Tamlyn Danirov

Tamlyn son of Dauryn of House Danirov (a.k.a. Tam)

The village was empty. There wasn’t a wisp of smoke from a single hearth, nor even the rustle of a restless goat shifting in its sleep. As the full moon slid from beneath the clouds the abandoned hovels were thrown into stark relief. The doors of every hut hung open. Several lay shattered in the mud as if they’d been… shredded. The entire village was silent but for the occasional creak of wooden hinges moving in the slight breeze. Tam fought off a shiver.

The village was dead.

Tam eased himself back from the edge of the boulder. He flicked a signal to the men waiting behind him, never taking his eyes from the settlement below. The near silent rustle of cloth and leather was the only sound of their passing as they melted away into the darkness. He waited, muscles beginning to ache from the tension of holding himself motionless. Every breath felt like it must echo off the mountain ridge cupping the valley, but he waited.

The soft call of a pine owl came from the trees rimming the lower end of the village. A few moments later the call was answered from a thicket on the far side. Tam eased the breath from his lungs and let the tension in his muscles seep out with it, letting the tight ache melt into a sinuous glide from boulder to boulder as he and his two shadows crept through the rock strewn meadow toward the nearest of the huts. His left hand shadow slid away towards the next building. The shadow to his right circled to the rear of the nearest cottage as Tam slid toward its shattered door, sword upraised. All up and down the muddy track that served as a street the dark forms of his men hovered, one at the entrance to each ramshackle building. Each crouched with sword lifted or bow nocked. The moon passed behind another bank of clouds and Tam gave a short whistle. As one, they slipped through the darkened doorways.

Tam stepped to the side the moment he was through the entrance, removing the perfect target his silhouette would make against the faint light. He waited. The only sound in the room was his own breathing. Then, finally, a tiny scratching. He angled his head toward the noise but otherwise remained still. Another breath and the moon passed out of the clouds. The white light poured through the doorway and Tam scanned the single room.

It had been ransacked. Even in the pale light he could see the destruction. Shards of broken pots crackled underfoot as he moved toward the hearth—little more than a hole dug in the center of the dirt floor. The sleeping pallets on either side of the pit sprawled in heaps as though someone had kicked them about. A wooden grain ark lay shattered on its side. Its contents, if there had been any at all, were gone except for a scattering of kernels, pale against the dark floor. The faint scratching resolved itself as a tiny shadow darted out of the ark and beneath a pallet. At least the mice were eating well.

Tam crouched over the hearth. The stench of scorched food mixed with the scent of ash and smoke. A clay pot appeared to have been shattered in the pit, presumably losing the family’s meager meal into the fire. He brushed a hand through the ashes. Cold. The inhabitants had been gone since long before night fell. Carefully he slid his hand into what remained of the pot’s base. A small puddle of the scorched porridge was still crusted inside. He scrubbed his fingers on his trousers and stood. No one in this village would have wasted even that much food. The sack of provisions he’d left tucked at the base of the boulders suddenly seemed achingly heavy.

He forced his mind back to the problem at hand. Who had done this? The dead gods only knew what anyone would have hoped to find in such a place. Marauding bandits occasionally preyed on the smaller settlements, but they’d have to be utterly desperate to come looking for plunder here. Most had given up and slipped through the passes to Királia and its richer plains several winters past. It could have been a neighboring settlement driven too near starvation to resist, but surely one of his scouts would have noticed if matters were getting that dire. There was nothing here of value except…

A sickened certainty began to curl in his stomach.

A shadow moved behind him, blocking the moonlight, and he spun, sword lifted.

“Peace.”

Tam eased his grip on the sword hilt. “Madrig.”

The older warrior stepped away from the door and Tam followed him out into the moonlit street.

“Anything?” Tam’s half whisper sounded far too loud in the empty night.

Madrig shook his head. “Goat shed was empty. Gates broken down.”

Tam stopped in the shadow of the next hut, scanning the tiny village as the men and women under his command began to emerge and congregate in small defensive clusters. He tapped a finger against his sword hilt. “No people. No animals.” He eyed the remains of the nearest door. It had been shredded outward, not caved in. A draugr might manage that but none had crossed the peaks since his grandfather’s time. That he knew of. Perhaps a mara. But if one of those abominations had been let off its leash to range this far it would have left a trail a blind wolf without a nose could have followed. And there would have been bodies. Lots of them. This stank of quiet, cunning cruelty. “It was him.”

The other warrior’s grunt was as eloquent as a speech from another man.

“He’s already taken the tithe this season.” Tam nearly spit the words. They tasted foul in his mouth. “And he’s never claimed an entire village. Not even for the slave pits.”

Madrig said nothing, his own gaze raking the tree line and peaks above.

“Why take the animals?”

The older man slanted a glance at him and Tam acknowledged the silent point. “Yes. Why not.” He supposed even hell spawn needed to eat.

One of the silent figures in the street pulled away from the others and resolved itself into Janna’s solid form as she drew near, an arrow still nocked loosely on her bow.

“Did you find anyone?” Tam asked before the woman could speak.

She shook her head. “No bodies. At least not human ones.” Tam felt the muscles across his back seize with tension then release as she continued. “A few dogs. Ripped open.”

“Blades?” Madrig asked.

“One.”

The tension returned with a vengeance. “The others?”

“Teeth. Claws. Large ones by the looks of it. And dead at least two days by the smell.”

Tam swore and squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t suppose we can hope it was a mountain cat?”

Janna shot him a look so full of disgust Tam could feel it in the dark. “Never seen a mountain cat leave its meal uneaten. Or carry a blade.”

Tam ignored her—usually the best course with the redhead—and studied the village around them. Two days. If they had come two days sooner… What? They would have saved them? If that bastard had sent his monsters here, if Tam and the others had been caught in the middle, it would have been a slaughter. There wasn’t a man or woman with him who wouldn’t have drawn blade on the chance to take one of those creatures down—Janna would have drawn three. And they would have died, every one of them. Bravely. Uselessly. The villagers would still be gone.

“When Katri finishes her scouting I’ll have her check in at the mines. See if any new slaves have turned up.”

“If they haven’t?” Janna asked.

Tam’s jaw clenched. “If they haven’t, we’re too late to help them anyway.”

Neither of his companions responded. The truth of Tam’s words hung heavy on them all.

A flurry of squelching footsteps sounded between the huts. Two swords and a bow raised and swung toward the noise. A lanky youth barely old enough for his voice to finish breaking, staggered to a stop, his feet sliding a bit in the mud. Tam restrained a groan. Ras. The boy was supposed to be watching the outskirts, not tearing around making enough noise to catch the attention of every ear in the valley. He must have been more drunk than he realized when he agreed to bring him along.

But then, this was supposed to be a simple provisions run. Minimal risk. A good chance for training. Tam and the others would slip in, leave the food and supplies where the villagers were sure to discover them, and disappear back into the dark before anyone had unbolted their door. Just as they had a hundred times before in this and a half dozen other villages. But nothing about this night had gone as planned. Why should Ras stay where he was instructed?

“Tam! I mean, my lord. Or, your hi—”

“Ras.” Bloody fates, he was going to put the boy back on woodcutting duty for a month. “You had better have a damn good reason for breaking position.”

The boy gulped. Then noticed Janna. He flushed deep enough it was visible even in the moonlight. Oh, by all the gods—

“Spit it out, kid,” Janna growled. “Before his lordship gets bored and feeds you to the crows.” Tam made a mental note to add her to the woodcutting roster as well.

Ras swallowed and tried again. “I… sir… I found someone.”

Tam’s fist closed on the collar of the boy’s jacket, nearly pulling him off his feet. “Where?”

— Excerpt from Beneath the Thorns

by Leigh Janzen

Physical Description

Identifying Characteristics

Tam carries a long thin scar on his right cheek, given to him by I'iro after the death of Ra’aila. He could have let Aisara heal it, but feels it is the least he deserves for his failure to save Ra’aila's life.

Spoiler for Beneath the Thorns

He also bears significant scarring on his left arm and chest from a battle with a varg. The varg in question was his father, transformed into a monster by the sorcerer Iscar. The slaying of his father by his own hand is one of the many deaths that haunts Tam's nightmares.

Special abilities

Tam is descended from a long line of Shifters, and, as such, should possess the Gift himself.

But for some unknown reason the Gift has died out in Varangia, an otherwise unheard of occurrence.

Birthplace

Warding

Current Residence

Warding

Gender

Male

Eyes

Dark brown

Hair

Short and brown

Skin Tone/Pigmentation

Tanned

Known Languages

The Common Tongue, Old Northern Gotic

Ruled Locations

• Warding
• Warding Hall