Prologue
The Truth of Legends
Tal Harrenfel is more lie than legend.
This is my conclusion regarding "the Man of a Thousand Names," and by the flagrant dishonesty of Falcon Sunstring, Harrenfel's minstrel, I must doubt all of the infamous adventurer's purported exploits.
Sunstring's opening ballad would have you believe:
He stole the Impervious Ring from the Queen of Goblins
He killed Yuldor's Demon and saved the Sanguine City of Elendol
He protected the Northern Shores and plumbed the depths of the dwarven mines
He stole the heart of a princess and the tongue from a bard
Ringthief — Devil Killer — Defender of the Westreach
His name harkens back to the deeds of his youth
His legend rings out from every throat in the West…
Yet Sunstring fails to mention the darker stories also attributed to Harrenfel. Magebutcher. Red Reaver. Khuldanaam'defarnaam — or, translated from the Clantongue of the Hardrog Dwarves, "He Who Does Not Fear Death, For He Is Death's Hand."
The story is at best incomplete, at worst impossible. That one man could be a swordsman, sorcerer, and mercenary as well as an accomplished poet, diplomat — and, if the rumors hold true, lover — stretches the limits of belief.
And how could any of the legend be believed, when Harrenfel himself was recorded saying to His Majesty, Aldric Rexall the Fourth:
"I've never claimed to be more than a man."
As a historian and a scholar, I will gather the witnesses, collect the accounts, and piece together the true story behind this modern fable. Then, fraud or impossibly true, I will expose Tal Harrenfel for the charlatan I suspect — nay, I know him to be.
- Brother Causticus of the Order of Ataraxis
The Call of the Constellations
Far from the heart of civilization, cowled in a gloom barely lifted by the moons, rests the town of Hunt's Hollow, all still and shadowed — all save a candle flickering into flame.
A man, hunched over a rough-hewn table in a cramped room, stares at the swaying flame. Dark planes fall over his face, and lines of age and old injury fall into deeper shadow. A beard, tan speckled with red, is barely kept at bay, and long, tawny hair streaked with gray and white falls around his face.
The candle's flame dances in a breeze that claws through the boards, and the light reflects in the man's eyes, black as a devil's heart and wide with a wolf's hunger, as he shifts his gaze down to the object before him.
A book, its pages worn around the edges and yellowed with age, lays open on the table. His gaze does not shift, his eyes do not read the words, but he stares as if to see beyond what the pages can offer.
He is still for a long moment, then his eyes dart up to the swaying flame, and one calloused hand stretches forward. As his hand passes over the candle, the flame sputters and blows out, and the night sweeps into the room once more.
Sleep — sleep is all he dreams of. Sleep that comes as easily as extinguishing a candle, that banishes the thoughts of all he's lost. Only asleep can he lose himself in remembrances of fine wine and unwarranted fame, of palaces with mirror-bright halls and sly-eyed gentlefolk at balls. Even memories of the dark towers filled with murder and fury where he'd been hunted by beasts and black-hearted warlocks — even those nightmares would be preferred.
For, while awake, no dream can be real.
The wind whistles through the cracks, and the tired wood groans. Another mumbled word, and the candle flickers to life again, the hand falling back to the table to rest next to the book's frayed binding.
His eyes wander down to the tome again, and his fingers stretch toward it to brush across the rough, aged paper. He whispers, "Would that you'd reveal the truth of your secrets."
Then, he might know the face of him named the Enemy of the Westreach. Then, he could end this war, this farce.
Then, he could finally rest.
Far from the heart of civilization, cowled in a gloom barely lifted by the moons, rests the town of Hunt's Hollow, all still and shadowed — all save a man filled with memories of once was and dreams of what could never be.
Both near and far away, lost in a solitude of his own, a boy just becoming a man stares up at the ceiling of his shared bedroom, listening to the sounds of his sleeping brothers and remembering the stories of the stars.
The bed, stuffed with straw, is hard and lumpy and scratchy, but he barely feels it. He is strolling down shining rooms with ceilings as high as the sky, and a woman, as lovely as a sunset's glow, holds tightly to his arm. A sword is belted at his hip, and a smile plays on his lips. As they pass a group of people, he hears their whispers: There he strides! Isn't he glorious, the Hero of Avendor?
A brother snores, and the youth jerks back into the dark, stuffy room, the lumpy bed beneath. He shifts, tries to get comfortable, fails, and finally settles back.
He can see and feel it all so clearly. He can taste the wine, sweeter than any freshly picked autumn apple. He can smell the air, perfumed with roses and mysterious spices. He can see the famed bastion of the King of Avendor, salmon-colored towers rising into the clouds. And he can see himself among it all.
But when he breathes in, only the stench of stale sweat and manure fills his nose.
The youth sighs and stretches out on the bed long grown too small for him. He's never seen a castle, never tasted wine, never smelled a perfume the surrounding forest couldn't provide. All he knows of the World, he has learned from stories told around the fire. Every imagining he has, he steals from the tales of the legends.
Markus Bredley, the roguish adventurer who delved into the treasure troves the dwarves keep hidden beneath their mountains and came out a rich man. Gendil of Candor, the warlock who learned the names of the moons and ascended to dwell with the Whispering Gods. General Tussilus, who led the charge that drove back the Eastern Horde during their last incursion two centuries past. And Tal Harrenfel, the Man of a Thousand Names, the living legend who disappeared into the barbaric East seven years before and was never seen again.
But more treasured still are the tales his brothers have told of their father, a captain who left to serve the King and died in his service, so long ago now he can scarcely remember his face.
"I'll earn my own name," he whispers to the night sky, hidden beyond the thatched roof. "I'll earn my stars."
One of his brothers mutters, and the youth falls silent. In the darkness, his dreams are safe. Only in silence can he hear the call of the constellations, whispering, beckoning him onward.
The Greatest Chicken Farmer
As Garin watched the man dart back and forth across the muddy yard, half-bent like a raccoon, trying over and over to snag one of the hens and failing, he couldn't say he'd ever seen a better chicken farmer.
"Come here, damn you!" the man cursed as he chased the chickens. As they scattered, he made a grab, missed, tried again, and nearly fell face-first into the mud.
"Try approaching slower," Garin said, a twitch to his lips. "Not that an old man like you could go anything but slow."