika's ritual, Gordangorl helps Gyffun back to his hearth-mother's hut. They are accompanied by several of the other Exiles, who are surprised to discover the wild-looking man from the Ochre Fallow in their midst, and curious to hear what he has to say.

"I must apologize," says Gordangorl. "That I didn't come sooner, but you will understand that by doing so I am turning my back on something precious to me, to do what is right." Pausing to look at Gyffun with, it seems, admiration, he concludes: "As did you."

"My uncle Umathkar is a proud man. He has his qualities, he refuses to take orders from those who would tax us or recruit us for their schemes, but his pride borders on foolhardiness and stupidity. This outlawry of the open worship of Orlanth, while it affects us little up here, he takes as a sign of things to come. Ever since we came from Tarsh, we knew this region was a source of power for Yavor Lightning, hidden away as the god was in Orlanth's Hall, but there, waiting to be used in times of darkness. This is why he sent us, my brother, myself and the other warriors, to the...the Hag's Haunt we now call it, but then it was known as the Ash Maiden's Grove, a sacred place. There we came across five magnificent tree spirits and their daughters, and we had heard of the dryads offering up their daughters to make lightning spears. Imagine that, a hundred spears of lightning could be made from that one grove alone. An army could be equipped."

"So, my brother Hahlgrim, who has much of his uncle about him, called the dryads out, swearing he would protect them for ever in return for the pollards. Well, with the Uz nearby, they agreed and so we prepared for the ritual. But that just went all wrong and that was the start of the business. The lightning came down all right, but instead of striking off the pollards, it struck one of our men. That was it. Terrible oaths had been sworn in that grove and before the end of the day, broken. Hahlgrim lost his mind and he has never been the same since. He performed some terrible deeds that day and that'd be the cause of your strife, I reckon. In return, the dryads only let the two of us escape - I think they did that on purpose so we'd tell others to avoid the place. I don't know what it was that went wrong, but I think it may have been the god himself, or something akin to a god, that took offence at us."

Vurth, who has been avoiding going anywhere near the pigpen construction site while still keeping an eye on whatever Burkl gets up to, has been listening in on Gordangorl's discussion. He asks Gordangol:

"Hoy! You said that Hahlgrim swore to protect the dryads from the Uz but that 'oaths were broken by the end of the day'. Do you mean that the Uz came upon you in the grove or was it something else?"

"No Uz, no", says Gordangorl, turning to the grimly scarred warrior. "But...", he pauses, for Vurth has asked a question for which the answer is difficult. "Hahlgrim would tell you, if you could get him to speak of it, that it was the dryads who broke the pact. But I think he knows that it was we who were not worthy. We failed a God's test. For one who would be chief, this is a hard burden. I myself have wrestled with this and I have sought my God through a different path. But Hahlgrim is a warrior and has been trained not to doubt, but to decide swiftly and act, for a warrior who hesitates is dead. So he has cast such doubts from his mind and blames others."

"In truth, we sought the lightning spears, and such a treasure can cloud a man's mind. I do not recall the exact words, but I believe that the oaths which we swore were false, for we were blinded by thoughts of power. And when we were found wanting, well..." now the tears are coursing down the man's cheek into his beard, "we blamed the innocent and took our vengeance upon them. Such acts as we performed in that grove are as a horn, calling to all that is evil in the world, giving birth to Chaos. You who are sworn to fight Chaos, I am your prey, for I have brought it into the world. I repent now, but if you must judge me, then I will not resist."

Gordangorl looks the dirt now, still. Waiting for Vurth to act as judge and, if need be, executioner.

Aren just shakes his head.

"Now, now," he chides. "We all know that in slaying the Evil Emperor Orlanth himself opened the way for Chaos to come into the world, but he did not fall on his sword or put his head on the block for Humakt. He strove and suffered and fixed what he could. So provoke the bull if you must, but it is the easy path you are seeking."

Gordangorl hangs his head in shame, and soon his body is shaking with muffled sobs. Then he feels a hand clasping his shoulder, and looks up into the skald's sad green eyes.

"You have made a... hard choice," Gyffun tells him. "But a... brave one. Dry your... tears, my friend. With... your help, I am... sure, we shall... make things right... again."

Vurth, who had started forward with a look like thunder of his face with his club beginning to arc into a crescendo of doom, falters at these words from Aren and Gyffun and comes to a stop in front of Gordangorl. With a hard stare and voice like steel he speaks.

"So, we have someone who called upon he-knew-not-what for his own gain, and here we have the source of all our woes. Truly, it is said that the predark is at its worst when it is its most insidious. Worming inside us, making use of our weaknesses... turning us to its own benefit... and we... never suspecting... not knowing... welcome it... or fail to fight until too late..."

As Vurth stands there, his face is fierce to behold. Veins stand out, his breath coming in great gasps and he seems to be both staring into Gordangorl and beyond him as well. His club slips from his hands, apparently forgotten. As the audience gasps, he smashes Gordangorl to the ground with a tremendous blow and then stalks off into the nearby trees, drawing his knife as he goes. He is heard to say from the distance: "We must talk you and I."

None seem to care to follow.

~oOo~

"Vizz!" says Faren, grinning broadly. "I've been hoping to find a moment to talk with you. It looks like you have nothing to do at the moment, come help me with finishing this pen for the pigs. Here, just hold this stick upright for me while I swing a large sledge at it, there's a good fellow."

"But...."

Vizz has just taken a stroll to stretch his limbs. The healer had advised bed rest to recover, despite Vizz insisting that he had only suffered from a nasty cough. Which was in point of fact, entirely true, even if said cough were not entirely Vizz's, even if it had been entirely nasty.

"I was delighted to hear you were amongst the exiles. I've been looking around and have some ideas where clear thinking and hard work can help us get us through the lean times ahead, if this quest everyone is talking about works out that is."

"Yes, yes, yes clear th..." THUNK! "...Youch!" Vizz yelps.

"Whoa man! Hold steady, letting go of the stick just before I smack it leads to it veering off oddly, like that one that smacked you in the chest did. Steady on the next one."

Vizz did not mind the physical activity, he was not some dainty Sartarite fresh out of the Pharoah's Country, but a man whose anccestors came from the rugged hills of Peloria. Faren's actions and words implied to Vizz that Faren thought him to be some sort of idler.

"Where was I again? Ah yes, survival. Well, it seems to me that some clever trading, favor making and taking, and perhaps even an unlikely scheme or two would help our prospects. When first I arrived and mentioned such, all I heard was 'You'll be wanting to talk to Vizz then, he's off in Alda-Chur taking care of such-like already.'"

Vizz should really know better than to try to interrupt Faren on one of his long monologues on subjects as diverse as farming, hard work, farming, mud, pigs, cows and farming. Not because the extensive tales of crops and cattle were the stuff of derring do and exciting adventure, but because Faren took time with his thoughts, and they were not bad thoughts, they brewed in his brain for many a long furrow, and once began they had to be completed or else he would begin them again, at the beginning, the very beginning, right from the start of saying "good morning" to you. Vizz might have known better, but since when did knowing anything stop a pious Orlanthi doing something he knew he shouldn't?

"Why indeed, and let me..." he tries to interject.

"That's right, nice and steady there, see?" the farmer observes, undeterred. "The stake drives in nicely, well yes it spatters a bit of mud of course. You do not know the 'lay off my blue plaid trews charm'? Ah, useuful it is around the farm. But say, that stoop of yours is useful, holding the stake down here does make it less likely I'll hit your hands, you are entirely right."

"Oh for Storm gods sakes let me get a word in..."

"Uz eat these flies!" Faren continues, oblivious." So, as I was saying, I've a few thoughts of the sort of thing we might need, just to get those fine thoughts of yours turning, but in truth I'd love to hear of your successes in Alda-Chur first!"

"...edgeways." Vizz finishes, pointlessly.

Silence from Faren. He waits silently for Vizz's exciting tale.

"Alda Chur you say?" Vizz begins. "Well let me tell you how magnificent I was how we escaped, albeit bruised, battered, and feeling like snot, from the crystaline dungeons of cerulean doom....."

(More...?)

~oOo~

The evening draws close and the last members of the Exiles are called to gather around the large bonfire. Wilma, proudly wearing her new golden torc, clears her throat and the idle chatter quickly stops.

"Dear friends", she begins. "Silverquill has asked me to call this moot, so that we may all share our new-found knowledge and ideas. We welcome to the clan Faren and his friends - and we greet Gordangorl as an honoured guest. We will tell our stories and insights and this might help us find solutions to the problems we face. I would ask our dear friend Silverquill to tell us first what he learned in Alda-Chur."

Silverquill, dressed in his finest clothing and sporting a new, fashionable false beard, steps up on the large box he requested for this purpose. He clears his throat and consults his notebook before speaking. Summarizing what he learned in the library[1] and the events in the square, he ends with the following:

"What we later found in that temple is that is the the intent of the Man of the Sun to reclaim Yavor Lightning as a weapon for the Fiwe Twibe! He has pwomised his wawwiors that they will have deadly lightning speaws. Luckily for us, he has yet to find out where this hidden power lies, but he suspects that the Danlawni, the ancient enemies of the Fiwe Twibe, hold the key. I suspect that the cuwwent location of this stead might well be a secwet wowth pwesewving if at all possible. Thank you for listening."

The small sage quenches his thirst with a goblet of water and flicks his thumb to light a cigar, signaling that his speech is finished.

Aren pipes up " I do hope that note book of yours that you left behind does not mention our current location or that of the ash madens ?"

"Still it does look like we need to keep a low profile for one or more reasons: so be it. The spears are still there for the taking, though perhaps not in their current state. Though if they do seek to steal the lightning spear back for themselves, then perhaps they plan to raid the Lightning hall itself. So it becomes more important that we find the hall ourselves first and ward it from their tainted hands."

The hubbub that Silverquill's announcement raises goes on for some time, while Faren sits quietly, looking at the sparks around his hands.

Finally he stands up to say his bit. "Wilma, you have taken me in, given me food and water, blanket and fire, and best of all work to do. I've given you what I can of my thoughts and my sweat. I think you all know I already considered my fate twined up with yours. But, well, I'd not gotten around to pledging myeself to your wyter."

Faren squirms and cracks his knuckles in a shower of sparks. "Truth is ever since the Ruby Flux I've had a hard time dealing with those who aren't fully hale. Those images, they stick with you. But it seems that this stead is not just trying to survive, it is fated to take on great deeds, and a half-way commitment is no real commitment at all. So I'd pledge myself fully to your stead, through your wyter, if you'll have me."

"Now there's a good idea," Wilma says, smiling at Faren. "Ye'd need to be speakin' with her as is on the hill, for it's a matter fer her an' I'm not so sure as she takes kindly to farmers, bein' the wild one she is. So, ye'd best do as the others, though not all the others for some are not so committed as I reckon you is. That is, ye'd best see some way as ye can do some services fer her. Either her that'd be, Sabriel or Riantha, an' I reckon as ye'd be more equipped for the first o' em. Reckon if ye've a deal te be struck, an' ye takes with ye one o' them as 'as been tellin' her stories, she'd be willin' enough."

Now Lismelda stands up, staring about her uncomfortably, for she is not accustomed to addressing so many people at once.

"Well now," she begins. "Here's the thing: my lad Gyffun had something he wanted heard, and he thought he'd better tell it me and have me repeat it, on account of the trouble he's havin' with his voice an' all. He said that this gentleman here" - she indicates Gordangorl - "Has brought important news that some have heard already, and all should hear now. And he said to remind you that... now what was it again? Ah yes: the Taint that has cursed our land shall not be cleansed unless we find and he-lim-in-ate its source. Was that right dear?"

Gyffun nods, but gestures for her to continue.

"Oh! Oh yes. And he says that the... the... hen-ter-prise that Miss Rika proposes must take account of this too. Was that everything?"

The skald nods again, and gives her a warm smile. His hearth-mother starts to sit down, then bobs up again with a flustered expression to say :"Oh, begging your pardon - that's all I had to say," before returning gratefully to her seat.

(More...?)

~oOo~

After the moot, Faren talks to some of the farmers about Sabriel, then goes off looking pensive. He finds Yizar baking himself in front of a fire and talks to him briefly, then asks a few questions of SilverQuill before he settles with some branches and a whittling knife.

The next morning he shocks several people by leaving the work on the pig pens, and instead puts a yoke on one of his oxen, hanging a couple of baskets from the yoke, and heads off down the burnt path. He finally returns mid-afternoon, sacking wrapped bundles dripping in the baskets.

After taking care of the ox, he hoists the yoke himself, and heads up the hill. He hesitates at the door of the hut, finally clearing his throat and saying "Err M'am, ah that is Miss, I think. Uhhh, Sabriel? Miss Sabriel, that sounds proper."

Getting no response from the pale form within, he swings the yoke down and picks up the baskets, then carries them in. "They told me how you used to be a potter. Are a potter, not used to be: can't take that away. The hands remember things, I know."

He pauses and looks longingly at the doorway, then carries on.

"I've been touched by magic too, you know. Yavor's own lightning came down and kissed me, changed everything it did. I have memories in my head of things I never learned, can't stop my hands from sparking, and I have this... this... energy, I guess you could say, inside me. I know there are new things I have to do. But I'm still a farmer. If I let that go, it would be like I was floating with no idea of up or down no more."

Receiving only a bland stare from Sabriel's one good eye, Faren impatiently pulls back the sacking from one bundle.

"Look, clay!" he says. "I don't know if it is good clay, I'm no potter. But it seems to me a potter should have clay to work with. And I couldn't make you a wheel, but I made you some paddles and cutters out of wood, see?"

Faren lays the crude tools beside her, to no response. He grabs the clay, and places her hands on it, pushing her fingers into the cool damp mass. Briefly a smile seems to twitch her lips, her hands to form the clay themselves, but then she slouches, as if exhausted.

"You are still a potter!" Faren fumes. "You cannot, CANNOT, have stopped being a potter just because you're sharing your body. Your whole body know it. Your hands know it, I could see that! You smiled, you were happy! I don't believe you don't know it. You think you are too tired to do this? Fine, here!"

Faren grabs Sabriel's hands and pushes some of his preternatural warmth and energy into the young woman's body.

Suddenly her fingers are clenched onto his, and he can feel her pulling at the energy. Her one good eye focusses on him, and with a lascivious smile she purrs: "Oh, this I liiiike."

~oOo~

[1] See Silverquill Amongst The Yelmalions.

~oOo~