FOREWORD

In the Overcosm, there are an infinite number of dimensions, an infinite number of realities where people of different species go about their lives, most utterly oblivious to the fact that such an infinite number of possibilities exist. For those who do know, this knowledge is more often than not considered to be too mind-bendingly overwhelming to think about, and they do their best to ignore it, usually over a hot cup of tea.
     But this story is not about any such people.
     The ones in this story are completely unaware that they have lived many different lives, being reborn again and again, destined to be the best of friends, bosom buddies, two peas in a pod…you get the idea. Their names are Cera and Garadun. These names were given to them when they first came into Existence, and they’ve been stuck with them in one form or another through all their various lives. Let it not be said that Fate doesn’t have a sense of humour.
     This is the story of Cera and Garadun (and their friends) as they wander around looking for adventure, as Fate has once more shown Her hand and put them together. For those who meet them and know what’s going on, they just shake their heads, try to forget about it, and put on the kettle for that needed cup of especially hot tea.


ACT I

I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.
–Gandalf, The Hobbit

Chip Sandstone leaned back on the moss-and fern-covered log, slinging his pack to the ground. Rummaging through it, he grumbled until he found what he was looking for. Smiling, he sighed and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.
     “There’s what I need,” he said happily, then popped the cork and took a long pull at the bottle. Smacking his lips, the Halfling sat down on the log.
     It was an agreeable day, with the sun’s fading rays slipping through the trees. Chip basked in the dwindling warmth of the sun, the whiskey, and the memories. He closed his eyes and sighed, running a hand through his sandy-blonde hair. He took another long pull on the bottle and soaked in his surroundings.
     Autumn was just beginning; the leaves were still mostly green, but there were oranges and yellows and reds scattered throughout the foliage. The sky was full of colour: reds and pinks and purples ablaze with the setting sun. The wind was cool and refreshing, and brought Chip the scents of the forest, along with the smell of smoke and food from the town of Thistledale which lay not too far away.
     As he sat there, Chip drew a harmonica and handkerchief from a vest pocket and gave the harmonica a wipe. He’d always had a talent for music; nothing great, but enough to bring him pleasure. His usual instrument used to be a wooden flute, but the harmonica had been a gift from a good friend, and Chip loved it. He put it to his mouth and began to play, the notes floating through the air lightly, filled with the satisfaction of being alive. He noticed a squirrel looking at him from an overhead branch.
     “Like the tune, do ya? Well, whaddaya think of this?” he asked the squirrel, then hopped up on the log and began a lively jig, dancing to his own tune.
     The squirrel offered no opinion.
     “He probably thinks you’re a total loon,” a voice ventured from the trees. “And he’s probably right. I’ve seen Trolls dance better than that.”
     Chip immediately stopped his dancing, drew his sword from the scabbard on his back, and pocketed the harmonica. The voice’s tone and sarcasm were familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He also wasn’t sure exactly where it had come from.
     Chip squinted carefully, his sharp eyes darting to and fro, searching for the owner of the voice. He then spotted the silhouette of a man, possibly Human, stepping out from behind a large oak. He hopped off the log, gripping his sword firmly, and waited cautiously. The man’s gait was definitely Human, but he seemed young, not more than eighteen or nineteen winters old. As he came closer, Chip saw he had dark hair, almost black, and an easy grin that seemed damned familiar. He was dressed in cotton and leather, all black, including his coat.
     Could it be? No, this lad is far too young…
     “Gar?” said Chip uncertainly as the young man approached.
     “The one and only.” The young man’s grin turned into a wide smile. He laughed and opened his arms, and engulfed the Halfling in a warm embrace.
     Chip returned the hug, pounding his friend on the back. Laughing, he dropped from the embrace and looked up at his old acquaintance.
     “You haven’t changed one bloody bit! Still with the quick mouth and smart remarks.” Chip looked at his friend while he sheathed his sword. “But it’s damn good to see ya, lad!” he added, clasping his arm.
     “And that goes double for me, you old lush,” said Garadun, his eyes taking in his old buddy. “I see you still play that harmonica I gave you as badly as ever. Must’ve scared off all the animals for a mile around,” he said with a laugh. “You haven’t changed much, either.”
     “Actually, you have changed,” said Chip and sat down on the log. “What in the Nine Hells happened to you? Some Spell go wrong?”
     “No, did this to myself. I’ve got a price on my head, remember? This was the best disguise I could think of, short of transforming myself into a tree or something. The bounty hunters are looking for a guy around forty or so, not some kid.”
     Chip nodded his agreement. Garadun was not usually one to back away from a scrap, especially when it involved the Church. But five thousand gold sovereigns was a lot of money, and not even sorcerers can be alert all the time. Chip had always thought Garadun was one of the ones who’d make it; tough enough not to take any shit, but smart enough to know when to play it quiet. Chip offered Garadun the bottle, but he waved it away.
     “That’s what you get for designing a Spell like that, I suppose,” said Chip, and took a swig. “Bloody Christians, no sense o’ humour. Still, got you your doctorate, didn’t it?”
     Garadun nodded and smiled. “Yup. My best work to date. My professor said it was 'the most audacious piece of demonology’ he’d seen in years.”
     “Well, you never were one for doing things halfway.”
     “True. If you’re gonna do something, do it right.”
     Chip smiled at his friend and sipped his whiskey. The light was failing fast now, and the moon was quite visible. Lights from the town below were starting to come on, and smoke columns could be seen against the sunset. The evening’s air had a nice, crisp taste to it; Chip felt really content.
     “Think there’ll be any problem in town?” Garadun asked.
     “Nah. Thistledale has only ever had but one Christian church, and with a small congregation at that. I’ve heard the priest is harmless,” said Chip, and Garadun snorted. Chip just smiled. Garadun’s contempt for the Church was well known among his friends, most of whom were non-Human. It was one of the many things that set him apart from humanity in general. Chip corked his bottle and put it in his pack.
     “So, we gonna sit here and stare at the stars and get drunk, or we gonna go into town and get some grub?”
     “Grub,” Garadun replied and stood up.
     Chip slipped his pack over his shoulder and stretched. He was a few inches over four feet tall and well muscled, making him stand out among other Halflings, and had led him to his chosen profession of freelance adventurer. The two friends set off down the road, Garadun slowing his pace to match his companion’s.
     “So what have you been up to these last few years?” Chip asked.
     “Oh, the usual…designing the odd new Spell, slaying Dragons, saving the world; that sort of thing.”
     Chip looked up at his friend and smiled. “Never play it straight, do ya mate? That mouth’s gonna get you into serious trouble someday.”
     “Someday?” Garadun chuckled. “The Newgate Thieves Guild still wants some payback because of that incident with the Orb of Foresight; Count Rembrandt is still fuming about me helping his daughter get out of that marriage; and I have a death sentence from Bishop Wells. I think I’m already in serious trouble.”
     “And none of it bothers you?”
     “Not really,” said Garadun, shrugging. “The Guild will get over it. They won’t let a petty grudge interfere with business. The Count can’t actually do anything; his daughter was of legal age, and not even the Church would back a forced marriage when a noble’s involved. As for Bishop Wells…well, if that fat bastard wants to take me on, fine. I have plans for him, but I’m in no hurry.”
     “You’ve got a point. Mind you, I’d–” Chip stopped and cocked his head.
     “What is it?” Garadun asked quietly. Chip tapped his ear in reply. Garadun looked around carefully. Like all Halflings, Chip had sharp hearing and he trusted it. If Chip said he heard something, he believed it. However, Garadun’s stomach was rumbling and he wasn’t in the mood for any crap.
     “All right, whoever it is, come on out, “ Garadun called.
His only reply was the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves.
     “Look, I don’t have time for this shit. If you’re bandits, give us a go. But let’s get on with it. We have better things to do than hang around in the woods waiting for some morons trying to catch us off-guard.”
     Chip drew his sword and waited.
     There was a rustle of leaves and a small figure stepped out from the underbrush. He was a good six inches shorter than Chip. He wore faded blue Levis, a puffy white shirt, and a worn, brown leather vest. Like most Halflings, he went barefoot. His hazel eyes were alight with playful mischief and his head was topped with a shock of bright red-orange hair. He had several pouches hanging off his belt, most of which didn’t originally belong to him. Chip burst out laughing.
     “I’ll be buggered! Red Sandhovel!” he cried as he ran forward to give his cousin a pounding on the back. Red returned the hug and sized up his cousin.
     “Lookin’ good, mate,” said Red.
     “You too, you old scoundrel,” said Chip, tousling his hair. “C’mon, look who we’ve got here,” he said, leading Red over to where Garadun was waiting.
     “Who’s this, then?”
     “That’s a fine thing to say to the man who gave you those jeans.”
     “Gar?!” said Red in surprise. Then sudden understanding filled his face. “I gets it. Yer in disguise, ’iding from th’ Church. ’Ow’d ya manage it, mate?”
     “Simple. Youth Pill mixed in with a Longevity Potion. I didn’t minor in alchemy for nothing, y’know,” Garadun replied. “Have you been in town yet?”
     “No, not yet. I’ve been waitin’ fer you blokes t’ get ’ere.”
     “Well, we’re here, so let’s get going. I’m famished,” said Chip.
     “Do you think th’ others ’ave arrived yet?” Red asked as they continued down the road.
     “I hope so,” Chip replied. “Bob still owes me five shillings.”
     Laughing, the trio made their way through the deepening darkness, heading for the lights of Thistledale, which promised food, drink, and a soft bed.

                                                                    ***

The town of Thistledale had long been popular with travellers, situated as it was on the main roadway between Elven-dominated Mag Mor to the north and the Human-controlled Papal Lands to the south. The town itself was located in neutral Banba, which lay between the enemy states. Like all the townships and cities of Banba, peoples of all races were welcome so long as they didn’t stir up trouble. Thistledale itself had a large Human population, which was unusual as it lay near the Mag Mor border. Most towns in the north had a primarily Elvish and Halfling citizenry.
     The Purple Lotus Inn was the most popular establishment in Thistledale and was always bustling with customers. What brought in the crowds were three things: beer, food, and women; all of which were of good quality and inexpensive. It was to The Purple Lotus that the three adventurers had set their sights.
     The building was a full three storeys in height, built from Dwarf-quarried stone and oak from the surrounding woodlands. All the windows were fitted with fine glass, with the windows on the third floor holding stained glass in bright, cheerful colours. The sign hanging above the main door was beautifully carved and painted with the image of the rare flower from which the place took its name. The Purple Lotus Inn was warm and inviting, and the companions were glad to have finally arrived.
     Chip flung the door open and they were buffeted by the noise of customers talking, laughing and singing. The main hall was a bustle of activity, with serving girls going to and fro delivering food and drink. There were no minstrels tonight, but there was music anyway as a group of Dwarves were in the middle of some song about gold and jewels. Red appreciated the topic but felt Dwarven songs were too gloomy. Some Dragon or other nastiness always seemed to show up and kill everyone, swiping all the treasure.
     Garadun’s eyes swept the crowd quickly and efficiently, taking in the entire room. He smiled, tapped Chip on the shoulder, and pointed across the hall. A pair of large horns sat atop a huge bull-like head, which was in the process of drinking an ale.
     “Who do you see?” Chip asked, his vision blocked by the throng of people.
     “Bob,” Garadun replied.
     “Then the others should be here as well.”
     Chip motioned to Red and they started making their way through the crowd. Even by The Purple Lotus’ standards it was busy tonight. All the chairs were taken, all the tables were full, including those on the second floor terrace. But crowd-weaving was an art form and all three were highly skilled at it. Red was so eager to see his old friends, he only picked two pockets as he made his way through the mass of people.
     Chip made it to the table first and was rewarded by being hauled into the air by Bob and given a hug that took the wind out of him. Garadun smiled at the sight of the huge Minotaur welcoming the little Halfling. By the time he and Red had reached the table, Bob had put Chip down and had his arms open to greet them.
     “Easy, big guy!” Red warned him. “I like me ribs in one piece!”
     Bob laughed and settled for a quick handshake. “Who’s this young chap?”
     “It’s Gar, ya big lummox! Who else would it be?” Red answered.
     Remembering his friend was a sorcerer, Bob felt stupid that he hadn’t seen the effects of magic straight off. He shook Garadun’s hand firmly.
     “I’m glad to see you all in one piece, dear boy. I heard about the bounty and was awfully concerned.”
     Garadun smiled and patted his friend’s shoulder reassuringly. He never got used to the fact that this huge, burly Minotaur sounded like he read news for the BBC. He also didn’t look like your typical Minotaur. His horns were carefully polished and he wore no ring in his bull-like nose, preferring gold ones in his large ears. A self-proclaimed man of refinement, Bob’s clothes were always of the best quality and this night was no exception. His shirt, while of simple cut, was made of the finest white silk available, and his trousers (with a hole to allow for his tail) were fashioned of superlative black samite. For a final swashbuckling touch, Bob wore a crimson sash around his waist. As a being with hooves, he required no footwear. All this on a massively-muscled Minotaur, well over seven feet tall, was quite eye-catching.
     “Are the girls here?”
     “Most of them,” said Bob, and stepped aside to let him pass.
     Treva Lormyr was the first to greet him. Treva was always a delicious sight for any man. She had long, lime-green hair framing a very pretty face, green eyes, and cleavage you could ski down. This night she was wearing tight burgundy velvet pants, black hip boots and a black silk top that barely held in her large chest. As she hugged and kissed Garadun, he breathed in her perfume and felt a warmth stirring in his loins. Treva tended to have that affect on most men…and not a few women.
     “Good to see you, beautiful,” he said as they broke from the embrace.
     “Same here, honey. I like the new you,” she said, running her fingers through his short-cropped hair as she checked out his youthful looks. “Suits who you really are.”
     “That’s for sure,” Garadun agreed and moved to greet the other person sitting at the table. The woman was wearing an inky-black robe with a cowl that cast a shadow over most of her face. As she stood, the robe draped over her thin, willowy frame. A pale hand emerged from a wide sleeve and pulled the cowl down. Fine, black hair poured out, and two dark, fathomless eyes stared at him from an elegant face.
     “Miranda. A pleasure as always,” said Garadun as he took her hand and gently kissed it. The hint of a smile made its way to her lips and her eyes softened.
     “Always the gentleman,” Miranda remarked. Garadun held her chair for her and she sat down, but didn’t put the hood up again. She was about to say something further, but was cut off by Red yelling for service.
     Red felt her eyes on him and turned. “’Ey there, Spooky, wot’s up?”
     Miranda’s eyes went hard as stone. “Do not call me that.”
     “Why not? Let’s face it–”
     Red’s comment was cut off as Chip smacked him upside the head. Garadun put a hand on Miranda’s shoulder and whispered something to her.
     “Look, mate,” Chip cautioned, “we just got here. I have no intention of having my evening fucked up by you getting gooed by a sorceress. Now shut up.”
     Red’s instincts for survival overtook his instincts for mischief, and he shut up. There were far less dangerous people for him to antagonise than a full-fledged necromancer. Like, say, a hung-over Hobgoblin who’d just come home and discovered him wearing his pyjamas, smoking his cigars, and in bed with his wife.
     “I think we could use another round of drinks,” Treva suggested, trying to change the subject and lighten the mood. Miranda and Red had never really gotten along. Truth was, Miranda tended to creep everyone out, including Treva. People obsessed with the Dead usually did. One exception was Garadun. He was a demonologist and was used to dark things. But it was more than that. He was a very open-minded individual who spoke his mind and accepted people for what they were.
   The serving girl arrived with not only drinks, but a small boar surrounded by a ring of roasted potatoes. The tension at the table vanished as everyone dug into the food and drink with various levels of gusto.
     “So where’s Cera?” Garadun asked.
     Bob held up a letter. “She wrote me saying she would be here. I’ve never known her to break her word. She’ll be here.”
     Garadun nodded, but he was still concerned. Cera Oakroot was his best friend. They had met in his first year at the Oisin University of Magic, in the town of Niamh, and had been friends ever since. He loved her fiery spirit, her courage, and her honesty. A lot of men had had a crush on Cera, but he avoided that pitfall and stuck to friendship. He was just starting his second helping of food when Chip alerted him.
     “There you go, lad.”
     Garadun turned and burst into a wide smile. “Cera!”
     In the doorway stood a tall Elf woman, clad in the green tartan kilt of the Clan Oakroot. Under the kilt were breeches that ended just past her knees. She wore soft leather shoes, matching gloves, and a simple cotton tunic the colour of eggshell. Over her shoulders was a hooded green cloak. Her long, chocolate-brown hair had three braids in it, one fastened with a semi-precious stone. Her deep blue eyes swept the room as she rested her hand on the hilt of her sword.
     Garadun rose to his feet and Cera came to him, throwing her arms around him and holding him tightly. He gripped her just as tightly, revelling in her warmth, her scent, and her strength.
     “I’ve missed you,” he whispered in Elvish.
     “And I you, my Bloodbrother.”
     Cera pulled back, keeping her hands on his arms as they appraised one another.
     She hasn’t changed much, Garadun thought, except maybe the hair is a bit longer and the eyes a little wiser. The sword looks like it’s seen a few more fights, and she now has three braids; one with a jewel. That means she’s got twelve righteous kills under her belt…good for her! And she’s just as beautiful as ever.
     “You’ve been mucking about with Potions again,” said Cera with a laugh.
     Garadun returned the laugh. Not only was it good to see his closest friend once more, but it was a sheer delight to hear her voice again; he loved the sound of female Elven voices. It was like mixing the character of a Scot with the softness and musical quality of a Japanese into an odd but beautiful blend. Male Elves were much the same, but as one would expect, somewhat deeper.
     They walked over to the table and Cera greeted everyone in turn. Red knew better than to make any smart remarks. Not only was Cera very skilled with a sword, but she was a sorceress in her own right, with a doctorate in hexing. Being cursed by someone as vindictively imaginative as her was something he wanted to avoid.
     Chip stood up on his chair and, with a beer in his right hand and his left thumb in his belt, proceeded to make what Red called “The Speech.”
     “My dear friends,” Chip began, “I am overjoyed to see you all here on this fine, early autumn night, and am glad you were able to put aside your personal affairs to journey here at my request.”
     Chip then took a good pull on his beer. He was relishing this, for if he had one weakness, it was a delight in speechifying. Red grinned and rolled his eyes at Treva, who returned his grin.
     “My dear friends, it has been far too long, two years too long in my reckoning, that we were assembled for a great and glorious quest.” They all looked at each other, their faces full of curiosity. Chip loved a good audience.
     “Now, at last, Fate has shown us Her hand–”
     “I’d rather ’ave ’er show us ’er tits!” Red yelled. Treva promptly smacked him upside the head. “Ow! Why does everyone keep doin’ that?”
     “Because you have a big mouth. Shut up and let your cousin talk. Go on, Chip.”
     Chip took another sip of his beer and gave Red the hairy eyeball.
     “As I was saying,” he continued, “Fate has shown us Her hand. I have come into the possession of a special map. This map to be precise.” Chip drew out a folded piece of parchment from inside his shirt and laid it out on the table.
     “Note the runes here,” he said, pointing to some lettering marked in blue on the left side of the map. Miranda got out of her chair and gazed very carefully at the runes. She then looked at both Garadun and Cera, who each examined the markings in turn.
     “I’ve never seen any like it,” said Cera.
     “Neither have I,” added Garadun.
     “Well, I have,” said Miranda, and everyone looked at her. “I cannot read them, but I recognise them. The runes are High Faë, the language of the Daoine Sidhe, who came from the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
     “Since when do you know so much about Faëries?” said Cera, slightly annoyed.
     “Since university,” Miranda replied haughtily. “Garadun minored in alchemy, you minored in elementalism, and I minored in ancient languages.”
     “How come you never mentioned this before?”
     “You never asked.”
     Cera opened her mouth to reply, but Bob cut her off. “This review of everyone’s academic accomplishments is all well and good, but it brings us no closer to deciphering what’s written on that map.”
     Both women sat down and ignored each other. Chip sighed and put his hand over his eyes. Garadun patted him on the back.
     “At least we know what language it’s in.”
     “That’s true,” said Chip. “Now, do we know anyone who can translate it for us?”
     “How about one of these ’Theena She’ people?” Treva suggested.
     “Impossible,” Cera stated. “The Daoine Sidhe are the rulers of the Faërie peoples and are not ones to trespass with mortals, even Elves, unless it suits their purposes.”
     “Any sorcerers, then?”
     “None that I know of. How about you, Gar? Miranda?”
     “Miranda’s the only one I know who’s even familiar with the runes.”
     “Even my professor could not read them. He just had some untranslated examples for the students to examine.”
     Everyone became quiet with thought. Dammit, said Chip to himself. First I get my speech interrupted, twice, and now we’ve hit a snag. I was hoping that one of them could help with the runes. I don’t want to tell them I know sod all about the map other than the geography. If I’ve called them here for nothing…
     Chip’s musing was suddenly interrupted by Bob. “Listen, chums, here’s a thought. Cera says these Daoine Sidhe only deal with mortals when it suits their purposes. Is there any way we can make it suit their purposes?”
     “How do you mean?” said Cera.
     “What I mean, dear lady, is this: is there something we can offer them in exchange for the translation?”
     “I doubt it. They have pretty much everything they want.”
     “Not quite,” said Garadun, and everyone looked at him.
     “Miranda has seen some of their writings, which is more than I can say. But I’ve been fascinated with Faërie lore since I was a kid, and have read all sorts of books and stories on the subject, including the ones in the university library.”
     “Go on,” Chip urged, seeing a possible out.
     “Well, as I recall there are lots of different High Kings among the Daoine Sidhe. One of these is a guy named Finvarra. From what I’ve read, he deals a lot with mortals.”
     “Really? How?” said Miranda.
     Garadun smiled. “According to legend, Finvarra’s a randy old sod. Abducts mortal women all the time for his pleasure, despite the fact that his wife, Oonagh, is said to be the most beautiful of all the Daoine Sidhe.”
     “Well, that’s just typical of a man,” said Treva, and everyone chuckled. “Are you suggesting one of us bed him? Like me, for instance? I gave up whoring, you know.”
     “I’m well aware of that, Treva. The last thing I’d want is for any of you ladies to fall under his control. What I was going to say was that as well as abducting women, Finvarra is an avid chess player. Never turns down a challenge.” At this, Garadun looked right at Bob, who smiled back.
     “I see where you’re headed with this. You want me to challenge him to a game, with the translation of the map as the prize for beating him. Am I correct?”
     “Bingo,” said Garadun with a smile.
     “An’ wot do we offer ’im if Bob loses?” Red asked. “One o’ th’ girls?” That earned him a dark look from all the women at the table. “I wasn’t serious, I was just sayin’, is all.”
     “Red has a good point. What do we offer him?” said Chip.
Garadun pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “Well, Finvarra is said to be a King of the Dead. Perhaps Miranda could put up one of her Spells as a prize.”
     Miranda looked at him, then the others, and was quiet for a while.
     “I would be willing,” she said carefully, “because I know Garadun does not say such a thing lightly. Also, I have confidence in Bob’s ability as a chessman.”
     Garadun leaned across the table and put his hand on hers. “Thanks, Miranda.” She merely nodded her head, but there was a warm smile in her eyes.
     “All right then. All we have to do then is contact this Finvarra person, have Bob beat him at chess, and get the map translated,” Chip declared happily.
     “Then wot?” Red asked.
     “What do you mean, ’Then what?’” Chip retorted. “Then we follow the instructions on the map and recover the treasure at the end of it.”
     “’Ow do you know there’s treasure? If you can’t even read it, ’ow do you know it leads to treasure? Hmm?”
     “Well, what else would there be? People don’t make maps like this and inscribe them with mysterious runes for nothing, y’know,” said Chip irritably. If there was one thing he hated, it was people screwing up his perfectly formulated plans with logic.
     Treva stood to get everyone’s attention. “Okay you two, knock it off. Red has a point, but so does Chip. My gut says we go with this. Honestly, has anyone got anything better to do?” She looked at each in turn and no one said anything. “Right. That’s settled then. Second point: Gar, do you know where we can find this Finvarra?”
     “He’s supposed to live under the Faërie Hill of Knockma.”
     “So where’s that?”
     “I don’t know, but I can find out.”
     “Right, since we’ve all agreed that we’re going and there’s nothing we can do until we find out where this Knockma is, I say we stop bitching at each other and enjoy ourselves. This is supposed to be a gathering of friends.”
     “Well spoken, Treva,” said Cera, rising to her feet and hoisting her drink. “To the quest!” she cried. All the others grabbed their drinks and joined in.
     “To the quest!” they cried in unison.
     Chip was relieved. He had his friends together again, and a new quest.
     Now, if they could just pull it off...