Stories from the World of Hârn – to entertain, inspire, and educate.
Márden paced back and forth in his Lord's chamber, his mind racing. What had happened? Why was the constable, Sir Hâraden, concerned? And what did it all have to do with him?
Tárenis had tried to keep his friend calm, but given up. He sat, moodily, at the great table. He was just as perplexed as his companion.
Márden stopped pacing.
"What in all of Keléstia is all this about?" he fumed. "And why, of all things, has the constable locked you, my Lord's son, and I in these...
“See, there... a fine goose..." whispered the young man to his companion.
The two were well dressed, in fine leathers and boots, but were hunkered low amongst tall reeds in the midst of a wide expanse of marshland that extended to the horizon.
Before them, on a stretch of open water, was a fine wild goose, hunting and searching for food in the margins. A cool autumn breeze blew gently across the pool...
Jutting into the Gap of Lankor from the east is a range of high hills called the Melwy, an offshoot of the Tonatris Mountains. They have never been settled by man and only a few hunters and fur trappers now visit there, whilst timbermen and miners shun the area. The cause of this is that the hills are already claimed by a non-human (or partially human) race, the centaurs.
Most scholars regard...
Journey to Ábrelyn (a tale of Emélrenè) - Part V - the Holy One
After a night of deep, restful sleep, Kélroth was woken by the light through the high windows that ran along the southeast facing wall of the hall of rest. An attendant waiting at the end of the hall rose and provided him with clean robes, and a basin to wash. Once he was clean and dressed, a simple meal was provided, and soon Ohláren returned.
"Feeling better, young man?"
Kélroth nodded...
Journey to Ábrelyn (a tale of Emélrenè) - Part IV - High Ábrelyn
Kélroth ran and ran. He ran till his lungs burned, his legs ached and he felt his heart would near give out.
He ran from the cries, the deep-dark-falling-pit of horror that lay behind him. On and on, up and up, along the narrow winding trail, around stands of rocks, down vale and up over ridges.
Until. Until he could run no more.
He came to rest beneath an outcrop. Silence.
...
Journey to Ábrelyn (a tale of Emélrenè) - Part III - the Maw of Ages
Kélroth woke with a start. It was cool, clear morning, and the first rays of sunlight were breaking over the upper Gadén valley. He had slept poorly, his sleep disturbed by visions of endless, aching darkness, deep within the bones of the earth.
He rubbed his eyes and shook himself awake. As he sat up, he noticed a figure nearby was watching him intently. She was dressed in dark green, from head to foot...
Journey to Ábrelyn (a tale of Emélrenè) - Part II - the Elder Dark
The group of fosterlings made camp on a ridge overlooking a stream that ran down to join the upper reaches of the Gadén river. The sun set early, even though it was summer, passing down behind mount Negéros, now far to the west. Mists rose from the valley below, and a gloom gathered round the group.
Their elderly émhlèn guide, Erýnos, as he had done before, warned the group to keep close together, and not...
Journey to Ábrelyn (a tale of Emélrenè) - Part I - the Call of Home
Kélroth and his companions had travelled several days on their journey up the Legáma river valley from Ráleth, making their way along the trail through the foothills of the Jerinálian mountains. They had been provided hospitality at Hiténos keep, the seat of the Earl of Negáros.
The group's guide, an aged émhlè, had been warmly welcomed by the Earl's constable, and they had been provided with...
Gazing into the distance, she listens nearer, feels farther for the scent of the beast. Rubs the ground softly with tender feet, holds a stone between her toes and sways gently in the chattering wind.
Surely what comes must spore, in the water, on brittle, virginal snow, in the perfidious wind however bemused its stammered allusions. Surely there must be sharp vapours riding subtle astride clean...
The rhythms of field and village, of folk and spirit, of earth and nurture may be harder to sense. Perhaps folk who build cots and huts, plant tofts and orchards, keep clever pigs and honest dogs, make brooms and weave tablecloths put a blanket betwixt their selves and the rhythmic world.
Earth and wind, spirit, black iron, purifying fire… somehow they all break rhythm as they serve...