When Morgenferrin had asked Shrehvone for pieces of the Segune Tree – the sacred and ancient timber, blessed with the realm-touch of the elves’ gods – rooted in the center of the elf-home, he had come very close to ordering her execution, she was sure.

Not that he had not been tempted centuries before, she thought, grazing her fingers over the scars on her left forearm.

But her merchant’s spiel over the value of Goldslice, especially in light of the mysterious Cloud and other sinister happenings, had simply been too convincing.

In the meadow bordering the woods north of Dumian, Morgenferrin stood in a wide grassy space, her bearers standing by her line of ox-drawn wagons.

As she held Half-wing, her marvelous device of two brass half-spheres, she admired its construction yet again.

Providing the connection between the hemispheres, stoutly anchored in place, were three pale, polished, rune-inscribed branches from the precious Segune, each 10 inches long and two inches thick.

Whispering the incantation for the device over and over, her dragon’s sight – the aerial mastery of wind and wing – carried her minds-eye far, far away.  Streaking high above the world, her vision traveled east, above and beyond the continent of Khostead, across the blue sea of the Brierren Channel and the ships dotting its waters, and into the land of Calador.

She picked the path of her point of view, to follow the route she had taken previously on her leathery wings.  Her vision did not stop soaring, until she spied a specific town within Humboldt Bruit.  She leisurely focused on one choice spot, and spoke the final magical commands.  A ripple appeared in the air, and grew into a shimmering disc of light vertical to the ground, becoming as wide as a large cave-mouth.

Ienpurse was not the largest Humboldt settlement.  It had been a mining camp south of the interior, and had grown into a military way-station in the kingdom’s first war.

Despite its lack of producing its own goods, Morgy knew its importance by the people passing through, and the town’s role in commerce and trading.

In the fork of the crisscrossing roads south of town, Morgy was the first one onto foreign soil, much to the amazement of laypersons who just happened to be there at the moment.  A pleasant word, coupled with her disarming smile, and no questions were asked.  Her bearers – stout Coastal youths – were a little apprehensive at approaching the glowing magical door when it first appeared.  But as Borivar, the lead boy, pointed out, they would not be paid, unless they led the skittish oxen into the gate and out the other side.  And she led her caravan – nine wagons in all – through the portal.

She promptly sent one of her hires to find Stromdell at the Barrel’s Axe.

In less than 15 minutes, as her heavily-laden wagons were just outside of town, Stromdell Copprin, one of her many adoptive sons, came running up.  Sporting great height and solid muscularity, with dark hair and beard, he had the look of true Coastal blood for all the world to see.  Despite having lived in a more ‘civilized’ culture for so long, he dashed up with a rugged air that spoke clearly of his roots, and greeted his mother with a great bear hug.

She tittered at the reception, going so far to ruffle his hair, despite his 45-plus years.

“Mother!  Well-met!  Good to see you!”

“Likewise, darling.”

She waved a hand to her wagon train.

“This way,” he said, and led the procession along the outskirts, to some storage houses on the west side of town.

Of the many children she had reared, few had taken to the expertise of business like Stromdell.  Not that she only saw young ones as a resource; she simply recognized the ability of human children, if properly taught, to do great things.  And when their aptitude led them to add to her financial trade, so much the better.

Being a jack of many skills, Stromdell had done well, and built this arm of his matriarch’s fortune for years.

“You’re still not aging a bit, Mother,” he told her over the remains of lunch.  “If you keep looking so young, people are going to talk.”

“Let them.  The wrinkles won’t take me until my bones are dust.  But now, tell me the expected reward from these goods.”

“Everything on your manifest can expect a 150% return.  In less than a month,” he quickly added.  “With the war that encroaches, the kingdom is in need.”

“But if you really want to help,” he continued, a little less jovially, “send warriors, not supplies.”

Borivar appeared at that moment, having been sent by the warehouse manager, after the young Coastals had put the merchandise away.

Morgy gave out silver pieces to each, with instructions to take a quick look at the town, and stay out of trouble.  If they saw something they liked, buy it.  And be back in no more than two hours.

After the stampede of adolescent feet faded, Stromdell continued.

“The raids come from too many places.  The supply lines are stretched as thin as the battle lines.  It’s harder to move more goods over more distance with more speed.”

“I saw some tents on the way in.”

“People have fled.  They have to exist where they can.”  He perked up a little.  “There was word of some Coastal mercenaries coming through.  Naturally, I told my neighbors to take heart.  One Coastal is worth five regulars from any other army.”

“Not that you haven’t proven that yourself, dear,” Lenairn, his little wife said, as she reached over the chair-arm, and snuggled his oaken limb with a firm grip.

“He’s the wrestling terror of the back alleys,” she said, to her draconic mother-in-law.  “Had to spend a night in jail a time or two, when a challenge turned into a brawl.  I’ve had a devil of a time seeing it not passed on to our children.”

“Heh-heh.  A businessman should be known for better judgment, son.”

“Aw, you can’t take the Coast out of the man, Mother.”

“Have you actually seen any of your kin come through?”

“No.  Just heard about it here and there.”

“And what of Fawnlum Lichner, the Dragon Smasher?”

“Aye!  I heard about it.  I knew I should have taken the family to the festival this year.  Why can’t you send her?”

Morgenferrin looked at him with a brief pause.  “She is already here.  She and her war-band came over months ago.”

“Really?  I’ve heard nothing.

“There is no word of the Dragon Smasher in Calador.  From my place here, I would have known of it, if she had passed through any territory north of Stavanger.”

Morgy’s countenance turned quietly thoughtful, becoming more concerned, as she digested this news.

She sat back, her mind working.

Finally, Stromdell asked, “What’s wrong?”