The Barrowland Slayers

Prelude: Human Lands

 A foul miasma drifted over the land ahead. One that Gynefra Caul-Marrel had resolved to cleanse.

"Ain't never seen Elves in these parts," the ferryman began, attempting conversation with his two silent passengers as they approached the far bank. "Y'all merchants?"

The accent stung at Gynefra's sensitive ears just as badly as the acrid stench of these lands sting her eyes. It was even more degraded than the language spoken in the human kingdom of Altia. She shifted in place, wrapping a length of crimson fabric across her mouth and nose. Her companion regarded her with some amusement.

"There's no evidence the plague crosses species." Barnabus Kastebar, physiker of the Watchful Tower, bent down and hefted his thick leather satchel. Glass vials within clinked and rattled.

"Best not to take the chance," Gynefra replied with a sniff. "Besides, the land stinks of human."

The ferryman frowned, but Gynefra ignored him. Perhaps forty years old, he was like a toddler to one as ancient as her, though her appearance belied her age. Smooth and unwrinkled, she knew that her elegant features would draw attention among the grubby human peasants of the Frontier. Her eyes flitted from side to side, trying to make out any potential threats through the mist.

A rickety jetty emerged, sticking out a muddy bank. The ferryman adjusted his oar and they drifted closer. "No call for y'all to ignore me," he grumbled.

"I have been here before, as it happens." Gynefra glanced over. "During what you humans called the War of the Great Coalition."

The man blinked, unable to form a response until the raft drifted into the jetty. "But... but that..."

"Was a hundred years ago," Gynefra commented, grounding her staff for balance hopping across. "Yes." She turned and held out a hand for the physiker. Burdened by a heavy pack, the younger Elf sucked in a deep breath and leaped forward, not deigning to accept her help. The ferryman stared at them in shock.

"A pox upon you both," he murmured, spitting onto the muddy bank. "Knew I shouldn'ta taken your silver."

"Pox?" Barnabus cackled. "Why do you think we're here?"

"Come on," Gynefra urged, seeing little point in bandying words with the man. They were in the Frontier, now, which was all that mattered. A few days of investigation and samples and then they'd be heading back to the Watchful Tower. Whether they'd confirm the old plague had sprung up again or identify a new one meant little to Gynefra—she knew that she'd been selected for her martial prowess and familiarity with the area. She would get them there, fighting all the while if need be.

Barnabus would do the testing.

"Does this land look familiar to you, Sorceress?"

"This?" Gynefra scowled, her boots sinking into the mud as she pushed her way up the low ridge. Yellowed grasses waved lazily in the gentle, cool breeze that drifted along the river, creating holes in the fog around them. "No. I was part of the northern advance. Brynfried's division of foot." Sucking in a deep breath, she let her memories drift. They weren't entirely unpleasant. For most of the campaign, fighting the humans had been like driving a herd of stinking cattle.

Until they had stood their ground at Drenwald's Ford.

"I had just been promoted to aspiring battlemage at the time. My—"

Three sharp whistles interrupted her. The Elves whirled around to see the ferryman, his oars shipped, grinning at them with yellowed teeth. Then he snatched them up again and began hurriedly rowing. Gynefra felt her heart sink, even as a miniature sandstorm began to gather at the tip of her spear. An expert in wind magic, she could kill the man a hundred different ways, even as his raft faded into the mist.