PLANET MAGAZINE

[Illustration: “Den” © 2006 by D’Wayne Murphy.]

Den had made himself a good life after leaving the service of King Alexander. He started a small farrier’s shop in the northern border town of Gladia, the kind of town that was full of a variety of passersby on any given day, but without much to speak about except a few shops and the old fort that hadn’t been manned for a hundred years. He made a decent living forging weapons, horseshoes, and whatever else he was contracted to make. He had a wife of five years, and was forty years old. Before his retirement from the King’s army, his service, being both voluntary and full of illustrious duty, had earned him the highest honors and recognition, along with a measure of fame. Some considered him one of the greatest Kingsmen of the age, and tales of his heroic deeds were well known throughout the land.

Den reached such a place of esteem during the many years of his service that King Alexander even offered him knighthood, a position of honor typically never entrusted with someone not of royal blood. The last commoner to receive such an honor had saved the King’s life on two occasions, nearly two-hundred years past. Den respectfully refused, choosing a simpler life, hundreds of miles from the glory, the riches, and especially the intrigues associated with positions of power. He wanted a simple life for his family, to retire in peace. Let the stories speak for themselves; he had lived it and no longer wanted the glory. Besides, the realm was settled, peace was gained on a level that had not been known in hundreds of years, and he believed his duty to be done.

But it was not to be. Five years after his settlement in Gladia, a northern race known as the Dumerians invaded, a surprise attack that spread nearly the entire length of the border west of the towering mountains. The main force marched on Castle White, many days ride east of Gladia, and raiding parties were sent into the western lands. Den was on an errand south to Cambria at the time of the invasion, to obtain ore from the foundries there. When he returned along the packed-dirt road, he spotted the hulking creatures smash into a home on the outer edge of town. Seven- to eight-feet tall, wearing leather and fur, their lumbering gaits and large, hairless heads were unmistakable from even hundreds of yards out.

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[Illustration: “Henge and Druids” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

Thousands of years ago on a flat bit of land that eventually would be called Salisbury Plain, in what eventually would be known as Southern Britain, stood a ring of wooden uprights that would be compost. For generations the ring had taken many forms and signified many things, including the free availability of wood and where the smell was coming from in damp weather. At that precise moment in the ancient religious site’s history, a single great stone lay on its side, surrounded by the men and women who had dragged it across the land. It had been stopped by an obstacle more serious than steep hill or flooding river. The leader of the band, App Front, had to face the final problem alone.

“You’ve got no appreciation of Nature,” accused the protester.

“I’m a druid,” replied App.

“But not a real druid. You were fast-tracked. You’ve not spent decades getting in touch with the Earth Mother. You wouldn’t know a shamanistic ritual if one bit you on the bum. When did you last explore the entrails of –”

“Please,” App interrupted. He was doing his best to keep his patience. This was hard, especially when his opponent began sounding like Master Thunder Cloud, and he just knew, if he didn’t stop this right now, there’d be some comment about his beard.

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