The Second Generation

The mythologists tell you
how the journey takes place
in a landscape of spirit.
But there is also a highway,
dusty and palpable,
and washed-out bridges
that harbor a navy of trolls,
overpriced inns full of vermin,
and signposts half twisted
by vandals and travelers
searching for something to do.

This is the road
out of which the myth rises
when suddenly bridges
most suspect and ramshackle
waver and gable with light.
It is then you are saying
this must be the answer
the crossroad is more than a crossroad
the wayside numinous
littered with symbols.
That is the story
when the bridge collapses,
when your abstracted ankle
twists in the rutted road.
It is the tale
that the trolls choose always,
for the danger of myth
is in too much meaning.
Sometimes the stars
or the steepled cloud
is sufficient in gas or vapor,
the road is dust
leading out of belief
and the markers are stone upon stone.
It is then, in the fundamental time,
your travel lies waiting before you.
It is the long house
of all mythology,
what they cannot explain
nor explain away.
It is where journeys begin.

Foreword (Or Afterword, As the case May Be)

“A fine mage you are,” muttered Tanin, standing on the dock, watching the ship sail away. “You should have known all along there was something strange about that dwarf!”

“Me?” Palin retorted. "You were the one that got us mixed up in the whole thing to begin with! 'Adventures always start in such places as this. “

the young magic-user said, mimicking his older brother’s voice.

“Hey, guys,” began Sturm in mollifying tones.

“Oh, shut up!” Both brothers turned to face him. “It was you who took that stupid bet!”

The three brothers stood glaring at each other, the salt breeze blowing the red curling hair of the two eldest into their eyes and whipping the white robes of the youngest about his thin legs.

A ringing shout, sounding over the dancing waters, interrupted them.

“Farewell, lads! Farewell! It was a nice try. Perhaps we’ll do it again someday!”

“Over my dead body!” All three brothers muttered fervently, raising their hands and waving halfheartedly, sickly grins on their faces.

“That’s one thing we can all agree on,” said Sturm, beginning to chuckle.

“And I know another.” The brothers turned thankfully away from the sight of the sailing vessel lumbering through the waters.

“And that is ... ?”

“That we never tell another living soul about this, as long as we live!"

Sturm’s voice was low. The other two brothers glanced about at the spectators standing on the docks. They were looking at the ship, laughing.

Several, glancing at the brothers, pointed at them with stifled giggles.

Grinning ruefully, Tanin held his right hand out in front of him. Sturm placed his right hand on his brother’s, and Palin put his right hand over the other two.

“Agreed,” each said solemnly.

Chapter One

“Adventures always start in such places as this,” said Tanin, regarding the inn with a satisfied air.

“You can’t be serious!” Palin said, horrified. “I wouldn’t stable my horse in this filthy place, let alone stay here myself!”

“Actually,” reported Sturm, rounding the corner of the building after an inspection tour, “the stables are clean compared to the inn, and they smell a damn sight better. I say we sleep there and send the horses inside.”

The inn, located on the docks of the seaside town of Sancrist, was every bit as mean and ill-favored in appearance as those few patrons the young men saw slouching into it. The windows facing the docks were small, as though staring out to sea too long had given them a perpetual squint. Light from inside could barely filter through the dirt. The building itself was weather- and sand-blasted and crouched in the shadows at the end of the alley like a cutpurse waiting for his next victim. Even the name, The Spliced Jib, had an ominous sound.