Chapter 1

     The banquet hall was dark. Outside, a wind faintly whined and rattled icy snow through worn cracks in the thick lodge walls, bringing chill drafts to stir dried pine needles in the corners of the hall. The great central fire now burned low, barely illuminating the remaining portion of goat that hung on a spit slowly dripping fat into the fire. The guests had long since left the long coarse tables and entered the festival hall, leaving the room in deathly dark and silence.

     This was the feast hall of Fol-bear, Lord of the Northern Provinces. The aging Lord was a simple man, a king of a small band of struggling settlers, numbering from hundreds in the immediate settlement, to several thousand in the outlying regions. Fol-bear had risen to leadership through hard-won battles, and the people now clung to their liege for protection from the land’s harsh weather and enemies.

     At one end of the hall sat the solitary fur-clad figure of the King. At his side rested a well-fed hunting dog, whose head was propped lazily against the arm of the chair. Only the occasional raising of a heavy goblet revealed wakefulness in Fol-bear. He again had fallen prey to a dark mood and once again ignored his guests. He drank heavily from his cup, but the wine failed its purpose. Fol-bear remained consumed by his troubles. Gone now were the passions of his youth, those of conquest, women and glory. All that remained was his determination to see his people safely through this winter, and his troth-kin, his only supply of goods, had severed trade and all communication.

     At the far end of the hall a slight female figure entered. “Do not bother with worry tonight, father. Tonight is Midwinter-fest. Celebrate with us!” Fol-bear turned to see the fine-boned face and raven black hair of his daughter, Pilar. “Come, father. The dance begins and your friends are waiting.”

     Pilar was dressed in festival splendor. Fol-bear's heart swelled to see his daughter finely dressed in an embroidered bodice, flowing full skirt, and bedecked with jewels. She reminded him of his wife and Pilar’s mother, Nomi-tar, a girl purchased long ago for the price of a few furs. He deeply missed Nomi-tar. Not even Pilar's love could ease the loss he felt at her death. Now the old Lord sat upright. Pilar's choice of festival dress was highly irregular, as she generally preferred her warrior clothes to those of women.

     “I’ll be along shortly,” he replied.

     ”Have you forgotten?” teased the girl. “After Winter-fest I go to the west.” She then continued more seriously, “I’ll find out what’s wrong.”

     “Bah,” said Fol-bear, “you think it simple. Our friends are far. Who knows what happened.”

     Pilar had heard this before. She answered in a deliberate and calm voice “Don't worry, father. I'll find out. I’ll set it right.”

     “We’ve sent others before,” scoffed Fol-bear, dismissively. “They did not return!”

     “Father!” implored Pilar, “you underestimate me!” Pilar, now insulted, didn’t hide her displeasure. “I'm no little girl! You know my skill!” Without further comment, Pilar turned and left the room. After Nomi-tar’s death, Pilar, still a young girl, had sworn herself to master the sword. She vowed she would never suffer the fate of her mother, to die helpless in battle in front of her child.

     Fol-bear stared out at the empty room. “I’ve not forgotten, daughter… But I worry.” He paused, hanging his head. “Why did I say you could go? Your pride drives you too far!” Fol-bear’s head dropped even further. Finally he sighed, rubbing his neck. Raising the half full goblet, and looking at the cup the old Lord spoke, “Well…,” he said to the cup, “I suppose we should join the others.” He looked again at the cup, then took a long last gulp, slowly rose, and made his way toward the clamor emerging from the festival hall.

****               ****

     The storm had swept the land clean with snow. The morning sun shone brightly, glinting strongly off the powdery white lodge hall. The old Lord rose slowly, fighting the aftermath of last night's wine. Still, this morning he could not afford the luxury of his bed. There was an appointment that he must keep.

     Below, the horses were waiting, beating their strong hair-covered hooves against the frozen ground. Steam billowed from their nostrils and rose to meet the steel-gray sky. Sitting on the darker horse was Tarkin, a Morg-arn of the Mal-tokii tribe. The Morg-arn was a trusted friend from many campaigns, but a strange choice of friends in a land where men were raised to hate the Morg-arn race. The friendship between the two men came early in life. Fol-bear’s father had sheltered and fed Tarkin’s father as the Morg-arn was an outcast from his own people. In gratitude the Morg-arn swore blood-oath allegiance, a bond that tied all his heirs to this same duty and could only be broken by death. A constant companion and bodyguard, Tarkin would accompany Fol-bear to the lodge of Mok'to-shee, the witch woman, a trip that Fol-bear hoped would not cost him his soul. Still, there was no other way. Fol-bear must consult the witch-seer and learn of Pilar’s fate.

     The Morg-arn was graying, but his body did not show his age in the manner customary for the Mal-tokii. His eyes still flared out fire red from their sockets and his pale gray skin was still stretched tightly across his frame. Tarkin was a stocky man, tightly muscled, his face bearing the scars of many battles. Perhaps his graceful aging was due to his half-human blood, the same blood that served as Tarkin's badge of shame in the eyes of the Mal-tokii.

     When Fol-bear arrived, he nodded to Tarkin and saddled his horse without comment. Words were rarely needed between these two. Tarkin turned his horse first, then Fol-bear, and the two men rode off silently past the snow-covered lodges and disappeared into the trees.

     The forest was cold, colder than Fol-bear had ever remembered. The air was still, and a gray cloud-filled sky hung threateningly above the riders. The forest was quiet and seemingly lifeless. They passed the river, whose gurgling summertime voice was now stopped with ice. The old Lord longed for the summer, any summer, any end to this winter!

     The snowfall had been heavy. The horses labored through the snow, carrying their heavy riders. After nearly an hour, they approached their destination. Ahead was the witch's lodge. Already they had passed the offering poles filled with bribes from the local tribeswomen, begging the witch not to drive their men wild with madness. Here too were bribes to keep their lodges safe from the Acrontii, the fierce northern tribe of dwarves that had killed Fol-bear's beloved Nomi-tar.

     Mok’to-shee, the witch, had been counseling Fol-bear’s family since the days of his grandfather. It was a difficult and dangerous relationship, but the witch provided too much important information to be shunned or ignored. The witch was crafty and greedy, providing her services only for gold, and lots of it. Fol-bear also secretly wondered if his father, and perhaps his grandfather, had a more intimate relationship with the witch. No, the thought was repugnant, and the old Lord swept it from his mind. Fol-bear, too, counted heavily on the witch’s inner sight. Her advice had been critical in his campaigns against the Acrontii. Only Mok'to-shee had the nerve to deal openly with this vicious northern tribe.  Cursed witch! May her soul drown forever in the frozen wastes of Rat-ta'shoma.

     There it stood, the lodge! Smoke rose from the low log structure built by the local tribespeople in their attempts to placate the witch. A horse was tied to a worn wooden post just outside the door. Hanging from her lodge wall was a freshly killed stag. Mok'to-shee had retrieved her prizes from the bribe poles early today!

     “My Lord,” spoke Tarkin. “Remember, look not at her eyes! Keep your gaze away. She is beautiful, every man's desire. Look not on her!”

     “Peace!” objected Fol-bear, “I have dealt with this one before.”

     “Just take care, Sire. She is sly, and full of tricks.”

     “I'll be careful.”

     The snow crunched underfoot as Fol-bear approached the hut. Great puffs of breath spilled from the old Lord as he labored against the snow. His heartbeat quickened as he approached the lodge. “Witch! It is Fol-bear. I have come.” Fol-bear pulled his sword from his belt and walked forward, covering his eyes with his left arm. “Beware! Leave off your tricks!”

     “Enter Lord, my home is always open.” The woman's voice was sweet, incredibly enticing. Fol-bear felt pulled forward.

     “Careful, Lord,” called Tarkin from behind, his red eyes gleaming with concern.

     Fol-bear grunted and used the tip of his sword to push aside the hides concealing the interior and disappeared within.

     Compared to the sun-lit countryside, the lodge interior was inky black. The smell! Strange scents wafted through the air. The old Lord felt dizzy.

     “Yes my Lord”, cooed Mok'to-shee. “Enter! I have waited for you, prepared for you!”

     “Witch!” screamed Fol-bear. The old Lord pulled back to the doorway, breathing fresh air. “I'll kill you, I swear!”

     The witch hissed. “Very well, Lord.” A lamp was lit and the vapors became damped and thin. “Enter!”

     Fol-bear ventured forward, his eyes still hidden by his arm, his sword stretched out at the ready, his hands clammy cold. “Have you done my bidding?”

     “Yes Lord,” snapped the witch.

     “Then tell! What will happen to my daughter? Will she be safe?”

     “There are powers to the west. Great magics!” There was a long pause.

     “Well, will she be safe?”

     “The powers are great, Lord, greater that you can imagine.”

     Fol-bear’s impatience swelled. “Enough, witch! Will she be safe?”

     The witch hissed and moved away from the Northern King. “I cannot see this, Lord. It is hidden, hidden from all!”

     “Conniving witch!” screamed Fol-bear. “You think me a fool? You take my gold....”

     “Please, Lord! I speak true.” The witch’s voice revealed the beginning edges of panic. The old lord stumbled forward. “The West is blocked. …Great magics!” Mok'to-shee's voice now whined high with fear.

     Fol-bear was fuming hot, beside himself with anger. Should he kill the witch now? The lodge fire cast a dancing red glow on the floor. He could hear her heavy breathing and see her feet huddled in the corner of the lodge. Slowly, Fol-bear's rage cooled. No, the witch was too useful. He depended too heavily on her advice. “Can you tell me nothing?”

     The change in Fol-bear’s voice calmed the witch. “Yes Lord, I have seen this. Your daughter's path runs long. Do not look for her to return soon. And there is this! Magic and pain mingle with her path, powers far beyond mine!”

     “She will not go then!” stated Fol-bear, emphatically.

     “Please, Lord, hear!” Mok'to-shee paused, gauging the mood of the King. “She must! And you cannot go with her. Her party must be small. This I have seen! If we do not follow this path, all will die. She too dies. The West shall come unless she leaves. Three moons hence He shall come and the snows will run red with blood.

     “What's this? An army marches on us?”

     “No, Lord, not an army. It is the power of the West"He who cannot be seen.”

     “You speak riddles, witch!” Fol-bear felt confused, but considered her words. True, they were strange, but he had followed the witch's advice before. She had always proved right. There was no doubt. She had the Sight!

     “By the gods!” whispered Fol-bear. The hut was again quiet except for the crackling fire and the witch's breathing. The old Lord could barely contain himself. “Must she go? There must be another way!”

     Mok'to-shee stumbled eagerly forward. “Yes, my Lord, there is!” Fol-bear's breath stopped short. There was a chance! Anything! “Look at the amulet in my hand!” Fol-bear's eyes moved.

     “Witch!” cried the Lord, discovering the witch's trap almost too late. “A curse upon you! In my misery you deceive me! For this you die!” The old Lord moved forward swinging his sword.

     The witch laughed. Now gone was her fearful, high-pitched voice. “You are clever, Lord, but shall not kill Mok'to-shee.” The witch threw a powdery substance on the fire, which instantly flared, filling the lodge with smoke. “Sleep well, Lord!” Fol-bear's knees crumpled from beneath him as he tried to call to Tarkin. Too late! Oblivion!

     The witch looked down at the aging warrior, and walked to where he lay. She ran her hand along his length. “You were once a fine man, my Lord, young and strong. You grow old"too old for me now.” The witch smiled as she looked at the man. “I wanted you once. Perhaps I still do. But you age, Lord. How quickly you age!” Mok'to-shee paused, thinking of the things to come, then smiled wider. “Sleep now. Then go to your daughter. Just try to stop her!” She laughed. “I have seen. She's too much like you, too much like you!” The witch stood. “I go now! Come visit again soon.” The witch disappeared out of the rear entrance, leaving no evidence of her passage in the snow.

          ****               ****

     It had been useless. She wouldn't listen. Winter-fest was over and it was the morning of Pilar's departure. Fol-bear had drunken heavily again last night. Wine seemed his only comfort. Today, the only joy in his life would leave him, perhaps for forever. He must get up and see the company off. It was already late and he could hear Pilar and her crew loading the wagon outside the lodge.

     In contrast to the old Lord, Pilar was energetic and clad in freshly oiled leather, chain halberk, polished greaves, and vambraces. A large sword hung from her belt, and her breath rose excitedly in the chill morning air and mixed eagerly with the gentle wind-blown snow as she loaded a long wagon. Pilar was ready for adventure. She had dreamed of a day like this, a day in which she could prove her worth.

     To the side of the wagon stood Tarkin. Despite the Morg-arn's ancestry, Pilar shared her father's love for this gray, veiny creature. Now Pilar paused from her labors, smiling at Tarkin. Tarkin wore a full mail coat that bore the markings of many battles. On the ground next to his foot sat a heavy helmet. A large axe rested against his leg. Nearby, sat Tarkin's two half brothers"half brothers by blood-oath, not by birth. After these many years, Fol-bear still could not fathom this strange Mal-tokii custom, a custom that bound the Mal-tokii even beyond those of family.

     Both Tarkin's “brothers” wore clothing nearly identical to Tarkin. Each bore the mark of their blood-oath family. Softol'dor, the youngest brother, towered over both Tarkin and his true brother, Bal'ma-ki. His huge misshapen limbs and piercing red eyes reminded all present of the great difference between the two races. Tarkin, on the other hand, showed more palatable features, his half-human blood softening the harsh Morg-arn face and veiny body. Tarkin's face was grim. He had learned shame early and that life was harsh and unbending. His family was outcast from his tribe due to his grandfather's “betrayal” of the Mal-tokii, and the further disgrace of half-human blood from his father’s unthinkable union with his mother.

     With all the morning's excitement, Pilar was feeling playful. While Tarkin stood checking the company's inventory, a quick arm swept out and grabbed him around the throat. “Well, Gray,” giggled Pilar, calling the Morg-arn by her private nickname, “shall I tickle your ribs with my dagger?” With that she applied sufficient pressure behind her dagger point to produce a satisfying grunt from Tarkin. She smiled at his grunt. She was always trying to best Tarkin, a man she had learned to love and trust.

     In a deft movement Tarkin turned, but Pilar jumped back grinning. Tarkin quickly quelled his own smile. “Be careful girl! This is no game! A jest out of place is dangerous.” Tarkin was upset at this foolishness. Preparations were serious business, and his mind was filled with thoughts of what lay ahead. Still, he did enjoy Pilar’s playfulness and skill, an ability acquired largely through his training of the girl in combat.

     At this scolding, Pilar blushed, but her exuberance could not be so easily quenched. She had half a mind to look for another opportunity to surprise Tarkin when he was distracted.

     When Fol-bear arrived, all was in readiness. Pilar quickly kissed him and was anxious to be off, but Fol-bear would not let her go. Emotion swelled in his heart as he held back his tears. “I'll be back soon,” offered Pilar. “There's no need for concern.”

     Fol-bear looked up to Tarkin. Tarkin nodded. “Then you'd best be off,” said Fol-bear. Pilar smiled, mounted her horse, and proudly paraded out of the roughly walled settlement. Beside her rode Jess, her personal retainer, a tall, rugged-looking man, dressed in loose fitting furs that covered a cuirboilli breastplate. A large skin-covered shield hung from his horse next to a long sword. Jess had been a trusted servant ever since Fol-bear rescued him from the Acrontii. Tarkin followed immediately behind Jess. Finally, came the two Mal-tokii warriors, one riding his horse, the other driving the wagon, encumbered by the already fallen snow.

          ****               ****

     The young man had fallen asleep. His face rested peacefully on the desk. His ashen colored hair spilled haphazardly over the huge ancient text, his fatigue due to weeks of pressed study. Beside him burned a nearly spent candle that reflected weakly off the trails of condensation on the cavern walls.

     A small dark dwarvish figure, gasping for breath, suddenly burst into the cave. “Seth, come quick. Master needs you.”

     Seth quickly rose from the table, his blue eyes flashing in the light of the dwarf's lantern. “What is it, Fakir?”

     “Another attack!” said the agitated dwarf.

     As they ran from the cave, Seth could see a bright glow from his Master's cave, pulsing in crimson light against the darkening evening sky. Arnnon, his Master, was fighting off another attack.

     Breathless, passing through the entrance to Arnnon’s cave, they stopped. The entire central cavern was wildly afire with dancing light. The source of the light was Arnnon's stiffly jerking figure, his face showing grave exertion. Seth stood transfixed by the sight, then a rapid transformation swept over the boy. An all-encompassing calm filled his face, and as he closed his eyes, he slowly raised his arms. “No!” shrieked Arnnon, breaking his concentration. “He will see you.” His words barely spoken, Arnnon was roughly lifted from the ground and thrown against the far wall, an excruciating grunt shuddering from his body. Despite the great shock, Arnnon quickly rose and resumed his struggle.

     To Seth, who helplessly watched, time seemed frozen, the battle to last an eternity. Finally, however, the cave went dark, and Arnnon crumpled to the floor. Instantly, Fakir and Seth lit a candle and ran to the side of their Master. It took their best efforts to lift the strangely heavy body to the nearby cot.

     “His illness is more advanced than I thought,” said Seth, noting the heaviness of Arnnon's body.

     As Seth spoke, he pulled back Arnnon's cloak to expose his skin. Seth could see the rapid course of his Master's “disease”, which first slowly changed flesh into living tree, then to stone, working its way haphazardly through the body.

     “You’re wrong,” replied Fakir, shaking his head, insistently denying the obvious. “His sickness progresses slowly. He fights Sausorous with great strength, fearing you won't complete your training.”

     Seth looked up and peered deeply into the dwarf’s eyes. He could see the faintest edge of great worry beginning to eat away at his false confidence. The young man sighed and looked back at Arnnon. “He's a valiant man and great sorcerer. I remember when I was young...” Seth stood, emotion preventing speech. In a moment Seth continued. “Why does Sausorous do this to him?” Rage and frustration filled the young man's chest nearly to exploding. Sausorous, Lord of Kennaquhair, went too far, openly attacking his Master. Wasn't it enough that his cursed disease would soon finish him off? Seth was touched deeply and continued in a voice filled with hopelessness. “My master should choose his own time of passage to the next world. …He’s still too young. It's barely a century since Gosser's-Loss, when he contracted this cursed disease...” Fakir looked at his young friend. “...and hardly longer than that, since his own apprenticeship.” Seth took for granted the greatly extended life span of sorcerers. Fakir was not about to remind him of the norm.

     “He's still strong,” insisted Fakir. “I doubt even Sausorous can hinder him in the next world. Perhaps Arnnon may even find a way back while Sausorous isn't looking.”

     “I doubt that,” said Seth. “And Sausorous just might follow Arnnon beyond the world, pushing him on to the next, pushing him ever deeper into the abyss. Sausorous will make certain Arnnon can never get back.”

     “Come on Seth! Such talk doesn't help us. We must be strong!”

     “…You're right, Fakir, I'm sorry.”

     Slowly, Arnnon regained consciousness. After gathering his wits, the wizard spoke. “It's over. Soon I'll be gone from this life and watching you from the next.” He paused. “If he lets me.” Arnnon produced an irony filled laugh. “Cursed Sausorous! May you roast in the flames of Fla-Oftraman! May the Elements of Fire consume your soul!”

     “Peace, Master. You're still strong,” complained Seth.

     “No,” said the Master, shaking his head. “I'm weak, and grow weaker every day.” He paused. “Have you been watching your future companions?”

     “A little,” answered Seth.

     “And?” asked Arnnon.

     “Well,” started Seth. “I think...”

     “They’re a hearty crew,” inserted Fakir.

     “No they're not!” retorted Seth. “One is a mere girl, and a foolish one at that! And the rest are Morg-arn. Who can trust Morg-arn? You never know what they're thinking. Their eyes hold only red burning emptiness!”

     “Come now Seth. Aren't you stretching things a bit far?” Arnnon teased. “You're not much more than a boy yourself!” Seth's eyes flared hotly. He was already upset that he would soon have to make friends with people he deemed below his station, people totally ignorant of magic.

     “Now you stretch things too far, Master! I reached manhood years ago. I'm nearly 20!”

     Arnnon smiled and turned to Fakir. “Listen to him,” laughed Arnnon. “Claiming to be a man and not yet even 100!”

     Fakir smiled too. “Only 100? Dwarves reckon manhood to be reached no sooner than 250! This young cave rat is too much to endure.”

     Seth was about to turn and leave in anger, but noticed the gleam of love in the eyes of his friends. “By the gods”, laughed Seth, now smiling. “You two make quite a pair! How can I keep up with you when either of you is more than a match for me?”

     They all smiled. Arnnon could read Seth's thoughts in his eyes. Trying to reassure Seth, Arnnon spoke. “Remember Seth, you'll need your new friends in the days ahead. While I cannot foresee the reason for your quest, it is clear you'll need help.”

     “Did you look again last night, Master?”

     “Yes, Seth, but saw nothing new.”

     “Master, why am I to make this journey? I'm no warrior! What use is this sword to me?”

     “Remember Seth, we know the sword is not important, just a tool to greater ends. Don't be fooled. There's something deeper, something hidden! But you'd best be back to your studies now. There's little enough time left.”

     Seth nodded. He slowly turned and walked toward the door. “Good night, Master,” he said. “Please take some rest.” Arnnon nodded and walked towards his bed.

     “Wait Seth,” called Fakir. “I'll come with you.”

     The two of them left the dimly lit cave and entered the night. The stars shone brightly and a stiff wind blew dust and leaves down the trail leading to Seth's cave. Odd, thought Seth, that the world should take such little note of the action of men, even such men as Arnnon.

     “Good night, Fakir.” Fakir nodded and walked of wearily to the small hut where he slept. Seth turned towards his own cave to resume his studies. 

Reviews

[S. D. Forogar]

This was an interesting read, and so I have some Good and some Bad to note:

The GOOD: Mainly, the detail trumps here. I hadn't a need to paint a picture for myself, because of how well-worded it was already. This is also the first piece I've ever read wherein the detail was the strongest aspect, and for that I'm actually quite pleased!

I also appreciated the obvious thought that's gone into this piece, and the clear forthcoming of a true epic despite it not being of a genre I particularly like myself.

The BAD: Threefold, this entails Sense (and through it, Power, see below), the massive level of clutter and the unusual tendency of the story to constantly "hop" from one Point-of-View (PoV) to another. I'll start with the former:

When I refer to Sense, I don't mean that events are happening that I cannot follow. Generally, the level of detail in this piece clears up any confusion I might have about the where, the what and the who. For the most part, I was mainly concerned with the INCREDIBLE level of unique terms and names being thrown wildly at me as I read, which both distracted me terribly and assaulted me with so much information that it took me a couple of reads to even understand who and what everyone and -thing was. There were simply WAY too many characters and WAY too many tribes and plot elements being launched at me as I read for any of them to leave any lasting impact, which in turn compromised the power of each aspect. I couldn't care about anything in the sense that the author clearly wanted me to, because I was too busy tackling WHAT it all was. I eventually DID come to comprehend it all, but it was not really fun for me to have to go back through and reread just to understand.

Second, the clutter. I found this to be just as bad, since it annoyed me to the very same degree. WAY TOO MANY EVENTS are going on at once for any of them to really leave the lasting effect that was clearly desired by the author; in short, I would recommend EACH of these events following the "Asterisk Page-Breaks" to be their own chapters, and to have their own short tales told in a more appropriate manner. I don't want to insist that more detail be imparted, but rather I would be content with a "greater journey" being written in. Go into length, for example, about the travel and meaning of Fol-Bear's visit with the Witch, or just Seth's story in general, and do so with each possessing its own spot so that more time and effort can be devoted to all of these events.

As for the PoV issue, I would say that no professional editor nor teacher would ever recommend more than one perspective per chapter, and many (if not most) would insist upon a "static point of view" throughout a piece. Now, for this one I assume that several COULD work, but having too many characters 'perceive the world at once' is just difficult (and sometimes painful) for an audience to have to sit through.

In short, it was an interesting read, but I would be loathe (for the above reasons) to really recommend this piece as a quality work until such issues are righted.

[eatme]

I love the dripping goat fat, other than the word 'now'. I find that word hard to swallow in past tense fiction, since now is never now. On the other hand, an opening line that mentions illumination, wind, rain, fog, - is generally kind of cliche'. Id rather you had opened on that powerhouse goat fat image, but that is just me. His daughter was 'dressed' twice in the same line. I would change the 2nd one to festooned or just whatever. Repeated words knocks me out of my suspension when reading. I like it overall, swords, dwarves, caves, and all that good stuff.

the goat line was tops. that alone was worth the read for me.
I like it overall

[Amaya Sullivan]

This is a very good. It seems you have a great book on your hands. I would consider re-wording the beginning honestly. The descriptions at the beginning were nice; however, I really had to force myself through the fat to get to the meat.

Original characters yet they seem familiar, just like Charles said. I like the name Tarkin. The personalities of each character shine through perfectly. Continue writing and publish it one day!

Keep Writing!

[W.V. Bard]

I too agree with all that Charles D. Moorer said. Very goo.

[Tomislav Petricevic]

This is a very good chapter. It is professionaly written, the plot is interesting, the ambience descriptions are amazing, characters' personalities can be seen, and the size of the world and lore you're bringing screams with epicness.
The only thing I minded is the lack of more detailed physical characterizations.
Overall, great work.

[Miss Coral]

Very good first chapter-

At the beginning, while very good, the description became almost distracting. One thing that I would suggest changing would be the name of Sausorous- it sounds too close to sorcerous for me.
Overall, very good piece!!

[Charles D. Moorer]

Rick, like the fine writer that you are, you have packed this opening chapter with sufficient character development and enough fortelling to string the reader along, who in this case goes along willingly. What is even more amazing, is the absolute confidence you show in the naming of the characters (you have created your own middle earth) those names are so familiar sounding, though I have never heard them before. I feel a quest coming on! I am also remided of Beowulf, the scene in the great hall as they await Grendel. This is highly evocative of the genre. Bravo.

[James Watts]

This was actually a very well written piece. There were minor errors, but seeing how nicely this was done I assume they were typos. Nothing major to worry about. This excellent work.

[Greg Close]

I like the abrupt prose and terse yet detailed description. The names and the atmosphere have a gravity and authenticity to them that really build the alternate reality well. Great start. This has a very middle-english/norse feel to it... look forward to the next chapter!

[mirui]

This is a really good chapter; to what I think will be a very good book.
The conflict at the beginning had me enthralled and I had to read more.