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From: khamael@netaxs.com (David Dubrow)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: Kroldor: End of Prelude
Date: 9 May 1995 17:06:34 GMT
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        He scented the man before seeing him, as was the usual way of 
things.  Kroldor was about thirty yards away, and in the deepening gloom 
he could only pick out silhouettes.  It was an hour before dusk, and he 
had been walking for hours.   He idly considered breaking into a run, but 
who knew what lay at the end of the road?  This place was alien to him.  
He was not tired.  He did not think about this.   He simply walked.  The 
air was cool, with a hint of rain in a few days, perhaps.  He was aware 
of little but the scents and a slowly increasing gnawing sensation in the 
pit of his gut.  -It is hunger-, he realized.  Perhaps the other traveler 
would have food.   
        The man smelled of fear and anger and horses and something else, 
something less identifiable.  Kroldor stepped between some trees by the 
side of the road and waited.  He was soundless, almost perfectly so.  As 
the man approached, Kroldor realized what else it was he stank of.  He 
stank of -guising-.  He was either a Guiser or had been touched by one.  
A sudden rage overtook him.   His large, blunt hands clenched into 
fists.   His pulse roared in his ears.  It took the effort of several 
heartbeats to quell his fury.  Dimly, he remembered about Guisers.  He 
had had them taken from his Barony and  crucified upside down, their eyes 
ripped-
        He shook his head.   The memory was gone.  But he knew more, 
now.  He had been a Baron, a leader of men.  Good.   He would do so 
again.  But now, he would have food.  As the man passed by Kroldor's 
copse, Kroldor stepped out from between the trees.
        "Hey!  Who'n th' Hell d'ye think y'are, scarin' a body like tha'?"
        It took a moment for Kroldor to answer.  He saw that he was about 
a foot taller than the man.  And more than a few handsbreadths wide 
across the shoulders.  "My apologies, fellow.  I-"  He frowned.  He 
remembered that he was not used to apologizing.  The words stuck in his 
throat like stones.  
        The man snorted.  "You what?"
        The killing rage took over him again.  When his eyes cleared, the 
other man was lying on the road, his eyes staring sightlessly up at the 
stars.  Kroldor looked down at himself.   No blood.  But there were 
puddles of it on the ground; the salty, coppery stink of it filling his 
nostrils, as well as an odd, burning stench.  He knelt and wiped his 
sword on the dead man's tunic.  As he did so, he saw a bulge hanging from 
the side of the corpse's belt.  A pouch.  He took it and tied it to his 
belt of copper links.   He dragged the corpse over to the side of the 
road, covered it with leaves and brush, and kicked road-dirt over the 
bloodstains.  -I am in another's Barony-, he thought, -and the ruler 
would demand payment for the killing of his property.    Best to put some 
distance 'tween the corpse and myself.-  He started down the road at a 
lope, his long legs eating up the distance steadily.  
        As he approached the city, the stink  of the Guiser increased.  
-The ruler must be weak to allow Guisers in his Barony.  Unless the ruler 
is himself one-.  His heavy brow wrinkled at the thought.  The 
recollection of a pale face with black black eyes and lips full and dark 
like a woman's seeped into his mind.  The face mocked him and laughed and 
threw him down from up high...
        The vision was gone.  By the time day broke, he entered the city 
his ears picked up as being called Montfort.  -Odd name-.  He frowned as 
he watched the townsfolk.   -The ruler is indeed weak here.-  He saw none 
wearing collars or cicatrices of ownership.  They smiled and laughed and 
talked and yelled at each other, oblivious to his presence.  It 
disquieted him, this lack of notice.  As he searched for the source of 
the discomfort, a memory came to him.  A memory of being feted, with 
libations of honey and beer and rich  red blood being poured out of 
golden cups to honor him.  Of a bull being sacrificed with a 
silver-bladed axe that shone like a piece of the moon.  And, 
incongruously, a salamander.  Rather, a Salamander.  With scales of 
brilliant crimson and eyes like obsidian chips.  And breath that rivaled 
the sun in its heat and fury.  His eyes widened in some surprise as he 
found where his feet took him.  A place called "The Dragons' Inn."  -The 
Salamander guided me here.-  He stepped through the door.