"Who goes there?"

The slight figure sitting easily on the chestnut horse drew rein a few yards away in the early morning fog and chuckled. The sentry couldn't be more than sixteen years old. "'Tis only me, Mathias! Put up your spear before you drop it on your foot! Cold morn, hey?" The rider pulled his cloak tighter about his form and rode past. The boy grinned in response, turning to watch as he spoke. "That it is, Ferret, I told... " The words died in his throat as he felt cold steel at his neck.

"Boy, " a harsh voice whispered "if I were not who you thought I was, you'd be dead by now. Never, EVER, let anyone through with no password, nor without actually seeing their face! Is that clear, Mathias?"

"Y-y-ess, Lord Ferret!"

"Good. Remember that, because not only your life is at stake, but the lives of your brothers in the Twisted Otters!" He nicked the boy on the jaw, not deeply, but enough to drive the lesson on home. Then releasing the sentry, the veteran climbed back into his saddle and went on his way. As he rode, he called back without turning: "And I'm no damn lord!"

*********

Thirty five years! Thirty five years plying the mercenary trade and he had the scars to prove it. How had the years slipped on by so quickly? He rode on, seemingly at ease as he drew a long clay pipe from his cloak and filled it with smokeweed. "Too many years," he scolded himself. By this age he had envisioned himself retired on some small farm or villa, either that or dead and long buried. But instead he found himself and the Otters mucking about yet again in France in yet another petty little war between some pissant dukes. At least he had been mucking about. But now, it was all going to come to an end with the strokes of pens on parchment: a treaty. There would be no war, calmer heads prevailing early enough to spare more casualties on both sides.

He'd collect the money owed and then the fabled Twisted Otter mercenary company would head for their winter quarters before the first snow fell. He could stand that. The older he got, the more he found himself content with not fighting. "Ah, Ferret , y'be getting old, " he told himself as he rounded a bend. He never heard the arrow fired from the trees to his right, not until just before it slammed high up on the right of his chest, knocking him from his saddle.

*********

He'd done it! He'd done it! The attacker quickly advanced on his target, chortling to himself. One down, the other to go. He tossed a piece of parchment by the wounded man. One word was written on it:

"Carcasonne"

He melted back into the trees.

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The Legacy: Part II

"Timmons!"

"Aye, milord?" Ian Blackthorn tossed a set of saddlebags on his desk and sat down. "Tell Marcus I have gone to visit Ferret. Corwin will be in command until I return. You will assist him until Marcus has fully recovered."

"Aye, sir! Does Marcus know about Ferret, or that Hadrian was the one who sent word?" The big man gave a shrug as he opened a drawer and took out a brace of daggers and shoved them in the bag.

"Possibly, Timmons. Hadrian might have sent him a message, too. Marcus is his son, after all." He stood. "Things should be easier about here now. Blackhawke is back, and we've a good complement of knights and squires. I hope to wrap this up quickly, but if not, I know you and Marcus will see things through for me. I'll give Ferret your regards." He clasped the arm of the grizzled veteran in a warrior's grip, then walked briskly towards the stable. Some men had left the Otters to follow him to Camelot. Timmons and Marcus, for example, and another who kept that past history secret. Ian knew he could count on these men to do what was needed. It made leaving like this easier.

Almost.

He led Horse out into the courtyard, mounted, and turned to look silently for several minutes at a darkened window over the firehall. How could he have left her like this? He almost got down from the saddle, almost decided to not heed Ferret's urgent request. But Ian knew Skye would not wish that. She would know what had made him stay, and then would be furious. So with a final gaze at the window to a room where he and his love had found joy and solace, Ian Blackthorn turned his steed towards the gates and rode out into the night.

"Be well, my soul. I will return as soon as Fate allows."

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The Legacy: Part III

Their only warning was the sudden sound of a horse being ridden hard, but as if through a tunnel or cave, the sound of hooves echoing off the walls. Then a blue mist appeared before the tent of their fallen captain, and a huge bay horse reared in their midst, its tall rider's black cape billowing as he calmed his mount. A few newer members of the Company reached for their weapons, only to have their movement blocked by a veteran who recognized the apparition.

"It's Firnadan. You can't kill the Dead Man."

The rider finally swung to the ground and looked about him. "So... where is Hadrian? And who can tell me how Ferret is?" He no sooner had spoken than the flap of the tent opened, and a thin olive-skinned man stepped out and walked to him. A slight shake of the head was all the answer the newcomer needed. He blinked once, then nodded. When he finally spoke, it was with a voice tinged with grief. "Summon his staff. We meet in an hour." Then Ian Blackthorn walked into the tent to have his last visit with the man who had been more a father than the man who had sired him.

**********

So cold. So close to Spring, and yet the boy felt as if his bones were frozen to the core. He did not move though, as he spied for the third day in a row on the strange small man cooking a meal in the clearing. Ian sniffed. Damn the man! He was cooking venison... and he was roasting an apple! The half-elf's mouth watered as the aroma filled his nostrils. His stomach rumbled, the noise so loud to his own ears he felt sure the other must have heard. But he did not move; he'd fought and killed orcs all winter on his own and he'd be damned if he would betray his hard won skills by succumbing to a well cooked meal. Instead he crouched and watched in agony as the human cut a slice of meat off the spit and chewed his meat with a contented sigh.

"You must be hungry, whoever you are!" The voice boomed out so loud Ian nearly fell over. "I've plenty of food.!"

Still Ian held his position. The man cut some meat and set it on a slap of bread, then spoke once more. "I don't know the Sithryn ritual, but you are half-human if you are who I think you are. I offer you food and drink and the peace of the fire. Now come eat. I can hear you salivating all the way over here." He held the food out in his hands, and Ian had the small satisfaction of seeing it was in the wrong direction from where he hid. He slipped out of the trees, walked over silently and tapped the man on the back.

The next thing he knew, he was laying on the cold ground, a dagger at his throat, and the small man sitting atop his chest... eating the bread and meat. "Boy, first lesson. Never assume your opponent is not at least as smart as you are. You'll catch your death of over-confidence." He rose, then turned back to the fire, and cutting more meat and bread, handed Ian a portion, then tossed the boy his waterskin. "So, you are the Dead Man?"

Ian wiped some water from where it had dribbled on his chin. "I am Firnadan. It's Sindarin, but it's still an elven name. And, aye, it means Dead Man. It's what I am, now. Both my human and Sithryn clans have disowned me."

"And you are taking it out on the orcs. Never thought I'd feel sorry for the poor bastards. Well, that's neither here nor there." He sniffed at the apples roasting slowly on the spit. "Apparently you are not dead enough. I and my men were hired to hunt you down."

"What?" Ian stopped in mid-bite of his venison, blinked, and then laughed. "Why? Eventually the orcs will get me. I just wanted to take as with me as possible before they do. I wiped out half my father's guard. The least I could do is make sure I give it time to rebuild. Who would spend money to hunt down a clanless half-elf?"

"As to the orcs, you've done so well with them I and my men picked up a few coins protecting the duchy on the other side of this forest. The last two months there's been small bands of them fleeing out that way and causing havoc. You are too good, young Firn... hmm... it's Ian, isn't it? I think I prefer that. As to the other... " he paused as he leaned forward and removed the apples, "always as yourself, `Cui bono?' who benefits? In this case, it's your father's second cousin Wulfstan. He's already claimed the castle, changed its and the clan's name back to Thornhaven, and been recognized as the new Baron. Just one catch to all his good fortune: you." He tossed an apple to Ian, who immediately discovered it was hot and began juggling it from hand to hand to cool it off.

"Me? Ahh... he fears I might somehow comeback and take it all away? Pfft." The boy screwed up his face. "As if I would ever go back at all. So, are you going to kill me?"

"A suicidal, orc-killing , battle-mage trained half-elf boy?" The man took a slice of apple on his knife, popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly, an expression of deep thought on his face. "Hmm. He just said get rid of you. So, Ian Blackthorn, or Firnadan, I have a proposal for you. Come work for me. It's better than running about half frozen in these woods. If it's dying you're after, you'll find it soon enough with me. But I'm betting you'll get over that soon enough. What do you say?"

Ian sat there in silence. The apple cooled as he looked about the clearing, anywhere but at the man. He was right. Anywhere he died would make no difference. At least he would be far away from here. He turned back to regard his host. "Alright, milord... what is YOUR name?" And the small man grinned, held out his hand, and said: "Ferret. Just Ferret. And welcome to my Otters."

He waited until Ian took the hand, then yanked the boy forward and up. "Second lesson. Always expect the unexpected." Ian nodded, stepped to the right, hooked his leg between Ferret's and tossed him to the ground. "I'll remember that." Laughter filled the clearing as Ferret got to his feet. "You'll do, lad. You'll do"

*********

They had placed his sword in his hands after they'd cleaned him up. Ian supposed they felt it was the proper way to lay him out, but he somehow thought it looked all wrong. Something else should... the pipe! Ferret always seemed to have that pipe in his hands or his mouth in all Ian's memories of him. He looked about the sparse furnishings, but the pipe was nowhere to be found. He was just about to search Ferret's saddlebag when the tent flap lifted and Hadrian stepped inside. "They're waiting, Ian." Blackthorn nodded. "I'll be right there." He turned back to the body on the cot, still not believing that this man who had meant so much was truly gone. He reached out and lightly touched one gauntleted hand to one of Ferret's. "We'll find whoever did this, old man. And he will pay." He reached down beside the cot where a blood soaked cloth had been tossed aside. "Blood for blood" He turned and walked out to plan revenge.

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