Bullets whizzed past the hunter’s head as he fled amongst the surrounding snow.

The man could feel his calves becoming numb with each passing step, all the while he heard the voices of several Soviet soldiers coming from behind. There was one of them who now spoke louder than the rest, enough so that even he could hear the Russian’s words.

“Stop your firing!” the voice ordered under a tone of authority. “He has nowhere to go. Let the snowstorm claim him!”

The conversation continued, though Suluk could hear little more of what was being said. For a moment he briefly considered turning back, as facing a rising blizzard in the Alaskan countryside was sure to be suicide. However, those Russians were still on high alert, and returning to Blackwater now would have yielded an even worse fate.

Even in his short time there he had already witnessed the punishments which only a refinery town could have reserved, the most notable of which being a dousing in oil before being set on fire.

Indeed, it was a most grisly sight to behold, and Suluk would have encountered the exact same fate had he not succeeded in escaping.

Thus he plodded endlessly forward. His breath came forth in labored gasps, which immediately crystallized in the air before him upon each exhale.

Damn it, it was cold. Yet he could not stop now if he hoped to survive.

Several more minutes passed before his adrenaline ultimately subsided, which then gave way to exhaustion. Suluk’s legs finally buckled out from underneath him, his hands and feet crashing into the icy snow below. It was obvious that most of his extremities had been rendered useless by the biting cold. Even for one like him who was used to traveling in the tundra, it was still pure agony to strike forward, to brave the cold in search of food and shelter.

Again he briefly considered turning back. His mind returned to that ruthless commander who had wronged his people in the past. Even now he wished that he could throttle Commander Mikhail where he stood… the smug bastard. Still, he was unarmed and alone, and it was only through blind, dumb luck that he had even survived at all.

There was nothing for it now. Suluk would have to find some place to hide, somewhere to rest and recuperate, before languishing any longer on his thoughts for revenge.

Thus, with a hint of reluctance, he stood up and resumed his pace, the wind numbing both his nose and lips as the frost chipped away at his skin. The beaten highway loomed close before him all the while it was obscured by snow. The blizzard had intensified just within a moment’s notice, and it wasn’t long before even Suluk could see little of anything surrounding him.

He knew well that the nearest neighboring town was still miles away. His only remaining hope now was that of an outpost that the guards had mentioned in passing. It was just a rumor, though it was said that the place imparted both medicine and food to those living underneath Mikhail and his men. In spite of the Soviets’ efforts, only so much could even be gleaned about the place. It didn’t help that the outpost had held some sort of religious significance to the natives, which only triggered the odd uprising when their people were interrogated about it.

Perhaps there was even some validity to those beliefs… even to one such as Suluk, who was half-Inuit, half-Russian.

He felt along the stolen coat he wore about his person, suddenly remembering the circumstances of how he had escaped. Following his own failed assassination attempt against that commander, the hunter had been locked in a cell without any trace of food nor water. His only hope then had come in the form of a small box with a single match—clearly meant as a joke by his captors as a means of drawing out his inevitable fate. Even so, it was obvious that they hadn’t factored in him escaping, not when he had been stripped of all his belongings.

Even he wasn’t entirely sure on how he had done it, only that he remembered a lady standing before him, one who was shrouded in flames and charred to her very bones. Of course, it had been a hallucination borne from his deprived sense of heat, coupled with his own fear of being torched by the Soviets. Even so, he could still remember her scarred, yet beautiful face, not to mention how she had opened his cell door without any effort.

Still, it wasn’t long before he was caught by the man who patrolled those cells. He could still remember choking the man barehanded, which gave him just enough time to grab some much-needed clothes before escaping, his eyes instinctively following those scorched prints left behind by his imaginary savior.

Everything after that was simply a blur. Yet none of it mattered now, as he could already sense that the frostbite was getting to him. He couldn’t even feel his own faculties anymore, only the vague plodding of one foot after another as he trudged aimlessly forward. And even that was quickly fading into obscurity.

His muscles were spasming all over as his breathing constricted. It wasn’t long after that that he fell to the snowy ground, his mind temporarily blacking out from the sheer strain of it all. There was nothing more to be felt aside from a vague warmness at the very core of his chest. Clearly, he was at death’s doorstep, and he knew all-too-well that this was his body’s last resort at retaining some semblance of heat.

It was then that he fainted once more. However, not before he caught the glimpse of a shimmering, flaming figure moving towards him.

A deathly cold enraptured Suluk’s body when he next awoke. Weakly moving his head from one side to another, he noticed that he was now within some sort of cavern made of solid rock. A fire burned brightly at his side, and every part of his body (save for his head) was covered in several layers of blankets.

Still, his body tingled as if it were directly in contact with ice.

“Ah! You are awake.” The words met his ears, echoing around in his skull as if it were hollow like this cave. A hand was then lowered in front of his face, which held a mug of piping hot coffee. Just the bitter aroma itself imbued Suluk with a renewed vitality.

At first he could only drink in small gulps. He coughed dryly, his mouth, throat, and insides being warmed by the rejuvenating beverage.

“Where… am I?” he asked, his voice still sounding somewhat weak.

“You are nowhere important,” the man replied. “Just rest assured that you are now safe. You were lucky I found you when I was returning here, myself. Otherwise, you would have surely been killed by that blizzard. I can only imagine it will be some time before your body is healed.” He winced, looking along the terrible wounds which Suluk didn’t see so much as feel. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Suluk,” he replied. “Suluk Baelyev. I am a hunter, and I was just passing through when I was captured by those Soviet guards.”

“Really?” The other sat in place, his necklace of bone fetishes jingling along with the realization. “It’s been so long since anyone has escaped that wretched town. Most who resist the Soviets now are simply killed in return.

“I guess I should also introduce myself. My name is Meriwa.” He smiled. “Tell me, what was the reason for you being captured? You said you were only just passing through…”

The man made no response.

“So that’s how you are going to play it? Well, if I’m being honest, most of us have had our dealings with the Soviet Union in the past—or what’s left of it anyway. Certainly, it’s difficult to make an honest living when you are constantly being reminded about the means of production. Indeed, it’s a most tiresome ordeal for an old soul like myself.”

“So how did you cross the Soviets in town?” Suluk asked.

“It was easy. I’m a shaman who represents the old ways—more accurately I’m an angakkuq, or medicine man for my people. Yet it did not take them long to see me as a hindrance to progress. One of my duties was to ward off evil spirits using these sacred charms you see here. Only they didn’t take so kindly to the idea. Thankfully, I was permitted to leave on the condition that I never returned.”

“Only there was a price,” said Suluk. “Wasn’t there?”

This time it was Meriwa who remained silent.

“It seems we both have our secrets then,” Suluk nodded. “Allow me to break the ice. I came here seeking a man who has wronged my people. He destroyed my family when I was only a young man, who was preoccupied with fighting off the Soviets along the front lines. That was before the atomic bombs dropped and the rest of the world was left a scorching ruin. He is much older now, and his influence (so I’m told) is spoken of frequently by his men. It seems he hasn’t lost his edge in the slightest, the vicious bastard.”

“You are referring to Commander Mikhail, yes?” inquired the healer.

“The very same. If I wasn’t caught earlier and stuck in that freezing jail cell, then I would have killed him without question. However, he must have seen me coming, for several of his men had jumped me whenever I came to do the deed. I would have been doused and burned, too, if it had not been for those weird hallucinations of mine…”

“And what hallucinations were those?”

The hunter pondered for a moment. “It was a woman covered in flames,” he said. “Somehow after I realized that my cell was unlocked. Perhaps one of the guards had left it open? I do not know. There was also a name given by it, one which I had never heard spoken before.”

“Oh? And what was this name?”

“Ila,” he replied. “She told me her name was Ila.”

The shaman only furrowed his brow as he went silent. To Suluk it seemed as if the man had formulated some theory without even speaking it. Yet there was no indication that Meriwa would tell him anything.

“Is everything alright?”

“It is nothing,” he said. “You should gather your strength. I will divulge my secrets in time, but for now my healing you will simply have to do. It will still be some time before your body heals from that frostbite. Then we shall see how you might achieve your vengeance.”

At this the hunter only smiled.

The angakkuq was soon proved correct in his assertion. Though Suluk had survived due to little more than just luck, his body had still paid the price for its overexertion. Now the process of healing was both painful and taxing to his strength. Steamed towels were frequently applied to those areas of skin which were most affected. Several months passed before his wounds were finally healed, though there were still some of his muscles that had been atrophied.

He was still a little stiff in places; however his zest for life had largely returned and then some, all thanks to the help of his friend.

Meanwhile, the hunter came to learn much concerning his companion and Blackwater as a whole. At one time their nomadic tribe was even considered quite the peaceful one, trading pelts, charms, and the like with others. That is, it had been before they settled near an abundant oil reserve. Word spread quickly amongst those whom they traded with, and it wasn’t long before the remnants of the Soviet Union were involved.

But now their reign was soon to be at an end. Both Suluk and Meriwa departed from that cave, taking what few weapons they still had from their little outpost. Unfortunately, this had been much less than even the hunter had hoped. Still, Suluk was able to find a hunting knife, along with a basic 9mm pistol equipped with a few rounds.

There was that much, at least.

They now stopped mid-stride, looking down towards that distant town on the horizon. Suluk realized that he was a little sore from his wounds. However, he would simply have to make do if he hoped to succeed.

“This is a place infested with evil spirits,” murmured the angakkuq, now wrapping his furs more tightly about himself.

“Don’t be discouraged—just stick to the plan and you will be fine. You do remember your role, don’t you?”

“Do not worry about me,” he said. “Just focus on helping out my people and I will hold to my end of the bargain.”

“Good,” Suluk nodded. They were now coming closer to the edge of town. “I wish you the best of luck, then. And again, thank you.”

“You can thank me later with a bottle of vodka—once we’ve both survived, that is.”

However, the hunter had already disappeared behind those hills of rolling white. Meriwa sighed as he stepped between two buildings, emerging along the main street of the town. At first it seemed that no one would notice him until he took a few steps further. A couple of faces turned in his direction, then a few more after. It was clear that though the people were still enslaved by the Soviets, there was some measure of respect they held for the old ways.

“I come to speak with Commander Mikhail,” he said, now raising his voice suddenly. “I simply cannot stand by any longer and witness my people’s suffering! In exchange, I can give you my life along with that of Suluk Baelyev. Oh yes, I know of your old rival. I found him in the snow when he was on the brink of death! It was I, too, who nursed him back to health! Now he is my prisoner. If you want him dead, then you will speak with me now!”

It did not take long for several Soviet soldiers to gather around him. Even so, he held his expression despite those who looked upon him with disdain. Eventually there came a man who was both tall and lean of frame, though a closer inspection showed that he wasn’t weak in the slightest.

The man removed his beret as he sauntered on forth, his own mustachioed lips tugging into a grin. “So I see you’re not dead after all. I must admit that you are most cunning, Meriwa, to pull a trick like this. Indeed, I thought our little incident from a few years ago might have taught you a lesson, yet I see that was not the case.”

Meriwa held his position. “If you harm me now, then you will never know whether your little assassin is dead or not.”

“It does not matter. He may come again, but I will always be here with a number of soldiers at my side.” He then gestured around him with a sneer.

“From what I heard the man escaped easily enough. Are you sure that he could not elude you again?”

The Soviet raised an eyebrow. “It was a mere oversight,” he said. “Besides, the next time we catch him he will be publicly executed here on the spot. Does that make my stance any clearer?”

“And what if that doesn’t happen?” parried the shaman. “You underestimated your opponent before. Who’s to say you will not do so again?”

A long silence followed before the commander made his reply. He was clearly furious; his eyes said as much. “Very well,” he said. “As a capitalist would say, let us bargain.”

All the while Suluk ventured on from behind. The snow provided suitable cover for his flowing white jacket, as the winds obscured any sign of his passing.

He eventually found himself along the backside of that refinery. A few minutes before he would have surely been seen by the two Soviets patrolling this section of the wall. However, they had both turned aside now, being evidently distracted by some commotion within town. He could only hope that Meriwa’s ruse was working as intended.

Thus Suluk used this to his advantage, as he took what vital seconds he had in order to vault over the wall in question. His wiry muscles strained as he heaved topside, now diving closer to the nearest guard. He removed his own hunting knife and slit the man’s throat without so much as a sound.

The hunter then turned to the remaining soldier just across from him. Bringing up his knife, he launched it towards the base of the man’s neck.

There was a faint gurgling sound, all before the soldier slumped to the metal flooring.

That was two down, he thought.

Now searching the corpse next to him, he found a PPSh gun along with a circular magazine. He pocketed what spare ammo he could find whilst also retrieving the hunting knife from the other body.

He stole forward, killing several more soldiers in likewise manner, before ultimately spotting a warehouse not too far ahead. He could also see a few natives (judging by their clothes) working near its entrance, hauling several barrels of oil into a nearby truck. Suluk could only surmise that this was where the majority of oil was being held.

The walkways themselves spanned between a number of silos, thus serving as the only real cover from being spotted. So it was that the hunter kept low as he moved forward at a quick pace. Even from this distance he could still hear the faint conversation going on between Commander Mikhail and the angakkuq. Normally, he would have preferred facing the man himself. Still there was a job for him to do. Not to mention that this would remove most of the Russians, along with putting a severe damper on oil production for some time to come.

Now rounding another silo, he found himself face-to-face with a dark and shadowy figure. Suluk instinctively raised his weapon, and was about to strike before he noticed that the man was a fellow Inuit.

“Please! Don’t kill me…” the man quivered.

“If you wish to see your family freed,” Suluk said, now lowering his knife, “then you will do exactly as I say. Take whatever men you can find and pick up those weapons behind me. Stay here and keep to yourselves. On my signal, you will open fire against both Mikhail and his troops. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

The man nodded. “But what will be the signal?”

“Trust me, you will know.” Suluk then goaded the man forward as they both stepped beside one another. The catwalk was now leading into the second floor of that warehouse. The hunter stepped warily, yet he was calmed somewhat by the steady gait of his companion.

“There aren’t any Soviets inside,” murmured the Inuit, “at least not for the moment.”

“Perfect,” the other spoke. He could now see that heaps of barrels were being stacked one on top of the other. Indeed, it was enough fuel to make any one man rich for the rest of his days.

Only this had been taken by the Soviets.

Suluk’s companion then departed, bringing about those other workers and returning to his side. “Remember the signal,” Suluk reminded, though it was plainly obvious that they were all aware of what they had to do.

Now descending a nearby staircase, leaving the workers to spread out and fend for themselves, he pulled forth one of the barrels, opening the cap. Though it proved somewhat heavy to operate at first, the hunter found that his job was much easier when he turned the container on its side, rolling it out through the front entrance. A trail of black fluid leaked from behind… A perfect fuse!

Suluk couldn’t help but chuckle somewhat as he produced the matchbox from his pocket. There was still the single match inside, and the irony of it being given to him by his enemies did not escape him.

That was when a couple soldiers emerged from the driver’s seat of the nearest vehicle. Both sides were almost immediately caught by surprise, though the hunter was still faster on the draw, leveling his PPSh against them.

They only managed to fire off a couple shots before they were blown to smithereens.

So much for subtlety, he mused. His hands trembled slightly as again he held the match, now striking the flame and tossing it along the trail of oil.

He could now hear several more gunshots being trained in his direction, all the while he bolted from where he stood. It wouldn’t have surprised him if he had only just fled the jaws of death by a razor-thin margin. Still there was the explosion he was trying to escape… not to mention how he would handle dealing with Mikhail.

He dove inside another building. Then his ears were deafened by that horrendous, apocalyptic sound.

The very earth shook beneath him, threatening to split open into violent, powderized rubble with each passing second. The structure swayed as if it were being assaulted by an earthquake, and a number of large pieces dislodged themselves from the surrounding walls and ceiling. It was only by dumb luck that one of those chunks landed just shy of the hunter’s head; otherwise, he knew that his brains would have been crushed and splattered all over the floor.

Still, he had survived the explosion. He was alive for the moment, at least.

The earth finally ceased its rumbling, and Suluk found himself ducking behind a nearby counter as soldiers then descended from the adjacent stairs. It was now dawning on him that he had unwittingly stumbled into Blackwater’s own barracks. And what was more, the destruction of the warehouse had jostled them to full alertness.

Judging from their sounds he counted there being at least half-a-dozen of them. Needless to say he was easily outnumbered, yet at the least he still held the element of surprise. The footsteps were particularly close when he finally peered over the side of his cover, unleashing what remained of his ammo into those unsuspecting troops.

Luck must have been on his side that day, for nearly all of the soldiers were immediately caught within his firing range. Only one Soviet had just managed to escape death, though even he was heavily wounded from a stray bullet to the leg.

Yet Suluk did not hesitate. He charged forward with his hunting knife, stabbing the man straight through the heart with the edge of the blade.

The hunter sighed in relief, now regaining some of his senses. The sound of gunshots could still be heard from outside. Surely he imagined that it was the Inuits fighting their own little battles against the Soviets. Either that or Meriwa was putting up one hell of a resistance.

Suluk retrieved his knife from the corpse, the majority of his own body now being caked in crimson. Taking a few more magazines from his foes, he then stepped outside from the entrance of those barracks. Several clouds of smoke and dust obscured his vision. And it was only after several seconds that he spotted two silhouetted figures which were surrounded by several dozen more.

He was now in the center of town, the majority of the Russians now being slain from the combined efforts of both himself and those gun-toting Inuits. Out of the two dusty figures, he could now see that the first was Commander Mikhail, who was bloodied by those explosions that had blasted the better part of Blackwater into oblivion. His expression was now one of utter hatred, his eyes showing a cold malice whilst holding the captive shaman between his arms. A gun pointed itself at Meriwa’s head, all the while the commander’s finger was poised just a hair’s-width from the trigger.

“I should commend you for your ingenuity, Suluk. I am not usually one so easy to outwit, but your underhanded tactics certainly did the trick. However, it looks like your luck has finally run out.” His weapon, meanwhile, pressed only harder against his captive. “Your friend here is under my control now. Perhaps if you give yourself up, then I shall see to it that everyone else here stays alive.”

At this the hunter only smiled. “You overestimate your position, my friend. Your soldiers have all fled amidst the chaos of battle. Now it is only you and I, along with the villagers here at Blackwater, who remain.”

“If you truly value this man’s life,” defiantly growled the commander, “then you will let me leave here. Now—drop your weapon!”

Reluctantly, despite his better judgment, the man did just so.

“Now kick it away!”

Suluk did as he was instructed. Yet he noticed something strange as the angakkuq suddenly went still, his words sounding aloof whilst muttering aloud: “This is a place infested with evil spirits,” he said. “The spirits you, Mikhail, have killed in order to keep your control. The time has now come for retribution, and you must reap what you have sown!”

“Ha!” the man interjected. “You superstitious madman! Your phony spirits will not save you now. I am the only one who’s in control here!”

However, that was when a fiery hand had gripped him by the shoulder, pulling him off to one side. The Soviet officer screamed from the sudden shock of it all, reeling in horror as the scorched feminine face stared with coal-black eyes.

It was that same lady of fire Suluk had seen. Now she had returned, and he realized that she wasn’t actually a hallucination after all!

He also saw that Mikhail was now bursting into flames, as if he had been doused under a torrent of invisible flaming liquid. The man howled in agony whilst flailing his arms wildly about, even as Meriwa ducked to one side out of mortal fear.

Meanwhile, Suluk stood there in bewilderment, utterly stupefied at the spectacle he was now witnessing. His senses returned to him, however, when he noticed that his foe was lunging towards him. He withdrew his remaining 9mm pistol and shot point-blank. The commander’s brains blew out from the other side, his body slumping to the ground as a lifeless, charred corpse.

Suluk then turned to his side, now sighing in relief as the lady in fire had again disappeared.

“Are you alright,” he asked, his words sounding less like a question and more a statement.

“I’ll live,” replied the angakkuq. After a few moments of catching their breaths, they both stepped closer to the remains of what had been their enemy. The shouts of victory rang out from only a few among those villagers, as the reign of communism had finally ended in their small settlement.

However, there were still those who held fast to their fear, being utterly frightened at what had just happened.

“I must be going crazy,” announced Suluk, shaking his head. “That was the same woman I had seen during my time in jail. Surely she could not have been real. It just isn’t possible…”

“My friend,” replied Meriwa, “we live in a time where the ideas of magic and science are once again blurred. Even the old ways of logic and reason only went so far towards answering our own existential questions, and look at where that got us. Who knows what is now possible in this new and strange world?”

The hunter merely shook his head. “I-I still cannot believe it. She was a woman covered in flames, who behaved as if she were reaching from beyond the grave.”

“If it helps, my friend, know that I also recognized that face, along with the name you had mentioned months earlier.” Meriwa’s expression suddenly became distant—cold—as he continued. “When I was first driven away by both Mikhail and his men, it was not just I who had been punished. There was also my daughter—Ila—who helped to smuggle away supplies to our people. It was I who first suggested helping the sick and poor. Only it was she who was caught helping them, and as such was forced to burn for her crimes. I can only imagine that her spirit was livid with hatred, and that she would not rest until she had plotted her revenge.”

“So that’s where I fit into this whole mess,” replied Suluk. “She was the one who freed me from those Russians, and in doing so, helped to steer me right in your direction. She was behind all of this…”

“It seems so,” he nodded. “I, myself, fled only shortly afterward, on the sole condition that I wouldn’t return as they suspected me also.” He chuckled, though Suluk imagined that he was actually stifling back tears. “Still,” he said, “they didn’t bet on me surviving, even after all the search parties they sent for me in the following years. Never underestimate a man who can brave the wilds and use them to his advantage. Never underestimate the hunter!”

“On that,” commented Suluk, “I think we can both agree.”

Gnar scrambled carefully up onto the rim of the canyon. He scanned about with sharp eyes, quietly setting his hoofed foot onto the black volcanic rock. He paused for a moment, and slipped on his leather moccasins before continuing. His hooves were convenient for climbing up steep canyon walls, but not great for sneaking up on even dumb unilope.

He wasn’t a big fellow, roughly only about 5’9”, but still stockier and stronger than he was back when he was human. His hair and beard was gray now, after so many years of living alone, without the nymphs who had kept him young. He may have looked older, but his senses were still quite sharp, and he could still run and climb as well as just about any wild critter.

It didn’t take long to spot the herd, as they had all frozen, each one standing comically with their single antler sticking up like an antenna, startled by even the slight noise of the satyr tying his moccasins. Having only one eye right in the middle of their heads, unilope were easy to panic at slightest sound, and could run up to 100mph when they did. Gnar held his breath and stood perfectly still, waiting for the next wind gust before moving closer to the herd.

He paused only for a moment, as the wind was almost never calm along the Snake River Gorge. The ruddy-skinned satyr reached up and tilted his cowboy hat to shade his eyes. He was just getting used to his new hat, and still wasn’t completely sure he had cut the holes for his horns big enough. At least, he thought, it wouldn’t blow off of his head.

In a few moments, he was close enough to the herd for a shot. He would only have one today. He was down to his last good aluminum arrow, and it would take some time to scavenge materials to make more if he lost it. Still, that was dependent on whether his compound bow would even continue to function. The heavy draw weight was too much for a wooden arrow, so this shot better count. He drew his bow, and took aim on a fat unilope not far from him.

Clunk. The arrow fell to the ground unceremoniously, as the bow just seemed blow in the wind like paper, its strings dissolving into dust. Gnar hung his head, though he was not surprised. He looked up to see the whole herd frozen yet again, shaking with anticipation, ready to bolt at any moment. He let out a quiet sigh, as he slowly reached for his tomahawk.

It had been 23 years since the event Gnar like to call the “bad breakup”, and his compound bow was one the last pieces of modern tech that still functioned, up until just then. It felt very final, like the last shoe had just dropped.

He still remembered that day clearly, the day the earth shook, and a black cloud rose from the east. Everyone was sure it was the end. The Yellowstone caldera was erupting. Then, in a flash that surprised everyone, the mid-afternoon sky turned to night. It wasn’t from an ash cloud, as stars were clearly visible, strange stars that seemed to dance in the sky, as the whole horizon glowed, particularly to the east.

Seven hours later, when the sun rose in the west, everyone realized something truly unreal had occurred. It would take a few days to discover that a large circular chunk of North America, approximately 900 miles in diameter, had simply been removed from the Earth, and deposited somewhere else. It would take several months and a war to realize, this was no temporary crisis, and that their world wasn’t even in the same reality anymore.

Twenty three years, three wars, and a lot of changes later, Gnar’s world was very different, as was he. As was everyone, and everything, except for the basic geography. The Snake River floodplain was still recognizable, and was still mostly farm land, but was much more fertile than before, as desert gave way to lush grassland. The grassland teemed with Unilope, Zebra Deer, Titan Elk, Jackalope, and Spiketail Bison.

Of all of the grazing beasts of the plain, Unilope were the dumbest, and made easy prey for the satyr, who could take one every few days without having to wander far from his home down in the canyon. He would trade whatever extra meat he had with the farmfolk of the nearby town of 18Falls for taters and onions and whatever butter lettuce they were able to harvest before the jackalopes got to it.

Gnar brought his tomahawk out, ever so slowly, knowing it was likely a futile attempt. Just as he cocked his arm, the herd bolted. Gnar flung the small axe at them in an arc, already imagining he would spend the rest of his fruitless day hunting for his tomahawk in the grass. Much to his surprise, it came down right behind the horn of one of the panicked beasts, and split the critter’s skull neatly.

Gnar laughed a little to himself. He nodded, as one of his many theories about his world was realized. He walked carefully through the tall grass toward his fallen prey, keeping a sharp eye out for rattle-jacks. He reached the animal, just at the edge of the dead spot, where the big salt-juniper grew.

The salt-juniper had been no tree at all when the breakup happened. It was almost new at the time, the trendy building of artisan shops, offices, a restaurant, and several apartments, perched near the canyon rim. In the years after, it had transformed, almost unnoticed, into a sort of huge tree-house, the home of Gnar’s nearest neighbors, the Pixies.

It had been empty for a month or so now, since the Pixies moved north. While the ground near 18Falls grew pot quite easily, which the Pixies loved, the mushrooms they loved even more only grew near the roots of the Sawtooth Range. Gnar kind of missed the Pixies, even though they could often be stinky annoying stoners. He mostly just missed Jill, the sweet little 4-foot-3-ish lovely creature with her auburn dreadlocks and kind green eyes. She had been a fun companion on many a lonely night, and one of the few things that took his mind off of loss and revenge.

He really couldn’t even allow himself to miss Jill, as it would only drag him into that pit he spent most of his time in, mourning the loss of Rona and Ani. His nymphs. His loves. He pulled out his skinning knife, and set to work quartering the unilope. He pulled his thick leather kilt from around his waist, and set it on the ground to give himself something to kneel on as he did his work. He sometimes wondered if other satyrs (if there were others) were modest enough to wear clothing.

When he was done, he wrapped up the quartered meat in the animal’s hide, and left the rest, an offering for the coyotes. They would have to act fast, however, as the sun was sinking in the east, and shortly Steph would be awake. She would be on the fresh kill as soon as she smelled it. It was a bit of luck that the Pixies were no longer living at the tree, and Gnar hadn’t needed to drag the carcass and drop it over the rim. He wouldn’t have left a big piece of troll-bait near Jill’s home, even if Steph usually didn’t bother the Pixies.

Gnar slipped off his mocs, and started the climb down to his home. He stopped in his tracks when he heard a sound, a deep thumping, faint and far. Goblins. Hopefully, they would stay on the highway, and not come his way. Goblins were the worst. Gnar wasn’t the only one who heard the sound, as something stirred in the river below the falls.

The wurm. Gnar glanced over toward the boulder trap he had set. He would keep a close watch on the water. If that damned wurm was distracted enough, Gnar might be able to finally end that thing. It was the only reason he still stayed in the canyon. Without his nymphs, the breathtaking canyon was just a place of sadness and rage, a place where he would one day kill the wurm, the River Dragon as it was known, or it would kill him.

There was much disagreement on the terms, but there was a general consensus that there were three specific types of dragons in the Snake River Basin. Of course, there were the four-legged winged variety, often referred to a raptyrs, or just “dragons”. The established alpha predator of their flat world, raptyrs were actually the least common, and seldom seen in daylight.

There were also drakes, wingless six-legged beasts that regularly lived in caves and ate bison, or the occasional elk. Drakes were more common, but their numbers fluctuated, due to the fact that they were hunted vigorously by the goblins, and not just for food. Somehow, unfortunately for everyone who wasn’t a goblin, they had discovered that they could run their obnoxious vehicles on drake blood. Luckily, drakes never went down without a fight, and always took some goblins with them.

The third type were the wurms. Often found in bodies of water, or in deep brush, wurms had been the most common since the last war ended. Snake-like creatures, usually legless, or with at most, two short legs, the often vicious wurms were known to toy with their prey, and would sometimes kill just for sport. It didn’t help matters that wurms were capable of producing a shriek that induced illogical panic in any warm-blooded animal it was directed at.

Each type was, in fact, known for their particular “song”. It was one reason they were all considered types of dragons, and not simply different creatures altogether. Drakes had a song that was so deep, most people couldn’t even hear it. Deep enough, in fact to cause involuntary bowel movements, the legendary “brown note” as it was known.

Raptyrs had a song as well, the most powerful of them all. Its frequency was so high, it could boil fluids, and cause flammable materials to ignite. Raptyrs weren’t fire-breathing, they were fire-screaming.

The thumping rackit was growing closer. Gnar groaned. Goblins were heading their way. The obnoxious creatures used their loud stereos to hunt, as the deep bass sounds often attracted drakes, among other critters that are better left alone. Of course, goblins mainly made lots of noise because they were just awful. It was the reason they were goblins.

After the breakup, the petty, the narcissists, the criminals, the just plain rude or trashy among the population slowly devolved into beasts. By the time the last war ended, they were full-on goblins, almost unrecognizable from their former selves, except for their hideous clothing and ridiculous vehicles. They tended to live in gutted big box stores, but would often die there, since they were incapable of being quiet, and usually provoked a troll, or ogre, or sometimes even a dragon with their constant noise.

Almost every creature with half a brain walking the flat world knew to kill a goblin on sight, like it was instinct. Idiot goblins making thump-thump noise around sunset near a bridge was going to end badly for them. Steph would be up soon.

Like many of the fantastical creatures in this new reality, Steph too had once been human. The locals said they didn’t know her, but that was mostly because she kept to herself for most of her life, and preferred to be alone. One morning, she fell asleep under the big bridge across the Snake River, and turned to stone as the sun hit her. The next night, she turned to flesh again, though many times her previous size, and hungry for raw meat.

Gnar had also once been a regular human, like any other. He never considered himself to be some kind of horny guy, but had managed to get turned into a satyr anyway. It was Ani’s fault, if it was anyone’s. He didn’t mind, though. They had all had a nice life together, until the wurm took his girls from him with its terrifying song.

He had rescued Ani, during the first war. She was barely 20 when he found her. She wouldn’t leave his side, even as he tried to convince her she was safe. Poor Ani had only been passing through Idaho when the breakup happened. She was nervous enough, even before reality broke, this dark-skinned girl in a place her friends back in Oregon had told her was full of skinheads.

The only danger the locals posed to Ani, was that they may invite her to church, or insist on giving her fry sauce instead of ketchup. The real danger was from the feds, the danger to everyone in those first months. After the war, Ani came to live with Gnar and his wife, Rona. After the things she had been through in the federal camp, she wasn’t willing to trust anyone else.

It was nice anyway, for the middle-aged couple to have the sweet young woman around, and they became fast friends, as they all watched the world change together. Gnar left them in their big camper near the edge of town when the second war, “The Militia War” broke out. He was quite surprised when he returned home after the victory.

Rona and Ani had been keeping each other company in more creative ways than he would have imagined. Soon the three were utterly in love. It wasn’t that crazy, considering everything else that had happened. Knowing their neighbors might be weird about it, they decided to find another place, and moved their home down into the canyon, just above a new falls that had formed, where they could swim, and fish, and “frolic”, safe from prying eyes, and from the creature that had been spotted in the river below.

It wasn’t long before they all were changed, Ani and Rona becoming the two most captivating long-haired nymphs, one dark, one light. Gnar was almost oblivious to his own transformation, as he was too enchanted by his lovers to notice until he had grown a big set of horns and hooves, his once graying hair turning flaxen.

It was a happy time for them all, one that sadly wouldn’t last. Another war came, and Gnar left to do his duty once again. He returned to an empty canyon, and in time learned that the petty river wurm had attacked his Rona, with its cry of panic, and she had fallen onto the rocks while trying to frantically climb the canyon wall.

The tragedy took both his loves from him, and more, and he swore he would have his vengeance. Eighteen years had passed since then (though 365 days is a rather rough measurement, as there are no seasons, and days take around 30 hours in the flat world). Gnar still kept watch over the river, baiting the thing when he could, attempting the most elaborate traps to kill the wurm.

The noise of the goblins grew much closer, and Gnar could see them now, inching the most ridiculous lifted pickup truck onto the derelict bridge. The truck had huge wheels, and barely any tires at all. Gnar realized, that quite by accident, the ten or so goblins in the silly noisy truck might just make it. The truck’s wheels must have had spacers on top of spacers, as wide as the silly-looking tires were set. If they were careful, they may be able to drive on the beams and make it across the huge gaps in the bridge.

Steph was going to be pissed. She hated any vehicle, or even people crossing her bridge. Every time the locals tried to fix the bridge, she would demolish their work the following night, sometimes even hurling materials back into the town. The farmfolk had largely given up on fixing it, and used another bridge up river, one with a much more understanding troll.

The goblins reached the middle of the bridge, as two of them fell clumsily to their deaths while trying to twerk on top of the truck while the others howled and laughed. The bass echoed through the canyon. What were these idiots trying to do? There was no drake here, only a troll, and the wurm, which had only two reptilian flippers, so while it could climb, it would take all night for the thing to reach the rim, let alone the bridge.

Gnar looked downriver, concerned about something else the goblins may be disturbing. He looked back just in time to notice the sun had dropped just enough for the boulders not far up the bank from the river to begin to move. Steph was waking. She wasn’t the only one stirring, as the river exploded, and the screaming wurm lurched forth, just in time to crash right into the troll. Intentionally or not, the goblins were about to pick a fight.

This could be the chance Gnar had waited almost two decades for, as the 20 foot long wurm coiled angrily around the now standing and quite animated 9 foot tall troll. The goblins had both critters so riled up with the obnoxious noise, the monsters tore into each other without a moment’s thought.

Gnar scrambled for his shack, and ripped the mattress from his bed. He pulled from underneath a broad steel axe, with a cleaver edge on one side, and a sharp spike on the other. The head was set with two stones, one red, one blue. Between the stones was a void, a space where another stone may have been, or may yet to be.

He tore from the shack, heading toward the fight, his hooves pounding into the ground like hammers. He didn’t get far before he realized that the only way he would be able to land a blow was to wait until the wurm had killed the troll, which it eventually would. He could then dispatch the wurm before it could recover and escape to the river again.

Gnar huffed, remembering his loves. Rona would not have approved. Despite his vow of vengeance, there were other vows he had made. He couldn’t just let Steph die. He set down his axe, and ran back to his hut, returning moments later with his rifle.

He didn’t have much faith in the big .338, considering what had happened earlier with his bow, but he had to try. He sighted in, almost sadly, knowing the rifle likely wouldn’t work, and he would have to watch the troll die, as the wurm coiled tightly round its neck.

Just as he was about to pull the trigger, he heard a sound, a high pitch sound that carried even over the horrendous clamor of the goblin truck and the shrieking wurm. Coyotes, lots of them, were singing from all directions. Gnar smiled. As he often did, he had left an offering to the coyotes that very day, and THE Coyote himself had accepted.

Shunamvuts,” Gnar whispered the Shoshoni name like a prayer. He took a deep breath, and put his last 300 grain .338 Lapua round through the wurm’s right eye. The bullet tore into whatever brain the thing had, and its jaw dropped open, twisted in agony as its remaining eye rolled back into its head.

Now free of its choking grasp, the enraged Troll hurled the wurm’s fibrillating body up onto the rim, and promptly fell over, holding her throat and catching her breath. Gnar fought the urge to yell out in triumph, and dropped the rapidly crumbling rifle, as he turned and quickly dashed for his axe.

The goblins howled in celebration, and spurred their truck on across the bridge, toward the thrashing river dragon. Gnar beat them to it, and bashed his axe into the beast’s skull without hesitation. He dug his hoof into the thing, and wrestled his axe free, only to crash it down on the thing again.

Over and over, Gnar bashed the axe into the now still corpse of his nemesis. He didn’t care that it was dead, and likely would have continued until there was nothing left, had the goblins not arrived. The truck stopped, and the goblins approached Gnar and his enemy slowly, while he paid them no attention whatsoever.

When one finally came close enough to notice, Gnar smacked the foul idiot with the flat of the axe, sending the clownish goblin tumbling to the ground. He turned to face the remaining goblins, his body mostly covered in yellowish dragon blood. The goblins froze, scared witless by the angry satyr with the big axe.

Gnar looked at them with disgust, and barked an order. “Dude, shu dat shi off, dangfu!” he said, in the broken goblin language, known as tyktok, a repugnant mix of slang, ghetto, and redneck trash talk.

The goblins were idiots, but they understood fear, and were quick to feign respect for anyone they though might be stronger than them. One of them ran over and quickly shut off the truck. The obnoxious thumping stopped. Gnar caught his breath.

He kicked over the loose jaw of the wurm, and bashed the spike of his axe into it, knocking out both of the monster’s short ivory tusks. He stooped down and collected them, and turned to head back down the canyon wall.

Dubbatee eff, dat muffu ain’t gone take dem dango eatins?” one of the goblins asked the others, loud enough that Gnar heard it.

You muffa keep dem dango eatins!” Gnar yelled back, “just take it gone-gone outtahe, and yall ain’t come back, else yall get dis axe upsy yall dango azz.”

Gnar wanted the wurm corpse gone, but mostly he wanted to keep the goblins busy, for the moment. The last thing he needed was for them to wander into the town. He climbed down a short ways, and was met by Steph, who was making her way up.

Gnar stopped, as the big troll stared at him, trying her best to smile with her crooked teeth that looked like a pile of old headstones. She carefully put a hand on Gnar’s shoulder, likely the first time she had touched anyone she wasn’t planning to eat, in decades.

Horns,” she grunted, the only thing she knew to call the satyr. It was the best she could do. Trolls were pretty much incapable of gratitude, so it was actually quite the gesture.

Ordinarily, Gnar would have just nodded, understanding, but this evening was different. Gnar would not be staying, and there were many things that needed to happen before he left. The negotiation began.

Several minutes later, Gnar and Steph climbed up to the rim, as Gnar stifled his laughter at the goblins, who were still trying to drag the wurm’s carcass into the back of the truck. Steph didn’t laugh, she only licked her lips and smiled.

By now, several of the townsfolk had began to gather, growing closer and more curious by the minute. Some had meager weapons or farm implements, preparing themselves to defend against the goblin menace. Gnar picked up his pace, and made to intercept them, as Steph slowly ambled over toward the goblins and their truck, still grinning like a kid in an ice cream shop.

The farmfolk were tough, and likely would have bested the goblins, but not without casualties. The Saints of New Zion, as they were known, just weren’t built for battle. They were built for farming and making babies. Followers of a prophet that emerged after Salt Lake City fell, the SNZ were practically hobbits.

They usually lived in farm towns, like 18Falls, or in little fishing villages along the Bonneville seashore. Short in stature, but big in heart, the kind, humble, and more than a little thick SNZ were easy to get along with most of the time. All any SNZ man wanted was to wake with the sun, see a plentiful harvest, enjoy a nice meal and a sweet wife, and have a little cider and fireweed on the front porch before a nice 12 hour sleep.

The crowd of farmfolk stopped in their tracks when they saw Gnar approaching, covered in blood. A beautiful woman stepped out from the crowd as he neared them, and ran to embrace him. She was thinner than most of the farmfolk, though still looked a bit plump compared to the girl Gnar remembered. He sighed, as her dark-skinned arms wrapped around him. Ani.

Ragnar,” she whispered, as her eyes began to tear up. The two held each other as if there were no one else in the world.

After a long while, much longer than they knew, Ragnar released Ani, pulling something yellowish white from the pocket of his kilt. He handed the ivory tooth to her.

For Rona,” Ragnar said, “it’s done.” He had promised Ani, he would avenge their Rona, and he would bring her a tusk from the thing that killed her.

Ani looked at his gray hair, and smiled sweetly. It had been a long time since she had seen him. She had a few gray hairs of her own now. They stared into each other’s eyes, and flashed back to those incredible days in their canyon, each understanding that it could never be again, not like it was then.

A man walked up beside Ani, slowly, his hat in hand. It was Jacob, Ani’s husband, the bishop of 18Falls.

It’s good to see you, Ragnar,” Jacob said. He wasn’t just being polite, Jacob genuinely liked Ragnar, perhaps even a little too much. Ragnar was never sure if Jacob was trying to be the bigger man, to be an example to his flock, or if it was something else…

What should we do about… that?” Jacob motioned toward the goblins.

That?” Ragnar laughed a little. “Just stay out of Steph’s way.”

No sooner than he had said it, one of the goblins screamed, and there was a sickly crunching sound. Ragnar had promised Steph she could have the goblins, and the wurm corpse, in exchange for certain favors. Goblins were like candy to a troll, and the wurm would be a decent week’s worth of dining as well.

Ragnar and Jacob continued to talk amicably, though often interrupted by gasps from the crowd, as the sound and silhouette of the troll tearing the goblins apart in glow of the twilight made for gruesome entertainment.

Ragnar told Jacob of the agreement that had been made with Steph. She would let them fix the bridge properly, with defenses, but first, they would have to excavate the cave behind one of the 18 falls along the canyon wall, creating a new home for her. It would be a blessing for all involved, as the falls would drown out the noises that often disturbed Steph’s sleep during the day, and making an ally of a big troll with a taste for goblin flesh meant the farmfolk could sleep a bit easier at night.

Ragnar threw in the wurm corpse and the goblins as part of the deal, since Steph wasn’t quick enough to understand that she was doing him a favor by disposing of them. Everyone reluctantly agreed to the terms, especially since they all seemed to truly respect the old satyr. Jacob also agreed to blackout the town for the night. Ragnar hadn’t explained, but in light of the evening’s events, Jacob complied.

As darkness fell, the townspeople withdrew to their homes, until only Ani remained. There was something else.

I’m worried about Jake,” Ani said, “he went down to Hollister, and hasn’t been back. Do you think you could?”

Ragnar nodded. He had been close with Ani’s son Jake for many years when the boy was younger. Ani knew her son would have been happy to live just like the other farmfolk, but she wanted more for Jacob Jr., and so she sent him to learn from Ragnar when he was young.

Ragnar would have to go and look for Jake. It wasn’t first time “Uncle Ragnar” had gotten Jake out of a bind, and likely wouldn’t be the last. There wasn’t a bloody thing to do in Hollister, and Jake had likely already courted every girl down there. It was much more likely, Jake had gone down to Jackpot.

I’ll take care of it,” Ragnar said, fighting the urge to call her his love, and take her in his arms. Ani had plenty of reasons to leave when she did, and was married to a decent man who had given her a stable home and children, and treated her well. Ragnar couldn’t mess with her life in that way.

Ani ran her hand over Ragnar’s horns, and smiled at him, a little sad.

I remember, they were so much bigger back then,” she said, her smiling eyes almost glowing. “I used to grasp them in my hands while we…”

Ani,” Ragnar interrupted her, “I can’t do this. It’s too…” he trailed off.

Please,” Ani said, “be with me tonight, I want to remember, for… for Rona, please.”

But what about Jacob? And… your daughters?” Ragnar said, “Jacob’s a nice guy, but I don’t think…”

Ani stopped him, laughing slightly. “Jacob will be fine. He knows this is a big deal for us, and well…” she hesitated. “Honestly, he was wondering if you wanted to move into town now. He even floated the idea of you living at our place for a while. He’s sweet, and he’s never going to admit it, but I think he’s always had a thing for you.”

One thing that hadn’t changed since the “breakup”, churches still had big closets.

Ragnar shook his head. It had always been unspoken, but he was pretty sure that Jacob and Ani had been a marriage of convenience, more than anything else. It was among a hundred other theories Ragnar had about his world. There was something else that had also become quite clear about Ani’s family, now that the fog of vengeance was lifting, something he had long suspected.

The two spent the night together, in the abandoned treehouse of the Pixies. Just one night, for what they once had, for all that could have been, for the memory of their beloved Rona.

Ragnar didn’t sleep that night, he wanted to remember every second of this one last night with his sweet Ani. She wasn’t the nymph she had once been, and even though she had come more to resemble her stout neighbors, she was still exquisite in Ragnar’s eyes.

He wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway, as his sharp ears heard what none of the farmfolk, or Ani, or even Steph could hear, the subtle beat of faraway wings against the night sky.

From the prompt: An Old Scientist in his Lab

Dad in Adobe Photoshop by SkunxWorkshop

From the prompt: An Antiquated Astronaut

An Antiquated Astronaut in pencil and ink on bristol board by Nathaniel Chen / Horizon Talker

Please click through the above links to check out more from these artists, and help support the Iron Age!

The gods were coming with the noontime sun and the gray stone streets shimmered with the flames of celebration. They came every year for one of their children and everyone was overjoyed. The next Gadling, they would call the chosen young one, and rejoice for them as they were whisked away, never to be seen again. Merriment carried on in the spiral streets and all eyes darted up to the only entrance into Imperyo, their hollow mountain home, hoping to see the Thesmekka as they dropped down through the Gate.

Durako, nor any of the other children, looked up a single time during the festivities. They didn’t want to see. Smiling at the revelers, huddled together on the platform wringing their little hands; their tears were dismissed as the ignorance and naivety of childhood. The round, metallic Gate at the top of their shelter would give no warning until the Thesmekka were upon them. All sound was blocked though they were allowed to see the sun as it passed over. A flame brighter than any they could ever make, forever out of reach.

This arrival would be Durako’s ninth to witness, though he only really understood what was happening during the last two. He remembered his father’s conversation with his mother in their home during the last arrival, overheard from behind his quietly opened metal door.

“For what? What do divine beings need with children? I refuse to believe it’s anything to do with the Brutes. It’s a lie.”

“Please Vosko,” his mother said calmly, “do not draw attention.”

Glancing at the walls, the front door, and even their auto-kitchen arm that dangled from the ceiling above the countertop, she put her hand on his chest and nodded her head.

“This is the last time, Lamora. I can’t live like this. I look at those people out there and feel disgust at their complacency. No, their eagerness. Their own children, for Thessa’s sake!”

“Hush, that’s enough now. You know I agree, but this is neither the time nor the place.”

Durako didn’t know why they were so angry, but he did remember one part of the conversation. His father said the Thesmekka were lying. About what? He didn’t know, but Durako thought if he were chosen, the last thing he could do for his father would be to ask them about that lie and have it answered, to finally put his mind at ease.

Lamora stood near her nine-year old son and searched across the crowd for his father, Vosko. Durako could not have been more perfect in every way. He was tall, he was handsome, fearless and proficient with his fire, and he was theirs. She held his hand tightly as he knelt down beside her on the platform. They weren’t speaking to each other, but when her eyes met Vosko’s, they locked with a fiery purpose. Her grip tightened on her son’s hand, causing him to reassure her that they were going to pick someone else. She knew he was too young to really understand what that consolation meant. Too young to understand that some other siv and sieva were going to lose their child forever and no one would expect anything but joyous celebration. No one would listen to or understand their anger. No one would see those parents turning into husks of their former selves, going about with dead eyes. No one but her and those that secretly stood in the crowd with her that day.

Durako always had a strong sense of duty. His parents knew he would be difficult to manage if things got out of hand, but they had to put him on the platform. He was of age, there would be consequences that could ruin everything they had worked towards. As Vosko stared at his son, thinking of him as a four year old, wagging his finger around in a matter-of-fact way about how to properly sit so his back would not hunch, a sudden burst of familiar sound jerked them all into a defensive crouch. Cheering launched the crowd upright again and Vosko searched around for his companions. They were ready, though the color was gone from many of their faces so much so that they began to match their stony surroundings.

Three Thesmekka lowered themselves down with the flames that burned from their backs. The rush of the jet-fire heat deafened them all. They had two arms, though one of them arrived with four. They had stocky legs, and though they were made of metal, it looked to be gold and pearl. Perfectly centered between their eyes was a single white orb so large, it could fill the palm of Vosko’s hand. The crowd parted, forming a large circle for them to land in on the top level of Imperyo’s interior, on the widest part of the only upwardly winding street. With the blazing roar echoing off every wall and blood pumping in his head and ears, Durako almost didn’t realize when the silence came. The divine intruders seemed to purposefully circle him. Everything was still abuzz and Vosko was frozen like the stone they lived in, watching the Thesmekka speak to his son.

“What is your name?” One of the Thesmekka asked Durako in its otherworldly, serene voice. The mouth, indicated by deeply set lines that continued on to outline the rest of the face, remained unmoving.

When the poor boy finally figured out how to answer, the crowd cheered him and the Thesmekka motioned their approval. In an instant, he had been chosen. They pried Lamora’s hand away from Durako and in that moment, Vosko felt sick. His whole life began to fall apart and all his plans forgotten.

“No! You can’t take him!”

The defiant voice of his sieva rang out over the silence and prodded him as if he were a sleeping Brute. All his courage returned and he bellowed the signal to attack, throwing his arm forward as his body followed. Those who were not in agreement with their actions were cowards to Vosko and proved as such when they simply jumped out of their way or, like the terrified children on the platform, fled entirely at the thought of violence before the Thesmekka.

The metallic gods turned toward the charging Impery men, unaware of the women drawing deep breaths behind them. Unleashing the billowing flames erupting from the stream of chemicals launched out of under their tongues, they coated the Thesmekka in fire. The heat licked at their slick metal bodies, but was extinguished with a single sigh of exhaust from the vents that covered them. The steam reached out so fiercely at the women that many of them did not see the retaliation coming until metal arms swept them side to side, fanning them away like leftover smoke. Lamora managed to keep close to her son, avoiding the Thesmekkian attacks.

“Mom, what are you doing?!” Durako cried, his voice breaking, grabbing her arm to try and pull her away.

Lamora slung him behind her and blew fire up between the metal plates, into an underside filled with wires and moving parts that could not have been noticed except from below. Everyone’s mind was filled with a high-pitched, mechanical screech, stopping the flames as Lamora clasped both sides of her head. Durako was able to recover from the crippling scream in time to see a precise beam of light burn a hole through the middle of his mother’s chest. She looked to him rather than her wound, and died before she started falling.

Any air that may have been in his lungs was stolen away as he watched the ground grow farther away under his feet. The Thesmekka that had killed her was jetting away with him tucked under its arm, swiftly approaching the daylight on the other side of the Gate. He was the Gadling. Probably the last, since everyone was sure to be punished. Just like his mother was. He didn’t know how, but he was certain they weren’t going to want to keep them safe anymore. His mother was dead? No, he was certain they were going to have to make it up to them. After all, they weren’t hurt badly, but they were killing Impery beneath his soft, white shoes.

“Mom?” Durako breathed, unheard by even himself.

More than halfway up to the Gate, Durako saw his father and five other men struggling with subduing a Thesmekka and they were actually holding their own. That is, until it flailed its arm around and beamed one of them in the head, obliterating it completely. Vosko grabbed the Thesmekka by what should have been the neck and lurched its head backward, until it was looking up at the Gate. Trying to ram his hand inside, Vosko stopped when he saw the laser arm swinging up to blow a hole in him next and dove onto the deadly limb just as the beam began to form. The light shot up and sliced the air above them, cutting through a small fraction of the Thesmekka that carried Durako. That small fraction was apparently more crucial than it seemed to be as the divine kidnapper began to fall, blaring flames completely shut off all at once. Durako could have reached out and touched the Gate, but the unexpected, downward momentum made him recoil into himself. He pulled at the arm, trying to pry himself free until the pull of falling made his muscles useless. All he could think was falling and all he could feel was his stomach trying to come out of his mouth. As they passed the top and second levels, Durako brought his eyes to what awaited them below. The cold, flat stone of level fourteen. He could finally scream.

Another pull in the opposite direction put speckles in his vision and cut his scream off like a muffling cloth as his chest pressed against the Thesmekkian arm wrapped around him, squeezing his air out. Above them, the four-armed Thesmekka had caught its comrade and began heading for the Gate above. Durako frantically looked for a way to safely escape, but they were too far from the edges of the street and too quickly accelerating upward.

“Let me down!”

The Thesmekka whipped its head toward him with unnatural precision, still heading in a direction it didn’t seem to be looking at with utmost consistency. Reaching an extra limb back, it began pushing and prodding at Durako, attempting to loose him from the body of the Thesmekka being flighted away. Durako slipped, but grabbed onto an arm with several dimly lit buttons and heard the high-pitched whir of energy from the lasers building up force. He couldn’t believe this god was going to kill him, but he couldn’t let go or he was certainly dead. His arms slipped a little more and the barely audible squeal released a deep boom, blasting a blinding, burning light out from the arm he dangled from. An explosion of rocks and quaking walls rumbled out, but Durako couldn’t hear any of it. Deafened by proximity and blinded by the flash, he clung to the metal arm while it whipped around as if he were welded to it. Then, they went down again. Another Thesmekka, dead, though he was not sure how. It was entirely intact.

As they passed the topmost, the second, the third, and fourth levels at a powerful speed, Durako braced himself. It’s one thing to know pain is coming, even a big pain, but there is no understanding what to do when there’s only death coming. Being a child was no help either. So, he clenched his teeth and held on tight.

“Unsafe velocity.”

His eyes popped open. Where did that voice come from? Was the Thesmekka waking up? He craned his head around to see, but they were both more lifeless than when they first arrived. No lights, no busy flickering behind their motionless eyes. Suddenly, the same kind of exhaust that had extinguished the Impery women’s flames blew out of the vents facing the ground with a force great enough to drastically slow their fall. The impact still hurt, but they were all in one piece.

The moment his senses returned, Durako scrambled away from the wreckage. His traction-less shoes scraped desperately against the grainy floor and he clawed his way to a running pose, stopping only when he reached a wall. Just as he turned to press his back against the cold stone, the third and final Thesmekka swooped down and attempted to carry the other two away. It’s upward ascent was so slow that it gave up, turned, and blasted another hole in the mountain’s interior wall. A crack slipped up the side of their towering home, reaching all the way up the fourteen levels until it reached the Gate nestled into the stone at the inner peak. The Gate jerked, lurched, and swayed as it came loose from its hinges. Then, the Gate that had been their only source of light, air, and hope to one day see the outside world again, fell. It drove passed each level with such heft that a gust pushed the onlookers back from each ledge and the crash from its landing at the bottom brought only silence in its mighty wake.

After a long, drawn out moment, the escaping Thesmekka could be heard scraping across the ground. Unable to drag both comrades after being damaged by the launched debris, it begrudgingly dropped one of them and was able to escape with the other. The one left behind was the four-armed one, the one that was dead, but for reasons Durako did not understand. Everyone hiding in the shadows slowly came forward and those who had been watching poured down from the spiral street above. It was only at the sound of his father’s frantic voice that Durako felt part of reality again.

“Durako! I can’t believe it. There you are, thank Thessa!”

Vosko was so relieved, tears filled his eyes and didn’t fall until he wrapped his arms around his son and squeezed his eyes shut. Their home had two holes in it and a dead god laying on the floor. All the Brutes had to do was walk in now. The Thesmekka would never come to them again, he was sure of it. As his father held him, letting all his terrible fears drain from his arms, Durako could feel nothing. His mother was dead. All these people were staring at them. It was his fault, it was their fault. Why did they do this? Just for him? Everything was destroyed.

“Lord Vosko, what should we do about that?”

Several Impery men came up behind him, supportive, but shaken. The one who spoke had been their family’s closest friend. He pointed toward the gaping hole in the mountain, not the Thesmekkian corpse laying in the center of their fallen Gate, cratered into the stone floor of level fourteen. That metal body was all Durako could look at. He almost couldn’t see the hole. Nothing made sense. They loved the Thesmekka. Everyone said so. This wasn’t his world anymore.

“Now that we are free from our prison and our wardens,” said Lord Vosko, trying to force the quiver from his tone. “We will go out into the world and see for ourselves that we have been deceived. Surely there are others who have been confined like we have. Our flame will light the way for a future under the sun, as we have earned!”

Vosko put his hand around his son’s shoulder, but felt the shifting weight. Durako was uncertain, they all were. He had lost someone dear to him, but most had that day. Vosko took solace in the fact that their pains would soon heal under the warmth of the burning sun. As he guided Durako and the rest of the curious inhabitants of Imperyo outside, they saw a world coated in white.

“Snow,” said a man, one known to spend too much time in the holographic library. “It’s the winter time of year, the cold time.”

“I don’t like it out here,” whispered Durako, feeling his father pull him closer in.

The air was indeed crisp and many shrunk back into the warmth of the mountain. Lord Vosko blew fire at the ground and found the earth underneath. He grabbed it, held the frosty dirt in his fingers, and smiled as he looked out over the untouched horizon.

The tyrant sat by the fireside, in his chair made of leather and whalebone, trying in vain to warm himself as the fear crept over him. It was a foreign feeling for Wyrdan, the great warlord of the north, one he had not felt for almost 100 years. Fear had become as rare a thing to him as love or compassion.

It had not always been so. There was a time when he cared for a great many things. Wyrdan had in fact cared so much, he had poured himself into his valiant quest. He would end war, he would end want, he would end hatred. A divided world would unite, all men joined by a common thread, the fear of their immortal ruler. Fear had made him strong, but now fear crushed him like a vice.

His quest was eventually forgotten, his good intentions washed away by the blood of those who defied him. Eventually, the blood of even his own kin would mix with those who rebelled against him, and he would spare only one to inherit his throne and cause.

Thorn. His grandson Thorn would sit at his feet and learn how to rule, how to crush any who defied, how to be a monster. Wyrdan would realize his mistake too late, that he had created his strongest adversary in his own grandson.

The monster’s greatest mistake was out there, somewhere, beyond his grasp. It was for this reason, Wyrdan sat by his fire in full armor, his heavy iron sword at his side, feeling particularly mortal on this night, as nervous fright and the ache of his many ancient battles gripped him.

But… the tyrant was not the only monster who sat in that chamber, behind that barred door, guarded by ten men, high on the Mountain of Fear, the keep of Wyrdan O’ Crom.

Thorn made his way quietly through the forest, moving like a cat along the small stream that issued forth from his grandfather’s keep. It was not a path he had ever wished to tread again, but here he was. He only wished to be away from Wyrdan’s cruelty, to no longer be a part of his grandfather’s evil. Wyrdan himself had now made that choice impossible.

Thorn felt almost sick when he thought of the wife and son he left behind, in that little mountain village, once far from the reach of Wyrdan. He knew he would never see them again. It had been years since he faked his own death to escape the tyrant, but somehow, Wyrdan knew he lived, and had reached out from his dark mountain, leaving destruction in his path, as Wyrdan always did.

Thorn had been sure that he was safe, so far from the mountain fortress, in such an obscure little village far from any trade route. He had wandered there from the forest, years ago, near death from his wounds, with only the clothes on his back. The kind villagers had taken in the wounded Thorn, and rescued the weary warrior.

The simple forest folk not only rescued Thorn’s body, they rescued his soul. He came to know peace, and fell deeply in love with a sweet widowed young woman and her infant son. The aging craftsman of the village took Thorn on as an apprentice, teaching him to work wood, clay, and iron. It was a happy time for one who had been raised by a monster, and had seen little but cruelty and death his whole life.

Still, even as peace settled on him, Thorn always prepared for a day such as this. He spoke the ancient prayers to the Mother, the sacred deity of his village, but his mind still wandered to thoughts of his tyrant grandfather, of blood offerings made to the evil man worshiped as a god. He crafted many a hunting bow, spear, or plow for his neighbors, but in the dark of his forge, he experimented with the secrets the old master craftsman had imparted to him.

Thorn hefted his pack on his shoulder, feeling the weight of the tools he carried, one of creation, another of destruction. He kept only his sharp dagger in hand as he moved through the trees, along the path that belonged to him alone, the secret path into the mountain stronghold.

It had been his only solace in his youth, in those days of darkness, the path he created for himself to escape the fortress, to be free of it, if only for a short time. He never thought he would someday need to retrace those steps, and re-enter that unholy place. He never thought he would see the evil thing that slaughtered his mother again. His jaw clenched at the thought of vengeance, but it was not really vengeance Thorn sought.

It had been barely a month since he learned that his grandfather was still searching for him, as news reached his refuge, tales of another small village, barely two days from him, that had been burned to the ground, its inhabitants slaughtered or enslaved. Wyrdan’s followers were searching for someone.

That very night, Thorn fired his forge. He had tested, experimented, and finally understood the secret. He carefully measured and mixed fine powdered ash into the molten iron in his crucible, and slowly poured the iron into a stone mold. He spent the following day re-heating, hammering, folding the iron, over and over, until it fit the shape he had in his mind, a broad axe-head with a long beard, tapering to a heavy spike.

Thorn would not see his family and friends butchered by Wyrdan’s hate. Those he loved would not suffer for his sins. Thorn knew too well how they would end, because he had not only been a witness to Wyrdan’s brutality, he had been an instrument of it. Thorn’s own foul deeds haunted him. And so it was that he set off to end it. One or both of them would have to die, or Thorn would never know peace, and all that he loved would be annihilated.

Thorn told no one of his plan. He set off into the forest, saying that he was going to collect wood to build a plow, and was never seen again. It took him many days to reach the Mountain of Fear, and as he crept through the woods, ever closer, he felt a strange calm. He thought of the awful things he had done in Wyrdan’s name, of the suffering he had wrought with his own hands, and a fire ignited within him. Anger and hate began to consume Thorn, as a wicked smile crossed his face. He would need all that anger, all that hate, to defeat Wyrdan. Or so he believed.

Within his chamber, Wyrdan felt a shiver, even as Visha placed another log on the fire. She moved toward him, to climb into his lap as she often did, but he pushed her away. He enjoyed the exotic girl, the dark foreign beauty that had been brought to him by slavers as a tribute, mere weeks prior. She spoke none of the northern tongue, only her own language, and a bit of Mediterranean “gibberish”, as Wyrdan called it. He did not know her name, and called her “Visha” based on what little of her jabbering he could make out.

She was a good pet, who knew when to submit to him, and when to resist. She could even take a strike well, and would cry when she knew it would please Wyrdan. He would keep her around, at least until she bored him. He had already decided that her tattooed skin would make a fine decoration for his wall when he was done with her.

The dark girl held up his empty jug, suggesting that he may want more wine.

“Of course, you stupid brown cur!” Wyrdan barked at her, and swung his heavy sword toward her. Visha scampered away, unbolting the door and dashing out with the empty jug.

Wyrdan huffed, his anger now the only thing keeping him warm.

Thorn slipped the iron bar from his pack, and wedged it under the wood grate that plugged the drain from the fortress that fed the little stream. He pushed at it slowly, until it broke free, and fell away. He left his pack there, and pulled out only the things he would need to end his grandfather.

Minutes later, Thorn emerged into a corridor, not far from the inner chamber of the keep. He crept like a stalking wolf toward the first sleeping guard, and with a perfect stroke, cracked his skull with his blacksmith’s hammer. There would be many more guards, and the rest would not be as easily dispatched.

He slipped past the cell where Wyrdan kept important prisoners, the kind he would usually sacrifice to himself. Thorn hoped he may find help there, but there were only two, from what he could tell, and while they both appeared to be warriors, breaking the lock would raise an alarm he could not afford. It was too much to risk, as they may seek only escape, and be no help at all. He would have to continue alone.

Thorn stalked slowly, extinguishing each torch that he passed as he grew ever closer to Wyrdan’s chamber. He needed no light, he knew the way all too well. He stepped back into the shadow, as another guard stumbled toward him, his face twisted in agony. Thorn ended the guard’s pain, when his axe found the man’s head. Something else was happening here.

Thorn continued up the corridor, until it began to narrow. He steeled himself. He would meet the strongest resistance here, at the choke point. He paused, and watched as the silhouettes of three guards filled the narrow corridor. He crouched in the shadow, until the first of the three staggered past him, then he sprang forth, like a flame from quenching oil. The three put up little resistance, not even crying out, as Thorn caved in the skull of one with his hammer, and made short bloody work of the other two with his razor sharp axe.

Another shadow appeared, slim and dark. It was a woman, her tattooed skin bare in the faint light. Incredibly, she did not shiver from the cold of the stone hallway. She moved toward him, as if to embrace him, licking her lips and smiling. Thorn held up his axe to keep her away, but she continued toward him nonetheless. She paused, just short of him, her mouth open in anticipation, as if she were about to kiss him. She looked down at the split-open corpse of one of the guards, and her expression changed.

“Shimry di M’tta?” she whispered.

It was clear to her that Thorn did not understand. She sighed, and tried to recall what little of the northmen’s language she knew.

“Way is…” she said, “door is free… no blocked…”

Thorn nodded. He understood what she was trying to say. He did not know who she was, or why, but this woman was trying to help him. She must have poisoned the guards. The heavy door to the inner chamber was not locked. He would not have to break his way in.

He may yet be able to surprise Wyrdan, and end it. He may even be able to survive the fight. A tiny spark of hope glimmered deep in Thorn’s soul. He quickly extinguished it with hate and anger, the only way he knew to complete his task.

The woman turned, and began to make her way back down the corridor, her hand brushing over the bloody blade of the axe, as if she knew why Thorn was there.

“Sic seimpire tyrannaes,” she said, words Thorn knew not, even though he faintly recognized the southern tongue.

The door was indeed unlocked when Thorn reached it, after stepping over the dead or dying bodies of the rest of his grandfather’s guard. He closed it behind himself with care, making no sudden noises, even as he heard the voice of the tyrant.

“It’s about time,” Wyrdan said, “bring me my damned wine, dog. And bar that damned door!” The old warlord was careless not to look, not suspecting it was the one he feared. His mind was too occupied by the cold and by the sore aches that gripped him. He was sure that Thorn would come, but not expecting him this night, not without some kind of alarm.

There was a clink of metal, as Thorn shoved a small iron rod into the lock of the door, wedging it shut so it couldn’t be opened from outside at all. Wyrdan turned to yell at what he thought was his slave, to see the hulking shadow that stood between him and the heavy door.

Thorn looked very different than the last time Wyrdan had seen him. He was bigger, his muscled frame hard like stone. His thick beard was cut short, trimmed to guard against stray sparks from the anvil, his long dark hair braided carefully and tucked into his leather and iron armor. Even so, Wyrdan knew his grandson immediately, from his deep blue eyes that seemed to glimmer in the faint light.

“So, you have returned,” Wyrdan said smugly, with a hint of fear, “Good, I have work for you, once you’ve been properly punished for your infidelity.”

Thorn said nothing. There were many things he could have said, but he was incapable of speech. Only the hate in his blue eyes spoke for him now. He dragged his steel axe along the stone wall as he approached Wyrdan, and a spray of sparks cascaded to the floor.

“Very well then,” Wyrdan said, “I was going to kill you anyway.”

The warlord sprang from his chair, and swung his heavy iron sword at Thorn. It was foolish hubris, trying to use such a weapon in such close quarters. The sword, scarcely more than a toothed club of iron, was quite deadly from horseback, and no bronze weapon could stand against it. Wyrdan would count on that sword, and his unnatural speed, to defeat the last of his kin.

Thorn dodged the blow, and the next, as the warlord crashed the heavy blade about, destroying his own chamber. A clatter arose at the door, as more of Wrydan’s guard had arrived, alerted by the smashing of the cell door, and escape of the two prisoners. The guards crashed at the door, but without success. The heavy door could only be opened from inside now.

Wyrdan laughed, knowing that there was no way Thorn would escape. Thorn’s look did not change. He had come there to kill his grandfather. Whatever happened after did not matter, only that the tyrant would die, and Thorn’s family would live. They would never know what he had done to protect them, but they would be safe.

Wyrdan swung again, and Thorn quickly rolled aside, slashing the tyrant’s leg with the axe as he went. Wyrdan wheeled, surprised that his grandson’s speed matched, even surpassed his own. Wyrdan’s fear gripped him by the throat. He truly believed that he could not die, but in that moment, he felt death closing in rapidly.

The warlord swung the sword wildly now, trying every attack he knew, too frightened to realize that Thorn knew them as well. He thrusted it forward, and swung upward, trying to catch Thorn by the chin with the barbed tip. It was the move Thorn was waiting for. It was Wyrdan’s final mistake.

Thorn stepped back, and caught the sword in the beard of his axe. Sparks flew as he slid the axe down the iron blade, until the spiked beard caught between the third and fourth tooth. If Wyrdan understood iron, he would have had that sword remade. Thorn understood. With a twist, and a great shift of his weight, Thorn snapped the iron blade like a piece of driftwood.

Wyrdan stood dumbfounded, staring at the broken symbol of his power. Thorn smiled. His axe had done exactly what he had made it to do. Wyrdan made one last futile swing with what was left of his sword, and Thorn buried his hammer deep into the tyrant’s bronze breastplate. Death had found the immortal warlord, as Thorn’s hammer occupied the space where Wyrdan’s black heart once resided.

Before Wyrdan could fall, Thorn took off the monster’s head with his axe. It rolled unceremoniously across the floor, and landed next to a plate of uneaten food, the supper that Wyrdan had been too anxious to eat.

Thorn sat in his grandfather’s chair, listening to the guards pound the door, satisfied in a job well done. He wondered, would they run when he showed them the head of their god? Would they part, and let him pass when he rolled it down the stairway, down to the crooked road that led up the Mountain of Fear? It did not matter. He no longer feared for himself. His anger washed away, and a great peace fell on him. He mumbled the ancient prayer once more, the prayer to the Mother. The prayer of thanks.

Thorn was still at peace when the guards finally breached the door, and even when they beat him and tossed him into a cell. They offered him as a sacrifice to resurrect their god, and nailed him to the great tree that grew in the center of the stronghold. Thorn cried out in pain, but not in despair. Even a crucifixion could not take Thorn’s victory from him.

Many days would pass before the two captives of Wyrdan would return, with an army at their backs. “Visha” had told them, after their escape, of the strong warrior who had come to the Mountain of Fear that night, the night she rescued them. The two warriors, the wild Sumerian known as Anun, and the tall beauty called Scatha, knew what Thorn truly was as soon as she told them.

The two had come to talk with the immortal warlord, Wyrdan, to sway him from his wickedness, to show him the truth. But Wyrdan would have none of it, and called them blasphemers. He did not know that one of their own was already in his camp, a sort of back up plan, the girl known as Sira the Vishakanya.

A Vishakanya, a monster. Bred and raised far to the east, Sira was the only of twenty girls of her kind to survive her cruel upbringing. Fed poison from infancy, her lips meant agonizing death to any who dared taste them. Sira was a weapon. It was Grace that had saved her, helped her to escape her masters, and put her on a ship, to eventually find her recruited to a higher purpose by men bearing red and gold banners.

It was Sira who opened the gates of Wyrdan’s stronghold upon their return, after killing three more of the slain warlord’s soldiers. Anun and Scatha poured in with their troops, and ended the legacy of the brutal tyrant forever.

Sira was the first to reach the great tree, at the center of the keep. There, before the crucified man, rested the broken pieces of the iron sword on a stone altar. She quickly pushed the broken end to the ground, and wrapped the hilt up in the hide on which it rested. Her true mission.

She turned to look on the brave man nailed to the great tree. He stirred, slightly. There was life in Thorn still. She ran to him, but she knew she could not help him. She drew close as he looked up and spoke.

“It was you…” he whispered, “you helped me. You gave yourself to him, weakened him…”

Sira only sort of understood his words. He was not wrong, but how did he know? She had told Wyrdan she was Vishakanya, knowing he wouldn’t understand, even as her body slowly poisoned the immortal.

“She showed me…” Thorn said, “she… you… you are Sakai…”

Sira was now torn. No one was to know who she truly served, but how could she kill this brave man? No redemption could be found in slaying a hero. Perhaps, in his broken state, death would be blessing. She took out her dagger, and pricked her thumb. Her blood would bring him a quick death. Still, she hesitated, unsure of her actions.

The choice was made for her, as the night sky lit up like the sun, and a blast pushed her back. Lightning struck the great tree, tearing it almost in two. Sira fled, fearing some foul magic. She slipped past the troops of Anun, and off into the forest, her true mission completed.

She was not there to rescue Wyrdan’s captives, she had come for the sword. To be more precise, she had come for the oily black stone that decorated the sword’s pommel, the stone that had been stolen from the Sakai.

They dared not let it fall into the hands of Anun or Scatha, not yet.

Anun reached the smoking ruin of the great tree, to find a broken Thorn still clinging to life. His legs were gone below the knee, and his right eye was practically burned out. He had been saved, in a way, as the lightning destroyed his body, but spared him from Sira’s kiss of death.

The black haired Sumerian pulled Thorn’s still-smoking body from the tree, and lay him down on the grass, looking over his injuries. Thorn did not bleed, but was badly burned.

“Three…” Thorn whispered, barely conscious, “three will be lost, or all is lost.”

“One for honor. One for love. One for Grace.” Anun could barely hear Thorn’s words, and was more concerned with getting him some medical attention to care.

“The end…” Thorn continued, “the end… the end…” he muttered, “is the beginning.”

Brave Thorn would survive, and in time, would learn to live without his legs and missing eye. He would be given something else in return, as his remaining eye would show him many things. His sight would help guide them, this family he never knew he had.

They would build for him a new forge, and he would mount his grandfather’s wicked head on a post above the entry. He would never see his wife or her son again, despite Anun’s encouragement. He could not bear for her to see him, a mere fragment of the man she loved. He would not be remembered that way.

Centuries passed, and Thorn lived on, and would pass his knowledge and skills of the forge to many others, to those known among his kin as Alchemists.

One evening, on a small green island, far from the cold mountain of his childhood, Thorn the blacksmith closed his eye and looked beyond, as he often did. He saw a chaotic gunfight erupt at a derelict roadside motel. Another of his kind, another soul with nothing to lose, bravely faced his end to protect others from a cruel death, as Thorn had done all those centuries ago. Except… this man was facing certain death to rescue complete strangers.

The one-eyed man sat back in his comfortable leather chair by the fireside, and whispered that ancient prayer of thanks to the Mother, followed by seven words:

“Kill them all, lad, kill em’ all.”

Crystalline clusters jutted out of the ground like icy sculptures of bushes and trees. Rain too thick to see through pelted everything, causing the formations to chime out a faint song that haunted the two wounded wanderers. Dark, gray clouds above shot down streaks of light in the distance. Every flash reflected off the strange crystals tenfold, blinding anyone with their eyes open.

“Wake up, Jake,” whispered Adaline, her cheek pressed against his own.

She tried her best to look around, but there was no direction from the land or the sky. Just rain and a foreign field. There did not look to be an end to the dark clouds above her.

“We can’t wait it out,” she muttered to herself.

The eighteen year old, frontier girl plucked herself up, cringing from the slash across her chest that ended on her shoulder and the fracture stabbing within her arm. A gift from their latest victory over the blood demons. Jake’s prize was much worse. A fact she continually reminded herself of as she struggled to drag him more than a few feet from where they dropped out of the massive, cracked open rock. Her good arm hooked under his shoulder, she pulled and dug her weathered heels into the muddy rocks until her muscles quit. Adaline collapsed partially underneath Jake and coiled into herself when another less-distant beam of lightning struck, followed not only by thunder but by an explosion of shards.

She pressed her hand into her chest, feeling a deep pain pulsing from inside. Taking deep breaths didn’t help, reassuring herself didn’t help, and just when she started to cry out from the pain, a figure in the storm called out first.

“Hello?” Adaline called back, feeling the pain fade as she focused on something else.

“What are you doing out here?”

The man wore thick gloves and had eyes as blue as the crystals in the bag slung over his shoulder. They so forcefully pierced through the blankets of rain that Adaline wasn’t prepared to be staring into the face of another person.

“Help us,” was all she could say.

The immense man did not hesitate, much to her surprise. Adaline was prepared to beg, to show proof of their need, or to defend the two of them as best she could. When none of that was needed, she found herself lagging behind the man who now carried an overstuffed bag and Jake’s unconscious body, one over each shoulder. Staggering to her feet, she scrambled to catch up and was close enough when he glanced back for her that he carried on without a word.

Too close to where they’d been sitting before, lightning struck and blasted crystals apart. She could feel the heat on her back through the rain and a few shards sprinkled down on them. Adaline let out a scream, but not even she could hear it. The two of them ran out of the crystal fields, fueled by energy she didn’t know she had left in her. As more and more streaks of lightning flashed around them, she noticed that it was getting brighter in the field. The crystals left behind, the shards that rained down, and the remnants left behind all stayed alight with the energy that filled them.

A long meadow devoid of crystals stretched out under their feet and a village peered out through the obscuring rain ahead of them, inviting them in with its warm candlelight glowing from every window. Adaline wondered if it was earlier in the day than it seemed. As if someone stopped working the water pump, the rain let up until it was barely a mist floating down from the sky. The man turned to set his eyes on her one more time before starting to speak.

“You ready to tell me why you two were out there? Where you’re from? Anything like that?”

“We were lost.”

“No doubt about that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Adaline, trying to find something else to say. The truth seemed like a topic for another time.

The man looked her over, assessing her clothes and her face, and finally stopped moving. He stared at her with such judgment, it was as if he just realized she’d been following him.

“What is it?” Adaline finally asked.

“You from this place? This world?”

The question caught her so off-guard she found herself lingering in returned scrutiny until distant thunder reminded her of how much she wanted to feel the warmth from the indoor firelight. She shook her head in response, finding her words too far away to use.

“We should hurry,” was all he said in response.

As they started jogging toward the village, Adaline glanced over her shoulder. The blue-white glow from the crystalline field illuminated several more figures bobbing up and down as they fled the bursting shards of glass-like debris, all with large bags over their shoulders.

Down the gently sloping hill, across the cobblestone bridge, sat a village with white and blue flowers woven around every softly glowing building. Fluffy trees popped up wherever there was space between the tightly tucked walls, tenderly brushing the rounded roofs in the crisp breeze. A dilapidated fence lazily contained a flock of sheep and a few cows, all huddled under the shelter of an umbrella-like tree in the middle of their pasture. Adaline could not recall having seen its match in all her life. Even as they trotted over the gray-stone bridge that covered the recently refreshed stream, she stared in longing and awe. Glancing at Jake’s dusty brown hair matted with blood on one side brought her rapidly blinking back to their reality.

“In here,” said the man, holding the door open for her with one bulky foot.

“Who’s this?” The doctor jumped up from his book, flipping it closed quick enough to whip the flames on the candle he read by.

“Don’t know, they were sitting in the middle of the fields. In the middle of the storm.”

The man who’d saved them shot him a look. The doctor narrowed his eyes at their rescuer, then at the two of them.

“Well go fetch Vulmar then,” he said, flicking his hand toward the door as he quickly approached them.

The doctor slid Jake off their rescuer’s shoulder and dragged his heels over to the bed, asking the still stunned Adaline to assist.

“What happened to him?”

“He, uh, he got, well there was this, uh…”

“Lightning strike? Shrike attacked him? I need to know or I’m going to waste valuable time trying to figure it out.”

“Somethin’ spilled and it, well it melted his arm off,” said Adaline, feeling her heart race and holding her own injured arm close to herself. “Then we hit the ground and he hit his head.”

“What about you,” he asked, still examining Jake, “got anything serious for me?”

“Not near as serious as his,” she said.

A knock at the door distracted her, but the doctor called for them to come inside. He opened Jake’s eyes with two fingers one at a time, staring into his lifeless gaze, shaking his head after the brief assessment. He plucked a bizarre tool off his desk and began to whirl it over Jake’s head and then his arm, grunting when over his arm it began to scream. The doctor clicked it and it fell silent. The door opened and two men rushed inside, quickly shutting the door behind them. The stranger spoke first.

“Is this them?”

“It is,” said the man who brought them there.

“They don’t look to be from any place I know of, but that doesn’t mean anything with certainty.”

“Of course not,” said their rescuer.

“What are your names, Miss?”

Adaline quickly assessed this new man, older than the other two, yet not quite an old man. Tall and thin with a bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache, he waited anxiously from behind a pair of brass-rimmed spectacles. His eyes were quite normally brown, as were the doctor’s. There was something off about the man who brought them there, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She could barely put her finger on anything with certainty anymore, it felt like.

Adaline introduced herself reluctantly, then Jake next. Seeing as how they were being so hospitable, she couldn’t outright refuse and she didn’t want to make enemies though her entire being yearned to be alone. Or at least, away from strange new people in strange new places for a while.

“This man is Jhaan Wyren,” said the eldest, pointing to the one who saved them. “I am Judge Vulmar Carn. That’s Doctor Darcassen Agith, helping your companion there.”

Adaline froze. None of those strange names lingered more than a few seconds in her memory.

“Thank you for bringin’ us here,” she said timidly.

“Is it true, that you come from another world?”

“I s’pose it is,” said Adaline hesitantly, her eyes flitting from one man to the other, carefully watching every expression on their faces.

They spoke about how they came to be in this land and though it pained Adaline to recount the events that had only just happened to them both, she got through it, glancing at what the doctor was doing to Jake from time to time during the story.

“Is he gonna be alright?” Adaline finally asked the doctor, unable to go another moment watching his disappointed reactions to everything he inspected on Jake’s injuries.

“We’re dangerously low on supplies right now, though I think he’s in luck. That boy needs unique treatment, but I happen to have everything we need right here. However, you could use some of our medicine yourself. Your arm is swelling and that cut across you there is not looking too well either.”

“Only just happened,” she muttered, looking down at it as best she could. Her once pale-blue dress hung loosely at the top, like a man’s unbuttoned shirt, roughly ripped open by Elodie’s blade. The doctor picked several herbs growing in pots along his window and pushed them into a shallow bowl, putting an elaborately beautiful lilac wrapped in linen into the mix last.

“Regardless,” said the doctor, expertly grinding herbs into a paste with his mortar and pestle.

Jake’s good hand twitched and he made a small whimper. Adaline leapt over to his side, inspecting him more fervently than the doctor had, placing her hand on his shoulder and carefully saying his name, but he made no further signs of rousing. The pain in her chest returned. She clutched it, straining to breathe properly without causing a scene. She backed away from Jake and tried to mentally assure herself that all would be well. He was in good hands. She opened her eyes again and looked at these strangers, intentions unknown, with unusual methods of healing, and she felt embarrassment as her lip trembled.

“Come with me,” said Jhaan, the man who rescued them. “You should speak to Shagar, she can help you through your troubles.”

“Not yet,” grumbled the doctor.

He slapped some of the muck onto her arm, onto her chest and shoulder wound, and told her to finish the rest.

“Eat it?”

“Yes, it works inside to out. Eat.”

After Adaline had a wooden spoon filled with the green-brown goop slapped into her open hand, the doctor began feverishly mixing more of the concoction in his gritty, black bowl. Jhaan stuck his tongue out and with a pained look, motioned for her to spread it over her tongue. Seemed to her that she was not the only one who had to take this disgusting, herbal medicine. She smeared it across her tongue and immediately recoiled. It tasted like she was licking freshly watered grass in a cow pasture. Before she could turn much more green, there was a sickly howl from outside the window.

“The shrikes,” said Judge Vulmar in a low voice.

“Don’t worry, they only come through here when they’re excited about something,” said Jhaan. “Let’s go, quietly.”

Adaline swallowed, unable to get enough of the muck off her tongue to quit tasting it. She was about to follow Jhaan out the door when the doctor clumsily pushed his way through, still holding the mortar and pestle in his hands, grinding away.

“I have to go to Filverel’s, I don’t have enough here.”

“My father would be happy to give you what we have, though it’s not much either.”

Adaline thought their speech sounded unusual. Forced, almost. As if they were trying too hard to be proper or weren’t accustomed to speaking aloud, or speaking at all. Before the door closed behind them, she looked back at Jake one last time, a bit of muck spread over the exposed bone and muscle on his ruined arm. He was so young beside all these men, younger even than herself, but she wanted him to wake up and stop all of this from falling on her shoulders. She didn’t want to be so relied upon, to be the one who had to figure out who to trust, who to talk to, and what to do about everything regarding their safety.

“Shagar’s home is this way,” said Jhaan.

Much to Adaline’s surprise, once the clouds emptied, the sun revealed itself as low in the evening sky. Brilliant orange overcame the dark blues and grays, a victory soon to be lost once again. The road they followed was made of loosely set stones, mostly flat on top though she still tripped an irritating number of times. They rounded dozens of corners and by the end were probably only a short, direct-distance from the doctor’s home, but the town was set up like a picturesque maze.

Jhaan stopped in front of a simple stone and wood home. Adaline could hear the fireplace crackling from beside the open window and a light chuckle floated off from a private conversation inside.

“Excuse me, ladies,” said Jhaan, knocking at the door.

“Come in, son! Come in,” called an elderly woman from inside.

There were eight older woman sitting in chairs arranged in a circle to face each other. Each had a ball of yarn and a set of crochet needles in their hands and their smiles dimmed only enough to ask who the lady that accompanied Jhaan.

“Shagar, we need to speak with you,” said Jhaan.

Several of the woman clicked their tongues and a couple of them gasped for show, shaking their heads at each other. Jhaan immediately knew why and grimaced, muttering to the elderly woman who got up from her chair.

“It’s important business,” he said.

“It must not be, if you can’t speak to me properly.”

“I’m sorry, mother.”

Jhaan kissed the woman on the cheek and all was well again. Adaline looked at the two of them and with no effort, the resemblance was immediately apparent. Her electric-blue eyes carried an energy the rest of her could not possibly have hoped to entertain. They were wide, striking, and only blinked when they had no other choice.

“Who’s this then?”

“We should take this conversation to a private location.”

“So proper,” she chuckled, following him without protest.

All of her friends called out their goodbyes in their sweet, old voices, continuing on with other conversations in her absence.

“I’d like us to go to my home.”

“Yes, there isn’t anyone there who could eavesdrop on us,” said Shagar. “Should be by now, but there isn’t.”

She was speaking to Adaline, trying to pry a smile out of her. She almost succeeded. Just three houses away, Jhaan opened his door and hurried them inside. He turned on the front room lights and Adaline saw all the signs of bachelorhood that could be squeezed into one space.

“Jhaan, really, this is unacceptable for such a guest.”

“Mother, listen,” he said, growing impatient, “this is a traveler.”

His elderly mother watched him, unaware of his point. He leaned his head toward her, widening his eyes, but she only narrowed hers, chuckling at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“What in the Heavens are you saying?”

“I ain’t from here,” said Adaline, freeing the burning desire to speak. “Not from this, well, this world as ya’ll been sayin’.”

“Oh my Heavens,” said the old lady, clutching her chest, eyes darting between them. “Like me?”

“Yes, from the sounds of it.”

Adaline felt her heart drop and then swoop back up in one huge swing of emotional realization. Shagar looked to be experiencing the same rush, though it worried them more with her.

“Sit down here, mother.”

“Well, I would…” she muttered, moving the clothes over to the end of the couch with two fingers. “Did you just get here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Adaline, afraid to take her eyes away in case she vanished.

“I’ve been to your world,” said Shagar, repeatedly pointing at Adaline as if afraid to actually touch the point floating between them. “Desert, horses, guns…and, oh what were they…”

“Hats?”

“Blood devils, we called them,” said Shagar.

“Not anymore,” said Adaline with a smug certainty. “They been dealt with.”

“By you?”

“No, course not, look at me,” scoffed Adaline with a chuckle. “My friend.”

“Of course, there’s two. Was with us, anyway. Is it a man?” Shagar asked Jhaan.

“A boy,” he said, shrugging a little. “Almost a man.”

“You’re both here to help us now, aren’t you? With the darkness that’s spreading.”

Adaline’s heart began to sink. She hoped everything was over, though she honestly hadn’t had time to think of anything since they spilled out into that strange field of crystals. Despite that, it was a surprise to her that they’d arrived at yet another place with an unnatural problem. She was being carted around just like before, only this time, Jake wasn’t with her.

“I don’t know.”

“You only just started out on this journey?”

“What journey? Please, tell me what’s going on,” begged Adaline. “I just wanna go home. We killed them blood demons, then another pair, then that creepy thing with the glowin’ heart…please don’t tell me ya’ll got yourselves a bloody monster here, too?”

“No,” said Jhaan quickly, putting his hand on her shoulder. “No, we’ve got shrikes to deal with here. Wolves that have been mutated by the darkness. Shagar, mother has told me about the blood demons, long ago. I am sorry for the horror you’ve gone though before coming to us.”

“If those were your first and here you stand, the two of you are far better at this than we were,” said Shagar, shaking her head. “I recall those creatures every time I see too much red. They haunt me, and yet you began with them. I am so sorry, dear.”

Adaline could feel herself wanting to be held by this kindly old lady, but she didn’t know them. She was terrified of how much she already loved this place and all she could think of was Jake waking up so that she could be vulnerable again, on purpose. She wasn’t anyone’s solid rock or savior.

“Do you have anything with you, that you brought from your conquests in the other worlds? Anything that could help us defeat this spreading darkness?” Jhaan asked.

“I don’t, I don’t have anything,” said Adaline.

“Don’t worry, dear. You would not have been sent here if you weren’t able to defeat this blight upon us.”

“Sent here?” asked Adaline. “Who’s sendin’ us places?”

There was a faint shouting from outside and Jhaan bolted up, straight as a warrior’s sculpture. He hastily flung the door open and ordered the women to follow, but he didn’t wait for them.

“Oh, not good, not good,” chanted Shagar, moving as quickly as her old bones could. “You best hurry on without me, I’ll get there in time.”

Adaline rushed out the door, mind focused solely on Jake. Sure enough, the closer she weaved to the doctor’s, the more abrasive the yelling became. She glanced left, then right, unable to remember in reverse which path they took to get to Jhaan’s house. Looking up at the horizon, toward the setting sun, Adaline saw a strange object floating above the woods just outside of town, opposite side as the crystal fields. As her eyes focused, she thought it must be a sort of lookout or guard tower.

“It’s this way,” she suddenly said to herself, remembering everything in relation to the evening sun.

“Get him quiet,” shouted Vulmar, holding Jake’s squirming body as still as he could.

Adaline saw a spill on the floor, broken glass and water pooled up in the middle of everything. It seemed to be nothing more than the nervous doctor’s drink, dropped in haste to address Jake’s worsening condition.

“I’ve made more for him, this should help. Quiet now, boy, you’re too loud,” grumbled the doctor, carefully bringing his gritty black bowl over to where Vulmar and now Jhaan helped restrain Jake.

“He’s had his arm melted clean off,” shouted Adaline. “Why ya’ll gotta talk at him like that?”

All three men stared at her for a moment, surprised by the chastisement, but it was the doctor who informed her of the danger from the shrikes.

“They are drawn to the sounds of suffering over all other things. Easy prey is irresistible to them. The sounds he’s making are that of easy prey.”

Almost before the doctor finished speaking, claws scraped across the windowsill. Scrambling inside, two mangy, rotten-looking wolf-like creatures with spikes protruding from their spines started snapping at anyone nearest them. Adaline happened to be that person. She screamed and covered her face, pressing against the wall. She only knew something had happened because nothing had happened to her. Jhaan had a strangely hooked club in his hands and was swatting the beasts away with quite effective efficiency. Clubbing one beast directly in the chin, it yelped and scurried back, all but breaking the doctor’s table clean in two, spilling everything onto the floor. The other managed to grind delicate materials under its filthy feet while everyone shouted and swung at them, jumping back when they hissed a corrosive spit, sizzling as it disappeared into the floor.

Adaline slumped to the floor, clutching her chest in agony. When she raised her head again, both beasts were watching her, frightened or confused, she couldn’t tell. They only waited a few moments longer before turning and scraping back out through the window, completely lacking the same grace and stealth by which they arrived.

Jhaan and Vulmar helped the doctor to his feet and began to assess the damage. Adaline watched them lament over the lost, precious ingredients. Ones that were needed for Jake to regain consciousness and sanity fully once again. She checked her chest wound, searching for it in vain. The outer wound had healed. To her amazement, there wasn’t a scratch left. She realized it must still be healing inside and pushed aside all her doubts, trying not to worry about the intense severity of that fresh wave of pain near her heart. Shakily standing, she overheard the doctor saying he needed to put Jake in a coma.

“What?” snapped Adaline.

“If I don’t, he is going to continue waking and could potentially die of pain. It happens.”

“Will he ever wake up?”

“Of course! Of course, this is only temporary. Water from the Timory Bog to the south, if you can call it water…it induces this deep sleep that will suppress all his pains until such time as he’s healed. Though, he’ll be quite sick afterward.”

“Can I talk to him first?” Adaline asked, nervously approaching Jake.

“He probably won’t understand you right now. But, we can leave you a moment.”

“I must figure out what’s needed, what you lost, who we can send out for supplies,” said Vulmar to the doctor.

Adaline went to Jake’s side, furrowing her brows as she watched him sweat and struggle not to make whimpering sounds. He seemed like the type who would’ve hated to see himself this way. She thought on that a moment before talking to him.

“I don’t rightly know what you’d think of yourself in a situation like this. I don’t know much more than your name and that you’re a good man…”

“Adaline?” Jake whispered, wheezing right after.

“I’m here,” she said eagerly, shocked out of her downward, doubtful spiral. She grabbed his searching hand and held it tight.

“You alright?”

“More or less,” she chuckled, touched to the point of tears. “You’re the one outta be answerin’ that sort of question.”

“I’m gonna die,” whispered Jake, shutting his eyes as if giving up.

“No you ain’t,” hissed Adaline. “There’s a doctor here, I’m gonna take care of you, just sit quiet and get better.”

The two of the three men came back inside, missing Jhaan, and Shagar could be overheard fretting from outside. Adaline leaned close to Jake’s ear and though he looked to be dead or sleeping, she whispered to him, praying that he’d hear her words and if he ever healed, that he’d forget them upon waking.

“I’m gonna take care of you, Jake. You’re gonna get better. But, you can’t leave me. You’re all I got left, so you can’t leave me here. You understand?”

Adaline stepped outside where the others had drifted to, her thoughts wrapped up in the painful, recent memories back at Willow Rock. Her father holding onto her as a blood demon reached into his chest, spilling the blood out of him like all the others. Jake, dragging her away from being the next victim, saving her life in that moment. She owed him for that and it was perhaps the feeling of a debt-of-life to another that gave her a powerful conviction. Seeing him suffer so, it troubled her to her core. Even if she were given a chance to rest, she knew that she couldn’t allow herself to drift off peacefully when things were so uncertain.

“We need more of the Dresna Lilacs, otherwise it won’t matter what else I can stock up on,” said the doctor to Jhaan and Vulmar. Shagar listened restlessly beside them, though all she contributed to the conversation was worry.

“I’ll get them,” said Adaline. “I’m the traveler, I’m supposed to do this.”

“You’re one of them and you shouldn’t go alone,” said Jhaan aggressively.

“Calm down, she can do as she wishes. She doesn’t belong to us,” said the doctor, rummaging through his pocket for his poorly-scrawled list. “Everything on here is essential.”

“Doc,” said Jhaan flatly. “While I appreciate your eagerness to be useful, this is hardly appropriate.”

“Go with her,” said Vulmar, noticing Shagar standing up straighter as soon as he suggested it.

“Why don’t we wait for the sun, hm?” Shagar suggested.

“Ten hours is a long time to a dying man,” said the doctor.

“Darcassen, you don’t seem ill. Why don’t you go on with them, bring that list,” snapped Shagar.

“He’s the only doctor we’ve got, mother. Don’t worry yourself, I’m not afraid of the shrikes, or anything else in the woods for that matter. The lady can’t go alone and I’m the most capable of guiding her safely. Talk’s over.” Jhaan turned his attention to Adaline. “I’m going to my home to gather what’s needed. Please, wait for me at the edge of town.”

“I’ll walk her there,” sighs Shagar. “I need to stretch my legs.”

The women parted ways and headed through the cobblestone maze together. Shagar was fairly silent except for a few mentions of which home belong to which person. Though all the names were lost on a stranger like Adaline, it didn’t stop the old lady from sharing. Searching for a topic of conversation to strike up, when the perfect one came to her it was something of a surprise that it hadn’t come up earlier.

“What was he like? The one you traveled with?”

“Oh my,” said Shagar, eyes wide and lips pursed. “Well let’s see. His name was Gorlon Krugorim. He was an exile, in the land I came from, for religious reasons. He believed in the All-Father, but it was forbidden.”

They stalled out at the edge of the town, a stiff breeze welcoming them to a more dangerous path.

“He was touched by one of those blood devils…”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is that why he ain’t with you?”

“No, no it didn’t kill him. It just touched him. Touched him just before it melted away. He said he felt fine, but things started to happen to him after that. Well, anyway, it’s not a pleasant conversation. Just know that he was a brave, honorable man and did his best to put the lives of others before everything else.”

The disdain in that statement was poorly concealed, whether it be by old age or the lack of a need to conceal it.

“Jake saved my life.”

“Stole it away at the same time, too.”

“I would’a been dead. Ain’t no doubt. You know what,” she could tell she shouldn’t be speaking still, but she was too tired to stop talking, “ya’ll only wanna save him ‘cus you wanna use him. You want to use us, but I ain’t no good without him.”

“Why do you want to bring him back from the brink of death, my dear? To ensure he survives the tortures of what you both have to look forward to? He’s got the chance to go in his sleep here, under the care of a doctor and with you at his side. Not drowning in his own blood or crushed under the footsteps of a mountain or countless other ways I’ve seen people be slaughtered in agony across dozens of worlds. Unless it’s love, then you’re using him, too. And even with love, all good things have a touch of selfishness to them. You need him to keep you safe and eventually bring you home or if you love him, so you don’t lose him. But what about what’s best for him?

“If you’re looking to free yourself from his debt, here.” The old lady pulled out a holster from under a sash tied around her waist. It was shaped as though made for a knife, but inside she revealed there to be a crystal, glowing brilliantly once drawn from the sheath. “Don’t touch it. Flesh draws the explosion out, you’ll certainly be killed.”

“Thank you,” said Adaline, hesitant to take it.

“I’m going to leave you here now. Hopefully, you’ll wait for my son.”

Shagar left little doubt in Adaline’s mind about the true intention of her words. Once the clicking of her shallow heels faded away and the young westerner knew she was alone, she stared into the darkness before her. Light did not break through the hungry shadows buried under the trees. Adaline clicked her teeth thinking about the old woman’s lecture.

“Feisty ol’thing.”

Rubbing her eyes, she couldn’t help but realize between fatigue, terror, and crossing into unknown worlds that she had no idea how long she’d been awake. Speckles of her vision returned slowly, but the forest ahead remained pitch black. Matched in darkness was a figure watching her from the edge of the village, just a few buildings down. When they met eyes, Adaline jerked and recoiled into herself, not understanding what she was looking at. Candlelight was lost on the figure, licked up as if the shadowy form starved for it. The silhouette shot into the forest after a moment, calling to her from within the black.

“Adaline, hurry!”

It sounded like Jake. Adaline took a step forward, but stopped abruptly. She knew it wasn’t him, she knew what she saw, even if she didn’t understand it. If there was anything to be gained from all this, it was that she didn’t question her instincts quite as much as she used to. Hearing the steady click-pat of flat shoes on the cobblestone growing less and less faint, Adaline knew her chance to encounter this shadowy form was fading fast. Any other time and she would’ve been grateful to hear Jhaan approaching after seeing such a frightening figure so obviously trying to bait her, but there was a comforting confidence, almost a power, in knowing that she really saw it and knowing it’s intentions.

Rushing forward, she threw herself into the abyss, allowing the shadows to swallow her whole.

Brenna’s long dark hair flew in the wind as she ran through the tall grass, away from the fortress town of Cullan. She hurried toward the ruins of her mother’s people, toward the place of the Tuatha De Dannan, that place that had once been the city of the people of the goddess Danu. She had been there so many times in her 15 years, exploring that place where no others from Cullan dared to tread, but today she was desperate. There must be something, there under the fallen walls of Dannan, some piece of ancient magic, some spell carved in the crumbling stone. There had to be… There must be a way to kill a dragon.

She had walked away from her father’s forge calmly, quietly, not showing the panic in her heart to her father or Setanta. They likely wouldn’t have noticed anyway, they were far too involved in their work, crafting that blasted axe.

“Wurm!” she called out, as she reached the edge of the ruin, “Wurm, I know you’re here! I don’t have time for games.”

“Games,” a voice replied, “why else would you come to play with old Wurm, child of Danu?”

A pale thin figure slid from atop a fallen column like a snake. Wurm smiled his nefarious grin as Brenna approached. He wondered, like he always did, if today would be the day.

“I need to know…” Brenna began, “if you know, you must tell me. I know that you know why I’m here, I know you’ve seen it.”

Wurm just shook his head and continued to smile at her, squinting his pale blue eyes while running his fingers through his messy platinum hair.

“You have me at a disadvantage, child,” he said, “I have been asleep for at least two moons now, perhaps more.” He sniffed the air, trying to gauge the season.

“It’s…” Brenna began, “there’s a…”

“Dragon!” Wurm’s eyes flashed. “I can smell it,” he purred. “Four men are killed, yes… four fools, I hear it now.”

Wurm had magic. He had taught Brenna many of his tricks over the years, from bringing the thick dead vines about his refuge back to life, to making the ancient metal orb float above the ruins like the moon. All those things were mere parlor tricks, simple glamour, not the true magic of Brenna’s mother’s people. Wurm’s only true magic was his ear.

“You wish to kill it, before it takes from you,” Wurm said to the girl. “Wurm hears the song of fate, and it says that ancient dragon will take from you one who you love.”

That was Brenna’s fear. Since her mother died, she had cared for almost no one. Most people of Cullan looked on her with suspicion, this wild child of her strange mother, who ran barefoot through the field with her ragged gown and messy hair. She was tolerated by the more proper folk, since she was the daughter of the Chieftain-smith of Cullan. Wild Brenna only loved two people, her father, and her “hound”.

“If there is a way to kill that thing,” Brenna said, her voice shaking, “you must tell me. Lie to me, and I will banish you from here.”

She sighed, and looked at the outcast faerie. He knew what she would say next, and his face changed to reflect his false sympathy. She had not yet spoken, but he already knew. She would finally offer him the thing he craved most.

“Help me kill it, before my father goes to face it…” Brenna trembled, “and you may have what you have always wanted from me.” She dropped her dress to the ground, just to show him she was serious.

Wurm’s eyes lit up, and his face changed to that of a young man, to the face of her love, her hound, Setanta.

Setanta was no dog, but “hound” was the name he had been given by those mean people of the town. The boy’s father died before his birth, and as he grew, his mother sent him to live with the Chieftain-smith of Cullan, his father’s most trusted friend. He had come to live with Brenna and her father when she was still very young. Setanta was a little over a year older than Brenna, and she thought he was the greatest thing she’d ever seen.

Setanta tried his best to learn the craft of Brenna’s father, but he was so small and thin, he could scarcely lift a hammer. And so it was that the boy earned his nickname, “the hound of Cullan”, as people suggested he must live only on table scraps, scrawny as he was.

Brenna loved him even more, since Setanta also wanted nothing to do with the mean girls of the town. She had even talked to her father about Setanta, and he just smiled, and told her that when the time came, the two would have his blessing. Her father would have to prod Setanta a bit, since he still thought of Brenna as the little girl with a crush, and had not yet come to appreciate the woman she was becoming. Unlike Setanta, Wurm appreciated her a little too much, and had for years.

Brenna wanted to cry, as Wurm smiled at her with Setanta’s face. Wurm knew she always dreamed her first time would be with Setanta, and he was toying with her. It was all he could do, as the song of fate had already told him that he would never taste Brenna’s supple flesh. He knew of no way to kill a dragon.

It seemed that no one did. The dragon had appeared barely a month prior, circling low over the nearby hills. Brave men went out to kill it, even though it hadn’t bothered any sheep or cattle, only taking a deer or two from the woods. Those brave men never returned. And now, it seemed, her father would go to the same fate.

Brenna blamed herself. She had given her father the very metal that was folded into that damned axe, metal she had brought back over many years of scavenging the ruins of Dannan with the lecherous Wurm. She and Setanta had designed the axe, as she wondered what mad warrior might take the thing out to meet the beast. When she realized that her father planned to do the deed himself, her heart dropped. She panicked, and ran to the ruins, hoping to trade her virginity for a way to save her father from certain death.

“Do not…” she said to Wurm, a single tear on her cheek, “do not take his face. It won’t matter, my eyes will be shut, but do not…”

Wurm moved close to her, and took her into his arms. She expected him to touch her in the ways he had always tried, but instead, he hugged her tightly, and calmed her tears.

“The song of fate is clear,” he said with a sigh, “we will both go unsatisfied, dear Brenna. The song says that the dragon has come to meet its maker, to give itself back to creation. And it will, soon. But it also says that you will lose one you love when it does. It cannot be changed.”

As corrupt as the ancient faerie was, he still felt sad for her. He loved the girl, in his own twisted way. He released her, and helped her recover her clothes. Sympathetic or not, he took the opportunity to run his hand across her smooth skin. Brenna was too sad to protest. She knew that Wurm could not lie, not about fate. He feared losing his gift, a gift no other fae had. He could not hear the whole tune, but fate would often let him hear a little of the next verse. He did hear the chorus, always. The end is the beginning, it said.

Wurm didn’t tell her that not only would he never have her, but he would never see her again, that soon, he and all his kind would sleep, and never trouble the kingdoms of Erin again. Under his arrogance, he admitted to himself that she was far too special for him anyway. There would be another like her, even stronger, but corrupt and misshapen, one much more suited to the Silver Wurm, if he ever woke…

Brenna sat in the empty ruin, as Wurm slowly vanished from sight. As the light faded, she made her way back to her father’s forge. She whispered her mother’s ancient prayer on the wind as she walked slowly through the tall grass. She would lose her father. She could not talk him out of it, as he had already declared he would do the deed. She could not steal his glory in such a way, even though she knew that he would relent if she truly begged him. She may not lose him if she did, but he would have to live as a coward for the rest of his days.

The Chieftain was gone when Brenna returned, likely to the tavern. One last night of drinking and celebrating before going out to face fire-breathing death. She quietly entered the forge, spying the finished axe resting on the table, almost glowing in the firelight. The axe wasn’t the only thing sitting there in the dark forge.

“He’s…” Setanta spoke, “your father’s gone to the tavern.” Brenna could hear the sadness in his voice.

She wasn’t the only one who had come to realize what would happen when her father went to face the dragon. Setanta looked at her, and both of them began to weep. She ran to him and embraced him tightly.

“He said…” Setanta spoke again, smiling a little, “he said, I should find you a suitable husband, if he doesn’t return… I nodded, and he slapped me on the head. He meant you should marry me…”

They both shared a little laugh. Setanta did love her; she had always been so kind to him. Of course he would marry her, he almost felt responsible, after helping to craft that axe. The Chieftain even decided it should have two blades, made out of his love for the two of them. Setanta had suggested they forge the ring Brenna had brought from the Dannan ruins into the pommel, a place to attach a rope or chain.

Brenna broke from his embrace, and walked over to gaze on the thing. This axe would take her father from her, as surely as that dragon would. Her tears fell on the metal, and it rung gently as they fell, leaving shimmering trails down the blades as they rolled across them. She began to shake with anger and fear. Neither of them could ask the Chieftain to resign from his quest. Win or lose, the deed would heap great glory on him, and on his house. They could not take it from him.

Setanta pulled her away from the table, and took her in his arms. He kissed her deeply, the way she had always hoped that he would someday. He led her from the forge, into the house, pulling her all the way back to his bed. It was the only thing he could think to do for her. He drew her close, and held her in his embrace. He would not take her, not on this sad evening. Brenna cried herself to sleep in his arms, her only consolation, that she would have her sweet hound for the rest of her life.

She awoke the next morning and dashed from Setanta’s bed, panicked that she would not see her father before he left. She ran out to the forge, to find her father sitting there, almost dumbstruck.

He looked at her, and spoke. They were the kindest and saddest words Brenna had ever heard.

“He’s gone,” her father said, “Setanta… is gone…”

The skinny lad, the “hound of Cullan”, had slipped away while Brenna slept, taking the axe, the Chieftain’s armor, and his horse.

Setanta was saddened by the thought that he may lose the only father he had ever known, and that the people of Cullan would lose their wise and just leader. He could have born that sadness, but he could not bear to see Brenna lose her father, the only thing in this world she loved more than him. The hound had done the only thing a good man could do, and went out to face the dragon himself.

Brenna was torn. She felt almost guilty in her relief that she would not lose her father, even though she would not see Setanta again. She would never be able to repay the debt she owed him.

The people of Cullan would mourn their “hound”. Brenna made sure they all knew what Setanta had done for them. A fine feast was held in his honor, and even a song was sung of his deed, of the slight lad who could barely swing a hammer, but must have had the heart of a dragon.

It was for this reason, the entire population of Cullan stood agape when, the day after the feast, the hound of Cullan came wandering back into the town covered in green blood, a great scar across his chest, the heavy double axe resting on his narrow shoulders.

From that day on, his nickname would take on a new meaning, and “hound of Cullan” or “Cuchulain” as it was said in the Celtic tongue, was a title of honor, and he would be named the protector of Cullan.

His name was not the only thing that would change. His encounter with the dragon had caused a transformation in the once skinny timid boy, as some weird magic began to cause the boy to grow, rapidly, until he had become a giant of a man, a man who could toss around the great axe like a toy. Stranger still, the axe itself had grown larger as well.

Cuchulain and his axe had doubled in size, barely three moons after he met the dragon. Unfortunately, so had his ego. The prissy town girls who once laughed at him now followed him like puppies, and he took the opportunity to use them all as playthings. He practically forgot about sweet Brenna.

Wurm had not lied. Brenna had lost someone she loved dearly, as the old Setanta never returned from that lonely hilltop. She loved him, and missed her hound, but she owed him such a debt, she could not be angry with him. In time, Brenna would marry another, a brave young man who loved her more than life, so much that for a time, she thought he might be her old friend Wurm, weaving his glamour, still trying to get under her skirts.

Setanta, or Cuchulain, as he was called, would grow even more, in size and in fame. He would one day leave Cullan, and fight in many wars in many parts of Erin, becoming so large and ferocious, he would go from being called “hound”, to being known as “Bear”.

Brenna would have two children, and die happily many years later, surrounded by loved ones. The blood of her mother, of the people of the goddess Danu, would continue, as would the great power that she never knew her blood carried.

As she was passing, she began to laugh, almost hysterically. In that moment, she too could hear the song of fate, the very pattern of the universe itself. She saw her brave scrawny hound, his body broken, lying on the hill, covered in the dragon’s blood, and his own. She saw the beast loom over him, a great gash in its neck dripping blood, as it spoke strange words, and breathed a bright amber flame over the boy like a blessing. Then, the dragon simply faded into the trees, like stars at dawn.

There was more, much more. She saw all the way back to the beginning, to the common ancestor they both shared, the stout blonde woman, holding her two sons, the Mother of all humanity, the woman her mother’s tribe called Danu.

She saw Setanta’s path unfold before her, and saw what he would become, his greatest love, and his indescribable deeds yet to come. She saw the part she had played in the song of fate. That is why she laughed, as she crossed over from this world, and was joined with her father once again. She still had that little smile on her face when when they placed her in her crypt, among the ruins of the Tuatha De Dannan.

Setanta, or Cuchulain, or Bear, would live on, but would age no more. He would travel from the Isle of Erin, to the lands of the Brethons, to Gallia, and into the far north, where many a song would be sung about the deeds of the legendary century-old warrior the northmen called Bear (pronounced Bo-vyfe in their tongue).

And one day, when he was at his lowest, drowning in drink and regret for the life he could have known with sweet Brenna, he would meet another legend, one known by many names, but most commonly by the Saxon word… Grendel.

The birds brought her tidings, as always. At first it was just a few songbirds rising above the treetops in twos and threes in panic. Then they came in waves. They became birds of all kinds, songbirds, raptors and even a handful of waterfowl rising from the mountainside.

Lenneth moved from the round seat at the center of the lookout tower towards the eastern windows. Something unusual was on the mountainside. Her father and brothers were down in the Round Lake Valley, beyond the Hall, taking in a few ducks for the guest they were expecting tomorrow. Lenneth was tempted to ignore the birds, since there were no other signs of something amiss. Only large predators or humans spooked the birds that way and neither was uniquely remarkable.

But it was possible their guest had arrived early. Leaving him to wander the mountainside for the night wouldn't be hospitable. She reached out and took up the tower's padded, metal striker and rang the eastern bell twice. The bell's clear, silvery tone echoed over the mountainside. Then Lenneth collected her short spears and spear sling and hurried over to the spiral stairway that led down from the overlook's platform. The rough wooden steps that wound around the outlook's central support beam had no interest for her. Instead she lept up on the railing and allowed her Gift to carry her down in a single sweeping movement.

She kept her legs tucked up under her body as she shifted back and forth to maintain her balance, her boots barely touching the wooden bar as the slid along without resistance. Her Gift of Grace turned the bar into a thoroughfare and propelled her along without resistance. Her sense of balanced, hone from a lifetime of similar stunts, kept her on course. She lept off the railing at the end of the bar and landed lightly on the dirt path below.

The mountain was as familiar to her as her family Hall. The Wingbreaker Clan had kept the paths on the Griffon's Mounts for two hundred years with each path, tree and clearing very deliberately maintained. The Gift of Grace wasn't integral to the way they kept the mountains. But many of the Clan had been blessed in that way over the years and they had found all the small shortcuts – rock outcroppings, convenient trees and dried creek beds – where their Gift would allow them to effortlessly slide down the side of the mountain.

From the appearance of waterfowl she'd spotted earlier Lenneth concluded their guest was crossing Hildur's Creek at the upper ford. At a normal march it was perhaps twenty minutes from the outlook. However an avalanche on the eastern ridges had left a wide channel open and smooth enough for gliding so Lenneth was able to sweep down two hundred feet of mountainside in less than a minute and the overall trip in less than five.

She walked out of the brush along river to find their guest seated on a rock beside the ford, pulling his boots back on. His appearance was immediately striking. He was tall but wiry in the way of a man who was used to an active life but not a laborious one. His skin was the olive tone of the Neronan people. The boots he was pulling on were shod with nails in the same way her own were, giving them more grip on the mountainous terrain. However that was the only concession he'd made to the wild. Unlike many visitors who came from that southern nation he had not adopted the dress of the Isenkinder but instead wore a wine red doublet and pantaloons in the Neronan style. He'd tied down the extra fabric around his arms with leather straps, presumably to keep them out of the way in the brush.

Lenneth found herself frowning at that. Many who came from Nerona bound themselves in tightly and shrank away from others. It was a very unnatural, city-like idea. The visitor's back was to her when she arrived so she made her way around to his front, grabbing the edge of her cloak and giving it a gentle tug. It rippled gently around her body, the roc feathers stitched to it it rustling with the motion. Some of her disapproval faded as the stranger immediately took note of the sound.

He stood, bracing himself on the stock of a crankbow he'd leaned against the rock he sat on. Lenneth tensed for a moment but he made no move to raise the bow once he was standing. Instead he turned around and removed his cloth cap, a gesture of greeting and respect in Nerona.

Lenneth also turned, straightening her robe and cloak so they fell correctly about her, and presented her bare right shoulder, arm and side to their guest in openness and greeting. “Welcome to the Griffon's Mounts, honored guest,” she said, raising her right hand in greeting. “I am Lenneth Wingbreaker, of the Wingbreaker Clan. You are earlier than we expected but you are still most welcome here.”

“My thanks.” The stranger bowed from his waist then straightened, putting his cap back on his head. In the same motion he adjusted a strange piece of wire holding two disks of glass in front of his eyes. Then he took a solid look at her. For a moment he locked in place as his eyes focused on her bare arm and the narrow strip of exposed skin running down the side of her body to the top of her boots. Only the straps of her robe broke up the skin there.

Neronans dressed as if they feared any other person glimpsing their flesh. Their paranoid sometimes bordered on the obscene. Still, in many cases it was easier to close oneself off some to help others open up. She tightened the straps until the opening on her right side was little more than a finger wide. “May I know your name, honored guest?”

The man cleared his throat and pulled his eyes up to her face. “Of course. I am Ghiarelli Glasseye, of Verdemonde Province in Nerona. I came at the behest of the Marquis Verdemonde and bear letters of introduction but, alas, time was precious and no message proceeded me. I fear I am not the guest you were expecting.”

“You are welcome regardless.” Lenneth studied him a little closer, wondering what kind of man travelled to far foreign lands with nothing to warn of his coming. Such behavior spoke of extreme need. Yet if Ghiarelli was a desperate man, little about him bore testimony to it. His eyes were a bright, clear brown like the bottom of a clear river with no signs of exhaustion beyond what was normal for a traveler far from home. Likewise his clothes were worn but not tattered or uncared for.

Most of all, a bemused smile kept playing at his lips. Ghiarelli snatched up a pack by his feet, a rough, brown sack with straps for the arms and a buckler and long, thin sword strapped down within easy reach. “Thank you for your kindness, lady of marble,” he said. “My hope is to trespass on your kindness for only two or three days.”

Lenneth arched an eyebrow. “Lady of marble?”

“Am I not allowed to address you by title, as you have me?”

“There is a difference between calling you an honored guest and me a lady of marble, Sir Ghiarelli. Whether you are the one we expected or not you are our guest but I am not a creature of stone.” Lenneth turned and gestured towards the mountaintop. “Regardless of whether we expected you or not I ask you to come back to Wingbreaker Hall with me to enjoy our hospitality.”

The lifted his crankbow and slung it over one shoulder. “My thanks, lady Wingbreaker. Lead on.”

The worst part of heading back up the mountain was having to restrain her Gift so that her guest could keep pace. The Neronan man was content to walk in silence for a time. But as they turned away from the river he said, “Tell me, lady Wingbreaker, do you have many visitors from Nerona?”

“A few,” she said, casting her mind through the long line of faces that had come to the ancestral Hall over the years. “Perhaps half a dozen a year. Usually in pairs or families although some come alone like you. Why? Do you miss your contrymen's company already?”

“Not at all. I saw plenty of them in the journey north. Verdemonde is at the furthest southern limits of the western peninsula so I'm afraid I've seen half the country in the last three weeks. I was just surprised that no one has ever commented on your skin before.”

Lenneth laughed. “On the contrary, many of them do so. In fact, few if any Neronans fail to remark on the amount of skin they see; almost as if none of you have seen skin before.”

“We have, but never skin as beautiful as polished marble.”

A flush worked its way up her cheeks. It was no lie to say every visitor from the south had commented on the pallor of the Isenkinder's skin. This was the first to embarrass her over it. “Perhaps that's because they don't come from cities full of nothing but dust and stone.”

Ghiarelli chuckled. “Perhaps so. I didn't realize it was that obvious where I came from. What gave me away?”

“There are no leaves or brambles in your clothes,” Lenneth said. “You've bound yourself up to avoid all contact. When something does brush against you, you take note and clean away the detrius. Only someone unused to the wilds would bother with such a futile endeavor.”

“I see! That's very astute of you,” he said, shielding his eyes as they stepped out into the clearing left by last winter's avalanche. “What other insights-”

He stopped short, grabbed her by the right arm and dragged her back into the tree line less than a second before a roc swept by. Wind from the great raptor's wings buffeted the branches of the trees. The tips of its claws scraped furrows through the dirt and stones where they had just stood. Then the mighty bird climbed up and away, banking away from the treeline and climbed upwards, screeching its frustration at the sky.

As the wagon sized bird dwindled into the distance Lenneth fitted one of her spears into the pocket of her sling. “The roc has seen us. It won't leave now until the sun sets and there is no path we can take back to the Hall that won't expose us to another attack. I'll try to lure it down and dispatch it, you head up the-”

Ghiarreli lightly grasped her sling hand and she looked over, startled. He was looking up into the air with one eye squinted and the other stretched open wide. Glimmers of light shot through his pupils. A chill ran down Lenneth's spine. He whispered, “Wait. Let it go a bit further...”

She looked back at the roc, now quickly shrinking into the sky. Then a spear shot out of the trees. It was little more than a sliver of black wood at that distance but even then Lenneth recognized the way it flew. It arced out of the trees at a brisk clip, destined to come far short of the roc. Then her father's Gift added an extra push to it and the spear jumped forward again. The great bird banked to avoid it but a second and final push corrected for the roc's maneuver and drove the weapon home. The roc dropped from the sky and disappeared among the trees.

Ghiarelli grunted and stood up, dusting himself off. “Impressive throw. Even with the Gift of Impulse to drive the weapon it's difficult to guide it at that distance in a way that will hit an evading target.” He started as four high pitched notes sounded from the distant, unseen overlook. “What was that? I heard something similar earlier.”

“A signal bell. Probably my brother, sounding the all clear so we know there aren't any other rocs in the area.”

“Ah. That's a useful system.”

“You're a clairvoyant,” Lenneth said. She immediately wanted to kick herself for saying something so obvious when you stopped to think about it.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I suppose not.” She studied his gleaming glasses. “I've just never met one. Clairvoyants are supposed to stay cloistered in safe places, lost in the future and dead to the present, not wander around mountainsides.”

“Only the most powerful of us have that problem,” Ghiarelli said. “Most of us can only see a few seconds forward without great effort or in dreams.” He touched the wire and glass over his eyes. “With the help of a skilled Artificer we can see further or limit ourselves to the present and in general exercise more control over our Gift. Well, except for in dreams.”

Lenneth absently brushed her hand across the chain link belt she wore, an Artifact her grandfather had made to give more control and force to her own gift. “I see. That must be a great help to you. I know the Gift of Artifice is common in Nerona, such things must be plentiful there.”

“Are they rare among the Isenkinder?” The stranger asked as they resumed the climb to the summit.

“In comparison to the Talisman Gift, yes. I'm not sure why it should be so much easier for our people to amplify the residual magic of other creatures to make talismans, rather than channeling the magic of men into artifacts but so it is. If it were not the case the Wingbreaker Clan would not exist.” She ran her fingers over the feathers of her cloak. “If we were not here to mind the mountains all the rocs and griffons would be dead and their bodies turned to wards and trinkets. What brings you to our mountain, Ghiarelli Glasseye? Do you think the creatures we tend can serve to create you a talisman to help control your dreams?”

“I doubt the King of Dreams would allow me control of them,” he said with a wry smile. “The Kings at the Corners are so possessive of their omens, after all. Perhaps a talisman could add some clarity but even that's a stretch. No, I've never heard of any talisman or artifact that can affect a clairvoyant's dreams so your griffons are safe from me.”

“Not the rocs?”

“There is an appeal to a cloak that keeps me from ever getting cold.” He glanced at her roc feathers. “If I had such a thing I might be as bold as others are.”

Lenneth started pinking up again. “I thought clairvoyants saw things as they are about to happen. What clarity could you need? Are your dreams different from other visions?”

“They are much further in the future so what is likely to happen is less certain and the images become more symbollic.”

She gave him a questioning look. “What do you mean?”

“Well, let me give you an example. Just now I watched that roc tear your arm off and wiped your blood off my glass eyes.” He mimed a wiping motion with one hand. Lenneth shuddered. “It looked as real as if it actually happened. On the other hand, three days ago I dreamed that a block of marble tumbled to the ground blocking my path and transformed into the statues of two lords and a lady. Clearly a meeting that was important to my task but no idea of when or where we would meet. Until today, of course.”

Her father and brother flitted through her mind. “I see. And your dream got some of the details wrong, since I was alone when we first met.”

“Perhaps. And perhaps the moment that dream symbolized hasn't come to pass yet. Not everything we see ever does.” He flashed a charming smile. “I certainly hope I will never see you maimed before my eyes.”

“How kind of you. I'm sure my father will be impressed by your chivalry.”

“You may not remain on Wingbreaker land, Ghiarelli Glasseye,” Ulfar intoned, his face set in stone. “You must depart our land before the sun sets.”

Lenneth struggled but failed to keep her mouth from dropping open in astonishment. She hadn't actually expected overflowing gratitude from her father but she hadn't expected him to immediately send a guest away without even listening to him or the daughter who had brought him to their threshold.

“Lord Wingbreaker,” Ghiarelli said, producing a sheaf of paper folded in thirds and sealed with wax from his pack. “I assure you I come with no ill will to you or yours. I have here letters from the Marquis de Verdemonde stating his good will and offering -”

“On this I cannot be persuaded, no matter what inducement your Lord offers or how inconsequential you believe your presence to be.” Ulfar folded his arms over his chest and settled in place. “I am sorry but it must be so.”

For a moment Ghiarelli stared at her father, eyes narrow then slowly growing wider. Then he sighed and tucked away his papers. “Very well.”

“Father!” The word exploded out of her before she realized she was going to speak.

Ulfar's light brown eyebrows knitted together as he cut her off with a raised hand. “I will not be moved on this, Daughter. What binds the Isenkinder to Nerona? Or why should the Wingbreakers bow to the Verdemonde?”

“It is a question of honor, Father.”

“You question my honor, Daughter?”

Lenneth raised her chin a fraction. “No, Father, you threaten mine.”

Her father studied her fae for a moment then gestured back towards the overlook behind him. “Tyroc,” he said to her brother who waited patiently at the head of the path to the Hall, “stay with our guest. I will speak with your sister in private.”

Lenneth followed her father up the stairs. Climbing was slower than she was used to but she knew her father wouldn't want her sweeping past him on the railing. Not in front of a stranger, certainly. They emerged looking out over the valley that held the family Hall. The highest peak rose behind it. The slate eaves and fitted stone walls of the Wingbreaker's ancestral seat almost seemed a part of the landscape from that distance.

Her father stared at the building for a long moment before he spoke. “Tell me, Lenneth, what mark would stain your honor if we sent this man away?”

She joined him on the northern window. “Father, I have already offered him our shelter and hospitality.”

Ulfar relaxed imperceptibly. “Is that all? Then I hold you blameless for a promise that was not yours to make. I have already made pledges to the guest we expect tomorrow. He will have our assistance in tracking down and securing a valuable quarry and we will do all in our power to prevent others from stealing it from him. He warned us of several who might rob him by name. Ghiarelli was one of those. So you see, my Daughter, you have made a cannot honor lest I break my own word.”

Lenneth cast her eyes down. “Forgive me, Father. I did not know.”

“And I am not angry with you for it,” he said kindly, “but my own honor demands the boy be sent away. I can see from his eyes he understands our situation. Sometimes this is the way things must be. Do not trouble yourself over this.”

“I see.” Lenneth worried a feather between her fingers. “Still, wouldn't it be better to keep him here for the night, at least?”

Ulfar's gaze became sharp again. “How so?”

“If he's a rival to the guest we are expecting we must watch him to make sure he makes no trouble. It's growing late and we will need to escort him to the edge of our territory and return. It would be best to wait tomorrow to do it.” She met her father's gaze. “And I do owe him some consideration since he prevented the roc you killed this afternoon from snatching my arm off.”

“Did he.” Ulfar snorted in surprise. “He doesn't look like he would have better woodcraft than you, Daughter, how did he achieve such a thing?”

“He is clairvoyant, Father.”

This time her father was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “That explains a great deal. Very well, Daughter, I will extend him the hospitality of the Hall for tonight and send him out of our territory with my cousin Geirmund. He deserves that much for sparing you harm.”

With that Ulfar turned and strode back out of the overlook. Ghiarelli waited patiently for them at the base with her brother and faced her father for a long moment as they stared at each other. “You have kept blood from being spilled on our mountains, Ghiarelli Glasseye, and not just any blood but my Daughter's. The Wingbreakers offer you hospitality for the night, and the night only.”

The Neronan man nodded. “Thank you, Lord Wingbreaker, that is generous of you.”

“I ask only that you refrain from spilling blood yourself. If you make me this pledge of peace then Wingbreaker hall is open to you.”

“Of course.” Ghiarelli removed his cap and bowed.

It wasn't quite the outcome Lenneth had hoped for but it was something, at least.

Lenneth stepped out of the Hall in the early morning light, unsure of what roused her from bed before the sun was even risen. She pulled her roc's cloak more firmly around her body against the early spring chill. It was a minute's walk from the Hall to the overlook where she was sure she could find some hint of what was amiss. The Wingbreakers weren't clairvoyant but they knew the mountains like no other and Lenneth had always been taught to trust her instincts.

They were right on the money, although not in the way she expected. When she got up to the top of the outlook she found Ghiarelli there at the north window, his back to her, looking out towards the summit of the mountains with his arms wrapped around himself. “Is something wrong, Glasseye?”

He turned and she saw that today he wasn't wearing the artifact he took his name from. His cap was also missing. While not notable in and of itself, these changes in accessories made it easy to notice his sunken eyes and the way sweat plastered his hair to his skull. It was a stark contrast to his controlled, confident appearance the day before.

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “The King of Dreams visited me again last night.”

“I take it this one wasn't pleasant?”

He turned back to the valley and let out a deep breath. “I saw a man of iron, burning like a furnace, scattering leaves in a shower of sparks and ash as he tears through ranks of trees.”

“That doesn't sound particularly nightmarish.”

“It is when you're one of the trees.”

“Oh.” Lenneth sat down on the bench behind Ghiarelli. “Are all your dreams that disturbing?”

“Does it matter?”

“I'd hate to think that I was a part of something that upset someone so badly, even unintentionally.”

He gave her a thin smile and joined her on the bench. From that lower vantage little of the mountains were visible for it was placed in a way to draw the eye to the skies; watching for the great flying beasts the Wingbreakers governed. However this morning only the clear, honey streaked skies of dawn were visible. Only single grayish green speck wobbled unsteadily through the skies to the north.

“Look,” he said, voice gaining strength, “even if Dreams do not favor me the King of Dawn sends me favorable portents.”

“How so?” Lenneth asked in amusement.

“Do the Isenkinder not believe the thing you see just before the sun rises will be yours before the next daybreak?”

Lenneth scoffed. “What a strang thing to say. What would you do with a bird from Isenlund anyway?”

His voice pitched down. “Who said I was looking at the bird?”

Risking a quick glance from the corner of her eye Lenneth caught him grinning at her and forced down her embarrassment. “The question stands.”

Ghiarelli chuckled. “I see why your father was so prickly towards me last night. He must find you to be a mighty trial.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I don't understand was what he meant by not spilling blood,” Ghiarreli continued, acting as if she hadn't spoken. “Surely the Wingbreakers sometimes fail when hunting the dangerous game you keep. How can blood not be spilt?”

Lenneth glared at him for a moment then said, “It does happen. But it is our disgrace when it does, for we were entrusted these mountains because we could best learn, track and husband the strength of the creatures here. It falls to us to keep the peace between roc and Griffon, between beast and man and between fellow men. Der Isenkoenig granted us authority over it all.”

“But don't you hunt rocs and griffons?”

“It's a delicate balance but in the past their numbers have grown to the point where they became a menace to the flatlands and river country. All Isenkinder are in danger if the menace of the skies is not kept in check. Yet we also find great benefit in hunting them and if we were to simply wipe them out our talisman makers would soon follow and Isenlund would soon pass to others. When one of us dies in the hunt it is a sign that the balance we maintain is in peril.” She pointed at him the back at herself. “It is different for you or I. The Wingbreaker's mandate is not served by duels or grudges, so they are forbidden here.”

“Oh?” The glass over his eyes made the comical way they widened in surprise even more pronounced. “I heard that your people are famous for your grudges.”

“Not here.” Lenneth gestured out at the mountains below them. “The dangers of the mountain are enough and fighting in the ranks here not only weakens or position against them it attracts the attention of the most powerful of the creatures here. Thus no man may shed another's blood here save on my father's orders or that man will face the Wingbreaker's justice.”

“I see.” Ghiarelli's expression returned to normal as he watched the sun peek over the horizon. “Well. If that is how it is there's little I can do about it. Thank you for ensuring I received your family's hospitality, Lenneth Wingbreaker. I will not forget your kindness.”

She nodded gravely. “I hope you will not hold this outcome against our clan or people.”

“No, and certainly not against you. But now I think it's time I departed. I think I heard the doors to your Hall open again and no doubt your Uncle is looking for me...”

The man who came the day Ghiarelli left was named Remigio Bladebearer and he was hunting a rare creature called the emerald heron. He brought a rough sketch and a description of the bird's migratory path. According to Remigio the bird followed a two decade long circuit across unknown continents and it's eyes were a powerful talisman for seeing across incredible distances. The Neronan had pledge to share one eye with the Wingbreakers if they would help him capture the bird.

Unfortunately the map of the creatures migration pattern wasn't very precise and covered most of the Wingbreaker peaks. Remigio arrived near mid morning and insisted they immediately begin the hunt for the heron. The birds would only be passing over the mountain for a week, he said, perhaps ten days and he was anxious to begin the hunt.

Lenneth found the whole affair odd. She'd never heard of an emerald heron, nor had her brother, father or uncles and aunts. She wasn't sure how a Neronan had learned of it, especially since Remigio looked as much a city dweller as Ghiarelli did. Still, the best way to answer some of these questions was to sick with Remigio. So they set out hunting.

The creature was just as much a waterfowl as any other heron so at least they didn't have to search every inch of the mountain. However the sun rose to full height and sank towards the western horizon and they found no sign of the creature. After a long, humid day slinking along river banks, Ulfar proposed that they head back to the Hall via Round Lake Valley. Reluctantly, their guest agreed.

It was there, among the drooping pine branches and clear waves of Round Lake that they finally spotted their quarry. The emerald heron was not as striking as its name implied. The creature's plumage was a dull green, well suited to blending in with the pine trees. It stood on the bank of the lake not in the water so its gangly legs and were on full display and it's head constantly swiveled about on its snaking neck as if the creature was nervous. The bird's long, predatory beak clacked constantly, as if it was talking to itself.

Remigio instantly became excited, working the lever of his crankbow as he prepared for a shot. Ulfar put a hand on the weapon's stock. “Patience,” he whispered. “Let us take precautions. Lenneth, cross the water and sweep around it's opposite side. You will flush it to us. Tyroc, stand ready with your Gift to strike it if all else fails. But gently! Try not to destroy its eyes in the process.”

“Easier said than done,” her brother grumbled.

Her father ignored him. “Honored guest, you and I will proceed forward once Lenneth rings her bell,” he touched the bell at his own waist for reference, “and loose our darts at the bird together.”

“How will she ring the bell?” Remigio looked puzzled. “There are not strikers in your bells.”

“Of course not,” Tyroc said, “else we would constantly ring them by accident as we moved about. We strike them with our spear hafts.”

“Oh. That's sensible.” The Neronan finished loading his bow and hefted the weapon. “Then let's not waste time, shall we?”

“Indeed. With this luck and another week to search we might even take two or three more of these creatures.” Ulfar gestured to Lenneth and she took of at a slow jog.

In many cases the Gift of Grace only allowed one to drift atop a surface almost as if one was skating across ice. However, on lakes and rivers a special element of the Gift came to light. Lenneth was almost weightless while gliding, at least in regards to the surface she glided along for she herself still felt her own weight and that of what she carried. Still, it made slipping over top of the water of the lake to the far shore a simple task.

What she hadn't expected was for the heron to look at her as she crossed from its place hundreds of feet away, squawk in panic and clumsily take to the sky. Before she could process it the bird swept by perhaps six feet over her head and kept climbing. She threw her whole weight backwards, slipping down ankle deep into the water before she could reestablish her glide, and tried to reverse course. In the process she heard a confused shout from her brother, a grunt and the snap of Remigio's crankbow.

Then there was a crack of wood and another surprised shout. Lenneth got entirely turned around and scrambled back onto shore. Remigio was working to reload his crankbow, her father was stomping towards something by the treeline and the heron had landed behind them. Tyroc was holding two sticks in one hand and his other crackled with the thunder of his Gift.

Not sticks, she realized. Two darts from a crankbow. One dart had actually pierced the other through the shaft. At first that was unbelievable but once she took in the full scene it actually made a kind of sense. Standing beside the heron at the treeline was Ghiarelli Glasseye, his own crankbow leaning against his pack at his side. She wondered if all he needed to do to achieve such a feat was look to the future as he aimed and release the arrow when he saw the future he wanted.

Ghiarelli drew his sword and buckler and stood between them and the heron. “Remigio Bladebearer. I should have known Father Borgia's right hand would be here, kidnapping and Fair magic have Gregorio's fingerprints all over it.”

“Glasseye.” Remigio tossed his crankbow aside. “They said they sent you down the mountain.”

“They did. And I left the mountains in truth!” Ghiarelli pulled a vial of liquid off his belt with his buckler hand, uncorked it with his teeth and dumped it over his forehead and face. The whole time he never blinked. Lenneth realized he was staring wide eyed and, even at a distance of twenty feet behind glass, she could see his eyes were bloodshot. From the damp, stained front of his doublet she assumed this was not the first such potion he'd used, another thing to help his Gift along like the glass eyes. “But you know there's always a back way wherever you want to go, Remigio. You just have to look for it.”

The other Neronan drew his own sword, a sturdy montante with an elaborate guard and a sizable, two handed grip. As he flourished the weapon its edge glowed with a pale gold light. “All you've found is a way to your grave site, Glasseye.”

“Not today.” Ghiarelli glanced at Ulfar and smirked. “Not anymore.”

Ulfar came to a stop just outside the circle of the two men's weapons. “Ghiarelli Glasseye. Do not think you can still rely on my hospitality to keep you safe. As you say, you left the mountain. By returning you trespassed on my lands and my goodwill. If you blood spills it will be as if by your own hand.”

Remigio lept forward at those words, his weapon's blade held high and parallel to the ground. Ghiarelli casually lifted his buckler to catch the blade, keeping his weapon hand just behind the shield with the point of his sword pointed down to try and prick his opponent's weapon hand as he lunged under Remigio's cut. The montante twisted with a flourish and deflected the thrust then extended in a cross cut which Ghiarelli pushed down and away with the buckler. High thrust to the face and Remigio withdrew a step. Both men relaxed into a normal stance, the status quo restored.

The entire exchange took less than two seconds.

“It's not my blood that concerns me,” Ghiarelli said, not even winded. Then he glanced at his buckler. Remigio's glowing sword had left two deep groves in the center of the metal and taken about an inch off the right side of the shield. “Well, it concerns me a little.”

“Only a little?” Remigio demanded.

“You may be Father Borgia's favorite bravo, with the blood of a hundred duelists on your sword, but you can't kill me today, my dear Blade Bearer.” Ghiarelli's grin turned toothy. “You had a chance, but today I dreamed of death by fire and you, Remigio, cannot bring me low that way. No one here can.”

“What does he mean?” Tyroc demanded. Her brother's Gift of the Thunder Hand didn't truly burn things but it made a close approximation and Lenneth could see he was willing to try to kill Ghiarelli that way if no one else wanted a shot at it.

“He's a clairvoyant,” Remigio growled. “When they dream they see the way they are going to die. Unless they somehow prevent it.”

Lenneth's mind jumped back to their conversation that morning. Then it went back even further, to their meeting the day before and his casual mention of seeing her and her family in a dream. Her jaw dropped open. “You were going to die today.”

“And now, I'm not.” Ghiarelli produced a small leather bag from his belt. On second thought, perhaps not a bag, it looked more like a wineskin. “You see, I know something that you of the Wingbreaker clan do not.”

“That does not make you terribly special,” Ulfar growled. So far her father had watched the scene unfold with dispassion but now he reached up and pulled Remigio's sword down to a neutral position. “We are simple people of the mountains, after all. But if you think I do not know that this man serves Gregorio Borgia, Nerona's famed Merchant of Plunder, then I must disappoint you.”

“Not at all. Father Borgia believes he is a cunning man of intrigue and perhaps he is but he has reached the point where anonymity is not something even he can expect. That is something you lose when you become the most wicked man in Nerona. Still, he is every bit as cunning as he thinks he is. And he is more than unscrupulous enough barter with the Fair Folk for a curse to be placed on the children of those he seeks to bend to his will.” Ghiarelli glanced at the heron behind him. “Tell me, Ulfar Wingbreaker. Is it truly your judgment that Remigio may spill the blood of an innocent child simply because inhuman magic has changed his form to that of a bird?”

Her father's face turned stormy but otherwise he remained calm. “You can prove this accusation?”

“The child was cursed through poisoned food. As with all their magic, curses of the Fair Folk must be fair, although I have always thought that whoever determines fair must be quite the lunatic. In the case of magic that revolves around food, the counterspell is almost always the first food a person ate in their lives, save for their mother's milk.” Ghiarelli hefted the bag in one hand. “In this case, goat's milk.”

“You brought that all the way here from Verdemonde?” Remigio wrinkled his nose in disgust. “It's more likely cheese at this point.”

“The Marquis knows a few Folk of his own, they've ensured it will keep quite well.” Ghiarelli offered the bag to Ulfar. “If you want to know the truth of my words, offer this to the bird.”

Ulfar took the bag, then glanced at Remigio. Thinking better of taking his hand off the Neronan's sword arm he sought out Lenneth's eyes and nodded to her. Then, with a flick of his fingers he tossed her the bag and said, “Do as he says, Daughter.”

If nothing else the way the heron looked at her as she approached and docilely allowed her to guide its beak into the bag would have convinced her of the truth in what Ghiarelli said. When the heron's feathers melted together into a tunic and trousers and the tall, awkward bird shrunk down into a boy perhaps seven years old it was just a confirmation of what her heart already told her was true. The child looked up at her, astonishment and gratitude written on his face, then he sat down on the grass and burst in to tears.

The storm on Ulfar's face broke out in full force and he shook Remigio violently by his arm. “You have lied to me, servant of Borgia. No treasure or talisman your master can offer is worth the stain on my honor you have nearly tricked me into perpetrating. If you were not the messenger of a foreign lord, who's good will is valued by Der Isenkoenig, I would set your head upon the eaves of my roof in warning. Be gone from my lands at once.”

Remigio nodded once, not resisting but not terribly put out by her father's rage either. If anything, it seemed like something the man was used to. The idea that someone could face the full censure of the Wingbreaker clan and act like it was normal, even trivial, disturbed her as much as anything else she had seen that day. Ultimately, Borgia's bravo was taken off the mountain by her brother and two uncles before the sun was set.

Ghiarelli kept near the child but refused to tell his name, only saying that he was the son of someone important in the province of Verdemonde and he couldn't reveal more. Ulfar was suspicious but Lenneth thought it was because he'd just been duped once and not because he had good grounding for his suspicions. The boy seemed to know Ghiarelli a little, and that ultimately calmed ulfar somewhat.

“But why did the child come here?” Lenneth asked as she and her mother helped Ghiarelli make up a bed for the child in the Hall. “He could have flown home to his family.”

“That's part of the curse,” he said. “If everyone cursed that way went straight home to family the curse would be too likely to come undone. So it forces the victim to wander for some period of time along a predetermined path. Father Borgia knew the path and sent someone to kill the child when his parents refused to cave to his demands. Certain connections the Marquis has learned where the child was as well and he ordered me to come and rescue him.”

“Connections? You mean you didn't foresee his death in a dream?”

Ghiarelli turned very serious. “Sadly, I can only see my own death that way.”

“That must be a very hard thing to see, night after night.”

“Perhaps, although at least I do not dream every night.” Then the wry smile was back and he leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “But I haven't seen a death I couldn't beat so far. If you doubt it you're welcome to turn up in my dreams again, lady of marble.”

Then he trotted off to find the child, leaving her there, blushing.

Tas don a tria pountra.

The lilting, soft voice was such a contrast to the dark words. Fallon waited for Tieve to finish her spell, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the flames of the candles began to flicker.

Tas don a tria puntra.

Repetition was a key element of magic; this was a known thing. It was often one of the first lessons. Power came in numbers like three. Fallon had learned this long ago, so long that he almost didn’t remember when. He vaguely wondered when Tieve might have learned it. She was just a hedge witch after all.

Again, he felt the pang of doubt and worry in his gut. He could not perform this spell, but to trust a relative stranger with it seemed a fool’s errand.

Fallon was not known as a fool, but he was wise enough to know that fools came in all forms, including wise old sorcerers.

Tas don a tria puntra valos ascenta.

Tieve raised her arms and brought them down again as she ended the spell. Fallon’s breath caught as he waited. The runes that had appeared at the beginning of the spell had vanished and the candles had blown out at Tieve’s final words. Fallon could see nothing in the darkness, but he could hear the hedge witch’s breath. He had thought they were still alone.

Until a low whisper disabused him of that notion, “Who disturbs my slumber?”

The voice caused a shiver to roll up Fallon’s spine though he did his best to suppress the physical effect. He heard Tieve gasp from her spot and guessed her to be looking desperately for the source of the voice. Fallon had only given the young lass the basics when he asked for her assistance. She’d been satisfied enough with the sparse information once she confirmed his silver pieces weren’t fake.

Fallon answered, his own voice steady and strong, “I do. We require your assistance.”

A braying sound like laughter answered him. “I do not assist anyone, child. I do as I please, summons or no.”

It took Fallon a moment to recognize that he was the one being called a child. At 73 years old, it had been decades since he’d actually been one. But to an immortal being, he supposed almost anyone could be called a child. His eyes scanned the room, looking for the presence he’d brought forth. But he saw nothing in the darkness, not even Tieve.

“Yes, but we need your tears to banish the plague of the land.”

The strange laugh answered him once more. “Why should I cry? I care nothing for the lives of humans. All you know is greed, lust and your own desires. You know nothing of what is good in this world.”

Fallon still didn’t know where the voice was coming from. It seemed impossible in such a small space, but he supposed he should know better. Creatures like the one he summoned didn’t abide by such arbitrary rules that humanity and nature might provide. “Humans do know good. We know love and caring and virtue.”

“Love,” the word almost seemed mocking. “Love did not call me here. It was coin. Tell me wizard, do you even know the girl’s name?”

Tieve finally found her voice again, her fear gone, “I am Tieve. And what do you know of humanity? Coin helps living.”

Fallon almost thought he saw a head move, turning from him to the young woman. But he wasn’t sure if it was a trick of his imagination. He did not know Tieve, but he wanted no harm to come to her either. She had summoned the creature, but he assumed the responsibility of it. “Leave Tieve alone, I am the one who summoned you.”

“Old men cannot summon me; only maidens may do so. It was her will, her words, her way.” Fallon felt dismissed and bridled under the implication.

But Tieve answered, “The old man spoke true. Our village is dying, only you can help us.”

“What does a maid care? You are young and strong.”

“The illness is taking the old and young alike. And I may be young and strong, but my grandmother is not.”

Fallon knew nothing of Tieve’s grandmother. He knew little of Tieve other than he was told that she could perform as he needed, but she was surprising him. He’d expect her to bolt when the creature had been summoned and anticipated dealing with the problems that might be caused by himself. But the young woman proved to be more resilient than he’d expected.

The presence, which had seemed to be pacing, stopped. The voice came strong, “You care for your grandmother?”

“Of course I do. She taught me the witching ways.”

“I don’t care much for witches.” The pacing seemed to be back again though Fallon could still see nothing in the darkness.

Fallon’s baritone answered, “You don’t seem to care much for anything at all.”

The pacing stopped. “I will not speak to you. Answer again and I shall leave.”

Fallon’s mouth closed and he looked to where Tieve stood. He felt frustrated by such powerlessness, but it relied on her now. She asked, “Why should you not answer to the truth?”

The pacing returned. “I answer to who and what I will.”

“You speak of truth and love, yet you seem to know neither.”

“I know more than you shall, child.”

Fallon could almost see the twinkle in Tieve’s eyes. He remembered that they were green, he’d thought them lovely combined with her auburn hair. “Then why do I have the power to summon you?”

The pacing stopped again. He could only see it in his mind, but Fallon imagined the creature facing Tieve. “I have countless years of wisdom and power…”

“Yet you answer a maid’s call. It’s common knowledge that all of your kind do.”

Fallon could hear the bristling at such an accusation, probably because it was true. “What do you want from me?”

“Your tears.”

“Why should I cry?”

“Cry for yourself if you must. Cry for my grandmother, who might die of illness. Who will certainly die someday. Cry for the old man here, who can do nothing but watch as we negotiate what might save the village. Cry for whatever your heart desires. I care not.”

“What do you care for, maid?”

Fallon waited for her answer. How he wished he could advise her. She hesitated but then said, “I care for my grandmother. I care for my mama and papa. I care for my brothers and sister. I care for all those suffering.”

“If you care so much, why take payment?” The voice was sharp and biting.

“Caring does not mean foolishness.”

Silence reigned and Fallon longed to end it. He had so many points to raise. So many things to say. This whole operation had been his plan in the first place, yet he knew the threat to leave hadn’t been an idle one. So he remained quiet, letting it reign.

Finally the flames of the candles reignited and for the first time, Fallon saw what he’d summoned in full form. The creature faced Tieve, its chocolate brown eyes connecting with hers. Its coat of pure white shone in the light, almost so bright as to blind.

Unicorns were truly as beautiful as the legends said.

“Alright, I shall cry for you, maid.”

“Tieve,” the young woman smiled in response.

“Tieve,” the unicorn answered.

The inadequate shelter of trees were huddled in the cleft of the hill, their wood all hung in nighttime languidity. The branches were kept long by the caretaker, and remained unstirred by the man who was prostrated beneath them. A sky ever weaker of illumination coated the cemetery with soundless observance. It watched him as he laid down, from the time the grass turned wet until it dried under the noon sun. Noon back to night, wrinkles imprinted deeply into the fabric of his clothes as more hours passed. The folds of his disheveled jacket and the creases of his trousers were the least ruined, though, of his person.

He whispered delicately to the odd box that rested next to him, the grain of which blended away into the shadows and patterns of grass between them. The specifics of the wood consumed his attention as he conversed with the undertaker, yet the words now, so carelessly impassioned, rightly paled all he had ever spoken before. His ear betrayed him, and it felt as though the world deadened all sound against him. He raised his voice and no echo returned from against the box. His voice trembled in saddened frustration until he imagined that the leaves above shook in chorus. His throat croaked in dry exhaustion.

“Who will I walk with now? The festival was yesterday, and I have nothing now,” he moaned, unbothered by speaking his thoughts openly to the coffin of his son.

Night, sky, and trees layered heavily upon him with immaterial contact. Everything around the old vintner bowed him mercilessly. He had no energy or will to move from this spot. Unintelligible, unprovoked imaginations of a barren future played out inside. Where this loss would be compounded by the loss of the few others he held closest. His precious Annaline passed too few summers ago, too few for Tarmen to have been taken also.

Taken scarcely five days prior. His conscious mind refused to accept the amount of time, nor the violence he saw in the street then. The maelstrom of unhappy memories and tormented portents bore him down into sleep.

“Garmen, please,” a gentle voice spoke. A man shrouded in a square, hooded, black cloak reached down and awakened Garmen’s still form. From his kneeling position, the solitary hand was intended to comfort the aggrieved father until he rose.

Once Garmen came to himself from the sorrow, he slowly pivoted to face whoever disturbed him. He looked up to the face above him, and suddenly became aware of the raw ground biting him.

“Segrus,” Garmen said. He thought hard to recall when he met Segrus. The mysterious figure appeared from a crowd and seemingly sought Garmen out sometime after his tragedy. Segrus’ sorcerous look was not unheard of in O’waen, due to its proximity to Ovvern City. Garmen finally answered, gruffly, “Find yourself another grave, and desecrate that.”

Segrus was unperturbed by the insult, and continued, “Sir, I found you help. Two capable men to lift this burden with me and put your son to ground. I bound myself to this task. Let me take you up.”

“Why do this? Leave me here. I want nothing of you,” Garmen stated without emotion. Garmen attempted to seem fierce, but the flame of any anger he mustered was quenched by the deep sadness he resigned himself to.

It seemed to Garmen that Segrus sensed his helplessness, his inability to resist. He wondered if the eyes deep inside the black hood pierced his being.

Slowly, without a word to further conversation, Garmen was lifted gingerly up and out of the way. He made every effort to study who arrived with Segrus from his new distance away, leaned against a tree, yet somehow they were even more mysterious. Neither of the men helped Segrus, and awaited for Segrus to lead them in preparing a hole for the coffin. Darkness hid their faces. By their clothes they lived near, torn in places as a laborer might have.

Nobody spoke in the course of the hard work to shovel dirt. Garmen saw the commanding hand signals Segrus used periodically to indicate where to dig and place the dirt. He watched while they worked hard until a soft glow showed through the sparse clouds above. A deep hole for the coffin appeared from their handiwork, and they quickly lowered it into place before refilling the dirt over it. When they were done, Segrus sent the others ahead to speak to Garmen.

“Good sir. I leave you here now. I am deeply sorry for who you have lost,” Segrus said softly, his face visible enough for Garmen to notice his sincerity, “This is all that I can give you.” Without waiting for a reply, Segrus took the shovel he brought with him and departed.

Much later, Garmen rose from where Segrus left him against the trunk of a gum tree. The light of the morning began to light the familiar path back to life from this place of death. He took the path. Sore and unprepared for what lay ahead, for himself or how to face others, he wanted to find a way.

Near the exit of the cemetery, up over the hill and through many reserved plots, Garmen stopped in shock. Two ornate statues were erected long ago by the town for the purpose of marking the souls of the unknown. Their sharply etched features were worn over time yet the twin maidens remained with solemn, youthful faces and a hand open for candled censers. One leaned on a shepherd’s crook as a guide for the dead, and the other maiden was known as the judge. At the feet of their robed forms had fallen two men.

Their faces were desolate of normal color and soul. In the state of death, neither of them had been dead for a short time. Both of them were still clothed, their fate he assumed was not from robbery. The smell of rotten meat began to waft into his face in grating supply. Garmen backed away and placed a hand over his face while he continued staring in horror. Town authorities would interrogate him in time over what he saw, so he studied the faces more.

It was then, for Garmen, more than the sun dawned on him. Their form and body and profile matched in certain likeness the shadows of men from two nights of his life. As they laid without blood or strife, throats cut in ceremonious contempt, he wondered at what it could mean.

Horse and rider ripped up sand, half in flight for most of their burning stride. The horse grunted viciously, unwilling to stop, as if he knew how important their arrival was to the people of Willow Rock. Jake could hear the saddle bags full of letters and small packages slapping against the bay’s haunches, reminding him of his responsibility. Reminding him of his own parcel he’d been waiting ten years and counting for.

They’d been on the trail for three days and after each break they’d both been eager to make up for lost time. When Jake took this job, he thought it sounded like they were looking for him specifically. Young, skinny fellows, not over eighteen, excellent riders willing to risk death, he smiled remembering the qualifications.

Orphans preferred.

He was seventeen, tearing up a trail through the desert on his first delivery, on his own. Seventeen was too old to dwell on feelings of loss from ages ago. He had a job, he was his own man, and he wouldn’t be letting any other children wait in their house full of sickness for a doctor’s medicine that would never come.

Jackal gave a wheezing snort and Jake mercifully slowed him to a trot. He was panting, but grateful for the intense run. A horse like him wasn’t meant to sit in a stable, digging his hooves in the city, but it made him hungry for the ride. Jake could see the town on the horizon. He pulled his dusty, blue kerchief down off his face and gave Jackal a pat, telling him the news as he leaned forward. The horse snorted like he didn’t care for civilization of any kind.

Suddenly, as if lightning struck right in front of them, Jackal jolted up on two legs and then slammed his hooves back down, shuffling backward on the trail. The shift in momentum threw Jake forward and he clutched the horse both to keep from falling and to gather his thoughts. Before he could ask what it was, half expecting Jackal to answer, he caught sight of an enormous, white hill off in the distance. It wasn’t far enough away to escape Jackal’s notice, but it wasn’t close enough to make out what it was.

“Just a rock, Jackal,” said Jake, patting him firmly, squinting his eyes at it. “Just a big ol’ white rock.”

The horse hurried along the trail, not willing to linger another moment. Jake didn’t fight him, he wasn’t keen on being thrown this close to town. Rest and witnesses so near.

The saloon was quiet, but not empty. Hungover, exhausted, or homesick, almost no one shared words or glances. The barkeep felt it too, lazily cleaning the counter space without any sign of urgency. His eyes were half open when his regular patron pushed the doors open with a tilt of his head, straddled the stool, and threw his elbows onto the bar between them while he hastily broke the silence and the mood.

“Did you feel that quake this morning, Virgil?”

“I did, it weren’t too big though.”

“Any quake’s too big,” said the young man leaning against the bar.

“Roger, it is too early in the mornin’ for your complainin’,” said Virgil, pouring whiskey into a shot glass and slid it forward.

“And it’s too early in the mornin’ for a drink,” said Roger, gritting his teeth after shooting it back.

A man in a tattered, old hat with a bent brim poked his head into the quietly stirring bar, waving a hand at the bartender for his attention.

“Hey Virgil, Pony Express kid’s here,” he said, not expecting most of the bleary-eyed patrons to get up and herd passed him.

“Looks like everyone’s eager for a kind word from afar this mornin’.”

“Not me,” said the man at the door, “I got everything I need right here.”

“Well now, Red, ain’t that wholesome,” said Roger, shaking his head.

The crowd pushed into the small, cluttered post office, surprising the young Express rider. He cracked a smile, but continued sorting out his delivery with the boisterous man who worked the local post office. Everyone greeting him called him Art. Laughing with an effortless boom, Art welcomed everyone in and didn’t bother asking them to form any sort of line.

“I been doing this almost a year now,” said the grinning man. “They ain’t thieves, but they ain’t patient. Best to just let ‘em do what they’ll do.”

Jake smiled nervously, eyeing the large, restless crowd anxiously watching them carry out what he thought was a mundane task. Someone spotted their delivery and snatched it up, checking the name on it before disappearing out the door. That happened a few more unexpected times, but even when the wrong package was scooped up, the right person took it out the door.

Once the sorting was done, Art shooed him out, insisting he get rest and feed that horse before he even thought about heading off. Jake agreed, not needing to hear the offer more than once. He stepped outside and noticed that his previously droopy-eyed, nodding horse perked up and swayed excitedly in place at the sight of Jake coming outside.

“Not yet, boy, just time to eat,” Jake chuckled, lazily raising his hand.

“Must not’ve rode as hard as I hear, you got a horse that eager to get on again,” said a young lady, loitering under the adjacent general store awning. Her arms were crossed and she wore an irritated look, as if that’s the way her face naturally settled.

“Some animals, an’ people for that matter, got an itch to keep moving that moving don’t seem to scratch.”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be spoutin’ wisdoms?”

“You ain’t a rattler, are ya?” he asked, squinting and dramatically fanning himself.

She laughed despite her best efforts and glared unconvincingly at him. “You know, I think I am a mirage. Now, stop wastin’ time talkin’ at the air.”

Jake tilted his dark brown hat as she shooed him away, sliding the wide brim down with one finger. The rest of him was too tired for much more. Taking Jackal by the reigns, he led him to the livery for some quick feed and to see if they’d take him for a single night. They’d probably gouge him for the trouble, but he was getting paid twenty-five dollars a week. With that wage, he’d shrug off a little bamboozling for the convenience.

He wasn’t ten steps away when the high-pitched draw of a breath startled his horse. Echoes of it rang out between sobbing as the young lady buried her face in her father’s arms. The letter he was holding crumpled in his fist and he stared out over his daughter’s head, taking the town in as if it was the last place they’d ever see. Jake turned away quickly, continuing on to the livery with a revelation he had truly never considered in full. Some of these letters would be letters of tragedy and news of death. Some people were waiting not to get one.

The livery owner stood up straight from his duties, watching young Jake stride up with his horse in tow.

“Can I hep’ ya, son?”

“Yes sir, I need to set this hoss up for a single night.”

“Just one night?”

“Just the one.”

The owner sighed, looking him over. “You that delivery boy?”

“I work for the Express, yes sir.”

“S’pose you’ll be heading out in the morning?”

“That’s the way I’d like it to go.” Jake smiled.

“Tell you what, you deliver that package there for me and I’ll treat him to all the finest.”

“…I could do that.”

The livery owner saw his furrowed brows and rubbed the back of his neck as he gestured toward the delivery sitting on the barrels outside. “It’s just my pa’s ol’ lead pusher, but it’ll make a little peace between my kin if I give it up to my brother in Crow’s Bend.”

“Hell, that’s almost back where I came from,” said Jake, squinting into the eastern sky.

“Well, offer stands. Else it’ll be two dollars.”

Jake pulled the corner of his lip back, showing some teeth as if in pain and the livery owner chuckled. After patting his leg and staring toward the sun for a few moments longer, the young Pony Express rider agreed and told him to pack the parcel on Jackal right away so he wouldn’t have to remember in his rush the next morning.

“He’ll get the best tonight.”

“Don’t feed him too much, he’s runs faster than he rolls.”

The owner laughed, waving over his shoulder at Jack while he took the horse inside to feed and have a safe place to sleep for the night.

“Alright,” Jack muttered to himself, turning on his heels, “my turn.”

The saloon sat so peacefully in the late morning sun, the wind could be heard harassing its integrity. Jake’s light footing clomped like a horse’s trot on the wood outside and he felt like too many eyes were watching him. Giving a final polite gesture before darting inside, he was glad to escape the friendliness of the storefronts with the nagging need for rest pulling at his dragging mind. He enjoyed meeting the folks in town so far and was looking forward to at least a few more years of traveling the world, getting to know those living in it. But for the time being, food and sleep were his preferred company.

The saloon owner, Virgil, had already offered him a room at half price and Jake was more than happy to accept. He’d never slept in a saloon before. Glancing around, hoping to spot a pretty little painted lady, he let his shoulders slump on the way up the straight stairway in the back of the room. Feeling his eyelids fighting separation reminded him that it was for the best. Maybe after he woke, got some food…

“I swear to God I saw what I saw,” screamed an old man in one of the gambling rooms downstairs, just beneath his feet. His voice carried farther than his companions. “No! I ran like hell! Blood everywhere and this white skull with an eye, a giant eye just loo—”

There was another shout but Jake couldn’t make out the words. He hoped their conversation wouldn’t carry into his room.

“I ain’t drunk!”

Jake slammed the door to his room, leaned against it, and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t hear anything. Peace, silence, and a bed with two soft blankets. A bed sitting in a real frame. First delivery and he was already living like a king. Sighing, he threw down his bag near the doorway and them himself, facing the ceiling. He imagined himself riding into town in fine, twenty-dollar suits with women smiling at him as he paraded through town, men tipping their hats, wishing they’d been lucky enough to be so malnourished at his age. Jake chuckled at his own thoughts, rubbed his pink and red eyes, and fell into a deep sleep with one leg resting up on his bent knee and his hand flat on his face.

A nightmarish scream struck like a bullet, flipping him out of his bed. Jake scrambled to the window before he had fully awakened and let his head swivel until he found the source. A woman was pressed against the wall of the general store, staring in horror at the men stumbling through the middle of the street. They looked to be reaching out for help, but at no one in particular.

Jake hurried from the room, joining the rest of the curious citizens on the sides of the town’s main road. The sun hung low in the sky and it was only as he stood shoulder to shoulder with several concerned gamblers did he realize he’d slept the day away. The two men had collapsed and the doctor was examining them, his own hands shaking. Creeping closer than most of the others, Jake peered over the doctor’s shoulder to see what the victims looked like.

Pale as men long dead, they had blood pouring out of their mouths like a flooded river. Though they had thoroughly died, the blood still pushed its way out with urgency.

“What in God’s name, doc?” asked Virgil, standing across from the both of them.

“I ain’t got a clue yet, Verge.”

As the doctor examined his eyes, turned his head, and otherwise tried to assess this horrifying affliction by sight, a screeching wail rang out around the corner. In the alleyway between the general store and the barber, the distressed cry was cut short by muffled gurgling. Once several of them hooked around the walls, they caught sight of a woman falling to the ground. A widow for mere moments before her own time had come. And not a soul in sight.

Many of the spectators started to disperse in distress, but Virgil bent down beside the woman and tried to get her to convey any sort of message before she let the light leave her. Jake watched, listened, and felt his own stomach turning, but the only message he could make out was one of indescribable terror. Her eyes died wide open, like an animal in fear.

“Let’s get her and those men out of the street,” ordered Virgil, choking back his breaking voice.

Jake jumped to help him with the woman, feeling obligated after watching her final breaths. He hadn’t seen a woman die in ten years. It made him feel weak and helpless, but at the same time he couldn’t help scanning the area over and over, ready to break out his revolver and burn the murderer down. Watch the bastard choke on his own blood next.

“I didn’t see nobody, did you?” asked Virgil.

Jake shook his head, staring at a blood-red robe hanging on the corner of the alley beside some hooks and barrels. Red, the man behind Virgil, responded with the same. Suddenly, Jake jerked and dropped the womans legs, feeling as if he might throw up, scream, and take off running until he regained his senses.

“What’re you doin’? You see somethin’?” asked Virgil.

“Goddammit, the hell, what was that, where…” mumbled Jake, feeling like losing sight of the red robed man was the last thing he’d ever do.

“You’re worrying me, son,” said Red.

“I thought I was lookin’ at…well…somethin’, not a person though, but it weren’t no person. It moved like water. It weren’t right.”

“Shut up,” muttered Virgil, looking around at all the people watching them.

The sheriff took off down the alley with one of his deputies, heading in the direction they saw Jake staring toward. Pistols out and ready, the two disappeared around the corner, heading in opposite directions. Each of them looked as though they saw something worth investigating. Several seconds went by before they heard screaming again, almost in unison.

Setting the woman down and flagging over a couple of men nearby, Virgil pulled out his own gun. Red tried to stop him, but he wasn’t having it.

“I ain’t standin’ here, holding perfectly good iron just to watch more of my friends die.”

“Dammit,” grumbled Red, drawing his own pistol.

“Adaline, get in here,” hissed a man in a dark duster, hanging his head out the boarding house door. Jake followed his line of sight to the young lady, the irate mirage from before. She had her gaze fixed on them, her hands clutched against her chest and her feet planted firmly in the street. Jake stood a little straighter and felt for his own revolver, though he soon remembered leaving it on the floor of his room.

“I’m comin’, too.”

“Boy, you get on outta here,” said Virgil, eyeing his empty holster.

“I can run faster than the both of ya. At least I’ll be able to tell folks what gotcha.”

Jake’s nervous offer amused them, but no one could find ground solid enough to laugh from.

He followed them cautiously, glancing behind often enough to watch them slowly slip out of everyone’s sight. They stepped around and over the briefly-widowed woman’s blood pooled up in the dirt as best they could, but there was so much that had spilled out in such a short time they found that they were not only followed two sets of bloody footprints, but making their own. Each of them held their breath as they rounded the last corners at the back of the buildings. Jake could hear Red’s old, rusty pistol rattling in his hand.

Convulsing in the dirt on both sides of the trio lay the near-corpses of the sheriff and the deputy. Both flat on their backs, floating in and surrounded by about a body’s worth of blood. Virgil swore and Red’s aim darted back and forth as he frantically searched for something to aim at. Both times the pistol passed over the crimson, hanging robe behind the building, Jake thought about shouting. Both times he couldn’t believe they didn’t see it, too. Finally, his brain connected with the rest of him and he shouted in the face of rapidly approaching death.

“There! Goddammit, there!”

Red started shooting before he saw anything and Virgil started firing into the red cloth after he found it. It stood out so starkly from the rest of the dirt, wood, and dust that each time, Jake couldn’t believe they didn’t see it. Looking for a man blinded them to what had been standing before them, its arm outstretched.

The first person it touched was Red. The bloody hand oozed into his chest as though it was melting at the touch, but they could tell it was going inside of him. They could tell Red was trying to scream or breathe, but death had touched him and that’s all there was to him now. Virgil shouted, hitting the creature with his revolver, but it was like slapping the water. Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw the other. It was like a woman, shorter, slender, but reaching for them all the same. When the creature grabbed Virgil, it looked as though he was about to go out like Red. Instant and with horror in his eyes. Then, in a final fit of defiance, he pulled up and kicked Jake out of his trance, landing him on his backside in the freshly pooling puddle of Red’s blood.

That was all Jake had needed. He flung himself up like a coiled spring, crashing back out of the alley and yelling a string of frightened warnings well enough to scatter those that were left hovering and wondering in the main street. Hearing the scraping of his own boots against the dirt and the pounding of the blood still in his veins, he was deafened to the shrieks of those who weren’t nearly as fast on their feet. Clawing at the boarding house door, Adaline threw it open and jerked him inside, her father slamming the door closed behind him. She pulled her hand back, losing the pink in her cheeks at the sight of the blood running down her fingers.

“Ain’t mine.” Was all Jake could say.

He felt as though the next time he opened his mouth he might bite off his tongue with how badly his teeth were chattering.

The boarding house waiting room had several simple chairs and some end tables, all from the furniture store three buildings down. They’d been hastily pushed against the wall, leaving dusty evidence of how long they’d been sitting in one place on the floor. Stretching out from the lobby was a long hall filled with doors just across from the stairs leading up to the rooms above them, but they were already filled with people hiding from what they believed to be outlaws picking the innocent and guilty off from out of plain sight, without discrimination.

“I told you, I told you I saw ‘em,” said a familiar voice.

The old man from the gambling room. Jake figured that had to be where he heard his voice from. Jake pushed his way toward him and grabbed his arm a little too rough, but the old man dropped his indignant response when their eyes met.

“Holy hell—”

“What did you see?” Jake growled, barely feeling like he had control over his body.

“These red people, not injuns, red, like blood. They was killin’ a man out in—”

Someone feverishly shushed them and they all held their breath, using only their eyes to check around the room. The same kind of thump that sent them into silence resounded again. And again.

“It’s coming from in there,” whispered a woman, her own arms wrapped around the man’s beside her.

Heavy pounding thundered throughout the boarding house until they were left in the storm’s wake. Something creaked at the end of the dark hall and he heard Adaline trying to hold back her own wilting scream with a hushed wheeze that only their complete silence could have revealed.

Head, fingers, and knees trembling, Jake marched himself forward like a newborn foal and threw open the first door. Bleeding out through the cracks in the wallpapered wood, one of the red murderers faded away like a stain spilling through. Leaving a bloody blotch on the wall, it was only after Jake witnessed it completely disappear that he let his eyes settle around the crowded room. The floor was flooding from the bodies that had fallen every which way. As the blood pushed up against his boots, Jake took a step back and threw the message to the others with just one look.

“I’ve gotta get out of this place,” exclaimed a justifiably hysterical woman. “Samuel, please, come on.”

“It’s pitch black out there, we can’t see him.”

“Them,” corrected Jake. “And they ain’t people.”

“What the hell kinda animal—”

“It’s no animal,” whispered the old man in a harsh voice. “Last year, these things came. Didn’t get nearly this hungry for us, but I remember someone sayin’ somethin’ about a bloody man and some people dyin’ in a bad way.”

“Why now?”

“It was exactly a year ago,” said the old man. “Maybe there’s somethin’ to that…”

“Oh great, rainin’ now,” complained a man, peering out the window.

It didn’t take them long to realize there was no rain, but liquid dripping from the ceilings all around them. Down the hall, the pattering of the blood drops rang out, calling to the red lady standing in a newly soaked-through doorway. The old man shouted a warning to them all and they scattered like mice caught sleeping in their hole.

As they all pushed out the door, the red lady rushed them, grabbing first the old man. Jake got a good look that time, but wished he hadn’t. Her face was mauled and gored, drenched with ever-flowing blood that poured down the entire length of her body. There were no eyes, but hollow places that would occasionally reveal themselves between the short, molasses-like waterfalls. When she jerked her unnatural gaze toward him, he bolted. Adaline grabbed his arm as they fled the house, her father swiftly leaving right behind them.

“Get to the damn horses!” he shouted.

Jake didn’t need to alter his course. His mind had already taken him on a path to the livery, but had not prepared him to be yanked backward by Adaline’s father in the middle of the darkening street. Screaming streamed out from the building like fireworks, but it was Adaline’s own that finally brought him to his less cowardly senses. Her father had her arm in a painful death-grip, not knowing he was doing it, with a red lady’s arm halfway melted into his chest. Jake tried to pull his hand away, but only when Adaline called to him did he let go.

“Don’t stop!” Jake shouted to her, causing her to give in to fear and leave her father behind.

The red lady reached for her, but he pulled Adaline to him with all his might and ran like a man possessed. They burst into the livery and frightened all the wary horses into fits of loud whinnies and kicking stomps.

“Jackal, where the hell are ya…?”

Frantically searching, Jake finally saw the stable where his horse paced, eager to break free during the chaos. He ran up to the simple latch lock and struggled to simply unhook it.

“What are you doing?” Adaline hissed.

“I’m openin’ the door, goddammit, open!”

Finally flinging it open, Jake pulled Jackal out with an insulting yank. He apologized to him, feeling the willful steed’s indignant resistance.

“There it is,” shrieked Adaline, pointing toward a wall.

The stable owner fell out of the hay when the red creature put its hand inside, reaching out to doom a horse within reach as well.

“Get up, get up,” chanted Jake, pushing Adaline to the saddle before he’d pull himself up.

“Go away!” she screamed at it, sounding more like a bobcat than a person.

Jake heeled at Jackal, feeling the hay give way under his hooves. The red lady reached for them, but missed by a long-shot. Adaline was holding Jake so tightly, he was settling with shallow breaths as they galloped wildly into the night. The moon was only a sliver in the still desert sky and Jake desperately scanned for any sign of the unnatural beings in the treacherous dark. From the corner of his eye, the slaughter seemed complete. If they were the last two alive, he would not be surprised. Hopefully Adaline was keeping her head down.

“Oh my God,” he heard her gasp.

“Stop lookin’,” said Jake.

At the edge of town, racing through the entry archway, the red man waited. Jake saw him, but there was no other way to go around the already tightly packed gap to the desolated town. Reaching out for them, Jake warned Jackal and tried to steer him around, but the demon-spawn reached its deathly hand into the horse’s body, though only for a moment. Jackal squealed and kicked out at the bloody man, only dispersing him like a hand through running water.

They staggered too fast into the desert, slowing after only a minute or two. Jake leaned forward and vigorously scratched Jackal’s neck while he spoke encouragingly to him. It wasn’t until the second time he leaned forward that he noticed the blood and the trail they were leaving. Jake’s heart ached, but he needed to keep them moving. Glancing around the nothingness, he saw the white rock bulging out of the sand. It looked even bigger than before, almost glowing too, so Jake figured they were close enough to it.

“Look, there,” he said, pointing to it.

“What is it?” whispered Adaline.

“I don’t know, shelter maybe. He ain’t gonna make it. That thing touched him.”

“All it has to do is touch you?”

“Looks that way,” said Jake.

They trotted over to the giant rock and just before they reached it, Jackal fell to his knees, then on his side. They were able to roll off without getting trapped underneath, but Jake hurried to his side. The horse was panting and Jake rested his forehead on Jackal’s neck, petting him gently until he stopped moving. Then, he marched over to the saddlebag and pulled out the parcel the livery owner had attached. He ripped the brown paper away and pried the box open, revealing a beautiful Colt revolver with a bag of bullets and powder packed in with it. Jake loaded everything on his belt.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Adaline, staring at Jackal.

“Let’s look around,” said Jake, eyes red and mind swimming.

They circled the rock cautiously, looked for crevices and making sure they were the only ones doing so. As they came around the back, they found three giant holes.

“There’s a light inside,” said Adaline.

“Careful,” said Jake, putting his hand in front of her as he crept toward the opening.

Inside, two crimson candles sat in a pool of their own wax, tiny flames flickering in the whipping breeze. Standing before them, Jake understood exactly what he was looking at.

“Let’s put these out,” he said.

They went to work kicking at them, pinching the flames, covering them, and even spitting on them. Nothing seemed to have any effect on the candles or the fire. On the floor behind the candles lay a circular stone slab with a symbol painted in blood. Adjacent that lay another, with a slightly different symbol painted in blood as well. Jake approached it, staring at it long and hard before turning back to Adaline.

“What’re you thinkin’ it is?”

“Maybe where they came from...”

She watched him, figured he was trying to guess at what might happen to him if he stood where they’d stood. She was about to dissuade him when the screeching echoed through the eerie, enormous skull-like rock.

“They’re comin’,” said Adaline.

“I’m gonna try.”

“Wait…”

“Only other thing to do is die.”

Adaline sucked in a deep breath, nodded to him, and glared out into the darkness behind her, hanging her head out of the white rock for a better look at the pitch blackness swallowing them. Jake stepped around the candles and stood on the platform to the left. Nothing happened.

“Try the other,” suggested Adaline.

Jake looked over her shoulder and saw something moving in the darkness, though he couldn’t see clearly over the light of the candle and the white-rock interior. When he placed both feet on the platform, the red man, only steps away from Adaline, screeched and stumbled into the room with them. Adaline chirped out a scream, hurrying over to Jake. He grabbed her shoulders and held her against him as the demon’s own bloody visage dried up, revealing the rotten flesh underneath. It belched out a black orb onto the sandy dirt in front of them, desperately scrambling against its own death to pluck it up off the ground. It crumbled into a fine dust as it held the orb in its hand, dropping it once again as it disappeared. Jake smiled triumphantly at Adaline and though she was still reeling from the close call, she returned the victorious feeling with a disbelieving chuckle.

“I can’t move,” said Jake suddenly.

His boots were stuck fast to the symbol, but he couldn’t just take off his boots, the feeling was moving up his legs.

“There she is,” he gasped, suddenly able to see the red lady flying toward them at unnatural speed. “I can see her, there.”

It was an unnatural vision, but he could see only the red lady through the blackness outside. She was flying with a fury, straight toward them. Adaline sucked in a deep breath, ran around the candles, and stood on the other symbol. The red lady reached Adaline as her feet planted on the symbol. Jake called to her, watching the red lady’s hand start to slip into her chest. Suddenly, the creature curled up into herself, her shriveling hands tucked against her own chest, the blood flowing over her face drying up just as the others had, and crumpling to the ground in a heap of flesh then dust.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no I ain’t,” she said in disbelief, feeling around the blood-stain on her chest.

“Are you stuck, too?”

“I am. What do we do?”

“Pray, I guess.”

The room shifted, lurched, and then rumbled steadily. Everything was vibrating, though only part of them could feel it.

“We are sinkin’,” shouted Adaline, as if this rock had the audacity to do so.

Jake swore and pulled at his legs and tried to bend down, but found that the petrified feeling rose above his waist by that point. Sand sifted itself over his boots and the room began to rapidly shrink. Adaline screamed a few times, but he couldn’t help joining her with shouts and yelling for help. He had no idea what anyone could do for them, but it was worth a try. He wasn’t just going to turn into a rock at the bottom of this sandy death trap. His head stopped moving though he was trying to look around and shortly after that he was buried in the sand along with Adaline, who had gone distressingly silent before that.

Suddenly, the sands receded much faster than they came up and the feeling of turning to stone melted away just behind it. Adaline gasped and they both fell to their hands and knees once they were able. The sun blinded them through the holes in the white rock and once the sand was well and fully gone, the whole room rolled over onto its side. The two were shuffled around before crawling out of what turned out to be a gigantic eye socket in an enormous skull. The flames in the candles had been snuffed and the long, red sticks rolled plainly over the thick mulch. Jake stomped on them until they flattened and cracked under his boots.

“Where are we?” asked Adaline, dusting bark scraps off her pale blue dress.

When Jake stood up straight, he realized he’d never been in a place like they were then. The ground was covered in old, chipped-off bark, the trees were thick and suffocating, but there was a hole in front of them letting in a blinding light. Once their eyes adjusted, they stepped through and saw a vast forest sprawling out just below them as they stood on a stout cliff’s edge.

The battle yak’s cloven hooves trod upon chalky, yellow stone.  As Moka led the beast by the reigns, her husband paced a few yards to the fore, and Savorin, the Elf she’d come quickly to despise, wedged himself between his mount’s shoulders.  He was nestled within the yak’s tawny fur, laying casually on his back as he flipped through a volume of verses.  It was held in his left hand, and occasionally, Savorin bit from an apple he cradled in his right.

“Lost in your reading?” she called, breaking the quiet for no other reason than it perturbed her.  Around her, the land rose up on either side of their path; moss-covered stone formed towering hills that sloped gently toward the path they walked, steep enough to disinvite further exploration or ascension.  It led in one direction, ever eastward, and Ahusaka seemed nonplussed by the fact that the horizon was unchanging, and their travels seemed to plunge them deeper into everything they had already seen.

From his position on the yak, Savorin answered, “It’s one way to pass the time, sister.”

“The fact that your ‘brother’ forced me into marriage does not make us siblings.”

“As he’d tell it, you agreed.  And blushed so prettily when you considered his proposal.”

“He never did forbid me from killing you.”

Savorin turned his sapphire eyes to Moka, then quirked the corner of his mouth upward into an amused smirk.

“I’d not raise a blade to you, even in sport,” the Elf said.  “If your defeat at his hands has so deeply wounded your pride, you may take my life as recompense for the sense of injury my brother has inflicted.”

Ahusaka called over his shoulder, “I would thank you not to antagonize my wife, or I’ll kill you myself.”

Savorin laughed, and Moka couldn’t help but chortle.  She glanced to her husband and asked, “Why does this path seem perpetually familiar?”

Ahusaka glanced back and smiled.  It was an odd gesture, given that he did so with a muzzle rather than a mouth, and it sometimes made it seem as if he were snarling.  Beastkin, she’d called him.  A fox on two legs, half her size but twice as agile for it.  His mismatched eyes glimmered with curiosity as he replied, “We seek magicked ruins, hidden from those that would plunder them by sorcery and guile.  Despite walking all day, I’d imagine we’ve scarcely covered a mile.  Savorin would have a better sense of that than I.”

Moka felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.  It was said that Elves were more than comfortable with sorcery, and gave form to it with ease.  When Ahusaka had bested her in their duel, Moka’s closest friend had nearly intervened in a bid to save her life.  Savorin had prevented it, and threatened an Ogress with no consideration for the disparity in their size and strength.  Surely he commanded magic of some form, if he’d meet a warrior-maiden in battle with no trace of hesitation…

But walking beside a practitioner of the art was one thing.  Entering ruins that had been magicked by a sorcerer to mislead those who sought them was another.  Ahusaka had tempted her with the prospect of danger, but Moka did not expect that danger to be of the supernatural sort.  Though she was physically superior to both men, physical strength meant little in the face of confusing magics that could warp one’s perception of time passed or distance traveled.

And yet, the beastkin strode along with a spring in his step.  He occasionally twirled his spear, his banner trailing from its crossbar with each idle flourish.

“Will we make camp soon?” Moka asked.

“Aye,” the fox responded.  “Look above.”

“Oh?” Moka asked.  When she did, she took note of the sky overhead.  At first, nothing seemed out of place.  The more she studied it, however, the more she noticed the faint striations that stitched the clouds together.  They rippled unnaturally, and while it appeared to be early morning, she saw slivers of the setting sun eking through those cracks somewhere to the west.  It was strange, and confusing.  She asked, “What is this?”

Savorin crunched at his apple as he admired the poetry on the page before him and said, “We have been taken in by an enchanted glamor, and a very powerful one.  I’d imagine it covers an area spanning tens of miles.”

“Is it dangerous?” the Ogress asked.

“No,” the Elf answered.  “It’s meant to misdirect, not to harm.  When we narrow in on the ruins it seeks to guide us away from, however, the danger will be very real.”

Moka nodded, and Ahusaka said, “Here, by the roadside.  I’m ready to eat, and I’m sure you’re ready to rest.  Since my dear brother has done plenty of that already, he can help me pitch the tent.”

Savorin snorted, then his book and half-eaten apple vanished with a flick of his wrists.  He rolled to one side and dismounted the giant beast of burden, then began tugging at straps and picking at buckles to retrieve the equipment he’d need for his task.  Moka led the battle yak off the beaten path, though at this point she wondered if that path even existed, and looked to Ahusaka.

“These ruins you intend to plunder, what do you seek from them?”

“These ruins that we intend to plunder,” Ahusaka corrected.  “You’ve thrown your lot in with us, now.”

Moka exhaled softly, then said, “And I expect it to bring me misfortune.  Whose grave do you intend to rob?”

“Do you think me the kind of whoreson that’d defile a grave?”

“Yes.”

As Savorin began driving spikes into the soil, Ahusaka said, “I suppose you’re half right.  We’ll be treading on burial grounds, but not for the purpose of stealing from corpses.”  He helped Savorin erect their tent, a pyramidal thing that scarcely had room for her.  Moka imagined the constrained space forcing the three of them together, and the strange idea of laying beside a husband when she’d never entertained the idea of marriage.

Once they had it erected, Savorin built a small fire a short distance off, thankfully without the use of whatever sorceries he commanded.  In its light, his deep blue eyes were illuminated, and he watched the flames pensively as Ahusaka joined them.

Though most northerners tended to find Ogress fare too heavily-spiced for their palette, neither her husband or her “brother in law” appeared put off by it.  That disappointed her mildly.  The three of them ate pancha this evening, a mix of dried fruits, nuts, and salted meat that had been pulverized into a powder.  When compacted, the stuff could keep for a year or two in good conditions.  Moka watched as Ahusaka ate, and the odd way his jaws worked at the dried meat.

“How will we navigate this… enchanted maze, then?” she asked.

Savorin reached into a pouch at his side, and withdrew the most beautiful work of art she’d ever seen.  It was a compass, fashioned from a metal of rose gold hue.  Where a typical compass would have a plain face and a black needle, this one’s face was formed of light.  The glow was soft, the colors variable and warm.  Its needle was a sliver of obsidian the length of his finger, cut and polished until it resembled a tree branch, wreathed in ivy, with that ivy’s leaves acting as each of the needle’s points.

“It’s more of a mirage,” Savorin said.  “Have you ever seen the Red Deserts of D’hennex, sister?”

Moka attempted to find annoyance in being called ‘sister’ again, but the Elf spoke without sarcasm, making the emotion difficult to reach for.  She answered, “No.”

Savorin continued to study the compass as he spoke, then eventually shifted his eyes from it, to the fire, and then finally to Moka.

“The heat’s hellish,” Savorin said, “Out on the dunes, it makes the air shimmer, and once you’re exhausted and thirsty enough, the mind begins playing tricks.  Men have died while wandering in circles because they believed an oasis was just over the next dune.”  He gestured toward her with the compass, and Moka found it a startlingly casual thing to do with something that looked so very beautiful, and so very delicate.  “This glamor simulates the phenomenon, but more directly.  Most who come down this path travel a mile or two out of their way without realizing it, and completely miss the ossuary.”

“Ossuary?” she asked.

“Most northerners don’t leave their dead for the buzzards,” Ahusaka said.  Surprise stole the Elf’s features, then he shot a glance at his partner in grave-robbing.  Ahusaka continued, “They occasionally store the bones of the deceased in… I suppose you could call it a ‘grave above the ground.’  Sometimes boxes, sometimes coffins.”

“Ogres leave their dead for the buzzards?” Savorin asked.  Though he was obviously shocked, there was a tinge of disgust to wrinkle his fair features and chase the smugness from his countenance.

Ahusaka reached for his wineskin, flicked the stopper off with his thumb, then began washing his dinner down.  He said, “We’re nomads.  Hardly see a point in burying the dead when they may have died in an area we have no intention to revisit.”

Rather than take offense from Savorin’s discomfort, Moka was amused that she’d finally managed to offend the Elf in some small way.  She grinned, one of her pronounced incisors glinting in the firelight.

“We bury our dead in the sky,” she said.  “First we carve the bodies, so they’re a bit more inviting.  Those big buzzards have a wingspan that exceeds my height, and beaks that can crack stone.  By the time they’re done, even the bones are gone.”

Savorin reached for Ahusaka’s wineskin, took a healthy pull, then redirected the conversation, looking half as if he might vomit.

“As I was saying,” Savorin continued, “We are entranced by a conjured mirage.  Ahusaka and I studied it from a distance for weeks, gathered information from nearby camps and towns, and managed to track this lovely compass down as well.”  He closed it, then slipped it back into his pouch.  “A glamor of this puissance requires a constant influx of mana, that mana must travel to it through a ley line, and this compass can follow those ley lines.”

“You’re speaking another language right now,” Moka said dryly, finishing her meal.

“It’s a magic compass that can give us our bearings while we’re trapped in a magicked illusion,” Ahusaka simplified.  “We’re nearing our destination, and when we’re done, the illusion will be dispelled.  I intend to destroy the object projecting it.”

“Why?”

“Primarily, because we’re being paid to,” Ahusaka shrugged.  “A noble’s boy met his end here.  Hadn’t even lived to see twenty summers.”  Moka felt that fear of the supernatural return again.  It must have shown in her eyes in some small way, because when her husband looked to her, his mismatched gaze became a touch sympathetic.  “Nothing as sinister as evil sorceries sucking his soul from him.  He led a hunting party down this path, and none of them were ever seen again.  Likely ran through their provisions, panicked, and kept traveling deeper into the illusion.”

Moka looked to Savorin and said, “You told me this illusion wasn’t dangerous.”

“It isn’t dangerous to us,” he clarified.  “To an inexperienced boy of seventeen?  I shudder to think of what the lads went through.  Hunger and fear are a nasty combination.”

“Not exactly a pleasant thought to end a conversation on,” Ahusaka said, offering the wineskin to Moka.

She chuffed and said, “I’ve my own spirits.  You couldn’t get an Ogre babe drunk off that fruity wine of yours if he sucked it from the breast.”

Savorin, his disgust with the funerary rites of the Ogre people momentarily forgotten, laughed aloud.

The longer they sat by the fire, eating, drinking, and sharing one another’s company, the more Moka felt the weight of this illusion pressing in on her.  Now that she was aware of it, and paranoia had sharpened her eye, she began seeing those cracks in reality all around her.  Never for more than a moment or two, and it was always something so small as to nearly be imperceptible; just a faint flickering that gave the briefest glimpse of the world on the other side of the illusion, and the illusion that had been cast was only different from the real world in small ways.  Small enough ways that a human boy had wandered around in this madness-inducing sorcery until he’d starved.

Perhaps it was good that Ahusaka had chosen to destroy it, even if he’d only done so as part of a contract.

“It doesn’t quite look like it,” Moka said, watching the sky warily, “But my weariness tells me night has likely fallen.”

“Likely,” Savorin agreed.  “I’ll secure our belongings before we retire.  Will that great beast of yours stay put while we sleep?  I’d hate to think of it wandering off with all of our supplies.  We’d likely not track it down again until after completing this contract.”

“You could always sleep with him, if you like,” Moka teased.  When the Elf gave her a flat look, she added, “The yak is well-trained.  You needn’t worry.”

“All the same,” Savorin said, and that glint of devilish playfulness returned to his azure eyes, “I think I will sleep atop the beast.  I wouldn’t want to act as an impediment to a… fruitful wedding night.”

This time Moka scoffed, and color flooded her face.  As her mouth worked for some manner of retort, Savorin stood, sauntered off, and began cheerfully whistling to himself as he stowed their equipment and fetched a shovel to put the fire out.

“Ignore him,” Ahusaka said.  “He teases you because you always react.”

The Ogress stood, stretched, then headed wordlessly for the tent.  It felt cramped inside, but she was grateful for it at present.  Though the strange, false sun shined dully overhead, the chill of night had fallen upon their camp, and the tent contained what heat remained very well.  She removed her armor, now clad in a simple blouse and loose-fitting trousers, then lay across the furs lining the floor of the tent.  With half an ear, she listened to the Elf and the demihuman discussing their plan for the following day, and occasionally one or the other would call raucous laughter out into the otherwise tranquil night.  There was merriment between them, and the closeness of their friendship made her think of Teno, the friend she’d left behind when she’d forfeited her life to Ahusaka by failing to best him in a duel.

That he’d chosen to marry her rather than kill her was still a queer curiosity, and though it had humbled her pride, she had eventually come to the conclusion that this was better than having her throat cut because that pride drove her to underestimate an opponent.

He entered the tent, steps unsteady for how much he’d drank, then flopped to his belly on the furs.  Where Savorin wore as much finery as was practical along with his armor, even on an excursion into an ancient ‘ossuary,’ her husband was much less fussy about his dress; a long robe of soft blue, with golden clouds patterned along the sleeves and a slit near his hind end for his brushy tail to pop through.

Moka eyed him, then asked, “You seriously intend to attempt laying with me, don’t you?”

Ahusaka had closed his eyes, a look of contented bliss on his face as he savored the warmth of the furs.  When they opened again, they were alight with amusement.

“You won’t be the first Ogress I’ve lain with.  If you’re feeling impatient, however, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a bit longer.”

“Not feeling amorous tonight, I see,” she said with a smirk.  “Are your humours misaligned?”

“More that I’ll need a clear head to lead this expedition tomorrow, and I’d rather not be distracted by pleasant memories of a prior romantic entanglement.”

The Ogress tilted her head slightly, expressing mild shock.  This tiny creature was fond of flattering her, and at first she’d taken it as an insult, much in the same way she interpreted Savorin’s japes to bring him amusement at her expense.  In the demihuman’s case, and perhaps occasionally in Savorin’s, that praise may perhaps have been honest.

The warrior-maiden (though, she imagined the ‘maiden’ portion of that title wouldn’t be applicable to her for much longer) thought back on her exile.  Her kin had seen her as small and weak, unfit to bear a child, and unfit to remain in the steppes to struggle for survival alongside them.  They had sent correspondence to the clans camped all throughout Arthen, and must have described her in unflattering terms, as only one expressed interest in having her.  When the Ogres cast her out, she had no expectation they would care if she survived her journey for how little they provided her in the way of equipment and provisions.

But she had survived, perhaps out of spite, and found her place with Clan Piran.  At times, thinking on having given up what she’d earned because she and this demihuman had gotten into a drunken shouting match that ended in a duel to the death infuriated her.  At others, it wasn’t as if her existence in exile was any more fulfilling than it was prior to that exile.  Here, surrounded by sorcery and two men who were near enough to being strangers, she at least had a purpose.

And she had someone else who saw value in her, when before, only Teno had.

“For a mercenary for hire, you’ve quite the silver tongue.”

“Blame Savorin,” he yawned, closing his eyes again.  “A true poet, that one, and it rubs off on you.  A bit of a rogue, as well.  He’s talked us out of more fights than I could ever recall.”

“And how many has he talked you into?”

“Probably an equal number,” Ahusaka sighed.

“Why does he call you his brother?”

Her words brought an enthusiastic laugh out of him.

“He and I met much in the same way you and I did,” Ahusaka said.  “I happened upon his Caravan, and found myself impressed with a maid there.  She was meant to be his wife, and in a moment of impulsive pridefulness, I offered to duel him for her hand.”

“He accepted such a foolish proposition on his wedding day?”

“I wasn’t the only one that chose to be prideful,” Ahusaka said.  He rolled to his side, stretched, and opened his eyes.  One of his furred ears flicked toward the battle yak as it bellowed and bellyached over its boredom, then the ground shook gently as it laid down for the night.  Moka heard Savorin speaking to the beast, then to her surprise, heard him singing a soft lullaby to it.

“How does that story end?” Moka asked.

“It was the best fight of my life,” Ahusaka said.  “At some point, I’d forgotten all about my potential wife, and wanted nothing more than to keep fighting him until my heart gave out.  We incapacitated one another at the same time, meaning that neither of us won the duel.”

“And then?”

“And then the fair maid laughed at us, as a technicality of Elvish protocol freed her from the responsibility of accepting either of our hands if neither of us could conclude the duel.  We fought to such exhaustion that we could barely lift our heads, let alone our weapons.”  Ahusaka shrugged.  “She broke away from her Caravan after that, and Elves treat such an action as an offense to be punished with an exile similar to your own.  I don’t think she particularly cared.”

Moka laughed from somewhere in her belly, then brushed a few tears from the corners of her eyes.  The way the laughter bubbled up unbidden had her convinced that her spirits were finally affecting her.

“We were impressed with one another,” Ahusaka said, “And like the Elf maid, Miriam was her name, Savorin too left his Caravan to travel at my side.  One day we intend to conclude that duel properly.”

“And here I was hoping that I was the best you ever had,” the Ogress said, eliciting a smirk from her husband.

“Perhaps if you’d taken me seriously, you would have been.  Do you take me seriously now?”

She blushed and fixed her eyes on the furs between them.

“At any rate,” Ahusaka said, “If I begin reminiscing about the adventures Savorin and I have gone on, I’ll be reminiscing all night, and we’re better off well-rested for what comes next.”

“Very well,” Moka said.  Before she rolled over to face the wall of the tent, she chewed on her lip thoughtfully, then frowned and asked, “Why did you seek my hand?”

“I’m not a particularly complicated man,” Ahusaka said.  “You’re beautiful, you impressed me, and so I decided you would be mine, or I’d die trying to make that my reality.”

She considered that for a moment that stretched into a minute, and before she could give voice to any of the other questions that tugged at the back of her mind, the fox began to snore, his chest rising and falling evenly.  Moka watched him in the dull light of the false sun that barely managed to shine through portions of the tent’s walls.

Rather than roll over and turn her back, she reached out across the distance, then drew him close.  Her cheek laid against the furs, she closed her eyes, drifted off, and dreamed of where her travels would take her next.

The temple was empty, but not abandoned.

A single figure with thin features calmly entered the main chamber, his red robe lightly flowing as he walked inside. He was careful to step over the shattered wooden remnants of what used to be its front doors. Those pieces were holy relics now. Only a few more paces down a narrow hallway and he had reached his destination, the Spike of Foundation.

Yelis bowed his head and knelt before the tall obelisk. He raised his right arm skyward and gave a prayer to his deity. One of the five original gods, the god who was represented by this Spike. El-Kazir, the god of foundation.

At the completion of Yelis’ verbal offering, the ground lightly shook and the obelisk glowed. Mist, blue as the sky, hummed and spun around it.

‘I prayed this day would come, and yet, I can’t be thankful for it,’ Yelis thought.

His prayers to unite this power with the god who built it had brought about the end of his world, and possibly others. His small planet – which was one of many – housed the Spike built by El-Kazir. Those of his order were called upon to pray to it and present a specific offering until El-Kazir would return and claim the power held within. After thousands of years performing this ritual, and somehow during one of his rotations, the god had answered. It didn’t answer by appearing however, instead it pulled his entire planet towards itself. At least that’s what Yelis hoped.

The force of its movement caused earthquakes and storms to rage across his world. Buildings crumbled, crops burnt, and chaos befell his homeland. After only two years of hurtling through space, everyone else was gone. Granted, only the priests of his religion and a few industries ran by people to feed and support the order occupied the tiny sphere. His holy station as the caller of foundation had kept him alive while others starved.

Yelis shook his head. ‘Had it been one of the larger planets like Marin or Nolise, we could have lost millions.’

His solar system was made of several tiny planets and moons circling three large ones. While the stature of his own world was small, its importance was immeasurable. It held the only Holy Spike amongst their worlds. He had no idea where the other four were located. Maybe one rested in the other system he had seen. It was different from the orb like planets Yelis was accustomed to. Rather, they were small islands connected together by tiny land bridges, like beads on a necklace. Of course, he wasn’t simply a passive observer of those strange lands. Yelis’ planet had crashed through one of the land bridges. Thankfully, the Spike’s blue energy had shielded his home world from any damage during the collision.

“I wonder where the others reside, maybe I’ll get to see them when my travels are through?” he said to himself while approaching one of the cave temple’s craggy walls. Hoping the question would distract him from the shame of knowing he played a part in the destruction of another world.

Reaching up, he snatched a few branches of a brittle root growing through the rock. He continued crunching them down in his hands while pacing back to the front of the Spike, where all the teachings were carved. He poured the crumpled roots into a gold chalice, which sat on the ground before it, then approached a large bowl carved out of marble. Looking straight up, he observed a hole in the ceiling of the cave temple where sunlight had once shone through. It was one of two holes, the second was a large opening over the Spike. He cupped his hands and took some of the water, then carefully brought it back and poured that in the chalice as well. It had taken him years to perfect this technique. A sharp pain jabbed his stomach as he remembered Yorin, the priest who first taught him this ritual.

“I won’t forget you, old friend,” he said while swallowing down the bittersweet memory.

After mixing the roots and water with a thin metal stick, the two elements created a blue liquid. Yelis dipped his fingers in the small chalice and painted a few of the lines and symbols marked in the Spike. After he was done, he took a swig from the cup. During his previous performances, nothing happened when he drank the indigo tea. This time however, his entire skin tingled and his mind grew more focused. The light of the temple felt brighter, and he could hear the rush of wind racing over the holes in the ceiling above.

What was he preparing for? He had performed this task countless times with his fellow priests, who had followed in the footsteps of those before. And yet, none of them understood why they did it. Yes, they knew it would lead to the return of El-Kazir, but none of them knew of any specific meaning to the individual steps. The praying, the stirring, the painting, the consuming. What had it all meant? Before, they simply had faith in the process. Now, his body was humming and he had no inclination what he should do with this newfound enlightenment.

A sudden force shook the temple, sending Yelis tumbling forward and slamming into a small stone pillar. A jolt of pain rushed from the top of his spine to the ends of his toes. He groaned and rolled onto his stomach. Collecting himself, he slowly climbed to his feet and leaned against the structure. Loud cracks rang out above as the temple ceiling itself was ripped in two. The pieces tossed away as if being discarded like chicken bones.

Then he heard it.

“Who has called me?” a booming voice bellowed above.

The arrival of a god.

Yelis knelt on one knee and bowed his head out of sheer instinct. His heart thumped so heavily he thought it might rip through his chest. No amount of rituals, scriptures, or lessons could have prepared him for this fateful moment. All he could do was stare forward and look at the jagged tiles beneath him. Hoping that focusing on something simple would ease his mind. It didn’t.

“Answer, creature!” the god demanded.

Yelis swallowed, eyes bulging. “I…I come seeking El-Kazir,” he finally managed to stammer.

“You have found him. Now, who are you to call me back to power?”

Yelis lifted his head slightly, barely peeking towards the ripped opening where the ceiling once resided. He could see a large ebony figure outlined by a thin line of white light. El-Kazir was so massive that only what appeared to be his upper torso was visible to Yelis. As he loomed overhead, Yelis wondered if the god’s outline only mirrored a human form to ease his fears. A familiar appearance could make this dominating presence less frightening to such an insignificant observer.

Yelis finally broke his silence.

“I am Yelis, Master Emissary for the Keepers of Foundation.”

“Foundation…” the god answered.

Yelis couldn’t tell if the response was quizzical or affirming.

“Yes, Holy One. We worship you, the God of Foundation, bringer of the First Worlds,” Yelis replied.

The god spoke, “Those names. You were our original creation. If you have held faith and ritual for this long, you’re clearly worthy to wield this power.”

El-Kazir plucked Yelis from the ground and slammed him – spine first – against the Holy Spike. His hand was so immense that its fingers completely surrounded the priests’ waist. Suddenly, Yelis felt jolts of sharp pain surge throughout his body, as if someone were ramming nails through his skin. He wanted to move, to scream, to break free from having his back pinned to the stone pillar. Yet, he knew this was his destiny. He prepared his entire existence for the moment when he would finally meet his god. That time had come. It was best to abandon his own decisions. The surges continued snaking between his body and the pillar. He thought he should feel pain, but it was far worse. The sensations coursing through his veins eclipsed what he once thought was pain and entered another threshold entirely. Fear gripped his bones as he sank into the pillar. Reaching out with one hand he furiously swiped for anything to stop him from being absorbed.

His eyes shot open in a flash and he was now looking down at the tip of the Holy Spike. He was floating in the air above, flying somehow. Yelis looked above him and saw a smattering of stars in the distance.

‘They don’t feel so far, though,’ he thought while reaching out to them.

Then he was upon them. One of the bright orbs of light only a mile from his face. He began to feel its bright heat, until he tore the sensation from his mind and placed it elsewhere. Like setting a cup of water aside on a shelf. He made the mistake of looking down. The vast, lonely ocean of infinite black space was the only thing beneath him. Yelis panicked, swinging his arms and kicking his legs like a drowning pup.

“Enough.” El-Kazir’s booming voice echoed throughout Yelis’ skull.

Yelis fell to his knees on a floor made of white marble tile. He took a moment to gather himself. Feeling the comfort of having solid ground beneath him. He stared out and saw rows of long wooden benches surrounding the large circle of tile he was kneeling on. Scanning the walls, he saw decorative stone carvings of important priest of the past. He appeared to be in the preaching chamber of his church. El-Kazir appeared at his side, but was now the same size as Yelis.

“I believe this place will calm you,” the god said.

Yelis stood up slowly. “It does help, your holiness.”

The god nodded. “We are one now. We must make the most of our time before the other three return.”

Yelis turned towards El-Kazir with a quizzical look. “Aren’t you one of five?”

El-Kazir stared back at Yelis; his black body was veined with thin silver lines. He looked as if he was chiseled from a mixture of smooth black granite with dashes of white molten lava. The mixture comprising his body was constantly swirling within the white line that outlined his figure.

“There were five, before one of us died,” El-Kazir replied calmly.

Yelis inhaled deeply and gave a silent prayer for whichever god had fallen. He opened his eyes and saw the church was gone; he stood before the shining star again. Yelis breathed through his fear and tried to snatch it. He wanted to discard it like he’d done with his other senses before.

“You should know that when we merge and occupy this realm, we can be struck down.”

Yelis felt a chill knowing that El-Kazir understood his intentions so easily. He’d forgotten the god lived in his mind now. He went to fly away from the star, but El-Kazir interrupted him again.

“This heat won’t harm you, Yelis. However, know that discarding your human senses does not mean they aren’t real. We are powerful, but not completely immortal.”

Yelis nodded knowingly, despite feeling completely lost. It was difficult to comprehend his new station. Every gesture or decision seemed to inspire his god to deliver another nugget of wisdom. But unlike previous advice he’d received from mortals, the information only sparked more questions. He took a moment to decide his next move, rubbing his chin. Yelis noticed his hand still looked the same. His body had not changed to El-Kazir’s form. He still wore his original dark brown skin, littered with beige freckles. He took another moment to steady himself while running his hand through his curly black hair, then spoke to his god. “When we traveled here, there was another solar system. It was unlike our own, not planets, but islands. My world collided with them on our way here. I feel duty bound to fix them before I begin your work.”

“There is no time for rebuilding the Fourth and Fifth Worlds. We must focus on our new creation. It must be completed before the other three come,” El-Kazir instructed.

Yelis listened to his god and tried to swallow back his guilt.

“Do not worry, disciple. They will survive. Reach out to them, you will see…”

Yelis closed his eyes and visualized the cluster of islands. The longer he focused on them, the closer he was drawn there. Soon he was staring above one, which was covered in a vast jungle. Several people had large pieces of timber they were lugging back to a tall stone pyramid.

“You see, Yelis, they have moved on. Your worship has not destroyed them. All worlds end, but rarely are those finales brought about by our kind.”

Yelis closed his eyes once more and visualized the star. He opened them and found himself back there.

“It’s time to build our foundation for the Ninth Worlds, disciple.”

Yelis nodded and stretched out his hand. Small balls of light fizzed and popped before him. He was creating life.

“How much time do we have?” he asked.

“Until another priest’s prayers are answered. Thankfully, I believe there aren’t many left who worship the other three.”

Again, he was left with more questions.

“Shouldn’t we be excited for the return of your brothers and sisters?”

El-Kazir’s figure appeared beside him while shaking his head. “I lost one brother after the creation of the Eighth. I believe coming into this one so uneven will be the death of us all. This foundation must be our strongest ever, if this realm wishes to survive our eventual demise.”

The power of El-Kazir’s words struck Yelis’ consciousness like a fist to his belly. Internalizing the immense pressure of his task, he felt the newfound godly force nauseously swell inside his stomach.

‘Every time I begin to allow my human emotions to seep through, it clouds my control over this power,’ Yelis realized. He steadied his hand and continued building another moon. Gathering his resolve and pushing past his fears. ‘I must understand how to wield this skill under any condition, if I’m to achieve what El-Kazir expects from me.’

He wanted to shove the feeling away like he had the others, but something told him he needed every ounce of motivation he could find. He was responsible for the creation of a new cosmos. One that would be tasked with saving existence itself.

Once in an age, the rot set in to the bones of our world.

It was our tribe’s season on the vast Plain of Rebirth, and so when the first of Grandfather’s leaves fell from the 3057th bough-line, we knew it was time.

“Time to go! Flatfoot! Come on!” Three Arm, the nightdrummer, called to me.

I had just laid down to sleep the afternoon away in our longhouse, moccasins and shirt off, tossed on the end of the bed. The light was silver with approaching storm and its dimness made my eyelids droop.

“What’s the rush?” I complained. There was no need for either of us at the Unleashing.

“Handheart expects us,” Three Arm insisted. “That’s reason enough.”

The old man’s ire would be troublesome, I supposed. It was worth skipping today’s nap so as not to be punished with extra work during tomorrow’s. I sprang impatiently out of bed to underscore my distaste, but Three Arm just rolled his eyes. Feet shod, I followed the sprightly drummer out the door as I slipped my shirt back on.

Our longhouse was one in a row near the dropoff at Plain’s edge. Its bold red and black painted stripes stood starkly against the grey cloud of the drop. Three Arm had left his drum by the door and snatched it up as we left, slung its strap over shoulder and chest.

“He wants you to play?” I asked.

“Yeah, he thinks it will aid the Growth,” said Three Arm.

Daydrummers should have been enough for that, I thought, but Three Arm was the best in our tribe. We passed the cookhouse and the barracks, the tall Hunter’s Home, and beyond Sky Father’s temple to the empty plain. The short, tough grass was wet and cool with moisture dripped from the boughs above. We had to skirt the longhouse-sized fallen leaf of Grandfather, already browning, and then we were on the path to the tree we called the Child.

Many others were already gathered there - priests and tenders, drummers and gophers like me. All those needed and any who simply wished to attend. The priests sang a song in their many-throated voices, words snatched by the breeze preceding the storm, squashed beneath the pounding drums. The Child’s leaves rustled with youthful vigor. Even I could tell that it was ready for Growth. And none too soon.

“Boys, how nice of you to attend,” called Handheart.

The old priest’s robes were a brighter orange than I’d ever seen them. He must have been excited for the ritual. My more cynical self said it was less excitement and more that after today, he would be allowed to retire to Elder’s Home.

“We wouldn’t dream of sleeping through a moment like this,” I said, and he looked at me askance.

“Join the line?” Three Arm asked, and Handheart gestured him to do so. The daydrummers nodded as my friend came alongside. I couldn’t help but sway to their hypnotic rhythms.

But I stilled when Handheart approached me. There was a conspiratorial look on his face.

“Flatfoot. I sense you wished to sleep rather than attend,” he said near my ear. “Are you unwell?”

“You didn’t have to sense it, Elder,” I said cooly. “You know this is my naptime.”

Handheart tensed and I shut my eyes in advance of the slap. It didn’t come. He let out a growling breath.

“Despite your role in today’s Growth,” he said, “you did not wish to witness it?”

“Oh, I had forg—”

He cut me off. “Don’t tell me you forgot. No one forgets such a thing, Flatfoot.”

I clamped my mouth shut.

“The women approach,” he said, and indeed I heard their ululations now. “Cease your dancing and do not speak until the end of the ritual. Understood?”

Handheart always preferred verbal affirmations, so I merely nodded. His lips went flat but he turned and rejoined the other old men. I spun to watch the girls arrive.

All Leafdew women look good in motion as they weave and bob and sing, but my gaze belonged to Spright most of all. Firefly’s daughter was as hard to pin down as myself - no one’s first pick but mine. Her long red hair fluttered on the breeze and I caught her jade gaze for an intoxicating moment. Did she smile?

I wanted to move with her, dance whatever dance came to me, but I had tested Handheart enough today. If he got fed up with me, I might be ‘witnessing’ the rest of the ritual through my eyelids.

The women’s song joined the priests’ and the drummers led a feverish crescendo. A long wail of extended harmony arose, and crashed down into sudden silence. It was only a moment before Handheart’s dual-throated litany filled the void.

“Long has it been since the Leafdew have drawn our lot on the Plain of Rebrith,” he sang. “Since we released the spirit of one of our own from the roots of a Child to Grow into the next age of our world.”

A heartily sung cheer celebrated his words.

“And the honor of Flatfoot, and Longfoot his father, in meeting again at this Plain is a thing that may never yet have happened to any tribe,” the elder sang.

Green eyes flashed in my peripheral. I caught Spright’s look and smile but averted my gaze.

“Now we sing the song of release,” chanted Handheart. “Now we usher in the birth of the 3058th bough-line!”

The tribe’s cheer rang out and Grandfather’s leaves waved happily to us from above. His mighty growth would finally terminate, and this sproutling before us would carry all tribes ever upward through the next age.

Handheart launched into the song and everyone followed along in vigorous call and response. When the Child’s branches seemed to sway along, I could no longer restrain my own movement. Spright saw me and giggled as she sang. The elders were too absorbed in the ritual to reprimand me with cold looks.

With a crescendo of drum and song, the Child tree shivered, a ripple of golden light ran from roots to twigs and its quiet tension was released.

But no white flowers bloomed, trunk and limb did not stretch and groan. Nothing that lore dictated should happen, did.

The women broke into tense, hushed whispers, the elders immediately began bickering, and the priests rushed to the tree to inspect it. My heart seized up, my hands began to shake, and sand filled my veins.

No, this couldn’t be. Father…

Just as the gravity of the moment crushed my mind, Handheart spun and stomped toward me.

“What did you do wrong!?” he hissed into my ear. His ire couldn’t be hidden, but at least he wasn’t bellowing at me in front of everyone. “Did you skip part of the ritual?”

“No, Handheart, I…” I stammered. His eyes terrified me. If I told him the truth, he would toss me off the edge of the Plain and I might plunge a thousand years or more before I died.

“You never studied!” he growled. “This is why you, son of the great Longfoot, are only a gopher, and a layabout one at that. If you had only paid attention when I trained you —”

“No, elder, I…” I couldn’t tell him. But I couldn’t not tell him. He might kill me either way. And if he didn’t, someone else might. I took a deep breath and willed my stomach not to vomit. “I made no mistakes, I’m sure of it. I followed the ritual to the letter.”

“Then how…” an idea dawn on him and somehow I knew he’d gotten it right.

He left me and rushed back to the circle of elders and priests. Spoke to them in hushed tones. Eyes flicked toward me, then to the tree. When Handheart called for someone to bring shovels, I broke out in a sweat and nearly fainted. He knew.

No time passed, but the shovels appeared. The hole was dug carefully, attempting to avoid disturbance of the Child’s roots. They dug in the right place first, then all around the full circle, wanting to be sure I’d not made a mistake. All the while my jaw was locked shut. I couldn’t have confessed if I’d wanted to.

There were no bones. Longfoot, my father, who I had been responsible for the midnight sacrifice and burial of, was not there.

No man of any tribe in all the ages of our world had failed in their task of fertilizing the Rebirth. I knew this was true now, for Grandfather would not hover so accusingly above me had any previous Growth been cut off.

The elders uttered a dissonant mourning wail and the women joined them. The drummers did not play. Spright’s tearful face regarded me as if I’d betrayed her, and Three Arm would not look at me at all.

Handheart started for me again, drawing a long, sharp bone knife from his belt. He got in my face rather than stabbing me to death right away, and screamed, “What did you do with his body? How did you mess up the ritual?”

I stammered. He still didn’t get it. Only fear of the bone blade’s point awoke my voice.

“I - I didn’t sacrifice him, elder,” I said. His anger morphed into shock and his trembling eyes grew red. “I couldn’t.”

Something hard hit my skull and I crumpled to the ground, conscious but reeling. I didn’t hear Handheart moving away but soon he was speaking with the others elders again. They argued, cursed me, came to a decision. Handheart returned.

He grabbed me by the throat and forced me to look him in the eye.

“They call for your death, Flatfoot,” he hissed. “And they are right to do so. My rage begs me to end you here, for you, alone, have doomed every tribe to a slow fate of starvation and pestilence.”

I started to weep. I couldn’t kill Father, that was all there was to it. They had chosen the wrong sacrifice, the wrong acolyte. I hadn’t believed that it mattered, and I had been terribly, terribly wrong.

“Perhaps,” said Handheart, “if we offer you to the Sky Father, he will have mercy and stave off Grandfather’s decay until a new sacrifice is chosen by the Child. That is all we can hope for.”

But it wasn’t. I could hardly will myself to speak. Yet this was the death of one over the death of many…

“I know where Father is,” I said.

Handheart seemed to ponder this. Would the Child still accept him? He dropped me to the ground and bellowed, “Prepare an expedition! We will retrieve Longfoot, and beg for mercy!”

Everyone launched into motion, without question, without complaint. Without any such fatal flaw as my own.

***

The trek wasn’t terribly far, all told. After all, the night of sacrifice had been on the Plain those seven years before, and I’d had only the five days of solitude to take Father to his place of rest.

No good Leafdew father would have permitted such a heresy of course, but my father had been simple for years by then, having fallen between bough-lines one harvest and broken his neck. His body healed, miraculously enough, but his mind was never the same. It was an easy thing to convince him to follow me to the hollow I had in mind, and there Grandfather had provided naturally everything even a simple man needed to go on living.

Three times since then the seasons had placed our tribe within range of the hollow during the week of my Heart Journey, and I’d taken advantage of the freedom and solitude to go visit him. He was much the same each time, but quickly aging and perhaps less aware of who I was. It was disturbing, but I consoled myself with knowing he was still alive at least.

The expedition party was made up of several strong young men, myself, plus Three Arm to ward away the night haints. Handheart insisted on coming too, though he did slow us down.

It took half a day to find a vine ford that would take us down to the next bough-line, and two days after that to wind around Grandfather’s trunk to the hollow. Though I’d harbored fears and guilt, I was convinced that the expedition was not cursed when we suffered only one attack by red-eyed hangtails and came out unscathed.

Relief brought a tear to my eye when the gnarled bough guarding Father’s hollow came into view, and there was smoke rising from inside the permanent camp. I ran ahead of the group and reached the hollow first. Father’s attendant gnome had always been shy and distrustful - I saw him flee from the camp and disappear between folds of bark.

“Father!” I cried, and heard a grunt of confusion from within the hole in Grandfather’s trunk. On the flat of bough outside, Father’s carefully controlled cookfire burned in its clay stove. He’d kept up filling the emberguard pool around it, and the camp was in fine shape altogether.

But he squinted at me when he emerged, and it was several moments before the light of recognition lit his eyes.

“Flatfoot?” he said, voice gravelly with disuse.

I ran to him for a hug instead of answering.

“Father, it’s good to see you,” I said.

However confused he might be, the affection was contagious and he hugged me back. When we parted he was smiling.

“What you doing here, Flatfoot?” he asked. My smile melted.

“I… I made a mistake,” I said.

Handheart scoffed over my shoulder. I hadn’t heard him arrive.

“More than a mistake, I’d say,” said the elder. “Longfoot, it’s good to see you. We thought you were, uh, dead.”

Father scrunched up his eyebrows.

“Why dead?” he asked.

Handheart’s visage shifted from awkwardness to concern. He looked me in the eyes but I had to turn away.

“The ritual, Longfoot,” said the elder. “Don’t you remember?”

“Oh is it time for that already?” my father asked. “Who was chosen this year?”

Now Handheart was entirely at a loss for words. He pulled me back from Father and spoke close to my ear.

“I didn’t know he had gotten this bad,” he said.

“It’s worse since the last time I visited,” I whispered. Father watched us sharing secrets, unconcerned. “But even before I… let him go, he didn’t want anyone knowing, so I helped him hide it. Riddles, exercises, memory tinctures - all that.”

Handheart regarded me like he’d never really known me.

“This is why you didn’t —”

I cut him off, “I never could have fed Father to the roots. I didn’t believe. The Child chose wrong.”

Anger flashed over the elder’s face but he mastered it quickly. “The Child does not choose wrongly.” He turned back to Father.

“Longfoot, it’s time to come home,” he said.

Father frowned. “But I so love it here. Uilili keeps me cozy. He will miss me dearly.”

“The gnome,” I spoke sidelong to Handheart. I could sense his patience slipping. His jaw was tenser by the moment.

“Longfoot, the Child chose…” he began.

“Me,” I interjected. “I - I wanted to come say goodbye.”

“Oh, son,” Father breathed. “Well I suppose we Dewleaf must answer the call if it comes. I will miss your visits, Flatfoot.”

“Me too, Father,” I said, reassuring him with a smile. Inside my guts roiled. “But I will be in the tree of the next age, right? So I won’t be far.”

I’d never believed it. I hardly did now. And yet, I had shirked my duty to the tribe, to our world, kept my Father for myself and denied the hunger of the roots, and the Child had refused to Grow. The Tree that sustained us had heard my challenge, and defied me.

My proclamation to Father was more than just a gust of wind. I meant it. Should the Child accept me in his stead, I would pass into the Tree with honor. Had we brought Father back and had I performed the Ritual as intended, I would still be tossed from the boughs. How long would I fall before my body gave up its ghost?

Sudden inspiration lit up Father’s face.

“Wait here!” he said, “I think I have something for you.” He turned and strode easily back toward his comfy hovel.

The elder clamped a hand on my shoulder. “What you propose is not unheard of, Flatfoot, if rare. You know that the Child may not accept you, do you not?”

“I know,” I said.

“And if not you, then —”

“Then my heir,” I affirmed. It was a risk. But if the Child and I were to test each other in this, then let it be a test.

Handheart looked thoughtful. “We will have to linger on the Plain. And we will be years late initiating the Growth.”

“But that’s not unheard of either,” I said. “Saplight tribe was fourteen years late in the fourth age, when a plague took the sacrifice and all but the youngest of his descendants.”

“So you were paying attention in your lessons,” Handheart said.

“Sometimes,” I quipped.

“You will need to find a mother, quickly,” he said.

“I know.”

Father returned. In his hand was a tiny pair of red leather shoes. Most likely hangtail hide.

“Uilili says you can have these for the little one,” said Father, handing me the tiny moccasins. “Lili likes you, did you know that?”

“Yes, you’ve told me before, Father.”

“Have I? Well good,” said Father. “Handheart, will you bring the boy to see me sometime? I would love to meet my grandson.”

The elder gave a sigh of longsuffering. “I will, Longfoot.”

“Will you be staying then? How many years until the Ritual?” Father asked.

“Not many,” I said. “I’d love to stay and visit, Father, but we —”

“We have to get back. Must prepare for Mosshunt tribe’s visit and all - you know how it is.”

Father just smiled as if he remembered. Maybe he did - it was always hard to tell what would stick and what would slip through the boughs.

I hugged Father and we bade each other farewell. Before I turned to follow Handheart out of the camp I caught the gleam of eyes in the shadowed hovel, and a little hand reaching up to wave goodbye.

So the gnome really did like me.

My wooing of Spright was far quicker than it would have been otherwise. Thinking about it on our return from Father’s camp, I had suspected this might be the case. She’d always been a zealot and a true believer. The honor of assisting me and our unborn son in completing the Ritual was not something she could pass up.

Our wedding was beautiful - far more extravagant than what I deserved or had any reason to expect. Spright was an excellent wife, and the love we made spawned new stars in the night sky.

When Uililio was five and I deemed him able to understand, I told him what had to be done. A weight sat in my gut as I watched his face. But he was more Spright’s progeny than mine, and did not balk at his responsibility.

“Okay Papa,” he said. “But… will you sharpen the knife for me? I… I don’t wanna hurt you too much.”

“I will sharpen it,” I told him. And I did.

The fated night came and I felt surety like the call of sleep. Perhaps the Child had foreseen this all in its deep-rooted wisdom. I couldn’t know. Or maybe it all had been as silly and pointless as I once thought, and whether the tree would grow or not was a bit of random chance. That kind of luck was why I never gambled.

At this point it didn’t matter. I was committed to the plan, and I was okay with it.

The priests and elders sang over us and the Child in the deep of night. Women never danced at the ritual, lest a man’s passions alter his mindset. I like to think I would have persevered in my mission even with my wife’s hips under my palms, but I suppose you can never be too careful with the fate of the world.

Handheart looked into me long and hard when the songs were done. What he saw convinced him, or seemed to, and he turned to lead the procession away. I would not have been surprised, though, to learn that he had been watching me and my son from the brush.

Uililio performed his duty admirably - I hardly felt a thing. The cold stars reached out to me, filled up my vision, and after an endless sleep in oblivion, I felt the growing warm embrace of heartwood.