《Where Gales Lament》


 Ashes Over Arrenfaeld

    Chapter 1 : Ashes over Arrenfaeld


    For peril, did the gales last sing, then the swards knew only a cackling.


    Stationed upon the treeline were a dozen of the outskirts¡¯ fiercest warriors: men who trained through starvation and proved their vigour from between the jaws of woodland cats. In their hands sat spears, assembled crudely with stone and bark. In their eyes were wroth, want, and that shimmer that dawned afore warfare. Behind them was a lush greenery¡ªendless, entrapping, and a hamlet that hugged its tamest edge. Herded sons and daughters yet unwed to the spear looked on with dread. Their hearts were sour and their courage ill. Yet from behind the spines of barbarians, they could stand tall. They could challenge the horizon¡¯s every hum with gall and throw it stares haphazardly like gristle down to tableside muts. For from behind the backs of better folk, one could read their oath tensed from shoulder to foot, in which was a pledge to turn sentinel if ever did the horrors'' claws scrape too near or raider revelries boast too loud. A wall of meat and fury kept the weak elders and their cradled young alike provisioned for any violence that trespassed upon them, any violence that beckoned. Indeed, they could smell its call, looming on each breeze like a serpent coiled about its branch, lolling its forked tongue nearer in taunt.


    Silence swept over them. On the wind was a prewinter chill; an unbelonging nip. Light screeched under the stomp of nightfall, so much like some child-eclipse born of a black storm''s gatherings, then fell to low, red wisps that the wind fanned wide, deformed until the ache of day was a moan through the land. Like a city¡¯s fire it was, snuffed at once. They could almost feel its ashes blast them.


    The hamlet¡¯s wall grew, its tenants distanced. The peel of snow-gusts made each space a cold, calling mile. A rattling coursed through all guarding bone. Night was announced to them. Twilight would gouge its depths and spurt forth its killers, eaters, the nameless murk of worse. The warriors could do naught but hunch lower, perch firmer, make their vigilance a frenzied sight and hope it hid the fear standing their hairs on end. They watched, counted the seconds of darkness. So lost were they in deep sights they forgot how to unseal their throats, and the commanding thrum of their dispelling became a lesser thing¡ªa desperate thing. All their strength, before the looming cry of that black, glacial night, shriveled. Their stature was small, their composure undisciplined, but that commitment to slaughter could not subside. For the sake of all they knew and held dear, it could not dare subside.


    Night cracked. A low, draconic hiss aired and shattered what serenity they clutched, stabbing into their sullied hopes like a pin to paper, that left flame in its wake. In the ashes of fear the whine hardened and begged, growing urged, until the pounding of hooves stole its sound.


    Red forms lunged out from the hillside, mounted, and flying with the bright of evil. Their steeds were black muscle. Their shadows were crimson and caped. In their grips worked horrid tools of crude death, that could contort the flesh they seared and strip the tissue they tasted. Glossed in the smithery of mountain rock, glowing with the glossiest of bloods, they struck the woods devastatingly; pronouncing coming ruin as comets breach the skyline. And just as a meteor tangents, that which left darkness found fire in its flight.


    Wraiths of the Reddlefjord! the vanguard of that damned hamlet gasped. The Ghosts o¡¯er Galehaven! shuddered their flank. They were named the "Vandal¡¯s Plague" by those who reaped under moonlight, and "Sunset¡¯s Flail" by any and all who fell sniveling, cut apart before them, but to most men and women and do-gooders and fiends of Arakvan, they were the Crimson Clad, and their gallop was doom.


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    The wall stabbed forth, just as they trained, just as they practised. Like a dam they welled the front, swallowing the enemy surge in their brutal countenance. The three riders raised their armaments high, commanding for themselves end-times and a blessing by the gaining moonlight, then brought each low. Spears snapped before the stride of the war stallions, caked in black iron as they were. Counters cut down¡ªaxeheads to timber¡ªand cracked their cheap steels into shards. A sizzling mace, alight with blue fire, pushed the first vanguard¡¯s nose in then out the back of his skull. The killer wore bright red with dark, dark bone ribbed across.


    To his right glided a falchion, hefty, though twirling about as if it were weightless. The blood it spilled failed to keep up with its float. Its wielder gawked at all its brewed gore and was antlered at the helm, so as to threaten its inhumanity against all those fortunate enough for a chance to flee. With a symmetry, a precision, and an unrelenting, unsatisfiable thirst for victory and the stench of rotten skin that sweetened it, the two waded through the hamlet¡¯s guardians. They seemed feral, wanting. Under the All-Father''s eyes, the doomed folk of Arrenfaeld could swear as much. Spears lost their spikes at their parries, foes found their limbs stumped with each cut, until the sentinels were slain and the remains of the mighty could do naught but howl and squirm on their backs. Eyes blinked at organs unearthed and hands shook in that meaty flood of themselves. They bellowed, cried, begged for death and fought bitterly with the pain until their breaths stopped, or a finishing blow bashed them to mush. Hooves splashed through the mud of massacre, while helmed tongues cocked to relish the taste.


    Together, the two depleted the right wall, while to their left worked a force of one. Tall, strong, with a broadsword in his clutch, he thundered his resent, emitting enough slashes and roars to mimic a maelstrom. His wicked laughs lodged in a bent neck, then grated out through the twist of his shadowed, reptilian head. His ears sprawled like wings, with eyes that shone gold, in daunting contrast to the drab green of his scales. His armour was a dazzling scarlet, though black wrappings enveloped it greedily, artfully, like an arachnid mummifies its prey. Gold lineage braved the shadows of his armour; a royal roadway in a grass of black. Swinging quick, and with force, his proficiency was beyond any hamlet¡¯s demands, nearly beyond the reason of demand itself. Although a faint, undecided grin painted his face at that moment, it was a stone-clad truth that Veil Nadaar¡¯s soul was an engine of ice. Blood fed it like gas to a flame, but when its fuels of wet red dried, it rusted, came jagged, and imagined only steeper evils to feed to its lust. In his eye, Arrenfaeld was tedious in death. Such butchery could revivify his heart, but the love of Veil Nadaar coveted more than maimed corpses. So much more, he thought, feeling the blood of his blade ooze between his fingers.


    His smile died and soon there were only the dead surrounding him, masked in the low wail of wintry gusts. Alone with that odor again, he thought. Looking to his right, he watched complacently as Odr the Toothed and Arawn Dandril descended upon the hamlet. From his height atop the fallen, Veil Nadaar watched¡ªwithout joy or pity¡ªas fires crashed through windows and beheadings keenly awaited opened doors. He watched, mute, while skin kissed the earth, while life gushed between the flowers. He watched, silent, expressionless, then turned to the darkness behind him as if it could accomplish greater urgency. In that blackness there was an eternity that promised to swallow him. It was irrefusable. The breeze drowned the bliss of battle. The cold compromised any escape.


    Veil grinned again. The moonlight caught the blood on his cheek.


    A fine night for it all to end.

 Phantom by the Fire

    Chapter 2: Phantom by the Fire


    The forest broke open. From its gap rose a smoking hill. A campfire, with three lodgers quivering before its flames, became a lighthouse; a beacon of salvation, to every wild soul that night who stared high enough to see its smoke.


    The woods bent in the breeze before it, amassed at its base, and ruffled its leaves, indignant. The fire was an insult. The light was sheer mockery to the all encompassing darkness of the woodlands. And the servants of darkness, loyal and feral as they proved, watched it. Hated it. The impenetrable tangle of root and vine that died at the hill¡¯s base encroached, stirred. Shadows loomed between trunks. Stomps echoed up from grottos under earth. An army in wait, the wilds twisted with each taste of arson. They growled their hunger, but by the fire and in its warmth those three fools convinced themselves they were safe.


    Brown eyes, orbs of a burnt chestnut, found them from below. Their fire was measly, their defences unfunded. Evidently enough, they had either never before braved the lost woods or had seen her terrors so vividly, in a manner so scarring, that they lost the will to fend off death.


    He, in his garb of studded leather and his rich cloak of black, sneered at the hilltop. He could hear their whispered stories, the following glee, the merry chants and the brazen ideas for the morrow¡¯s ventures. Virgins to the carnal war, they were. Aliens to the field of lament veteraned tongues named battle. And battle was everywhere. It was behind him, even then, and if his will were unflinching and his conscience dormant he could drag it up all those steep steps to them. That heavy tide would snuff any fire, drown any who hid in the heat, he was sure.


    Elsewhere, it is true that a campfire is a campfire alone and heeds no thought, much less no mercy. However, when one finds themselves in the belly of Meddleflore, that spanning green hell elders claim as gianthome, the last thing to do is start a fire, or make a sound, or do anything that might catch hungry eyes.


    Fortunately for the three young, brash, highland fools who camped out on that stunted cliff, marooned amidst the crashing blacks of an emerald sea set aslumber, Ulf Eldric was not yet depraved beyond sympathy. His eyes did narrow with the thought of murder, and his grip did slip hiltbound with the envy of action, though by fire he knew hopes and dreams flickered, still bright, still unaccustomed to the darkness that chewed them. They laughed, and so he knew they had something worth laughing over, something to smile about and comfort them in the cold. Idiocy alone did not mandate that they be cut away from that warmth. They were, in his mind, for lack of a better word, undeserving; spared by ignorance from an arrogant end.


    Ulf Eldric sighed, stole his hand away from his hilt, and with a brush of his cloak joined the shadows of the wilds. His steps were quick, but soft, silent, traitorous to the strength he bolstered. They carried him four strides beyond the break, then echoed. Ulf froze. Bending his knees and whipping his wrist, he unsheathed a gnarled blade of razored bone. Its coarse frame defiled the darkness, severing the frost from its wind. With that twisted device protruding from his left arm and the black flow of his garb shielding skin, he assumed the form of a phantom. His cloak flapped and his eyes searched, but his heart and mind went perfectly still.


    The grass did not flatten beneath him. The wind did not bend around him. Insects could not find him, but dared not touch him still. In that patient readiness, in which lurked a most unholy want, Ulf Eldric challenged the whispers of the wood.


    And they answered.


    The sound he spied rustled louder, then multiplied. He heard the tear of shrubs from further in. With a sniff, he caught the scent of rotten meat, hot on snarled breaths. His sight was last to the hunt, as scraggly heaps of fur and scale creeped out from behind the trees. Their serpentine eyes reflected the moon, as their wolvish claws clenched dirt, sad to see it not bleed.


    Thorned spines, horned heads equipped with snake stares, and the haired bodies of hounds that ended in sharp tails. The pack was many, but each was small. Their faces were scrunched and beastial, with spit slipping out from their gnashing jaws.


    Lygons. The Meddleflorian rats. Prey to the arrbears though predator to anything smaller, with an appetite twice their size.


    A sprawling wave of eager bloodlust descended against Ulf, who already began stepping back before they could utter their first shriek. It was an ungodly sound, like a wolf howling to the moon with shrapnel in its neck. It was their warcry, and at its sound they launched into four-legged sprints.


    Ulf darted backwards, slipping between greatoaks with a trained ease. They were faster, yet the first of their many lunges found only bark under their claws and empty air between their teeth. Just as soon as he had vanished, Ulf reemerged from behind the foliage with a quick cut. He tore into the first and sent it off its feet. The beast flew backwards into a tree, then fell from its bludgeon, twitching, with a bloodied gash where its ribcage was.


    Two more threw themselves at the assailant. Their frantic claws nearly caught cape, though even fabric could elude them with the speed of flight. The phantom circled, backed up against a greatoak and was absorbed by its shadow. He watched the hunters search failingly from that crevice. There were some dozen lygons in the pack, he learned. The scent of gushed insides took sway, deceiving their snouts, but it was only when their eyes failed to find, then accomplished doubt, that he emerged again.


    The two nearest lygons jumped with fear and rose hustled claws, but Ulf¡¯s awful blade was much faster. It whisked through them as if they were made of water. In one swing, he tore the arm off one and decapitated the second, before whirling back with a flick of his wrist to slash a red trench across the chest of the first. It fell on to its back, trembled its dead claws airborne, then dropped its head back with a dying screech, just as its comrade¡¯s severed skull rolled idly against it.


    The hunt had ended for the lygon pack at that very moment. Even their primitive minds knew, at the sight of their slaughtered brethren, that the chase had become a matter of survival. Ravenous furies guiding their lurch, they closed in around Ulf Eldric. Hate mangled between their teeth. Their serpent stares achieved a complete focus.


    It would have to be broken, Ulf knew.


    With a spin and a step back, his right hand produced a pouch from within his cloak. A thumb pressed in hard, and from the leather jaw breathed a hail of crystalline powder, the shade of sunlight. Ulf brought his sword crashing through the cloud. Sparks flew out, precursing the implosion that pursued them. The dust turned to pale smoke. In an instant, a cloud placed itself between the pack and their prey.


    The gnarled horde reeled back, suspecting sharpness on the fog¡¯s broil. With obeying steps they pivoted from the white mass of reaching mist. Their instinct frenzied, their violent urge quelled under fear¡¯s weight. One lygon crept forth on her scabbed paws, lurched an inch nearer, and sniffed the air. She flinched, anticipating a toxin to stab up her nostrils. Alas, there was nothing but the rank stink of sulfur. In moments more, the shroud dissipated into nothing. Excitedly, like their leash fell unmanned, the pack surged, snarling, biting back lustful tongues. Only Ulf Eldric, the object of their depraved hunger, was gone. Already was he halfway up the hill, leaping from root to rock upright like a goat carved out from mountain shade, abandoning them to the measly woodland masking the outskirts.


    Hysteria descended upon the lygons. It stole their hive mind and as one they plummeted into madness. Their instinct was deceived and their meal eluded, and the greatest insult to a monstrous stomach was an appetite unappeased. Rabied hate brought them through the trees like a flood. They ripped grass from the earth in their speed, tore bark from trunk with their mantling.


    A tide of stained fur and scarred hides ascended the cliff. Their climb was barbaric, an urgent sacrilege against the rockside that left it defaced and marred. The sheer immensity of their desire made them a rapid force. It took the breath of seconds before Ulf turned to find webbed claws springing for his heels. The she-beast that had been so brazen to inspect the fog jumped high off the backs of her kin, and with a needing nail slit red out from Ulf¡¯s ankle.


    He stared down at the creature, ceasing his climb. A boiling mold of utter offense fell against the beast, one that only deepened, grew molten, under the sensation of bloodloss.


    Ulf Eldric was prey to nothing.


    Steel flashed. The wind whipped around a strong arm¡¯s whirl. Lygon scurriers looked skyward to see a corpse falling against them, her face torn open at the cheek. The body plucked two from the hillside in its plunge, and in its shadow emerged Ulf¡¯s spinning cloak like the very hand of death. His blade pierced through another¡¯s chest and with a monstrous strength raised it off its perch. Staked high before them, a conqueror¡¯s trophy, the body was hoisted, then backhanded, to bludgeon another from its height.


    Claws reached for vengeance, so Ulf slashed fingers from their stubs. His blade melted flesh with each cut. Tufts of fur filled the air, blood splattered the rock. He leapt from ledge to slant to a rooted hang with an expert athleticism, emitting cleaves with each shift and raining corpses on the woods below. The force assailed the hillside like a cold wind, but he was the air¡¯s own devil, and each time his sword flashed it whispered of hell.


    Two lygons met his offensive, scratching then distancing and routing again, stealing his eye as their brethren sped up the left flank. In due course, the creature held height over him. It leapt down against a turned back. Yet Ulf¡¯s ear was sharper.


    He spun backward, caught the lygon by its little neck and snatched it out of its own assault. The beast slammed against the rockwall, struggling for freedom for mere seconds, before Ulf gutted it. Organs drooped out, divided at his blade, and struck the ground.


    The stone wailed behind him, signal to a mounting rush. The first two had made their move. With a sidestep Ulf let the first attacker headbutt a fragment of boulder, then cut in behind it to center himself between the two. In one swift motion, he sliced forward with such momentum to propel his blade into a backward shift, then plunged behind with his full weight, to horrid effect. One lygon lay twitching by his feet, a dark sunder in its chest, while the other sat impaled between him and the hill.


    He pulled his blade away, continued the climb hurriedly, only to realize near its peak that the pack had run screaming back into the woods. Their forces laid butchered across the stone steppes. Their hunger howled off into the moonlight, unappeased. With few to their number, the lygon surge at last sought a meal elsewhere.


    Ulf flung his blade out to his side, slapping the blood off of it. He allowed himself a breath, and another, though his mouth remained shut. This work had not earned his pant.


    Above him was the rigid lip of the hill¡¯s crown. It jutted out, sprouted the wryly throes of an underbrush unchecked, though to him it was an ease of ascension. Rather, what stilled his step was not the height, but instead the shadows looming on its precipice. Three gaunt figures perched above him, falconish in their vigilance until the moonlight angled its way across their faces. Each was young, concerned, utterly fascinated with the sight before them. Their garb was cloth, lined with silk, and accented with the vibrant dross of wealth. Young nobles, most likely, so riddled with delusion to believe they truly sought adventure.


    They attempted camaraderie, boasting smirks to curtail a warm welcome. Ulf knew their kinship was a farce. In friendship they prayed they would be spared that same slaughter that had befallen the lygons. No doubt the scent of gore castrated their campside air, choked their young lungs. They understood, even in innocence, the smell of sin.


    ¡°That¡¯s bloody work, stranger,¡± one greeted, through a stutter he ached to hide, in a tone of pomp unrest. ¡°Any foe of nightbeasts is a friend by our fire.¡± His hand waved to his rear where the flame sneered.


    Silence loomed. The triplet could only wait, suffer the cold, and hope that the stranger¡¯s disposition inclined towards kindness, or rather a mere lack of malice. Were he to tangent upon greed, they were helpless to prevent the coming wrath. The digit¡¯s entirety understood their predicament, as clearly as Ulf recognized the power to kill influx under his fist. They shared the quiet, muttered their prayers, while Ulf bit his teeth, gazed at the cold woods behind him, and finally swallowed desire¡¯s call.


    Night, with a bloodlust satisfied, shed its phantom.


    They were unimposing at a distance, though in approach he could closely assess where they belonged and where they certainly did not, and the darkness of Meddlelfore numbered starkly among the latter. The speaker wore a coat of dim red, with golden hair slicked back, albeit muddied with the slime of vines and shrubs and the most frantic of idle greens. His build was slim and that scrawniness was best reflected by the incline of his cheeks. With green eyes he smiled, twice as bright as even his white teeth could muster. At his neck hung an amulet of pearls, interlaid with fine emeralds from a foreign coast, and at his hip hung a short sword more akin to a dagger were it ever to face monstrous flesh. It paled against any real armament, though among this crew it nearly named him champion.


    At his right, already seated by the fire, was a broad specimen with enough muscle even in dormancy to dismiss the suspicion of fat. He wore a grey cloak over white garb and on his feet weighed great black boots. A soldier¡¯s, Ulf determined, likely thieved from a less eager father, but one more achieved than his son¡¯s escapades could manage. He held an axe in his grip and slid a stone over its edge, flying sparks into the flame with each second stride. Ulf could hear the scrape, see the force of light, and knew the young lad made a strenuous effort to appear firm of composure, strong of mind, and no doubt put all his strength behind each glide of the whetstone. His hair was brown, shaggy, hid sharp eyes under its sway. They observed and pretended at perception, though a trained watch knew their deceit. On his wide fingers were rings of silver, and one rubied with a shimmering red.


    Idiocy, thought Ulf, to carry wealth so openly.


    The third was the least courageous. He alone knew the real threat this stranger presented. He alone hugged his short sword with the quiver that was warranted. Ulf could smell his fear. Sweat lined his hands, hugged under his arms. He wore a long black trench coat, laid atop a blacker fleece. He was tallest by a foot though deprived of the strength owed to one of his build. Jumpy eyes of brown greeted Ulf from under his mane of gilded orange, and they promised he was ready to act if any harm befell their camp.


    Ulf offered a final gaze over the woods, which twisted with an uncanny quiet, before at last settling by the flame and its heat. Unfortunately, it too fell stunted in approach. He dug a hand in under his cloak, produced a small chunk of dim rock, then slid it down the length of his blade. It attracted sparks like a flaming shepherd until its glide found the blade¡¯s edge. The rock crashed into the fire with a chrous of light behind it, earning a bellow, a roar, and the yawn of engulfing flame. The youths shuddered at the sudden blaze, and when arms lowered eyes raised to find their fire magnified. Now its breaths were fierce and its embers hot. Now the cold fled like ants before them.


    The blonde shared looks of amazement with his peers, though they returned only concern.


    ¡°Helluva¡¯ trick,¡± he marveled. ¡°Where¡¯s one learn a trick like that?¡±


    Ulf sneered, reeled his sights elsewhere, then shot spit against the flashing light.


    ¡°North,¡± he said, with a voice like grating anvils, pronouncing dismay.


    ¡°North, eh? You¡¯ve been up by Rotskal, then,¡± figured the wide one. ¡°Seen the fires at Strideham? My da¡¯ tells it to be the fiercest plight those lands ¡®ave suffered in a century and more. He did a tour up there, twice in fact, to aid with the insurgencies.¡±


    ¡°Been to Rotskal,¡± Ulf confirmed. ¡°Been to Strideham, too. It¡¯s not in lands so soft with nights so hot that a man learns to make flames work for him. It¡¯s in fiercer lands than your da¡¯ could stomach. Far fiercer.¡±


    They fed themselves on the silence that followed his words. It was a call to cease foolish inquiries and still the savvy of their tongues, less they desire them no longer.


    ¡°So when you say North¡­¡± the tall lad continued, in an aura of trepidation. ¡°You mean¡­¡±


    The blonde thieved the answer.


    ¡°The North,¡± he shuddered, as his friends gasped. ¡°The realm of the Mad Vicar Allensworth, the home to the Frost-Thralls and hunting ground to Mounverns.¡± He looked about the ensemble in a terrified delight, high on adventure¡¯s scent. ¡°I¡¯ve heard it said that only the most wretched of beasts and killers even worse stumble out from the high snows. Heard men aren¡¯t men no more, after they¡¯ve tasted a winter up there.¡±


    Ulf looked against him, with all of misery¡¯s flush searing in his gaze, and the youth fell silent.


    ¡°Winter doesn¡¯t change a man,¡± he denied simply, dropping his focus back to his feet. ¡°It¡¯s what comes with winter¡­ what crawls out from under the snow, what stalks into human towns with the taste of meat fresh on its tongue¡­ it¡¯s what you have to see happen¡­ what you have to stop¡­¡±


    He swallowed hard.


    ¡°That¡¯s what changes a man. All winter can do is kill you.¡±


    Again, Ulf¡¯s words sufficed to shutter any conversation. The crickets reigned for a long minute of trepid thought, afright consideration. Their doomed minds ran so rank with torpor that the scratchy song of the insects was a deaf wave, a soundless vibration. Still, the noise was present, and in their idle soundbox they felt the woods creep up all around them with every slow, unheard shift. The blonde was lost in his fantasies of carnage, triumph, envisioning a worldscape so bleak he could somehow fit into it, fascinated that his daydreams fell to ground, so it fell upon the tall, wrily lad to vanquish the serenity, entrapping at it was.


    ¡°So are you headed south?¡± he asked the stranger, before realizing a question in and of itself may be too intrusive against ears so tested, so trained to detect. ¡°W-we¡¯re headed south¡­¡± he defused, dowsing water on only a vision of smoke. ¡°Aye, we came down from Cambrill. Heard tales of lost treasures in Meddlelfore. Folk from back north say there¡¯s a dragon¡¯s sum sitting lost in these woods. Say it¡¯s enough to buy a castle, but that beasts prowl every which way. That¡¯s what you¡¯re here for, right? For the treasure¡­ a-a-and to kill beasts? Like the beasts you killed down the hill?¡±


    Ulf wanted to growl the inquiries back into the void, but the innocent wonder in the young man¡¯s tone slowed his antipathy. It melted dismission, so with a slight tolerance and low patience he gave an answer.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t kill all of them. They ran off-¡± he paused, hesitant to reveal the truth of their defeat, but settling on keeping their spirits low. After all, high spirits led to quick deaths, and nothing inspired spirits like the conquest of evil in odds beyond surmount. ¡°The fire ran them off,¡± he lied. ¡°They¡¯re scared of it. Deathly so.¡±


    ¡°The fire, eh? So, you¡¯re saying¡­¡± began the tallest with a light, undecided smile. ¡°In a manner of speaking¡­ since we lit the flame, it was sort of us that beat them - in a manner of speaking¡­?¡±


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    ¡°Suppose so,¡± he shrugged.


    ¡°You hear that lads,¡± he asked, giddy and set jittering with the prospect of a fine jest. ¡°We¡¯re slaying beasts already!¡± The others chuckled gently, guided by his overcompensating grin, but their attention rested on Ulf and his unamused gawk longer.


    ¡°Hardly beasts,¡± he rejected. ¡°It¡¯s lygons lying dead on that hill. Wolfrats. And there¡¯s far worse than them out in this darkness.¡± He remembered the thought of treasure and shook his head with a dry snicker. ¡°And far less gold than¡¯s worth dying for.¡±


    ¡°You think the riches are just fables?¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯ll scrape together a few silvers out from dead corpses, true. A copper here and there. Think that¡¯ll nearly cover the cost to fix all the wounds you¡¯ll give up to get it.¡±


    ¡°Not one for high adventure, I take it,¡± he said with a warm smile.


    The look he received made the smile die and swamp with dread where it fell. Ulf¡¯s stare alone denied such a simplification, though his words shamed the very idea of it.


    ¡°People die in these woods, boy,¡± he told. ¡°They die looking for people they lost. Escaping things that want them dead, they die. They die because they¡¯ve no choice.¡± He looked about the party, embarrassed. ¡°And here you all are¡­ For you, death will come on your own accord.¡±


    He shook his head disdainfully.


    ¡°Adventure,¡± he spat. ¡°There¡¯s no adventure to be had when you know what¡¯s out there.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s out there?¡± asked the blonde, so enamoured with danger¡¯s tale that his tone came against the outlander like an accusation.


    Ulf dropped his focus to the fires, listening to the question as it pounded deeper and deeper into his mind. The way the flames twisted, raveled around each other, the way they sizzled and soared as a city in ruin. He could almost hear commotion in their revelry, a song in their fiery dance. A sound - one that grew and warped until it fashioned into screams. Screams that echoed off each burning tendril¡¯s tip. Wails that begged and prayed and lamented; cries that sounded off into nothing. The fire held its own host of souls, and each time a cinder blew it blew with the weight of each body it burnt. Ulf could sit in sight of them all. To him, this light was not a warmth. To him, this light was a window to the heart of hellfire. It was a memory, burning forever.


    What¡¯s out there? the young, foolish boy wondered. What¡¯s out there? the idiocy of innocence qualmed. How dare he think he had earned the answer. How dare he think he was ready for it. Again, Ulf scowled and shrugged, breaking away from the campfire¡¯s lure and recalling that questions needed answers.


    ¡°Awful things,¡± he confessed. ¡°Things that strip flesh- wear it like that fine silk you¡¯ve draped under your coats. Things that bloodlet just to watch their victims wince, then beat them till they bleed their last drop. Things your da¡¯ would never tell you about- things he¡¯s never seen. Things that only ever see the darkness, and find offence at the light.¡±


    The air itself hissed at his words, tightened around them. The cold felt the wound of his truth. The wind stirred, rustling leaves as it shivered.


    ¡°And you¡¯ve seen them?¡± the blonde asked, now with a sternness his pale, fair face had never before formed and never before needed.


    Ulf saw it, understood it, and rued its necessity, knowing even a young pup such as he could be bedeviled in the shadows of greatwoods. He could see the capability resting in his stare: The sour loom of a survivor¡¯s earnesty boiling just under the surface. Horror could awaken such a thing, and so the horror in Ulf¡¯s throat subsided for his sake.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen them,¡± he confirmed, then granted the tall lad a glance. ¡°And I¡¯m headed beyond them. South, to the ghost swards. South, to Arakvan.¡±


    ¡°¡®Aven¡¯t you ¡®eard?¡± asked the axe-bearer, shocked. ¡°Arakvan¡¯s run ill with the Patch- red with the Scourge. It¡¯s a dying nation. ¡®Tis said the Crimson Clad alone keep its peace. ¡®Tis said the Vicar is fat with the sugar of his own sacrilege. Not a place where outlanders can tread lightly, to say the least.¡±


    The stranger nodded, having at last heard the triplet speak a truth, as infernal as it was.


    ¡°Often it is in dying places where men find what keeps them alive. In Arakvan, I¡¯ve a debt to pay,¡± Ulf admitted. ¡°The distractions will prove sportful.¡±


    Bellowing with laughter, the wide fellow bloomed out from his sulk. ¡°They will that, at least,¡± he said between hacking chortles, infecting his peers with a mild glee. ¡°I¡¯m Torreck, son of Tybalt, by the way.¡±


    At first Ulf was insulted by his disposition, his faltering in the face of severity, though upon closer inspection of the dimples gouging his cheeks and the red blushing under his eyes, Ulf knew this was a child¡¯s joy. He could not muster a smile, but he did offer the youth a nod, which to him was a trophy, setting his visage alight with a warmth of contentedness. He was honoured, to say the least, having befriended a phantom so early in his flight from home.


    This will be a worthy adventure, after all, thought Torreck, muzzled by his own awkward merriment. His sharpening hand softened and the sparks flew dimly from his axe. His fear, at last, was lifted.


    Yet Ulf¡¯s had just found shape.


    Distant vibrations struck his eardrum like an acid splash. Crushing grass, snapping wood. The sting of disturbance rippled through the woods, wove itself deep into the earth. Trespassers, he realized. Before his mind formed its conclusions, his hand found its hilt. He heard stone screech, dirt mould to split. Something wide, perpetual. A beast¡¯s talon or- no¡­ a wagon¡¯s wheel. Its peripheral - littered with uneven beats. It was a band of a dozen, though it was only four who began to mount the hill.


    ¡°You all need to leave,¡± Ulf advised like a harsh bite.


    Smiles dried up amidst the triplet. Confusion masked them, though unrest fettered through its shroud. They felt an immediate offence, then a worry in quick pursuit, as if they were sure they had said the wrong thing; an evil thing to stroke the vilest of their stranger¡¯s tempers. They recoiled, sure their brotherhood had just broken away before them, then shrunk, sad to see such a new kindle fade out so fast.


    But the phantom¡¯s eyes said otherwise. They were wide, bulged, urgent with the wait of death.


    ¡°Have we said the wrong th-?¡±


    Ulf interrupted Torreck¡¯s idiocy.


    ¡°Men come up the hillside,¡± he continued. ¡°Stay, and you¡¯ll die as robbed corpses.¡±


    Bewildered, they looked amongst each other for even a clue of anything definite. They shared their worry, their uncertainty, then rallied behind the blonde as his eyes went lucid with an idea.


    ¡°Plenty of room by our fire,¡± he rationalized. ¡°Especially now that you¡¯ve gone and grown it-¡±


    ¡°Time¡¯s short,¡± Ulf intercepted. ¡°Leave now or you¡¯ll be carrion for the lygons.¡±


    But they didn¡¯t believe him. They didn¡¯t know. They didn¡¯t have the fastness of foot or the commitment of mind, so they stayed for seconds more, shared their stares, their silence, twiddled their thumbs and composed their smiles. Ulf dropped his head, a helm of certainty heavy upon him. Soon, they would understand. Soon they would learn the cold truth of Meddlelfore and places every bit as horrid: There were no friends beyond survival.


    Moths to the light, the strangers ascended. Scavengers to warm meat. First over the edge was a grizzled, white-haired behemoth of a man, and his stomps made the blonde youth sink back from his welcome. In his right hand was a greataxe and in his left hand a greatshield, both made from iron, both pleasured on sapped life. Behind him were two ignoble grunts, with knotted hair unkempt, chipped swords unsharpened, fractured armours only intact at the shoulders and chest, and wild stares that sought like they had never before tasted sweetness. Leather wreaths ran where their steel subsided, adorned in chips and tacks and dull white cuts. One was black-haired, rat-tailed, with a starved hunch and a broken-hilted blade. The other was haired with dry, brown strains that covered the scars of his face and fought to hide the half-blindness of his eyes. Still, the mist crept through.


    Ensuring their rear was the most formidable of the bunch. It was tall, structured, standing immovably though adjusting with each step to target its waiting lunge. On its face was a nearly featureless mask of white wood. Narrow slits kept its eyes focused yet concealed, and the rest was void. Submerged in a grey cloak, the form was an ashen spectre, yet the double-bladed scythe on its back made it more akin to reapers. The weapon was obsidian with moonshone steel, a brass cultivated in ocean-floor earth. At its either pommel protruded death; razored, long, and wickedly curved. Its cloak did not rise with breaths and did not fall with its steps. It merely floated, like a lofty curtain of dust lined in darkness.


    At the sight of that creature that did indeed stand on two legs though betrayed every other notion of humanity, the trio flattened in horror, questioning how that form could even breathe - if it was even real. Ulf knew better. Ulf knew it had mastered its breaths and, beyond that, that even then, its eyes were fixated upon him as if they had hunted him their entire life.


    He demonstrated no concern. In his mind, the stage was decided and the outcome laid bare.


    A pity, he thought to himself.


    ¡°Evening, t-travelers,¡± the blonde boy greeted. ¡°Care to join by our fire? The night is long yet, and she¡¯ll only grow colder.¡±


    They did not obey custom, nor did they do so much as provide a gesture to show that they had heard. They simply watched. And grinned. The white-haired mass strolled into the center of their camp casually, lackadaisical, while the spectre remained unmoving at their entrance and the two bearish vandals crept their way behind the cluster, cackling and stumbling like drunken hyenas. Nervously, from the side of their eyes, the young nobles observed the iron mire that soon entrenched itself around them. In moments of silence, a circle had been formed and their means of escape had been stolen. They were barred within a quagmire of snarls and ill ambition, with naught but chipped daggers to fend off the teeth.


    ¡°A tad too dark for evening, in¡¯t she,¡± the white wolf joked. ¡°Nay, if my years in th¡¯ wood left me at all wise, I¡¯d name her twilight. Wouldn¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± jibed the rat-tail.


    ¡°But you¡¯re right to call her cold,¡± said the white marauder with his snout to the wind. ¡°In a fortnight, I¡¯d wager we¡¯ll see snows. She comes, our lady. Our great, impermeable winter. She comes with her flail of ice and her frost tits. She comes to claim us in our sleep, when the door lies ajar and the gusts unguarded.¡± He sniffed the breeze, inhaling the cold straight off its back. ¡°Aye, she comes.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen winters before,¡± quipped the blonde, intent on remaining no one¡¯s fool to be scared and toyed with. ¡°And they¡¯ve found me all too guarded.¡± He was unaltered before their threats, and in that there was virtue, but of what worth is courage in the murk of a gouged heart?


    Pulling but leashed, the white wolf snapped to him, the might of a hundred blizzards and a thousand cold sins set storming within his aged eyes. His shoulders tensed, his arms tightened, and his axe tilted in his fierce grip.


    ¡°Have you, then?¡± he asked with a quivering grin, as if with each tooth it contemplated indulging insanity and enacting insanity¡¯s endless bites. ¡°So you know damn well how to survive the winter, don¡¯t you? You know what a man must do when the snow falls.¡± He leaned back. ¡°What must a man do when the snow falls?¡± he asked the entirety of the hilltop.


    ¡°Eat!¡± snarled the rat-tail.


    ¡°Get fat¡­¡± snickered the half-blinded.


    A nod proved them true: Slow and hefty, dunking in the validity of their words. ¡°Get fat before the snows fall, aye. Like bears¡­¡± He raised a hand above the fire, feeling its heat surge and burn the wrinkles of his palm. ¡°Savour the warmth while it¡¯s here¡­ that¡¯s what a man must do. Before the warmth is all gone.¡±


    He turned his palm upward, groveling at the black stain upon his skin. To him, he beheld a valley of ash and ruin, but to others there was only the madness of masochism to observe. He knew that was the truth of it, and it made him simmer with delight.


    ¡°Course that ain¡¯t exactly right, is it?¡± he asked the young men, his eyes a candy temptation to their wrath. ¡°Cause bears eat men, don¡¯t they!¡±


    The rat-tailed and the half-blind cried their splendor, letting thirsty tongues slip between breaths and gargle the rush of gaiety. The white wolf chuckled heartily. Their guarding spectre, however, did not stir.


    ¡°Meat means less for us, fortunately for you lot,¡± the aged beast claimed. ¡°It¡¯s gold we want. And what we¡¯ll do to get it, well¡­ that is no different from a bear and its flesh.¡±


    The blonde stood tall, defiant to the last.


    ¡°We¡¯ll not swallow threats like some-!¡±


    ¡°Enough talking,¡± ordered the white wolf, his humour a vanished thing. ¡°You¡¯ve a fine little treasure around your neck, boy. Piggy¡¯s got silver on his fat little fingers. I¡¯d say our hunt¡¯s found its end.¡±


    With the weight of a monument erected by rope, his greataxe dragged into the space between them. It cleaved the dirt it touched. The three found their feet at its sight and fumbled for their weapons.


    Such movement alone, to depraved minds, was a declaration of war.


    Torreck, son of Tybalt, rose with his axe and a defensive cry, though the rat-tail snuck in close, quickly, and rammed his blade through the young man¡¯s back. The axe struck dirt, blood dribbled over it, then his full weight crashed into the fire. The flames raised high and squealed, before latching onto Torreck¡¯s broad corpse. The white wolf grinned at the wounded flames.


    The blonde unsheathed his short sword with a fury and threw himself at the killer. His throat rasped under the force of his howl, cracked, then choked as a sword slid across his neck. He fell to his back, grasping at his opened jugular, gargling his last breaths, while two misted eyes fell over him to bask in the bliss of his misery. The sword fell again, and this time it tore his stomach apart. The noble spasmed, trembled weakly at wet pieces of himself. After seconds he went perfectly still. A face of frozen terror aimed at heaven; nebulous if not so certain in its agony.


    Just a few meters beyond that stare was Ulf. Watching, diverting his gaze, wondering how much life night had left. His blade remained sheathed.


    Tears soaked the third¡¯s focus. He tried to behold his fallen brothers but failed to stomach the sight. With sorrow, outrage, and misunderstanding he charged the white wolf with a weapon raised high. He would take that old bastard¡¯s head if it was the last thing he did. But in age was experience, and the readiness of that cur trumped his young fury. The white wolf caught him by the wrist and launched him on his side. With a heavy steel boot he stomped on the attacking hand, crushing bone and forcing the sword to fall from his grip. The other two fell over him with kicks and fists, tossing him from knuckle to knuckle until he stopped moving, but whimpered still. In a ball of blood the last of the triplet wept, hardly shielding himself from the strikes and laughs.


    The rat-tail turned aside, recalling that a fourth remained unrisen and unslain. Three excited steps brought him before the outlander, who still stared unmoving upon the blonde boy¡¯s corpse. One shriek brought his sword down towards the outlander¡¯s head. One blink readied itself to meet the blood that would gush.


    Except the air changed before his steel could fall. A blur of black whisked past. The sword struck dirt, the attacker¡¯s eyes widened, then he collapsed to his knees. Ulf was seated again before the man¡¯s head could roll off his shoulders.


    Instantly, the beating ended. The youth¡¯s whimpers and Torreck¡¯s immolation were the only sounds to be heard, until the rat-tailed skull went still and the wind died out. The misty-eyed bandit approached with insult and an unquenchable urge for violence, but the white wolf¡¯s grunt alone stopped him in his tracks.


    Ulf did not look at the pair, despite their insistence upon observing him, nor the newly made corpses either. The focus of the outlander belonged to the rising flames, as well as the spectre that had approached beyond them. Watching through its peevish eyes, motionless in its float, the white-faced fiend stared into Ulf, and found him staring back. A war of wraiths, it was, but the old wolf wished it otherwise.


    ¡°Now this is something to behold¡­¡± he said, impressed by the seated slayer. ¡°I¡¯d never have thought young fools such as these would host a Northman. With a blade forged from a yeckle¡¯s spine, no less! Truly, a sight for sore eyes¡­¡±


    ¡°Let him feed our fires, Garott,¡± wished the mist-eyed. ¡°Give me the word and I¡¯ll gut this whoreson before he takes his next step!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll try,¡± Garott laughed. ¡°And he¡¯ll do to you as he did to Myr. This is no back-alley miscreant, my friend¡­ This is a killer from the North. Garbed in skinned hides. Dressed in scars of battles won.¡±


    Ulf ignored his flatteries.


    ¡°We could do well with a warrior like you in our ranks,¡± offered Garott. ¡°Weaklings like these make your bones ache- you need killers to keep you safe. And we of course could find use for one who takes heads like Myr takes shits-! Or¡­ took shits, I suppose.¡±


    Garott took a seat atop the only noble still breathing. A bone snapped under his squat and a whimper answered. The white wolf laughed and leaned in. At some point, inaudibly, his masked spectre had drawn closer, watching the outlander with great interest and, beneath that, something darker. Something bred from malice, that lusted for worse.


    ¡°It¡¯s a waste of your time, skulking about the woods like this¡­¡± Garott continued. ¡°If you want some real wealth, it¡¯s us you¡¯ve ought to ride with. We¡¯ve food, too. And women. Young ones, even, if that¡¯s to your fancy.¡±


    With the fire flickering against him, Garott could truly observe the face of the phantom. He was completely bald, fully-shaven save for a tracking stubble around his chin. His skin was tanned, then shadowed beyond that. His eyes were burnt chestnut, stern and focused. His skin was lightless, save for the gloss of blood that shone in old wounds that laced across his firm jaw and strong cheeks like roadways of red. A chunk was torn out from his left ear.


    Garott felt compelled to pull back, as if he had just shared a glimpse with pain¡¯s own emblem in the mortal world. For a moment, when he gazed across Ulf¡¯s dark features, he witnessed an evil far, far beyond him. An evil of disposition- of will. An evil that would stop at nothing to ensure it succeeded.


    ¡°Get off the boy,¡± ordered Ulf, his beckon a gravel whip.


    First the white wolf contemplated the command, the threat loaded behind it, then smiled. He stood up, and again the boy could breathe.


    Taken back, the misty-eyed vagrant stepped nearer. ¡°You obey this coward, Garott? We killed his friends right in front of him, beat his queer love blue, and he didn¡¯t so much as raise a finger! Whatever beast this cunt once was, he¡¯s lost his claws now¡­ He¡¯s weak.¡±


    ¡°Weak?¡± Garott laughed. ¡°You¡¯ve never seen strength, friend. Rhaebjorn alone could fell this¡­ creature. And I won¡¯t risk Rhaebjorn over some vain skirmish in the woods.¡±


    Garott gazed low, offering the outlander a last look of opportunity, which of course went unattended. He then turned around, plucked the amulet from the blonde¡¯s chest, snapping off half its pearls in the process, and headed back to the hillside.


    ¡°Mayhaps he¡¯s lost his claws,¡± the white wolf said. ¡°Mayhaps he¡¯s a coward who lets friends die ¡®stead of getting his hands dirty¡­ but he¡¯s wild, still. And this is no place for it all to end.¡±


    Reluctantly, the misty-eyed bandit trailed after him. Together, they stomped down to the cliff¡¯s base, back to their wagon, their reinforcements and the path ahead. The theft was in part forfeit, though the deaths many.


    Ulf remained where he sat, staring at the flames. The blonde laid gored by his feet, wetting Ulf¡¯s toes with regal lifeblood. Torreck charred in his own fire, tainting the air with rot. The third, whose name he did not know and whose future he had inadvertently saved only for him to later awake and witness horrors, whimpered and shivered and pretended that all was only a nightmare.


    He¡¯ll never wake, Ulf knew with all his heart.


    In the shadow of death, his only company proved to be the spectre. From the opposite end of those tall flames, Rhaebjorn still stood, watching. The two assessed one another, summed up their capabilities, their dangers. They contemplated victory and death and the thrill of the battle they could wage. Rhaebjorn tilted his ghostly head, as if it jolted at the end of puppet strings, then spoke, in an air of sharp, hushed restraint.


    ¡°You let them die.¡±


    Ulf frowned. ¡°I¡¯m not here to save fools.¡±


    ¡°And yet one lives.¡±


    He gave Rhaebjorn a long, fierce gaze, then dropped his stare back to the flames.


    ¡°Your master gets far, Eastman,¡± he said, earning the spectre¡¯s tilt. ¡°Better catch up quickly. Wouldn¡¯t want your tracks to still be here come morning.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Vengeance, then.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t worth my vengeance. Not you or your blind comrade or your white-haired lord or any of the cowards at the bottom of that hill. But sport? There¡¯s always sport to be had in chasing what¡¯s weak.¡±


    ¡°Is there?¡± Rhaebjorn asked slyly.


    ¡°So long as it¡¯s got a fair headstart.¡±


    Again, their eyes met. Again, the silence reigned.


    ¡°I will hope you catch us, outlander,¡± Rhaebjorn muttered. ¡°I will hope you chase. I, too, would taste vengeance in the drip of your insides.¡±


    Ulf gave a nod to the decapitated raider. ¡°Friend of yours, then?¡±


    Rhaebjorn shook his head gradually, as if each shift of his neck could sever his throat were it not delicate. ¡°Not vengeance for him¡­ Vengeance for me. Vengeance against all those who think themselves above me, and who must learn through blood they are wrong. Vengeance for my blades, and for nothing else.¡±


    ¡°Then be ready.¡±


    Rhaebjorn walked to the cliffside.


    ¡°Always,¡± he said in descent.

 Lords of Sin & Smoke

    Chapter 3 : Lords of Sin & Smoke


    Three quick humps dropped his trousers to his ankles. His groan aired, unwanted, eager to sully the ears that shared its strum. Hers was a frail whimper, more akin to a wound¡¯s breath than any thread of delight. With eager fingers that curved to claw, he dug into her hips, leaving red trails where his grip lifted and a red blush across her pale skin. She shifted in her bend, her eyes bore a nervous flicker. She swallowed hard, winced, then shuddered, as he rammed against her again. Her eyes went dark with resignation, but the grimace of an unformed fear could not subside.


    The table rocked on its legs. A thick slab of curated wood--carved with taste, mantled in the room¡¯s heart through a designer¡¯s delicacy--was the throne to her degradation. Papers and ink still littered it. A map with darts stabbed across its face laid just beyond her reach. Here, plans were enacted, councils entertained. Now it was a space to memorialize her shame, grant his lust a stage each night he felt so inclined to succumb to depravity and so heartless to make it public.


    On the left stood his spectator. A man, of skin immersed in full under a glossy suit of full plate, stark as death, vibrant as gore. The glow of the armour¡¯s blood-red hue begged an eye, then enforced a terror upon it. His armour was unmarked, though adorned with what seemed a black twine wherever the steel faded and the underset peeked its head. A knight, one would surmise, if not so off-put by the crimson radiance and the hangman¡¯s helm. The latter indeed appeared no different from an executioner¡¯s own hood, with two eye holes and naught else to offer warmth beyond its bare visage, though it was sure-set steel and of course a bright red. Fashioned around his neck was a rope, tied tight, then left to dangle over his chest, though cut before it neared his ribs: perhaps a reminder of a death narrowly evaded, or perhaps an assurance that doom could never stray too far.


    Beneath that armour was a strength that threatened to burst through. The man stood tall, nearing eight feet, with the muscle to guard each inch. On his back was a greatsword, forged from deep-earth magma, then gilded over in black tar to grant it a darkness impenetrable and a power beyond contest. An ordinary man could not so much as lift the beastly thing, though there was nothing ordinary about Osi Dragul of the Crimson Clad, and hardly anything an optimist might name human.


    He leaned against the left wall, arms crossed, eyes down without interest or concern. He listened to the pants and the pounds and moans and the clap of strong skin striking bone, though a disinterest met it all. Not even disgust could muzzle his resolve. Not even desire could lift the cold of his eyes.


    Above him hung tapestries of blue and black, paintings with gold-rims and pearl ink, crossed blades forged from obsidian. Red carpet dazzled the marble floor. Facing the affair was a grand window, curtained shut to hide Galehaven¡¯s horrors and beauties far from sight. At the far wall, beyond the table and its sins, stood a statue, towering at sixteen feet. It portrayed a peasant, dragged by robes, with his hands clasped in prayer and his eyes begging the skies. Though there, in that wide, shadowed chamber, those eyes found only a chandelier of silver and gold.


    It hovered over the woman; the pale, scrawny thing she was, as if it were a regal condemnation against her. Regardless, she could not see it. She saw only the wood, as a hand forced her face down and bashed her weight against the tableside. Her gold hair laid in trapped locks like a towel tossed over her cheeks.


    Again, a thrust, and an ached grunt to answer. On it went, until her tears dampened the parchments and his groans trailed into slow breaths. He pulled up his pants: silk trousers, hued in dark, deep purple. Pausing a moment, he gazed over her where she bent. He saw the quiver of her legs, the heave of her breaths, that slow gathering of composure before she dared try to stand. Sweat dripped down her back, spit on her spine. He leaned in over her, listened closely, embraced the sound of her discrete dismay, though did not smile.


    Grace began to rise, but her patron¡¯s hand lowered gently over her back and returned her to the table. She complied, with reluctance, with disgust as bought bodies do in the presence of a lord and his killer, but the unsteady taps of her feet promised she wished she had never accepted his gold. There she remained, patient and shivering.


    The lord withdrew his hand, certain she would obey, then threw on a robe of black. It parted down the middle, revealing still a subtle set of abs, lined in scars. His hair was straight and black. His eyes were sharp and undressing, piercingly blue. The High Ovalin was of moderate height, moderate strength, but the swagger in his steps, the swiftness in his hands assured he was capable to lunge, catch, beat and bury. His chin was sharp, grisled with thin stubble that darted below tiny lips. His face, on its own, would strike a soul as skeletal, robbed of passion¡¯s blush and wrinkle, yet the wildness of his eyes imbued within him a fiery life that was undoubtedly industrious.


    Drooping over his chest, slickened in sweat, was a pendant of kite iron. Four dark scratches set over a blue moon absorbed its width. Scholars might guess its likeness, though tomes scarcely mentioned such an emblem. Soldiers however, vagabonds and mercenaries too, subjects of the underworld pains, would know that cursed adage like the back of their hand. It was the symbol of the Onbstrug Creek Vigilants: an army of reavers who broke the back of the Njall rebellion and earned their page in history with blooded ink. Now, it hung like a hanged man from the neck of the High Lord of Defence, over the back of his whore.


    ¡°I like you more like this,¡± said Veidt Ovalin, with a voice of iced salt.


    How beautiful, he thought to himself, with a meagre smirk treasonous to its own depth. Her back bent like a shapely forfeiture of spirit, her eyes aimed down in submission of the senses themselves. In that moment, in that room, she was his, without condition. Was this so much to ask?


    Unwittingly, unknowingly, his hand had found its way against her ribs. He did not so much as notice his fingernails gliding along her side, until she shivered his touch away. It was fear, clear enough, though a disturbance still. Veidt frowned down at her, like a stern father displeased with their kin. Could his company--all of his passions--be such a frightening thing? Could it warrant such ire?


    Still, she shivered.


    In moments, her beauty was lost. At once, he could spot the wrinkles in her pale skin, discover the knots in her golden locks, glimpse the ugliness wrenching just below the surface. What right did she have to fear him, in a chamber so rich of silk and scenery? What right could there be to indulge fear while at the height of grace, nestled in a city¡¯s nosebleeds, with the world below her and naught but her own gold weighing her down? This dullard, he thought with a crude shift of shape. Teeth snuck out through his thin lips. His hands, once smooth and gentle, veined with spite.


    ¡°You¡¯re shivering,¡± he exposed. ¡°What frightens you?¡±


    She stammered, glanced at him over her shoulder, but her jaw and its jitters could voice no truths. In her place, he persisted, leaning deeper over her with a glare so venomous it was certain to infect.


    ¡°The marble, perhaps? Are your feet cold, astride on such crude earth?¡± No answer, and so his vexation pulsed. ¡°Or the table, perhaps¡­ surely, such a flower is used to leaning over softer oak?¡±


    Now dread peeked its head. As if, with teeth, searching for a diamond under mud her mouth worked, yet she could not speak, instead shrinking before him with each twist of the lip. Experience brought her glare against his hands, careful to not catch the flat side of a fist with her cheek unflexed. She braced for an impact of harsh words or hard strikes, and Veidt marveled at every ripple of fear.


    Damned coward, he cursed. Of course, he had seen such fears. He had witnessed fright clutched longingly around a dull blade, as the hounds closed in. He had felt shivers in the aftermath of an iron volley, when where friends once stood he found corpses and dead stares. He knew horror, as it played with its own insides without understanding what it meant to die.


    For her to be so frightened, so fat with angst in a place so woefully bleak--so heinously uninspiring--he knew she was evidence to a sheltered humanity; a fault of experience shared by ducked-head masses. She was but a sample of a diseased whole after all, so entwined in petty fears they could not fathom terror¡¯s truth--could not withstand the miracles of warfare or the conditions they invoked. She was, as so many others proved to be, unequipped to suffer. And yet she would, worse than most. Such was the will of Arakvan.


    Veidt scoffed, certain before him bent another victim that would be rendered to bone when the walls at last fell and the enemy rode scourging through. He leaned back, disinterested with her unremarkable evils. His hand fell into his robe pocket.


    ¡°Four silvers, was it?¡± he asked politely, as matter-of-fact as any accomplished entrepreneur.


    She nodded, and began to rise. Yet again, a hand propped her back down. Only this time, it was not a gentle nudge. Rather, against her back fell the cold grip of command, and it urged an ass arched out and a head faced down. She obeyed, though he could not find the patience to smile.


    ¡°Four silvers¡­¡± he muttered, glaring at the little coins in his palm. ¡°You know, I knew another servicer who worked for such fees. Like you, he came in the night to offer his work. Only he did not wear scant cotton and jewels so cheap any learned eye would laugh at them.¡± Now, he did indeed smile. She felt the grin boil into her back. ¡°No, he wore studded leathers, under a cloak so black you¡¯d be convinced you saw only shadows in its place.¡±


    The tears quickened, while her fingers crumpled into fists.


    ¡°This man¡­¡± Veidt continued. ¡°Was of the darkest ilk. He bore no hesitance, entertained no conscience. He simply took what he was owed, four silvers it was, and killed wherever the paying finger fell. For four silvers, he¡¯d gut strays, orphans, beggars, nobles¡­ even whores. Members of the highest echelon, all the way down to the street I pulled you off of¡­ All would fall like rain when he set his eyes upon them.¡±


    Veidt chuckled. Grace fell to fantasies of his death.


    ¡°I could speak a name,¡± he said, ¡°and before dawn that name would stain a crypt. A mason, a smith, a harlot--naught but old, rended tissue. A triad of slit skin, with their terror still petrified upon their faces.¡±


    He nodded. He remembered.


    ¡°See, he earned his coin. Every gilded inch of it. Four silvers, and he could achieve the most heinous feats of man. Performed all¡­ for four¡­ little¡­ silvers¡­¡±


    He leaned down low, brought his mouth near her ear.


    ¡°And you¡­¡± she could hear the slither of his tongue as he spoke. ¡°You let me fuck you.¡±


    Veidt Ovalin dropped the coins over her bowed head, letting them batter her like a gold hail. She curled her hands up around her skull. The feeling was bad, but the sound--that ring of metal--was far, far worse. She clutched her ears as if she aimed to tear them off.


    ¡°A job well done, Grace,¡± he said softly, wetly, before rising.


    Barely restraining a scream, hardly keeping her fists away from his jaw, she pulled her clothes against her chest, grabbed at the silvers though caught only three, and barged out the door, taking flight down the hall as her heavy, hurt breaths escaped earshot.


    In her absence, Veidt plucked the last coin from where it lay and stared into it. He gave its dull emblemage a nod; joyously, without malice. The face of a bald pontiff, with robes like sharp armour, glared back.


    ¡°Practical, isn¡¯t it?¡± he asked his red guard. ¡°Doesn¡¯t make sense that she should make as much as a man so skilled.¡±


    ¡°You toy with them too much,¡± grunted the guard, in a voice like rock.


    ¡°Them?¡± Veidt laughed. ¡°Them you say in such disgrace, as if you were not one of them before your blade slit the right throat.¡± His hands fell over the maps, diligent to seek strain, careless of the harlot sweat wetting the board. Already, his mind was moved on.


    ¡°I was,¡± admitted that towering heap of red metal, sans shame or pride. ¡°But as you said, we are at least a silver apart.¡± Now he stood straight, off the wall, with a stature that ordered respect. ¡°I don¡¯t slit throats. I don¡¯t work in the night,¡± proclaimed Osi Dragul. ¡°And now, your fabled killer wears only red.¡±


    Veidt smiled, impressed by his own handiwork in coating such a raw slab of violent flesh into such dense metal undeath. ¡°Ahh,¡± he recalled, tenderly, ¡°but you did look so fearsome in black.¡±


    The hall grew then boisterous with the slap of shoes. Its whisper swelled, twice and again, until it was clear a small host marched up the hall. At the rear stood an ensemble of hustling servants, with polearm guards stamping close behind. The guards were clad in plate mail from head-to-toe; navy blue and laced with gold. On their breastplates flapped black birds, over blue prison bars that, in turn, trapped a golden sea. It was the sigil of Galehaven, and the garb of each servant bore the same. All in all, twelve serviced a sum of four.


    The lordly quad wore attire finer suited to their station. Their eyes addressed a thousand threats, their ears shunned a thousand claims.


    Behind the short, stubby leader of the ensemble was a gaunt figure. His hands were wrapped tightly behind his waist and his back bent forward eerily, like that of an insect undecided on its dock. His clothes, a fine menage of gold and blue, hung awkwardly, sagged, as if sized for a man much larger. He was slender, yet his face was fat. His hair was white, though he was middle-aged. The strength beating within his weak frame and the puffy eyelids safeguarding his beads of blue fire made him a ceaseless contradiction. He was Rah Montor, High Rah of Opulence.


    Shouldering his right, of moderate height, walked a man on quick feet. His face was snakish, his eyes at a constant peer--always adrift, always concerned by distant affairs that trumped the importance of anything current. His jaw was without a spec of hair, laying the weak incline of its structure bare. The skull was streaked in a trimmed wave of black strides, highlighted in white dartings. Its nose was small, but the lips smaller. The lord¡¯s tiny, plain features contributed greatly to his apparent insignificance, or at least they would have, were it not for the striking vigilance of his squat brown eyes. His robes were gold streams over a blue splotch, and half-draped over studded armour of red and black fit for a sellsword. At his hip hung a marble conductor¡¯s stick, with its tip blunted by use. Here strode Sunt Conrord, High Conrord of Asepsis. Across his face was smeared a becoming scowl, rarely abandoning his visage.


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    In front of them was a woman, close behind the stubby vanguard. Her hair was silver, artificial, her lips tight with a ruby gloss. With a lax stance, she boasted her stark flesh with each lean and sag. She wore a black, white-streaked gambeson, ornamented in woven daggers, more befitting of military command than the Nydessius Seat. Over it was a silk shawl, blue and gold. Searching eyes and a disapproving frown oft imposed an aura of discomfort upon her vicinity and its victims, though this collective was affordably immune. She was Lydae Dryke, the High Dryke of Exchange.


    Leading the pack down the hall and into High Ovalin¡¯s chambers was the shortest, fattest, and least opposing of the prestigious band, though he was the sole to sport guards at his every side. His robes were brown, with only a humble Galehavenin crest upon his left breast. The light of lanterns reflected off his polished bald head. Elderly, with dark eyes and weary cheeks, Vithicar Hollum Darr--whom they named Father--asserted his absolute authority not through prestige or pronouncement, but by his discontent alone, which was certainly stained upon his face.


    Veidt stood unimpressed by the honourable intruders. He crossed his arms, sealed upon them an only semi-concealed stare of aggravation. The Father, the Pale Vithicar, strolled into the chamber and past his disgruntled disciple. He gazed at the shut windows with a contempt braced for the world of brick and stone beyond.


    ¡°I am certain¡­¡± Father Hollum Darr began in a voice of quiet dismay. ¡°That entertaining whores in the high keep was previously discussed, Veidt.¡±


    ¡°It was,¡± he concurred. ¡°Though I imagine she prefers the term ¡®sensual performer¡¯.¡±


    The Father¡¯s flock weeded into the many straights and alcoves of that vast chamber. Soon, the room was dominated by coats of blue and gold. Veidt felt his power trampled. Still, he managed a smirk, watching High Dryke and High Rah glaze their faint, pretend intrigues over portraits and cobblery, desperate to seem in judgement. He knew however, that they flinched in their refinery every time the cold, inspecting eyes of Dragul fell upon them. Even with three dozen polearms, Osi could make the greatest of men seem defenseless.


    It was the High Conrord that at last made Veidt¡¯s smirk vanish. He did not pretend to care about the Lord of Defence¡¯s affairs, nor did he trifle with any performative pleasantries or slights. He simply stood and stared, watching Veidt¡¯s lips work like a serpent observing sheep in the grass.


    ¡°If you¡¯ve time for bedding whores,¡± jibed the Father, ¡°perhaps you¡¯ve found time to make yourself acquainted with the lunacy occurring just beyond our very walls.¡±


    ¡°The subject of my work?¡± answered Veidt. ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve found ample time to learn it¡­¡±


    The Pale Vithicar beckoned two fingers. At once, two guards brought the curtains apart. The sprawling cityscape beyond was revealed as if it sat at a stage¡¯s centre, ready to clap and dance to enthrall the Father¡¯s eyes. Only, from a height as imposing as High Ovalin¡¯s own chamber, one could see naught but lonely rooftops, quiet spires, the smoke from faraway burnings and the smog from a rot that clung to the evening mist. A gray, endless mess it was. Dots swarmed the alleys below and Hollum Darr could smell the stink.


    ¡°Horror,¡± he pronounced, appalled. ¡°Heathen arts have slithered through our guard. They¡¯ve sunk into the very soil in which our bannermen lay stakes.¡±


    Somehow, the darkness trapped at the other side of the glass was brighter than the candles of Ovalin¡¯s stall. The light of exposure was a blinding thing. Veidt was driven by it, tucked to the room¡¯s edge where he pretended to test his vision against mounted arts, as if to derail the reality of his fear. But it was real, and it remained. With a million eyes aimed high and half as many mouths set to sneer, it remained.


    High Conrord observed Veidt curiously, entertained by his musings, intrigued by what seemed a greater depth lurking upon his face. Lurking and shivering, hopeful none could see. Sunt smiled.


    Veidt was blind to his watching peers. His mind buzzed with the rattle coiled beyond the window sill, though to others there was a perfect silence. With those curtains left apart, Veidt felt like an exhibit, powerless to evade all the hate pressed against the glass.


    ¡°Which horrors?¡± he asked faintly, remembering the Father¡¯s words at last. ¡°These heathens you call to shame; they¡¯ve stacked a plethora before us.¡±


    ¡°The horror of impiety,¡± he explained. ¡°The horror of doubt--of disease. Of filth and frenzy, of fear and disloyalty. The horror of a house aimed for collapse, and the truth that the pillars hoisting it up are aged and rotten. Truly, has a nation ever been better prepped for damnation?¡±


    ¡°The Garrison¡­¡± Veidt loathed, his lips falling frail with their cursed utterance.


    ¡°The godless, the Patch-ridden, the devils who pray in secret that the Scourge claims all. Have you heard this night¡¯s calamity? The cost of another day yet undone by revolt?¡± The Pale Vithicar rubbed his ancient hands together and paced closer to the glass. ¡°They--those pagan, pig-fucking charlatans, laid the Chapel of St. Vativ to flame! The fires soared, latched onto a few low roofs, and spread for five blocks! There is at least some peace to be found, knowing a sum of the heathen pack choked to death on the smoke of their sin.¡±


    Veidt¡¯s teeth clamped shut. The Vanished Garrison was a faction to which he was all too acquainted. A band of militant rebels, composed of state beasthunters who turned tail, veterans embittered that no trumpets were sound to welcome them home, and fools too young to know that fighting for ideals was an act ideal only for early death. They, in their nests across the byways and in port shacks, waged a war upon faith, though consequenced only its believers. Without aim, they achieved only division, and without strength, they would find only destruction at the hands of those that endured them. In time, Veidt knew, he would see them crushed.


    ¡°The Chapel of St. Vativ was a hostel for lost souls,¡± groaned the High Rah. ¡°Such villainy, to burn a holy place¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard it told it housed more than the lost,¡± Veidt countered. ¡°But also the complicit, and an altar owed to a particularly physical priest.¡±


    ¡°Hearsay,¡± Rah Montor snuffed, before turning away.


    ¡°If we are to combat a threat, we cannot delude ourselves of its intentions. The Garrison, above all else, wants every man in this room laid bare over a stake.¡± Veidt¡¯s harsh glare fell over each pair of eyes in the vicinity, vowing sincerity. ¡°In the meantime, until they stir a fire that can climb castle walls, they will settle for our institutions, our assets, any function of the Clergy that embodies that which they seek to destroy.¡±


    ¡°And does the prevention of our destruction not fall squarely under the jurisdiction of ¡®defense¡¯?¡± asked High Dryke, a salt in her breath, which swayed a tone of cold, condescending moxy.


    ¡°Does the sun fall under the clouds?¡± he answered.


    ¡°Then why is it that we find ourselves in the midst of a losing battle, Lord?¡±


    Veidt readied a retort, yet the condoning harumph of the Father soured his haste. He snarled, shook his head of all its playful vice, and resumed a false composure with which he reeled at Lydae.


    ¡°How do you kill a gorfly?¡± he asked patiently. ¡°Do you swing a sword at it? Of course not, it is far too swift, nimble--concealed to be found by a tool too blunt.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Do you gas its air? No, then you kill not only the gorfly, but the spiders and the butterflies too. You can only swat away again and again until its guts stain your hand.¡± He turned towards the Father¡¯s back and loudened himself. ¡°This is a battle of persistence, my Lords. Of chance and continued efforts. It will not be won on a whim. Nor will it be lost on one, no matter how many blocks might burn.¡±


    The lords spun on one another. A cage for their bickering found form, and as if in prediction, the Pale Vithicar turned around with annoyance hot in his eyes. Silence loomed, until his jaw creaked low.


    ¡°Galehaven is marshed by sick tents. Caravans, coming with our trade or leaving with our coin, are set upon by fangs, mere miles from our walls. Arrenfaeld is reportedly in ruins. And now, I¡¯ve a dead priest at my door.¡±


    With disgust, he brushed his contempt across the room in one broad, silent stroke.


    ¡°Whatever efforts have been made, whatever chances taken, they have failed, my Lords. There will be results, or there will be a change of station.¡± A glare of particular malice fell toward Veidt, scolding and threatening in one shift of stance.


    The Father turned away and the bulk of the guards turned with him, leaving the lords to soak in their shame. But Veidt twisted, stretched his neck until it cracked, and grew a sneer.


    ¡°Oh, Father,¡± he called before Hollum Darr could step out the door. ¡°A raven reached me an hour past. The perpetrators of this attack on Arrenfaeld were discovered. My Crimson Clad interrogated the bandits responsible: a rogue outfit of zealots out from Nelkard. They hang from the arms of the Haddlebush as we speak.¡±


    Hollum Darr stopped and in four slow steps was returned to the chamber¡¯s heart. He observed Veidt curiously, bent his head at him. A quiet inquiry, it found only the calm and confidence afforded.


    ¡°Hm,¡± the Father grunted. ¡°Well done, High Ovalin. It is comforting to know among a host so dignified, so qualified for success, that there is at least some marginal victory.¡±


    High Ovalin nodded, but before he could speak his gratitudes, the Father¡¯s weak little hand fell against his shoulder.


    ¡°Take caution, Veidt, that in your crusades you do not turn worshippers to wanters. The Vanished Garrison has furnished a keen ability to steal hearts. I would not see fringe hangings--justified, unjustified, or worse, fashioned into a rally¡¯s pin. Your past endeavours have denied you your fair share of council seats, so I would not be caught unsuspecting if they took not only your chair, but your rank from you as well. Savagery, is no solution for savagery.¡±


    ¡°Njall was barbaric,¡± Veidt consented. A glow steadied itself in his gaze; one of remembrance, hate, rattled sanity. ¡°None who saw its face were so privileged as to stay perfectly humane.¡± He leaned closer, cutting in with a sly tongue, catching the Vithicar with eyes wide. ¡°But Arakvan is different. There is power in symbols here, nearly more than in true force. But whether symbolic or true, there is no power that inspires greater dread in our enemies than that of the Crimson Clad. And the Crimson Clad answer to me.¡±


    The Father withdrew his hand. First he was bewildered, then offended, then adrift in the bizarre of his own mind and the fears it dared to indulge. The words were stern, spoken like a warning, but in them was a great deal of truth. It was, as Hollum Darr came to understand under the weight of Veidt¡¯s maddened eyes, that in a reality so morbid, so devoutly without composure, barbarity could not be shunned. The Father nodded slowly, appreciating the depth of Veidt¡¯s commitment, though so hopelessly estranged by his severity that he was stranded in a land without words.


    ¡°I must wonder,¡± said the High Dryke, a salvation to his mind¡¯s drought, with a confident drag slowing her steps closer. ¡°Why it is that only one among our council maintains his own security detail? Court tones are loud, High Ovalin, equally fierce, and the Nydessius Seat whispers that your red guard is no security at all, and certainly not a Clergy agency, but rather a death squad, loyal only to their master¡¯s every indulgence.¡±


    ¡°Jealousy does not suit you, o¡¯ merchant queen,¡± Veidt mocked. ¡°Yet in truth, there was indeed a force in training for your needs, as well. Only, it appears my most brutal exercises could not condition them for your service. Can¡¯t imagine why¡­¡±


    ¡°Between jealousy and national concern¡­¡± she retorted with a twist of her back that gave her face to light. ¡°There exists a great divide.¡± In approach, her paleness was striking, her ruby lips fat enough to sip out a soul.


    High Ovalin paced the table¡¯s length. His strong, slender fingers brushed over parchments charting the northern expanse. Under his nails ran dense ranks of stubbed mountains, sampled with snows, tree swaths like an oaken mold, and cragged descents that stretched deeper than the Caverns of the Morlen Saints, for which the land was stricken of any human ingenuity but the ruins where it failed.


    ¡°It would be a worthy thing,¡± he began. ¡°Could I compose a group of seven effective enough to threaten a state. Yet I am afraid, my dear, that the greatest threat to our sovereignty remains the shortcomings, failures, and fears of those in this room.¡± His eyes fell gravely against her. ¡°No matter how trivial they prove. No matter the progression they obstruct.¡±


    ¡°Progression?¡± she chided through a wide grin. ¡°Since when has progression been measured by the sum of nooses filled? Where you see a sunrise, Lord Veidt, a common mind can recognize oblivion. I had presumed, in harbouring a crippled father, you could better distinguish between progression and impairment, my Lord.¡±


    Like balls of fire, his glare struck her, vowed to deeds most uncivil; sworn to hate beyond mortal measure. High Dryke lurched back an inch, compelled by his caution, before recalling that the unimpressed stare of the Pale Vithicar had sought her out.


    ¡°Exchange your indignities later,¡± ordered Hollum Darr, unenthusiastic. ¡°I came to express my desires, not entertain the bickerings of children. There are lower chambers for such matters.¡± He paced back towards the door, then turned to his four disciples. ¡°Ensure, no matter your duties or your drawbacks, that the word of arson does not reach my ears a time again. Not against the Clergy. Not in this city. Let it be known, my lords, and seen in the skies at dawn, that Galehaven is owed to the All-Father, and those so succumbed to presume otherwise have no place within its walls.¡±


    He stepped over the threshold, the bulk of the guards drawn behind him like magnets.


    ¡°Be steadfast, my Lords,¡± he warned. ¡°The clouds of Arakvan thunder, always. But in this dark I have seen lightning, and things align for a disastrous storm.¡±


    At a leisurely waddle he departed the chamber. A horde of metal boots clanged across the marble after him. High Rah bid his fellows farewell with a nod, then followed suit into the corridor, with four more armed men flaking to his rear. The last two lords remained in the chamber, alongside a robed Veidt and his monstrous warhound.


    ¡°How ironic it is, Veidt,¡± voiced Sunt Conrord, his stature heightening in the absence of the Father, his strength swelling in his shrunken frame, and his tongue growing quick, uncautious. ¡°Out there amidst the swards, you and your butchers are an unmatched force.¡± He picked a piece up off the map: a brown stallion, marble-carved. In its tiny dead eyes he found some pleasure, but that smile--crooked and narrow--wanted anything but. ¡°Yet in here, in sacred halls¡­ The Pale Vithicar thinks a change of station may be in order, repurposing you to an outfit more appropriate for your skills¡­ I would guess banditry, but the Father has an imaginative mind, if not maliciously unconscious.¡± Sunt flipped the piece in his grip, squeezed it against his palm. ¡°It would appear, Veidt, beyond the battlefield, you are as vulnerable as the babes you slaughter.¡±


    Veidt turned his back to High Conrord and leaned against the table. His gaze found Osi Dragul in his incessant vigilance. An stare unappeased fell over the gloss of Osi¡¯s armour. In its reflection Veidt beheld himself as a fierce cut of red metal, broadened and impenetrable. That sight was assurance enough, and with a grin he chastised the whittling lord behind him.


    ¡°Your tales are tall, Sunt,¡± said Veidt. ¡°But your threats are a stunted thing. Do not assume warning can be passed through my chambers like the gossip of farmhands. Too many of your station¡¯s predecessors have fallen prey to that same delusion.¡±


    High Conrord took the horse and slid his fingers down its spine, then up, then he tossed it lopsided back to the map, skidding papers askew on its course.


    ¡°You are unsuited for court. I have seen.¡± Over his shoulder crept two tight eyes like shooting stars, crawling across a canvas of black. Only in their watch they grew dim, steady. In focus, Sunt seemingly forwent light itself; come a killer¡¯s gray. ¡°How long until the Father sees your machinations for what they are--the mines, the fires? How long until he concludes you¡¯re better off rotting beneath a grave than digging one?¡±


    High Ovalin closed the blinds, shielding himself once more from the bleak fluorescence of a dormant humanity. In one pull, the lamplight and bonfires went out, so Veidt breathed easier.


    ¡°I imagine long after age has claimed his sanity,¡± he chirped. ¡°By which time I will have all the graves I could ever need dug and decorated.¡±


    Sunt strafed the table, grappling a fist along its edge.


    ¡°You think I fear you?¡± he asked with a goading grin.


    He reached the table¡¯s end when Veidt turned to face him, tasting the iron in his qualm.


    ¡°Of course,¡± said Veidt. ¡°Why else would you deign to visit when my wardogs are on the hunt and your own men guard the door? I implore you, good lord, repeat these words at a later hour. I will show you then how vulnerable I am.¡±


    ¡°It is impressive, Veidt,¡± said Lydae. ¡°To have a daughter in a cage and a father in a wheelchair, and still be the weakest of your line. Scared of leaving the window ajar--quivering without your red guard. While before it has perplexed me, I recognize now how it has been reduced to just you three. You are without an ounce of strategy, wild as the beasts you stuff.¡±


    Veidt bowed his head with a sigh. He wanted to maul Lydae, hew her head, batter it against Sunt¡¯s feeble frame until his blood filled the cracks on the floor. He wanted to show them just how little their words meant; how easily a defiant spirit could falter when it met true terror--true mortality in the form of fists and blades. He wanted to kill them for the fault of their innocence, but here, regrettably, was no place for bloodshed.


    So he raised his head, gave a dry chuckle, and faced the High Dryke with words and eyes alone. His hands curled behind his back, wrapping around each other and tightening until the flesh grew red under the brand of his nails.


    ¡°You speak so courageously, Lydae. What will that courage become, I wonder, when the walls fall¡­ and the beasts swarm in¡­¡± Veidt lost himself to her gaze, obsessed with the dark of her pupils. ¡°What will become of your bravery¡­ when the hunger sets in at last¡­¡±


    He spoke to her, but was attentive to anything but. Something existed in the air, in the gaps between thought and beyond sight, that called to him, reminded him of otherwise. Something whispered of past and truth and dragged his focus elsewhere, where things were crueler and just all the same. That place held him and, for a moment, anything outside of it dissolved to dust. But the dust stacked, and soon Veidt choked on it.


    Readjusting himself, he braced for the words and stares that would steal his paradise.


    ¡°Do take care,¡± Lydae advised, bemused by his estrangement but wiser than to pry into even the shallow depths of an unsettled mind. ¡°In this city, I will not let you take anything else.¡±


    Sunt Conrord marveled at the stunt. Veidt¡¯s distraction, the lunacy that rode his disturbed gaze, was a thing of beauty. High Conrord observed Veidt, and in him found a perfect balance of insatiable fury and diplomatic calm, one never rising too high above the other. Sunt saw this, and thus saw doom.


    ¡°Good ¡®eve, my friend,¡± he said politely, before departing behind Lydae and in effect dismissing the rest of the guards. ¡°May we next meet amidst kinder tidings.¡±


    It was for a while that Veidt threw his contempt at the open door. He bit at its texture and carved up its modest scent, until its press against his eyes became too familiar for comfort. The High Ovalin grinded his teeth and rolled his shoulders back, before his hand found the will to slam the door shut and reimmerse himself in the dark. Osi watched, as was his duty, but was too detached to care.


    Veidt paced and pondered and, without knowing, a towel had ripped atwo between his hands.

 Ammolite

    Chapter 4 : Ammolite


    ¡°Won¡¯t even cover the cost of lugging back its head.¡±


    Red spurted up; a groan from the axe¡¯s fall. The corpse spazzed under its weight. The wielder dug his blade inward, then, with his feet locked at the either hip of the muscled mass, tore down as if he were tearing bark from its tree. Light blood spat out from the cut, alow his straddle. He gazed down upon mangled flesh--seared and garroted--ribs split apart like a welcoming tundra, and an inordinate mess of organ and gut. Picking the axe up in one hand, he plunged his other down and through, into the ruptured stomach of the beast. He fished through its grime with picky fingers under a begrudging gaze, keen to distract his eye with anything but, then wrenched out a hearty, blood-baked kidney.


    ¡°Put ¡®er on the fire,¡± Eidrik said glumly, deeply, offering up the clump.


    His companion hunched seated by their fire, poking its sparks as morning reared its burning head. A decade or two his senior, even mute did Horral seem jolly, sated, as if of impressive patience, and of course compliant to his near-kin¡¯s qualms. He snatched the dripping kidney, staked his poking stick through its center and propped it hanging over the flames.


    The fire was quick to tan its flesh. Under the fat, it bubbled black. The meat tightened, texturised. It spewed smoke and smelled of pork. Horral admired the affair, pleased, held at nature¡¯s bounty. He knew all too well that elsewhere, on a dawn no less fine, none the warmer, stomachs starved without the hands to hunt. For their sake, he smiled, watching the kidney burn.


    ¡°They say a borsork¡¯s fat can stave off hunger for a week,¡± said Horral in his sage and enunciative manner; never rushed, always chewing each letter in thought. ¡°But that its liver can poison you worse than the Patch.¡±


    Eidrik heaved the corpse onto its belly, then hacked against its spine. Borsorks, as things headless with their eyes set in the chest, bore spines of the greatest worth; trophies the most valuable that their killers could sport. Spiked and lucid, like gooey serpents, distinct were their backbones, but of course grotesque. In the hands of accomplished beasthunters however, grotesque could be nothing short of traumatic, yet their minds already were direly seasoned.


    With his axe lashing and wedging, Eidrik brutalized the monster¡¯s hind until bone peeked through its dark blue flesh. He struck the axe then mightily down upon its skull to offer it a firm mantle and, with two hands tensed, latched onto its unearthed spine. He yanked, caught a wet noise stretch, then pulled again--harder, longer, until a snap sounded and the long, gushing bone came out. Eidrik compressed it, packed it inwards, nearly popping it between his fierce grips, then stuffed the spine into a small satchel to endure the journey back.


    ¡°They say too that when the winds roll fierce,¡± began Eidrik, ¡°that it¡¯s the All-Father speaking to us.¡± He ripped his axe up out of its hold. ¡°But all I¡¯ve ever felt is the fucking cold.¡± Brains gooped out after his armament¡¯s edge.


    The woods shook then with a proud gale. He hawked and gave the trees a stare, stern as warning. Eidrik scowled, bringing his dry lips low around his jaw and aiming that contempt at every flicker and flash alive behind the foliage. Nature¡¯s curtain, he thought in derision, certain a play of candid evil was bound to resume at any moment¡¯s notice, certain green¡¯s bliss was soon fated.


    Horral admired his comrade, his unfettering watch, all the strength of body and mind that sustained it. Eidrik was indeed a commendable sight. He wore a belted gambeson of border black. Its top was flapped open, revealing a breastplate of poor, raw iron. A crumpled cap sat upon his bald head. A measly spume hemmed its center, and at its sides curved two flaps with razored, uneven edges that hugged the hat¡¯s heart. Eidrik was of a stout brown beard, eyed with a dazzling green, and molded by bruise and hunger, though powerful all the same. He wore brown gloves that snuck under his sleeves, though on his left hand two sockets hung hollow, as the fingers inside were long lost.


    ¡°I say they speak swinetell,¡± he said, resting his axe over his shoulder. The blade--doubled--was boiled ammolite. In its face swirled fertile greens like pastures, oceanic blues amiss and an amber plate as bronzen and as strong as a mountain-man¡¯s shield. The weapon was a rod of raw obsidian, crude and crooked but unflinching, with an opalish head that could sever steel if its bearer but bore the resolve. Eidrik Corralain did indeed, and in his hands the axe could bring the finest executioners to shame. To their fortune, the bloody deeds of the furrfiend never ranged far beyond the woods, caves, and crawling swards in which killing beasts laired. As testament to their unending slaughter, that axehead of ammolite was chipped despite all of its strength.


    ¡°You¡¯d not believe the All-Father himself,¡± Horral laughed, glee shimmering in the lines of his old teeth. ¡°If he deigned to bless us his word.¡±


    ¡°¡®Bless us,¡¯¡± scoffed the younger beastfoe. ¡°We¡¯d be two fingers richer if he ever shut up.¡± Eidrik spat, his tongue¡¯s discolour spoiling the earth¡¯s green. ¡°Rather the clouds shit hail than bow to a lie.¡±


    Horral smirked. A question stirred his gaze, but in his ponder was unearthed some pleasure that spread his grin from cheek to cheek. He swooped an object up from behind the log on which he perched. It was a cane--long ebony with a white handle. With two hands on its hook, he leaned in, nearer the flame, nearer to Eidrik, with the light of fire embracing his merry watch.


    ¡°A lie, is it?¡± Horral indulged. ¡°And then what is your truth?¡±


    The flame cast light to his apparel, which was gray and sullied. He wore a white scarf that wrapped his neck and hung across the chest of a soft gray coat, ribbed in iron bands. Beneath was unseen, but steel still; cheap and light. Dirt, weather¡¯s stains, and incomplete cuts maimed his attire, as it did Eidrik¡¯s, shaping them to the image of utter ruffians.


    ¡°My truth?¡± said Eidrik, unbelieving of Horral¡¯s sincerity. ¡°Truth is you talk so much your words lose sense.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Horral feigned. ¡°So Eidrik the Fierce has found no wisdoms from his travels.¡±


    Already did the morning air draw away his senses. Eidrik threw focus to the sunlight slipping between oaks rather than Horral¡¯s panderings. The fields and cliffs of Arakvan had trialed his resolve, tested him to seek that which, in a shift of light, was not there before. In darkness lived evils surely, but some came only with the light of day, and so when sunlight arrived, just as when moonlight left, Eidrik found himself stargazing, with all of the perception and none of dawn¡¯s longing. A decade at sentinel had taught him to hate the stars.


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    ¡°Eh, you¡¯re a regular prayer now, are you?¡± Eidrik mocked. ¡°Gerald will be wounded.¡±


    ¡°When¡¯s he otherwise? And he believes in the All-Father, same as me.¡± Horral chortled, twirling his poking stick over the fire. ¡°Just knows he¡¯s a right bastard, isn¡¯t he!¡±


    Horral thundered with amusement, nearly losing their breakfast to the flame in the rock of his joy. Eidrik rolled his eyes, then turned to hide a coming smile. He faced the trees again. The wind droned on. The sunlight sunk deeper. Time was wasting by, and with a quiet sigh Eidrik surrendered his smirk.


    ¡°What is it we¡¯re doing here, Horral?¡± he asked solemnly. ¡°Playing hero in the woods¡­¡±


    A moment of consideration fell upon him from Horral, before the hesitance subsided and his smile strengthened. ¡°Better us than no one-¡± he began, until Eidrik whipped back to cut him off.


    ¡°Better nothing,¡± he denied. ¡°Even now, folk perish back home, Horral. You know it, same as I do.¡± What took Eidrik¡¯s eyes seemed a murk of fear, but those that knew him knew better, and saw a concern--a grave concern--for only those dear to him. ¡°Each moment here, no matter how nobly spent, is a time wasted--a second more that our friends are left to fate.¡±


    ¡°Fate must be a wondrous thing, then,¡± said Horral, coltish, undecided on defense or a kind lie. ¡°That it can exist back home, for those dear to us, and not each stranger here. We should tell the commonfolk not to fret, aye? As surely their nightmares leave with us.¡± His tone was jolly, but the iron in his stare promised truth.


    ¡°How many scourgers do we kill, ¡®fore it¡¯s enough?¡± Eidrik shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s a good aim, Horral--truly, but there¡¯s no end in sight, y¡¯see? Eventually, our backs turn. And when that happens¡­ these people--they can¡¯t be saved forever.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d hope not, my friend.¡± Horral turned his stick again. ¡°I¡¯m far too old to fight forever.¡±


    ¡°Whatever you¡¯re looking for out here¡­ whatever chance you¡¯re risking yourself over¡­¡±


    ¡°Enough, Eidrik,¡± he said, prompt, with a pleasure in decay.


    Eidrik stepped nearer, unknowingly booting dirt unto flame. Sparks spat out, and Horral raised his eyes to spot what malevolence spawned the shadow he now squatted within.


    ¡°It¡¯s not here,¡± said Eidrik. ¡°There¡¯s just the woods, and all the scum that pours from it.¡±


    ¡°And then there are those who stand above it all, who outlast it,¡± Horral repelled, this time with a fire of force that vexed the veins in his aged temple. ¡°I will not hide my eyes, Eidrik, while unfound there is still a chance we can win.¡±


    ¡°That chance is miles south of here, in Galehaven.¡±


    ¡°That chance is on every wind. On every path. In every moment.¡± Horral¡¯s tone grew desperate, but sure, and its vow stirred Eidrik¡¯s belligerence. ¡°I will spare none,¡± he assured him.


    A nod from Eidrik surrendered the affair, and he returned soon to his sentry at the clearing¡¯s edge. He breathed deeply, observed deeper still, until the woods¡¯ very sway answered to his eye. Its mastery meant naught while mere meters to his flank rested a resolve he was hopeless to deter.


    Faraway, the call of loons sounded. Morning was woke in full.


    ¡°You must admit it makes sense, doesn¡¯t it?¡± Horral asked, calm but probing. ¡°Will you not admit me that?¡± He reclined his stick, slid the meat off its end. It was charred at its edges, hearty at its core.


    ¡°There¡¯s seldom sense in gambles, Horral,¡± Eidrik shrugged.


    ¡°We know they¡¯re looking for something up here,¡± his eyes glazed over the kidney and fell to the fire, filled with a bright boldness of action. ¡°Stories of red riders¡­ We¡¯ve heard tell of the digs.¡± Horral shook his head, hatefully. ¡°That pig of the Isyncra is looking for something. We find what it is, we find leverage back home--a chance, strength for everyone.¡±


    He bit into the kidney. It was rich with flavour, flooding his gums, but dense and stringy, hardened with heat. A black blood slipped out thinly from his chewing lips. He threw a nod to the slain borsork; their morning¡¯s handiwork.


    ¡°Might as well kill some beasts while we¡¯re at it,¡± he swallowed. ¡°Not every sorry bastard out here has the luxury of ¡®going home¡¯ like us, pampered fucks we are. For some--nay, for all too many, home¡¯s the thin space between the wars of men and the wrath of monsters.¡± He took another bite, then tossed the kidney over to Eidrik, who swatted it into a tight fist. ¡°For some, they need bladesmen to man the line.¡± Horral spat black blood into the dirt. ¡°They¡¯ll have to settle for us.¡±


    The old fellow chuckled to himself, but Eidrik could only nod.


    Sunlight at last breached the treeline. Golden rays pierced Meddlelfore to set the leaves aglow and warm the grass to a dewed shine. The stingered, webfoot insects of twilight crawled under roots and behind bark, while the air at last fell to their fat cousins of the day, with pink and blue riding their wings. The sky was a mosaic of crossing tree limbs laced over lime foliage, with a hint of blue in its few cracks and, beyond that, a hot shimmer. Daylight arrived in torrents, and in its wake survived only puddles of shadow that the waking critters stamped and trodded through. The call of birds littered the air, the crackle of weartogs bounced branches, and the throated yawns of nunnols coddled the vast woodland into its rise.


    While there was indeed a beauty to be sapped by patient eyes, for beasthunters day meant only that the cover of night was gone, and that the next hunt loomed nearer. Under a flashing sun, Eidrik devoured the borsork¡¯s kidney. He permitted himself a lone moment of tranquility, as the sounds and the smells of life embraced him, then he swallowed, turned, and sulked deeper into the wilder sections of the forest to bring its vilest denizens death. With his axe over his shoulder again, Eidrik strode from their clearing.


    Close behind, Horral arose wearily. His cane curved to a cut, slashing the fire wide and scattering its burning embers. With a dragged leg, he swept his boot through the trail of flames and, at once, snuffed its every ashed member. Behind him was a spree of black, a slaughtered monstrosity, and the grace of day, and in that moment their sum was worth nothing compared to the way ahead.


    Yet Horral did indeed look back, just before he crept into the deeper foliage. It was not the slain foe or the day¡¯s beauty or the threat of fire that called to him, but rather an instinct alone. His spine tingled, like an alien wind had just pierced the forest. With a cautious gaze, Horral¡¯s glare fell over all at once. He spotted critters on treetops, bugs in their hills, beasts in their tree hollows, but nothing that could invoke such a strange twist of sense. Perhaps it was paranoia, he thought, as he beheld quiet day. Perhaps it was not.


    With an uncertain sneer--bolstered by such unfamiliar passion--Horral relented his stalk, then crept after Eidrik, leaving whatever he felt behind him to the madness of the woods. Shades of green, brown, and gold covered the space. All was unmoving, even after his departure, until his departure was ancient and minutes were spent.


    The leaves rustled, the branches parted, and phasing out from behind them was a form of tall, sheer black. Its shape was lofty, light, but of a dark power. Eyes of burnt brown found the tracks of Eidrik and Horral, and it was Ulf Eldric who followed them true.

 The Gleemans Hymn

    5 - The Gleeman''s Hymn


    Meddlelfore was a poor man¡¯s paradise.


    It was not devoid of its strife, nor suffering, and certainly not without a thing as common as death. Yet it is not comfort that renders a place paradise, just as pain does not leave it otherwise. As the wizened Woodrelk--hag-kings of the Meddlelforian heights--would tell, it is only through perfection that paradise may be glimpsed. Freedom from puppet strings, severance to moral ties; a realm where one may roam wild, kill if hunger calls, struggle if death looms, but fall not to overbearing odds so long as their feet remain firm and their mind holds true. For perfection in the wilds is not safety, while fault lies not in hardship, as under the liberty to live tested--subjected to trials of one¡¯s own volition--one uncovers the means to live free, proven. Free, not privileged. Wild, not chased. So it was, in a sense, as violent and depraved as it could prove and as often it did, a paradise for the poor, for those who were hopeless to afford better.


    The realm beyond Meddlelfore¡¯s greenery, however, was far from.


    Towards its edges the forest thinned. Moss parted to sport rocks. Trees spindled until they were scrawny and twisted and sinking in height. The land itself--where it was once flat then in knolls, lost to some seamless rhythm--distorted. Depths pitted themselves askew, enclosing the forest¡¯s vibrance with an ever near crouch of  black. Hills cut short and died, grew to crude cliffs webbed in thorned roots that darker critters climbed. Shadows twisted, stole the straightness of sunlight.


    With each step further south, the land hurt, pleaded. With each gaze high, the heavens clouded, cried away their glow. Together, the earth and sky in ritual plagued themselves to welcome a worser element. Together, the earth and sky grayed, to welcome Arakvan.


    Homeland it was, to the deathly ailment named Patch, capital for the Clergy¡¯s westernmost theocracy, and enduring victim of that unholy rampage they called in trepidation and prayer the Scourge; from which the land parted wide, tremors rattled Arakvan¡¯s north, and out from the chasms spawned crawled a horrid array of night-made terrors. It was in the months that followed that Galehaven, its Dathaelich court and each of its starved stepstones found the need for the grim work of furrfiends, and the months thereafter that they learned no number of beasthunters would ever suffice in restoring what was.


    A day¡¯s walk would pierce the thin, wounded treeline that now held that home to horrors at bay. With each step, Eidrik and Horral held their breath. Even those who called the realm home could do naught but let their gall subside, simmer to eerie dread when the dead winds of Arakvan at last whispered through the wood. The growing cold was a promise that their motherland had not forgotten them. Their growing chills were an assurance that it would sip of their pains again.


    And yet, their crawl proved proficient. The tightness of the trees was as obstructive to their march as would be mist. They vaulted fallen oaks, cut across clawing vines and pivoted around the steps and sounds of searching predators with an utter ease. They did not slow before warmth¡¯s leave, or the cries of ravens, or the shake of branches when the air was yet still. Unwavering they were, until Eidrik¡¯s eyes found deep earth and his breaths cut short at last.


    Yawning, the earth gullied before his boots. In a rock throat lived a lightless stretch, rank with mold that splashed the gully¡¯s edges like water around a well: a pitfall to the underearth and Arakvan¡¯s starved shadow. Eidrik slowed in sight of it, frowned, then turned a tired eye to Horral, who bounded still with an eagerness fear could not shake.


    ¡°We¡¯re drawing close,¡± Eidrik knew. ¡°Within the hour, I fear.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t fret,¡± said Horral. ¡°We¡¯d not earn a lone copper for the borsork if the wilds stretched forever. It¡¯s high time we came home. High time we had a night to settle, at last.¡±


    ¡°Home doesn¡¯t want us,¡± Eidrik groaned, semi-serious. ¡°I¡¯d wager she¡¯s had her fill of killers.¡±


    ¡°Heh,¡± Horral chuckled, hobbling up a mossed climb with cane in-hand. ¡°She¡¯ll settle, too.¡±


    Now Eidrik paused, not to observe and steady himself as he had before, but rather to ponder, and as capable and clever as he was, a moment of silent thought that questioned beyond which path to tread or which limb to sever was a rarer sight.


    ¡°Settling,¡± he voiced, unnerved. ¡°Seems all do settle, one way or another, don¡¯t they? It is such a hard thing¡­?¡± His words came quieter, snuck away, until he lost himself to the silence.


    With hot caution upon his brow, Horral turned to him and, with the tap of his cane upon a trunk, brought Eidrik¡¯s eyes forward. ¡°Don¡¯t lose focus, friend,¡± he urged kindly. ¡°You¡¯ve too many good deeds on your back for your conscience to dare weigh light.¡± Ahead he pressed, just slowly enough for Eidrik to not fall behind. ¡°And for sorry bastards like us, there¡¯s only more good deeds to do.¡±


    But Eidrik was unmoved, smothered in the growing winds. His feet did meander forward, sputtering step after step, but his eyes only dragged behind him. The woods stripped him of his composure, and while it was a loss suffered for but the briefest of moments, the shame of that truth--that weight of vulnerability--slowed him a while more. It was the tap of Horral¡¯s cane on rock that soothed him, swept him on, bleating beyond each call and scutter of the wilds. It was only that barren, striking melody that succeeded in making his troubles seem unnecessary.


    So he followed the tapping man, as he often did and he always would, into dangers and darkness and whatever could be called worse; subdued by a thing as soft as a cane on rock. It was nothing other than a weakness of age Horral trusted unto him, a fickle reliance upon a false leg, revealed, but it was every word Eidrik needed to hear.


    The forest expanded its units wide after a time of travel. Soon, the space between trees was a stretch, and where they faltered fields fattened. The foliage, like a shattered shield, could not keep light at bay, though the further they went the thicker the clouds grew, until the gold of Meddlelfore was a memory, and the gray of Arakvan¡¯s loom a dim promise. They came very near the outskirts of the wood, very near where the old oaks parted forever, when they fell still.


    A scent struck them like a battering wall they could not see. Under the air¡¯s sullied taste their tongues twisted, and--gradually, reluctant--the ammolite axehead left Eidrik¡¯s back to find a firmness in his fists.


    Ash was in the air.


    Over a rise, under a crossed trunk, through a sheet of creepers and down the cliff behind them rested the source of the scent. It was from atop the cliff that they beheld the smoke plume rising above those feeble trees. It was faint in its float, but its float was stretched broadly, evident to a great but aged flame. It was not until they breached the last of the oaks that the furrfiends glimpsed the smoke¡¯s base. They felt their knees buckle, as their snouts fell inflamed.


    ¡°All-Father¡¯s eyes¡­¡± Horral gasped.


    There, at Arakvan¡¯s frame, perched a decrepit span of ruin. Two dozen homes, shops, inns and a larder were crumpled black, drifting apart under each breeze. The smell of rot was thick, strangling. The trees opened wide and through them came wind with death on its back that barreled past the beasthunters. A tavern¡¯s sign post dangled from one chain like a windchime. A mother and her husband¡¯s square home was nothing other than a porch, charred, with rubble burying any memory of more. The roads were dark, littered in spent flesh and bone lost. The nearby woods were fallen or sickly from the fire¡¯s choke. Earth here was dead, and atop it the dead stacked like some monument to the most heinous of gods, the most depraved and unforgiving of the All-Father¡¯s twelve. Towards the town¡¯s center, where four roads met, was an awful heap of dragged and plopped corpses. Some were warriors that died in battle, still bearing their brutalized garb. Some were fathers who fell in defence of their homes, wielding rakes and bricks in their smoking hands: spirits, who did not yet believe their duty done and their deaths of service. Most, however, were naught but ordinary folk, who lived one day and died the next without a whim to change fate or an armament to accost destiny¡¯s headsmen. Their eye sockets were hollow, their mouths wide in frozen screams. They were mangled and cooked then left to decay to feed the beasts, in one wretched mound of inordinate massacre.


    This was Arrenfaeld, and now naught remained but the shadow of good malice and rot¡¯s giggling fumes, left to linger like ghosts upon the bruised straight. Lurking just past the treeline however, was a sea of open earth; disjointed but entire. It was a blur from behind death¡¯s fog, but it took no wisdom to know it was the maw of Arakvan, opened wide at last.


    Hesitant to not desecrate makeshift graves with wide boots, the furrfiends stepped forth. It was a cold truth that any clumsy stomp might shatter a corpse¡¯s eternity. To face forever charred was a hardship beyond death, but there was a closure for those who passed on--or so Horral hoped--that they might find the afterlife with at least their limbs and neck intact. And so their approach was slow, careful. They watched each house¡¯s corner as if its alleys were the lairs of reavers. Eidrik swore, if any rogues deemed this sprawling tomb a worthy fit for a ransack, they would swallow ammolite with their last breath.


    Yet, despite the desires of violence or vengeance¡¯s good intent, the air stayed still as the scent grew stronger. Soon, Eidrik and Horral walked with collars raised to cover their lips. The bodies, in approach, cemented themselves as unsightly. Ribs peeled back to spout burnt guts. All were sapped of any and all strength they held in life, with the pain of its departure locked in each empty gaze. There was a boon in their sacrilege however, as in victimhood they were same, and thus in their decomposition they were all equal; all together. The cost was individuality, any distinctiveness in a body¡¯s entropy, but Horral thought always that it was better to die boneless with kin than alone in full strength.


    Such thoughts faltered however, when he looked deeper into their silent screams. Their throats-- endless black, tightly entrapping. His stomach turned while the shade of their torment lured him near, but a hand on his elbow returned his will. Horral turned away, following Eidrik¡¯s beckon, but guilt grabbed at his ankles with each step.


    ¡°Bandits?¡± Eidrik wondered, keen on seeming undisturbed. ¡°Could bandits stoop to such depths? Could they even mount the strength to¡­ slaughter an entire township¡­?¡± He gulped, then buried that dread in his belly. ¡°Arrenfaeld was mighty once, despite ¡®er scale. I fail to believe lone cutthroats could tear it so asunder.¡± His growl subsided as his eyes soared with recall. ¡°Children toyed along the rise there. The old nan, Beatrice, was it¡­? She could cook a carrot pie that made your belly melt¡­¡±


    ¡°I remember,¡± affirmed a joyless Horral. ¡°But it weren¡¯t bandits that killed her, set her shop to ash.¡± He strolled further, then gestured to a pile of debris to his left, between what was once an inn and a longhouse. Amidst the particularly dark wreckage was an iron bar, still fastened to its ruined mantle on the inside of a door, that laid without a top or bottom. ¡°Bandits don¡¯t burn larders, less they¡¯ve already stolen what¡¯s inside. The lock is not undone.¡± He raised his eyes skeptically, scoping the horizon for any enemies yet to flee. ¡°These bastards didn¡¯t come here to steal. To let iron sing on bone, they came.¡±


    Eidrik¡¯s eyes narrowed, flush with a dour fury. Unknowingly, his axehead pulsed in his grip. ¡°You don¡¯t think it¡¯s them, do you?¡± He stepped closer, facing Horral with all his upset. ¡°The red riders¡­ Veidt¡¯s wardogs¡­¡± He shook his head, loosening wrath¡¯s clench. ¡°No, why would they? A feud, perhaps, with another township. Raiders from way of Eritle? Some Argolan vilespawn?¡±


    It was considered, but soon Horral shook his head. ¡°Arrenfaeld had no enemies. They kept to their borders, plied their trades.¡± He sighed out a wide breath, rank with coarse uncertainty. ¡°Doesn¡¯t make sense. No slaves were taken, no wealth stolen¡­ not even the armaments were plucked from their wielders.¡± He ran a hand through his grayed hair, inspecting the horde up ahead. ¡°Even if it were madmen keen on murder for the sake only of watching a body come apart, I can imagine no madman who goes without a trophy claimed, or does not add to his arsenal with picked steel.¡±


    ¡°Butchered, then,¡± said Eidrik. ¡°By folk who could fight, too. Soldiers, perhaps. Or beasthunters gone mad.¡± Again he snarled, failing to keep vengeance at bay. ¡°Not enough dead to mark this a battle. No theft to call it crime. Either we stir in the wake of a worse hunter, or Arrenfaeld was burnt just so folk might see the smoke.¡± Eidrik spat. ¡°Perhaps they clung so close to Meddlelfore that Arakvan found offence.¡±


    As he thought, Horral walked on. ¡°Perhaps is a path to a thousand things. None of which will grant us a softer sleep, or save these poor sods from what comes after.¡± There was great tragedy by their feet, but in his age he knew sorrow and supposition would grant them nothing. ¡°We can only pay our respects and carry on,¡± he said, and then so it was.


    A sound mounted the wind before they breached the horde¡¯s threshold. First it was a murmur under the breeze that slowed them. Then it rose, enforcing itself like some second gale that made their weapons tense but their kind minds ponder. Perhaps a survivor, they hoped, but hope was frail before risk, even to the bravest of souls, and when the dull echo grew louder still--into a chant whispered between the trees, they moved no more.


    It felt ladylike, soft and endearing. Perplexion fell over them while they watched the woods, as the sound moved everywhere all at once, as if it truly had boarded the very winds. Though the noise was melancholic, dragged and high, it came like a mother¡¯s lullaby to her babe, full of love and gentleness. The hymn entranced them, tempted their slumber, until they listened deeper, and heard that babe¡¯s little voice crying--no! screaming.


    Any comfort found, any optimism unearthed was offset and vanquished in a moment, while that shrill, pained plea rang true. Eidrik dropped his axe to both hands, turned back and pressed his spine against Horral¡¯s own. Horral backed into the shove, bent his cane arm high, then snapped it out to his side. The handle twisted, its black tip cracked and out shot a thin steel rapier. Long, elegant, frighteningly sharp, the blade doubled his reach. With its emergence, all the vulnerability of age fell from him like snow off a stamped boot.


    Their play was rapid, but it outpaced that of the hymning trespasser by a short inch.


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    The corpse stack erupted. Charred remains blasted apart and those slain rolled to the mound¡¯s base, while out from the hill flapped scaled wings; an abyss spread vast, like an unholy phoenix reborn from the ash. The thing was a gaunt cretin, human in form but with misfitting skin. Its limbs doubled a man¡¯s in length, with grotesque flaps of excess flesh drooping from its forearms and shins. Elsewhere its frame tightened--sickly so, wrapping its malformed bones tight enough for jagged shoulders, ribs, knees and the bridge of its skull to jut out. A thin trail of scales paced the Gleeman¡¯s pale flesh, as a tint of rotten gray over its white gold body. The further back they stretched, the darker they came, and their stretch circled even the spine that held them, coming black behind its touch. Its face was a man¡¯s, but malignant in its warp, with a stagger seeking deprivation undone in every shift. Radiant tusks, so pearly they held whatever light the sky shed, butted out from its jaws. Below them was a long, crooked neck, with its own set of curved bones keeping it straight, frightfully strong. It was from that horrid throat that the hymn formed, then out its peeling, unmoving lips that it sounded through the air.


    For a moment its grizzly reveal paralyzed them, before the Gleeman kicked into a glide and their senses restored sharp. Its soar slashed them, setting their defence askew while cane and axe curved in against the flight of its claws. Sparks flashed, then it was airborne again and aloft just beyond their reach. In turning it opened its mouth wide, hissed horribly, as if it were vomiting glass, then found a path through them again. Hurriedly they leapt. Horral frogged right, catching its swooping claw unaware, then before it could lift away he dug down into its hind legs. Eidrik was slower, though his axe clanged fiercely against the iron nails of the beast, while his neck was saved their slit.


    Again it rose, again it hissed, then it fell like a star from heaven, hymning over the clap of its own wings, torn between feral intents. Horral strafed right and, in his fleeting steps, beckoned Eidrik by a shout. The creature, bloodlusted as it was, took to part between them and sever both in a single strike. It was fast, eager, insatiable, but impatience proved the quicker wound.


    The Gleeman came low, just under the treeline, then rapid, gnashing out its hungry call. Eidrik moved left, forcing its flight wide and in the act shaving its precision. The beasthunter planted his feet firm, turned with a swing, and caught a shine of fear in the gaze of that descending monstrosity. It curved from him at the final moment, redirected in full to Horral, assuming so boldly that Eidrik¡¯s plant meant a forfeit of range. Just as the Gleeman curved, Eidrik chopped down, and at the zenith of his strike released the pommel. The ammolite blade swirled with fearsome heft, chopping through the very wind in its launch. Like a wagon it crashed into the Gleeman, wedging into its shoulder and sending it into a loose spiral. Horral turned from his retreat, sped further still, then ducked low, and overhead he unleashed a wicked cut that caught the flailing beast in its wing.


    The scales spread wide, blood soaked their butcher. The Gleeman rolled into the base of a tree, cracking the wood of the trunk with all its speed. It wailed as the hymn¡¯s soft beat turned to shrieks. A faucet of red sprayed across its back, and on weak legs it stumbled, in a vain effort to find its feet. Over its shoulder strode Horral, his old eyes covered in blood.


    The Gleeman attacked wildly, spinning its arms with a desperate need to taste and rip if only to distract from its own pain. Horral stepped back swiftly, and with one step alone was beyond its scuffle. He strafed to its side and pulled the thing¡¯s eyes with him. Just as the Gleeman¡¯s back turned however, the axe still in its shoulder tensed and the beast stopped in its tracks. Eidrik gripped his pommel firmly then ripped it downward, tearing the weak arm straight off the Gleeman¡¯s body and cutting through its spine. It spun with an agony to bite out Eidrik¡¯s throat, but Horral¡¯s caneblade crossed into its chest. The Gleeman¡¯s stare fell to the steel staking it for but a moment, before it fell limp over it and collapsed into a puddle of itself.


    Horral withdrew the blade, dried it on the creature¡¯s ruined skin, then gave a nod to his companion. Eidrik breathed deep, then shrugged.


    ¡°You alright?¡± he asked Horral.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Horral replied. ¡°Yeah¡­ good.¡±


    Without a moment¡¯s thought, Eidrik kicked the slain monster onto its back, then dropped his axe through the torn chest. As if the blade was a shovel, he dug through its bones and caked his shins scarlet. With each swing came a sore breath, until the heart was unearthed and in his fist. Horral left him to his work, paced back through the homes and towards the pile. The bodies, upon closer inspection, revealed gouged throats, marked by sharp teeth.


    ¡°Our killer, maybe?¡± he thought aloud, to himself. ¡°But a Gleeman doesn¡¯t use fire.¡±


    Eidrik focused only on the heart and did not answer. It dripped itself through his fingers, squirmed in his touch. The veins were black, but the flesh pale. In guessing the bounty for such a thing, he stared into it long enough for its stink to infest him, until at last he was irked by it. He deigned to drop it, though first the veins grew under his sight. He squinted, scowled, then looked closer. The heart, in his hand, beat.


    Below it, the head twisted and reached its maw towards his ankle. Eidrik gasped, leapt back, dropped the heart, and let a cleaving strike tear the Gleeman¡¯s skull in two. Annoyed, he groaned out a weariness, then chopped at the heart as well. When the work was done and the puddle of flesh in strips, he rested the axehead in its corpse and let a deep breath exude. A tiresome affair it was, as a Gleeman¡¯s murder fetched meagre sums.


    They had only just reached the lip of Arakvan, but already did it sport trials against them. The road would grow jagged now, as he knew all too well, and his bones would come all the more weary while his blade only dulled. The thought drained him, and heavy-headed he reeled his neck back to aim his irritance starbound.


    But eyes looked back down at him; black and set to fury. In the branches hung a glaring mate: a Gleeman again, larger with limbs more wicked. It crawled down the tree trunk to smell at his skin.


    Eidrik felt his heart drop. Wide-eyed and breathless, he made a hurried move for his axe, yet this time, the Gleeman was quicker. Its throat spat out a whispered laugh, childlike, then with thrice a man¡¯s strength it bore into him, pulling Eidrik up and into its flurry.


    Together they crossed the air and bashed through the nearest home at the end of the Gleeman¡¯s glide. An ashed wall fell to splinters beneath their burrow and as one they rolled over its burnt interior. Old corpses crushed under them, but the Gleeman kept his grip firm and gave Eidrik no quarter, as his hat fell away and his dread came unmasked. It pinned him, dug its claws into his arms until he screamed, then dropped its neck low to bite the face from his skull.


    Angered, steadfast, Eidrik slammed his forehead into the creature¡¯s chin, staggering it little, but enough to pull an arm free and throw a fist into its throat. It fell back, choked in a pained aim to make sound, and in its fall Eidrik dashed out and for his axe. A claw caught his stomach first, upheaving his charge. Through the next wall he flew, emerging at its other end wounded and baked with the dust of death. Coughing on ash and feeling new blood between his fingers, Eidrik struggled to stand, but stand he did, and at full height he rebuked the Gleeman¡¯s stalk with only a dagger pulled from his waist and his spare hand spent clutching his gut, from which a potent ache reverberated.


    Yet the Gleeman did not rush from the home nor fly out into Eidrik¡¯s open air. In some part of its awful, demented mind, it understood the game was nearly won. With a slow prowl, it crept its head around the edge of that breached wall; tusks braving the corner first, then its mangled jaw behind. A gentle hymn filled the air, while its dark eyes sought Eidrik out. On all-fours, the Gleeman engaged him on blood-wet grass.


    Eidrik held the dagger out to push the creature back, but it watched the little blade like a bear watches fish. It stepped slowly, then quick, and with one swing the dagger met dirt. Eidrik, however, refused to forfeit. He turned his fists to claws, squatted low, and readied himself to lunge at the beast with hand and tooth alone. Eidrik roared against the monstrosity, and in his wrath was the promise that it would not see the day¡¯s end.


    Then lunge it did, yet before the distance was done away a whistle turned the beast¡¯s head: a birdlike call, hailing from the deeper forest. Just then, Horral turned the corner opposite the sound at a sprint with his caneblade already in motion, but at the sight of the Gleeman¡¯s distraction he slowed.


    Lured by the sound, it stepped closer towards the woods and away from the hamlet, deserting Eidrik¡¯s challenge and the sweetness of his flesh. The whistle went again. A scrape followed it: steel on bark. Further, the Gleeman crawled, until at last out of the far trees a form emerged.


    It was a phantom of black, with a scarred skull. An outstretched arm held a blade unlike any the beasthunters had seen; no different from a monster¡¯s claw. It carved its way along the trees, while the form whistled and its shade engulfed an otherwise unblighted green.


    Then it stopped and the blade aimed straight.


    Enraged, the Gleeman hissed, sprang and soared. It was swifter than the one before it, with a greater reach and a sharper sting at its end. Ulf Eldric did not move before its charge however, nor revolt against its flight, not until that flight¡¯s very end, when its jaw cracked wide with the want of a first taste and a tongue shot out to lick the sugar from its kill.


    The cloak whirled, the shadow danced. A steel screech shook the sky. In a moment, Ulf¡¯s blade was still at his side. Behind him collapsed the Gleeman, without fingers or a head.


    In a scamper, Eidrik''s axe was retrieved, then dusted of its ill coat. His crumpled cap was again donned, and below its sagged flap beamed a ready venom. At once, the woods aired of stature and all threat. The trees shrank further still, while the air steadied with a numb wind. In sight of Ulf, nature¡¯s peril shrank, as the doom of man affirmed itself.


    Four steps brought him a lunge from the pair, where Ulf steadied atop a ridged split. The rock heightened him, and from his minor perch he eased. His blade lowered earthbound while his focus worked, but the grip remained tight and the gaze stayed harsh.


    They were unsettled nomads, the Northman thought. Their garb was tight and fixed for woundage, evident to a certain experience only great hardship could instill, but worn, scabbed and elsewhere resized by the pull of claws. They were made adept by the wilds, he wagered, but a knight would turn them amateur. The axe-bearing man wore his ferocity like armour, intent on shedding no advantage an enemy¡¯s boldness could boon. His gambeson was beat, his cap near refuse, and his axehead victimed to two hundred feats. Poor, though skilled enough to earn coin killing beasts. The beard that sealed his frown was strangled and crumbed with the flakes of fallen leaves. Mud marred his forehead and below the brown was bruised flesh. Capable, Ulf thought, but with old wounds untreated and weakness poorly hid. He would prove strong but slow, and in one miss the fight would be won and the ammolite offered to those beneath the earth.


    His eyes flicked left, where the older of the pair stood. Now Horral bent as if nursing a limp, but Ulf had seen already the swiftness of his strikes. His stare was soft, welcoming. His lips, too patient to smirk but not so dreary as to assume an enemy¡¯s scowl. There was a power in him, rightly concealed with fake frailty and wisely misled by an elder¡¯s all-encompassing kinship. It was deceit, but an attempt worthy of a certain passing admiration. His cloak was weighted by a thousand journeys north and south and back again, but largely unscathed. Prey only to his own loyalty, the Northman concluded, before flicking his aim to the caneblade: another attempt at trickery. The steel was honed, sharpened deathly so, yet it was narrow and light. A strong strike to its center would render him defenceless.


    Ulf¡¯s watch tripped however, as the older fellow pivoted a hand behind his back. Disguised as a stable for a hurt spine, in truth it was as if Horral heard his very thoughts, learned of Ulf¡¯s conclusion, and readied himself with a weapon again.


    Another wise maneuver, but to Ulf¡¯s eyes it was nothing more than a confirmation of an amateur¡¯s impulse. Now the play was made and the lie revealed. The Northman looked away, knowing there laid a second blade concealed at the back of his belt.


    ¡°To think¡­¡± Ulf Eldric began, his watch returned to the woods. ¡°In the East, they honour their saviours.¡±


    ¡°You saved only a steel¡¯s chip, outlander,¡± Eidrik snapped, defiant before grateful, with murder crossing his mind swifter than trust. ¡°And what does one so black seek so far south.¡±


    Even one as lowly bred as Eidrik understood such nightly leather was commonplace only to the Winter Realms, or the White Gargantan as it was otherwise named. What he was unlearned of was the vehemence those that emerged from the White Gargantan could sport, but in one quick shot of the carob-colouring in Ulf¡¯s sights he found himself as a student, with a student¡¯s shock and wordless awe.


    ¡°You would do well to tame your tongue, beastfoe,¡± Ulf warned. ¡°In these woods, there are worser things than a Gleeman¡¯s song.¡±


    Eidrik¡¯s hesitance was palpable and of course fair, but an Arakvanin upbringing taught him well that to show fear was to surrender victory, and scarcely did victors elect mercy. ¡°And who are you,¡± he challenged, ¡°who finds himself so known to the common man¡¯s horrors?¡± Taking his turn to intrude with peering eyes, Eidrik absorbed Ulf in his sockets. ¡°A monstrous blade, a killer¡¯s cunning¡­¡± he tilted towards Horral. ¡°I¡¯m unsure yet if we¡¯ve been saved, or traded off to a greater predator.¡±


    ¡°Ahh¡­¡± Ulf breathed, nearly settling to a smile. He recognized something in Eidrik; something terribly familiar. ¡°A predator I am, then,¡± he concurred. ¡°And in this realm you walk--so torn, so weak--I am too your hunter, if it is horror I so deign.¡±


    The axe came under two fists with a lean charging its strength. ¡°No friend of man speaks so softly of evil,¡± Eidrik answered.


    Now there was indeed a wrongness in Ulf. It sank his ease, grayed his eyes of their colour. ¡°And you know evil, beastfoe? Here in your fields and forests, you think you¡¯ve seen it?¡± The words dripped like poison, but genuine they were. ¡°You¡¯ve seen naught but the underbelly of the awful¡­¡± he said, as his head drooped in some quiet, distracted reflection, before resurfacing again with dire truth in its watch. ¡°But alas, I am from its heart.¡±


    ¡°Steel, then,¡± said Eidrik, aiming the axe to the forefront.


    There was a waiting moment between them. Ulf looked over the blade of rich ammolite, already envisioning the way it would strike dirt when the hands holding it died. Then he saw himself, rifling through their pockets before carrying on into the fields beyond, with only less folk to fight for them as were before. He frowned, considered the silence, then sighed out an airy reprieve.


    ¡°Not this day,¡± said the Northman. ¡°Many men I have gutted in these woods, but never for something so little as pride.¡± He strode further, within an arm¡¯s reach of Eidrik, making the beasthunter tense. Ulf passed him without worry, nodding to the corpse left in his wake. ¡°Your hunt is your own. Pick of this creature¡¯s bones,¡± he offered, passing Horral, too, who observed him with a marveling calm. ¡°Claim your little trophy.¡± Ulf¡¯s eyes slid serpentine over his shoulder. ¡°Tread after me, if you so dare,¡± he warned, ¡°but do not let me find your courage again, or I will cleave it in two.¡±


    Their survival was a risk, Ulf knew, but necessary. They, in all their valiant, wasted life, would prove him right in the end, and the promise they did not know would be absolved by their deaths.


    Only, Horral was not so soon decided. The Northman¡¯s mercy was a sage thing, though with an audacity that was to his own body impudent, he wagered the stranger¡¯s strength could be of some salvation--even if fleeting, and even if stark and inscrutable. In watching that dark cloak waver into the beyond, Horral imagined the power, the prestige of complete violence that left with it. That indeed was a wasted thing. He saw the ripples of fabric flex and fall flaccid, and in that black sea there was the shadow of the end. Horral raised his head high, breathed the cold winds he had breathed a million times before, and warmed himself with the thought of that bloody end.


    ¡°We are not adversaries, my friends,¡± he said at last, slowing Ulf¡¯s retreat while the older man--who was of some five decades--closed the gap, and Eidrik snuck up as a distrustful guard. ¡°We¡¯re all of us victims of this horrid wood. Let¡¯s not be made so lowly as to fight over a battle won, eh? As far as I can see, the enemies lie there, dead from your work and ours.¡±


    But Ulf was unhearing.


    ¡°You see little, old man,¡± he scolded, to Eidrik¡¯s quick refute of a step near.


    ¡°Mind your words, outlander,¡± the beasthunter cautioned, with a stomach for indignation that could not stretch for those dear to him. ¡°If he is such, then I am a man blind.¡±


    Threatening as the furrfiend stanced, Ulf was undeterred, but instead, by a dry tinge, amused. The words were refreshing in his ear and their boldness--the utter resolve to shield--quaint. He considered again combat, but again could see only a weakened word and one more winded hillock without its guardians. Ulf turned to see them true, then his voice grew grave with a verity he was keen to teach.


    ¡°The enemy is undying,¡± Ulf assured them. ¡°Everywhere, it lurks. In every shadow, staining each edge of our world.¡± He stepped closer. ¡°You would be unwise to call me friend. A fool to trust me by your fire.¡± He turned around a second time, while his voice sank lower. Eidrik heard warning, but to Horral¡¯s ears there was a pain. ¡°A friend,¡± the Northman said, ¡°is better saved dead.¡±


    Vicious was his tongue. So firm, it could not be fathomed false. Horral rested with his words a moment, considered them dearly, but failed in silencing himself before such heartlessness.


    ¡°Cruel words, Northman,¡± he said. ¡°True, mayhaps, but never would trying folk align with a faith so unkind.¡±


    Ulf resumed his departure, his words trailing into the trees. ¡°And for that, these woods will bury you, while I leave them unseen.¡±


    But seen he was, up until he reached the first sward of Arakvan, where the last of Meddlelfore¡¯s trees stole his visage. The beasthunters stood still, snatched by a bizarre assortment of worry and unrest, thought and fear amidst the ashes of ruined Arrenfaeld and the stench of its slaughtered folk.


    Then the winds blew cold again, and they remembered they must march on. On, to Arakvan. On, to there where gales lament.

 Chrome Skies

    Chapter VI - Chrome Skies


    Eyes hid back between shutters. Hands held knives behind doors. In their measly slacks of brick and lumber, the commonfolk truly believed they were safer than out in the street. How would they fare, Kellid wondered, after his work was done? Would men and women thank him for his cuts earned in their service, or rain him with petals for the sights he suffered in the name of their faith, or would they, like so many other downtrodden swine, relish the time his back at last turned to them?


    And, above it all, Kellid wondered if he could possibly deserve it.


    Eritle was a humble sprawl of a township. It found itself atop a jagged hill that crowned an otherwise barren stretch of country, and to its rocks the many homes and holes of its people were etched like crooked carvings out from the stone. Their great mound was broad, cliffed wickedly, and erected atop a labyrinthe of crying rock. Dilapidated towers of grey and boarded shacks hobbled across the climb. What moved in Eritle did so in rags and with a shamble, through puddles of cold. What light flickered in the town was coveted dearly and never far from its owner¡¯s chest, as if a flame so meagre could ever dispel the thunderclouds.


    To the hill¡¯s eastern edge all height plummeted, for there hulked a rift that could swallow a city and some, nestled over Eritle¡¯s sharpest ledge and down at the rock¡¯s base, then lower still, for the world caved in before it. It poised much like a cavern, open to the sky as if giants peeled off its roof. The great, gaping pit was a sea before Eritle¡¯s perch, and it was known as Argolan: a demented swamp of cypress and mud. Out from its depths crawled Scourgers and down from Eritle came their killers in an awful game of cat and mouse and the demon that grew in the heart of each day¡¯s victor. Those so bold and high on the hunt¡¯s taste ventured down into that wretched below to strike at the chief of Eritle¡¯s plights, but only the mightiest emerged from it again, with scars to prove their folly.


    From his terrace between a brothel¡¯s backdoor and death¡¯s mighty drop, Kellid beheld the wood; yawning with a hunger so dark the sun could not breach its treeline. It was a miserable trench, dragging beastfoes to Eritle in swarms and corrupting the very air with its underearth fumes. The propensity of the world beneath¡¯s ill breaths brought a near constant rain, but in that moment Kellid was both shocked and relieved to see silent skies.


    He--like every furrfiend left too long to wander the high winds--was no coward, certainly no turntail before thunder¡¯s boom, but from each porch and windowsill of Eritle swung lanterns, brimmed by burning cabalder. A potent incense, it granted them their light at dusk and fogged their every street, while in that mist birthed swirled a toxin that drove beast snouts wild. It proved a poor shield against greater terrors, but for its stench they could sleep a sheet safer at night. Yet when clouds collected and rain fell in pellets down upon the cabalder smoke as always it did, its dusts wetted, yellowed, expanding and stuffing the air about Eritle with a sweet chrome glow. Even now, that faded taint lingered, as if all could expect a storm surging out from the yellow shrouding them.


    Looking high, Kellid watched cages sway in the wind, hung by iron chains, holding decrepit scum. They were starved, with needle-like arms probing barely beyond the rust of their bars. Their groans were loonish, but, oddly enough, softened the quiet of night.


    Four nights prior, Kellid had arrived in Eritle, alongside a host of other beastfoes loyal to the Clergy of Galehaven. With the grim ensemble came soldiers, too, adorned in their blue and gold and all that miserable steel that would slay them were they ever to challenge a Scourger within it. It was only three nights prior that the first of the cages went up. Zealots, they called them, and in hearing their howls Kellid could not presume otherwise.


    ¡°Miserable place to hop,¡± he jibed, producing then an oak pipe. With two pinched fingers he jammed its bowl full of hamroot, then snapped those fingers together. His gauntlets, while incredibly thin, were tipped in erovite, and the friction from that chlorate fiber spat a spark into the bowl. The hamroot--a grassy flower--ambered at the surface, smoldered when his breath sucked flame down through the pipe¡¯s lip. He lowered its gleam from his jaw and breathed a gust of sulfur over the ledge. ¡°But we make do,¡± said Kellid, strangling a cough.


    The evening sky, what seemed an eternity from that sodden rock, was near violet. A great mass of smothered light sank red towards its horizon. The stain of the clouds glossed across the sun made for a magenta flare, brushing the earth in its cool downward glimmer. The clouds smuggled that violet near, the winds lashed it white. The sky was scarred, but its wounds gorged to become a thing of beauty, like cosmic slots splitting the atmosphere.


    Kellid pulled deeper, until his lungs drowned with smoke. He curved forward suddenly, spitting off the summit and hacking out a trail of ash. Patting his chest, he breathed slow, spewing hurt breaths until laughter fell against him from above.


    Whipping back nervously, he searched out his mocker, only to find himself another zealot; trapped in a low-hanging cage and, to his estimation, a purebred lunatic servile only to their gaol¡¯s sway. Such a notion faded when he peered closer however, and saw crumpled within the iron cage was a skinny, shaved-headed woman. She wore only tattered rags and through them hugged tight ribs, but in her shoulders was a certain firmness, then in her eyes beamed a firm certainty. Her mouth was drawn to a small-lipped smirk, through which peaked clean teeth.


    ¡°You need help with that?¡± she guessed, her voice a doughy croak.


    Kellid observed her a moment. Her stomach had shrunk in recent days. Her gaze fell feral as mud set itself deep upon her body and shade cluttered under her eyes. Blood and grime filed her nails, time left them sharp. She was marred with earth, as if dragged--bruised and bony, as if beaten, but still within her was a mind sound enough to settle the sanity that would otherwise lead her stance to a lunge, and a capability to see its whims through. Kellid turned away from her, dumped the pipe of its contents then began to fill it again.


    ¡°What¡¯d they hang you for?¡± he asked. ¡°Not stealing hamroot, I¡¯d hope.¡±


    ¡°You think me a petty thief?¡± she answered. ¡°What makes you sure I¡¯m not some raider warlord? Could be I¡¯m the same who turned Arrenfaeld to smoke.¡±


    He glared her down a second time, her tone¡¯s moxie an ear¡¯s cinder. Neither disturbed nor barbarous, she quickly became an anomaly to him. Kellid gawked her way, amused by envisioning such a modest frame as a vanguard for some marauder hive.


    ¡°Gonna scare me into letting you out?¡± he toyed, as a flame snapped to his pipe.


    Kellid heard her scutter against the bars. The old iron no doubt raked her shins--barren as they were--but he was sure she was nothing so supple to face a scuff deterred. The prisoner¡¯s lips came to the verge of her gaol, speaking strikingly, as if her line had bubbled low.


    ¡°Who said I want out?¡± she asked. ¡°Last I checked, that pipe¡¯s thinner than these bars.¡±


    Made merry, Kellid chuckled, though hid her from his grin. He took a puff, whisked the smoke sidelong through a part jaw, then nodded to her captivity to lead her gaze apart from his mirth.


    ¡°Eh, what joy is a hop if you¡¯ve no ale to wash it away?¡± he wondered, taking her in. ¡°It¡¯d feel unkind to get you jittered lest I fetched fruit and bread with it, at least.¡± He puffed again, feeling the hunger he warned of. ¡°Or mayhaps m¡¯lady prefers cheese?¡± Kellid jested.


    ¡°Gin,¡± she said simply, dispensed of wit, but with a brighter smile. ¡°To be candid.¡±


    ¡°Are we candid, now?¡± he asked, force throwing smoke from his maw. ¡°Then let¡¯s call things as they are. You¡¯re no lady, and I¡¯m no fool who turns shepherd for sorry souls.¡± He gave her his back, then puffed again. ¡°Good chance the next furrfiend will prove a friend, though. If you¡¯re willing to slip your legs through those bars.¡±


    Now her smile died, and she eased near with a salt in her throat.


    ¡°No fool, are you? And what else do we call men who turn mut before the call of Galehaven? We¡¯re both caged with legs part, furrfiend, only difference is I don¡¯t need hamroot to hug my bars.¡±


    The fire in his oaken pipe died out. The gales corralled fierce against him and Kellid made no pants to outwind them. A third time, Kellid turned to her, only now he did not look with the impressed pupils of a prospect friend, but instead the watching eyes of a true beasthunter. Wild was his stare, though it found no vice in her beyond the cut of her tongue, and thus no devilry for his wanton blade to expunge. He settled, indignant, then strode closer so that their minds could share a stage.


    Drawing near, Kellid found her grow before the violet eve. Her shoulders widened, her forearms tensed with some dormant bulk. In those legs he had chastised her for, he now found a power she ailed to conceal. Her pale form glossed, engrossed in that fleeting light, and where there fell shadow there laired strength. Understanding that this was no gutter flock for him to empty out impulse against, Kellid nodded slowly.


    ¡°It¡¯s a wonder you¡¯ve been hung by a chain, instead of by your neck,¡± he scolded, unserious. ¡°Or did you scare the hangman off with that mouth of yours?¡±


    Swift, she readied a retort. Her jaw worked with an eager jibe, undecided between a bribe, a threat, or a complement that might slacken her chain or leave a file between her bars. Their eyes locked and her mouth loosed, but in that instant a flare of light mantled her gaze. Honeyed purple filled her sights, and the falling sun dragged all focus with it into the horizon. Cold were the winds, sharp was the beasthunter¡¯s watch, yet still did the solemn sun carry her beyond it all.


    In a moment, Kellid¡¯s caution was deaf to her. Their game was dust that a faded day dissolved. She, in her cage, saw only that horrid, wonderfully wrong canvas of magenta as it fissured--lightning-like--through dusk¡¯s shade; some starry wrestle. Her aim to grab the dagger at his belt died, while the ruse of her tongue fell away. There was, in her, only that elsewhere light.


    ¡°That ain¡¯t a thing so bad,¡± she hoped, quiet.


    Kellid stuttered, staring. He stammered before the sunset, bewildered by her words--her focus; unflinching. Tried as he may, he could not understand her, or see what was right in a sky so common and so deformed and so gnarled with violent light.


    ¡°Never seen a sunset before?¡± he asked, seeking to rift whatever intent stirred her, irked him. ¡°What, was your cage turned to the wall last night?¡±


    She ignored his insults, instead trying to smile.


    ¡°It just seems wrong¡­¡± she said, ¡°killing a man before such a fine sight¡­¡± Kellid shook, made alert, but she spoke on, lightly as ever but managing command of him still. ¡°Is it pretty enough, do you think, to make the pair of us any less ugly?¡±


    Then Kellid was silent. Starvation must have been speaking to him, then, for he could not match those wounded words to her zealous gaze. His very presence at once suffered affront and its merits he could not sort. The confusion stung him, so it was then easier to reject her as a madwoman indeed.


    ¡°I oughta pamper m¡¯self, then,¡± he said in turning. ¡°If even the crazed can call me ugly.¡±


    He walked past her, keen to take her out of mind, and something in him knew that she and her stare were unaffected by his steps. Escape, murder, or something as meagre as a pinch of hamroot--all urges were forgot by that troubled captive, and somehow, in nothing other than the fading violet of a tumbling sun, Kellid felt worthless.


    Irked, he carried on quicker, until the bald woman was nothing other than another cage that happened to hang behind the brothel. Ugly? he thought, outraged. Poor enough to beg for flower but too good to treat me kind? It could not be understood. She had meant in soul, he considered, but what could she possibly know of him to make such a claim: a stance that avowed his very being wrong? Uncomfortable, uncertain, and put at unease by the mere thought of her, he staked his sights higher, and lent his spite to her chain-hung kin.


    Pulleys and iron links laced along the rooftops, then darted above byways like clotheslines. In their wake they drooped the sickly and the uncivil. Hacking blood on the strewn stone below, belching pleas to each passing denizen, the zealots were a diseased hail. When he dared to look closer, if merely to convince himself that the bald woman was nothing more than another cog in a clan, Kellid beheld Eritle¡¯s crime. While some were ragged, many of the men and women were stripped and freezing, unveiling their rotted skin submerged in old warts. They wrapped chewed fingers around their bars, shivered like iron clasps choked their wrists. Scratches covered their necks, much of a blood still wet, as if they tried to rip out their own throats rather than endure the Patch¡¯s pain. Pale, cloudy eyes fell down against Kellid from between iron throbs, though despite any believed blindness he felt all too seen by their trembling, hating glares. All were slender of an extreme sort, with their every ragged inhale pressing bones to the wind, and their hairs, regardless of age, were long and greyed, mop-like atop their twitching necks. They coughed hoarsely, sobbed from agony alone, and leaked lumps of red mucus down their wrists; a grime either unnoticed or uncared for. These folk, so brutalized by the Patch¡¯s pull, did naught even to wipe their eyes of tears.


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    Suddenly his head had a great weight and his neck strained to sport it. Kellid ducked down, remembering why folk in Eritle bore low hoods even when the rain was gone. Near his foot, blood from a bit finger dripped. The thought was imposing, but undeniable: were there truly criminals hanging overhead, or only the plagued, whom higher folk deigned to divide from the unafflicted whole?


    He could not pain himself with such wonders, as every conscious grant to their wellbeing dragged an unwieldy mind back to the bald woman, who at once became guiltless before him. He could not fathom her, in her sunset, as a villain of a heart so unworthy that it demanded chains, so he found solace in removing her from thought altogether. Hurried, but hardly so brisk as to warrant a common man''s stare, Kellid advanced, down the great hill.


    The trail was beaten and jagged, curving awkwardly to berth rocks, trace below slumped landbridges. It winded side to side, but ever down, as an unsightly collapse of sodden, stirred homesteads stacked around it. Where it dipped, puddles festered, and when its dips curved deeper a road of rainwater crept snakish towards its base. The elderly here moved at an anguish, struggling to keep their footing but herded on by soldiers in cheap helms and breastplates, sword-bearing and branded by the seal of Galehaven. From their sight, all hid and stashed within tight alleys, and in the midst of their fear those impoverished bladesmen felt strength.


    Or they did, until a beastfoe crossed their eye. Like leeches out from the murk that was Eritle¡¯s bottom, the furrfiends skulked and stomped, dreary and ached. Their weapons--a harsh, makeshift armada of iron and ore--dragged behind them while their sights sowed earth. Their garb was sagged leather weaved with tears, always in shades of grey or black or brown, with as much skin hidden under wraps as they could manage before that defense stole their breaths. Miserable they were, but all knew better than to grace them a gaze. It was true what the hamlets of Arakvan told: that in living and dying among beasts, men too fell to depravity, and so like droned emblems of carnage¡¯s cost, the furrfiends walked.


    Eritle, on that eve, was a barracks for humanity¡¯s worst sort. Already did the cliffed township bear its own rogues, but now it flushed with the barbaric and the elsewhere¡¯d. In the chrome wet mists, danger lurked between each home, while the cabalder burned ever brighter and the doors were barred with only greater steel.


    Yet Kellid was no stranger to bleeding homes nor the austere fears of its persons, so he strolled with comfort enough and before him bowed every head but those maddened high above. Alongside him then a step behind, a shadow followed. It sank through alleys and slid roof to roof, craven in its crawl. He heard that prowling shade indeed, but Kellid was unbothered, and snapping again he shot fire into his pipe, as the faithful thing kept reach.


    The metal of his boots bashed each puddle they struck, splashing old rainwater onto his lead greaves, under which creased brown pants of linen, boarded in white wraps. White wraps infested his forearms as well, ending only when they met the lead of his gauntlets at their forefront and the leather of his shoulders at their rear. Out from his left deltoid curved a horn, bolted into an iron crest. The horn was white, slit in thin scribes, and strong enough for none to mistake it as a thing from the world of man. Over his right arm was leashed a little spine from some babe blairhound, and from his left breast, atop the iron plate strapped to his core, old blood dripped low enough to his ribs one would fail to believe it was long dried. Under the iron of his chest ran black leather so worn it neared grey, though the short cloak at his back was wetted enough with rain its grey came white.


    His head was unguarded, and a dark brown rattail--for which all but a few rebel hairs were pulled back--hung over his cloak and the hood he seldom rose. Stubbled and scarred, his face was a scrawny mold that could be called bilious were it not for the strength in his jaw and temple. His brows were dense, and below them sat wide yellow eyes that were so beady they often caught light, and lent Kellid a spot of sadness.


    But the cries of the caged assailed him, and so his hood was drawn, and all his vulnerability perished. The sides of the hood were stretched cloth stringed by tiny zinc coils, and on them perched a cask of steel; dented, round and dark. It was in effect a half-helm, conjoined to his hood. The eyes were narrow slots that showed only the sharp, inscrutable yellow of his eyes. The steel reached his nose, encased it in a short beak, then stopped to show the scowl below it.


    With the helm drawn, Kellid became an immediate predator and downcast eyes drifted elsewhere. So hardened was this newborn gaze that it stole any privy of his arms, but at his hip did indeed sit a sabre--fearsome, with a bladed hilt, coated in erovite, and when steel sparked against it it was said the blade shone red.


    Although his demeanor had become a frightening thing, Kellid donned his helm only to escape the onlookers, returning to the banal yet trepid realm of the furrfiends as just another masked murderer. As such he slipped through soldiers and comrades alike, as those of Galehaven pretended at grit and those of the swards imagined they were elsewhere. For beasthunters, much time amidst the unsightly made townships into a worse discomfort. Years amidst monsters caved a man¡¯s civility, and with each shambling peasant passed their minds flickered with fake threats and the bloodshed needed to end them.


    What brought this brutish ensemble to Eritle was an errand on behalf of a mysterious benefactor, who paid well for secrecy and dark deeds. He had presented himself as an entrepreneur, seeking to turn dead space into wealth and unearth riches from the world below. Kellid remembered his pitch, spoken from behind the backs of a dozen armed guards, eclipsing goodness and the benefit of the land, but at day¡¯s end gold was gold, and only its spenders would be better off. Many a furrfiend had come under this man¡¯s employ, many back-alley miscreants and amateur wildmen, but only those that survived to the trial¡¯s end would ever see their pay. Thus Kellid passed each comrade with a veiled sorrow, knowing they would not live to see the fruit of their efforts and learn that their lives were staked on a wish.


    Eritle was their hub, and to ensure it did not fall to a host so grizzly, fighters from Galehaven were deployed to preserve the Vithicar¡¯s justice; a recent but most routine ploy at affirming power. But the furrfiends kept only to themselves, if not drafted already into the same service, and Kellid had seen naught but cages sprout up behind the coming of the All-Father¡¯s ignoble disciples. Ah well, he sighed, soon we¡¯ll all of us be gone, and this sad heap of a town can suffer again in peace.


    Then the object of his intrigue presented itself, a climb lower, at the township¡¯s doormat, where armsmen and a rare few steeds grouped and stamped, that in Eritle were an image beyond belief, as years past had the last of their Wilderwheat mares perished, from famine, fatigue¡¯s illness, and men¡¯s own cruelty. But of course, the Scourge too had its taste. The benefactor who had collected so many trained killers like bobby pins stood shielded amidst the cluster. His name was Ervellyn Aelsen, or at least such was the name he had given the humble and unknowing to which Kellid belonged.


    Aelsen certainly did not fit the role he played. Rather than distinguished robes as would suit a person of prestige, he bore a great grey cloak that immersed him like a blanket. Only his hands, slender and gloved white, protruded from the ashen mass. His hair was short, dark brown, with shaved lines probing the right side of his head. A silver stud pierced his left brow, and below both was a twitching black gaze. His age was modest and his features insignificant, save for the fullness of his lips and the cut that slid down them. On his back, of great interest to the keen Kellid, hung a large crossbow of black wood and silver. The man was sized like any other, though he carried with him a sway of experience that the crossbow¡¯s scrapes affirmed.


    Standing like a common man, he heard petitions and inquiries from the soldiers like a king and treated each with a frank earnesty. At once it was clear that Galehaven did not dispense its bladesmen for Eritle, but instead for this cloaked figure who could afford to be kept alive. All their cages risen, all the scrutiny upon the whims and faults of poor modest life, were the fault of this Aelsen, who stood as calm as if he were immune to the guilt. Another liar, thought Kellid, in service of secret wants, for faraway masters. How could he endure it?


    ¡°You as surprised as we were?¡± asked a voice.


    In turning, Kellid found two guards, adorned in steel with the patchwork of blue and gold, and an uncompromising boredom that shunned each sunlit sight and brought their words to one such as he. Kellid inspected them for but a moment, unimpressed, unthreatened. The two were gruff, men molded out from a lasting groan, leaning against the front of another¡¯s hearth. A drip from the roof above parted the space between them, as they clung to shade¡¯s warmth and left Kellid below the clouds. That drip garnered more interest from the furrfiend than the soldiers could.


    ¡°Looks nothing like a man of wealth,¡± they whined. ¡°More like one of you lot, I think.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡± Kellid asked, stern but with disinterest still.


    The soldier diverted his eyes, pivoted awkwardly in his lean. ¡°Did you ever imagine fate would drag you to a place like this?¡± he wondered, watching the boarded homes and the frail lights quivering within. ¡°Skies of gold, but with folk who couldn¡¯t give a copper if a blade was to their neck¡­ makes you wonder what we¡¯re really protecting out here.¡±


    ¡°I never wonder long,¡± Kellid answered. ¡°When you hear the howls at night and shelter is far off, you lose reason to fight beyond keeping the claws from your skin.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard work, innit?¡± the other asked from behind a firm, sterile stare. ¡°Killing what¡¯s out there?¡±


    Kellid nodded, and made eager the man crossed his arms.


    ¡°I thought I could do it, once, y¡¯know. When I was young, yet.¡± His head shook, well-humoured and in shame as he tugged up his shirt, showing three ancient thrashes against his gut. ¡°Then I faced m¡¯ first horror, and I knew I was a bigger fool than him down there.¡±


    The three turned towards Aelsen, as the soldier spoke on.


    ¡°Fuck does some uptown bastard like him hope to find way out here? Ask me, he¡¯s just another whoreson with too much gold and too much time, who thinks he¡¯s found a way to earn something real.¡± He spat. ¡°He¡¯ll learn, same as I did.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have an army at your back,¡± his partner rebuked.


    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised,¡± said Kellid. ¡°To see how quickly--down there in the dark, in the underearth--an army turns to nothing but voices lost to darkness. A million blades can¡¯t keep him safe, if the time comes when that crossbow shoots askew.¡±


    ¡°Hell¡¯s a ¡®million¡¯?¡± the first asked.


    Kellid shook his head, forgetting himself, irate at the early loss of his guise. ¡°A sum far beyond any of us. A million¡¯s what will suffer, when Ervellyn delves too deep and brings deep things back up with him.¡± Kellid puffed from his pipe and the pine reek of hamroot filled their air. ¡°He¡¯ll see what he came for, to be certain.¡±


    ¡°Every beasthunter I¡¯ve talked to,¡± the soldier began, ¡°talks like they just lost a loved one; nothing but bitterness an¡¯ old pains, nowhere¡¯s near forgotten. Why d¡¯ you ever do it, furrfiend? Aye? What¡¯s a few silvers worth, when you have to see the things you¡¯ve seen, undo ¡®em, survive ¡®em and make it home? What can ever make all that alright?¡±


    The beasthunter shrugged. ¡°Would you believe me, if I said I did it for the people? Eritle, the Wilderwheats, faraway Galehaven¡­ For the good of the land?¡±


    A laugh answered. ¡°I¡¯d sooner believe in the Argolese Giant.¡±


    ¡°Is that it?¡± the other asked, serious. ¡°Do y¡¯ really go out there in the night just so that some sorry bloke you¡¯ve never met can sleep safer?¡±


    Silence fell over Kellid, dragging his gaze down to the puddle between them. In it, he beheld himself, looking back up with a steel beak and yellow eyes. ¡°Of course not,¡± he remembered. ¡°I do it cause I¡¯m too bloody dull to be a mason.¡± He turned away from their chuckles to look at Aelsen again and hide what was a joyless face.


    ¡°Well,¡± the first said. ¡°You¡¯re the least mad furrfiend we¡¯ve seen for days, I¡¯ll give you that. Funny, even. And with a helm I¡¯d pay a leg for.¡±


    Over his shoulder he found them again, with a hawkish, hunting stare. They stilled and the chuckles ceased. ¡°It costs a heart,¡± said Kellid, gravely.


    Somewhere, a horn blew, and the town rattled. Ghouls to the evening call, furrfiends in a double dozen emptied the streets on their way low. The chrome mists shuffled and spewed wild-eyed men in grey garb, with horrid blades at their backs. The shambling horde reached the lip of Eritle, where a mud courtyard gave way to a series of wobbling bridges that lead the way down below, then stopped to look wearily onto Aelsen, who had stood up on a barrel to be seen. Kellid was of course among them, along with almost every guard the town had been gifted.


    ¡°Nigh¡¯ time, friends,¡± said Aelsen, sly but sure. ¡°Below, the caravan is being prepped for our leave; ready to carry home the wealth and material I know, after so many days in this wooden swamp, we all crave.¡± Some laughed, most stayed silent. ¡°The road will be arduous, I will not lie. But there are many of us, and some of the most fearsome beastkillers known to Arakvan.¡± He gestured to the soldiers. ¡°Alongside Galehaven¡¯s finest.¡±


    Aelsen took a moment to inspect the crowd. He saw their nervous, tired faces. He saw the limp in the experienced, the bat in the young, the cracks in their blades, and all the tears in their leather. Then his mind flicked to what lay ahead and the horror they would dig for together, and in sight of the drab band he fought the urge to smile.


    ¡°Our path is dangerous, friends. But at its end, Arakvan will be made better, and, of course, every man here will walk away with fuller pockets. Do be steadfast. If you fall in the underearth, there will lie your grave forever.¡±


    Then chatter rippled and the mass moved ahead. In files they tread through the gate, from bridge to bridge, rock to rock, until there was again grass beneath their feet, and the great shadow of high Eritle swallowed them. The caravan rolled southeast, with a worthy force of the skilled and doomed around it. As their march took to the fields and the wail of blair hogs engulfed them, Kellid gave a last look back to sodden Eritle. There it laid, with the rift of Argolan hungry at its hip and a terrible drop at its every turn. He saw figures shuffle to the rockledge to watch them leave, and in truth there was a great sum who did at last leave their homes without fear, but Kellid could sense also how empty the town now looked in leave of its defenders, and Argolan¡¯s yawn grew only greater.


    Thunder boomed then. Rain fell in torrents to slay the clear sky. Again, the cliff wept and its air burned chrome.


    Kellid felt a sigh surface, but he swallowed it, and looked gently at a shadow hidden away in the near stone that followed him still. Kellid frowned, and the two shared a silence, until he carried on.


    Behind them, another shadow stifled to watch their march. Through the heavy boards of a high-up home, a squat witness waited, until the silhouettes of Aelsen¡¯s horde were fed to the horizon and the hills that carried it.


    Then his eyes--a brilliant gold--narrowed, ready, and when he stood his slot between the boards bore only crimson.

 Skjallstrom

    Chapter 7: Skjallstrom


    It had been a day¡¯s journey since he last saw the beasthunters in Arrenfaeld. Night had come, grown late as he slept under a drooped, furtive tree, and now twilight was spent, though the light of day--far off--was yet to heed him. So Ulf awoke shortly after midnight, keen on trudging forward, and crept off into that old darkness.


    The realm, in all its girth and savage sprawls, had stranded him to its outlands in the midstwhile, where low fields forbade Arakvan¡¯s frost for a brief, timid mile. Though same as all things before that fractured land, they faltered, and the grass soon grew loose and wild, oscillating spectrally so. Hills ruptured the plains like tumors, and diseased afore them the earth descried its own wither. The swards grayed, but a lushness anew throbbed between their sway like creatures behind a curtain. Rifts slithered through the earth, descending deep into tundras of old stone; gateways to the world below. Most were shallow and tightened into sharp nooks only, though some were far-reaching, and at their bottom was only blackness. All the while--as native moss wrestled critters into shallow graves, silhouettes prowled hilltops, and birds cried with an offset frenzy--the gales for which Arakvan was known and feared proved more imposing than all.


    Whether earthbound and stubbed or beaconed high, trees and fields and beasts alike succumbed to the great call of wind. The land rattled to a near tremor with each gust, and with each gust was a silver glow. It was as if it were a playground of wraiths, cutting out pale swabs in the grass and singing with a desperate melancholy. Under every draft the earth cried its ghostly wail, moaning with such thunder one would imagine the very dirt itself begged the breeze to die. The gales stabbed and shrieked, rode over cliffs and echoed up their crevices, ceaseless, lashing viciously. It carried wood and mud in white rides. It bowed rock and met it to the whirlwind. It howled blood out from frail ears. It was a set of fingers sliding through hair; the hushed words of a scorned lover; it was the hurt, eternal soul of Arakvan, and nowhere was its frost escaped.


    Never was it fiercer than at night¡¯s zenith, and swarmed in shadow Ulf met its first bite from atop a mound of crumbled rock. He felt the cold fill the cracks of his battle scars. It was harsh indeed, but the White Gargantan had taught him what it meant to freeze, and so unperturbed and unflinching in the face of its mammoth thrust, Arakvan¡¯s might could only flap his cloak. Then he marched on, and the wind curved to swallow him within its dark wail.


    So it¡¯s true what they tell, thought Ulf in passing. Here, the sun spits frost.


    Through endless plains of white grass aloft he trekked. The moon was stark, radiating her haunt of bleak cerulean that did softly gloss the realm in its eerie sheet, but Ulf weaved through it when it came thick. The moon was indeed a sight, as in Arakvinin air it was no spectator from the stars, but a massive, stalking eye, oppressive in its grandeur, that claimed the world as its lantern to be lit and snuffed at whim. It bore sideburns of black, and Ulf wondered if perhaps even that wondrous, terrible giant of a moon could not dissuade the crush of night. From its brilliance, the tips of the ghost grass silvered, and the fields became a tide of resplendent white.


    Up from the infinite dips the land sported came a fluorescent glaze from far, far below. From some distant light-caught moss did it emanate, low in the underearth entries, but at night its glimmer was spanning and beyond contest. Hubs of hot air, they hung over rifts like fertile limes or a crass evergreen, and under the shine of those uncanny springs rode dusts; shivering like insects at such a buzz they made the air tremble--misted in cold neon.


    The weakest of Arakvan¡¯s wilderness huddled by these wayward lanterns, stashing themselves away by its warm alarm. To Ulf they were a plain vulnerability, an err of nature, though he imagined there lived many in Arakvan who trembled before light itself. They were spared by his blade, if only because they lacked the meat to earn its cut. Toadrigs, carilhorns, fostbars and lesser flock assembled like prides before the watering hole, leeching off the only wells night could not devour.


    It was indeed at night, though--when the skies stayed gray and star-swarmed, adrift with feathered clouds--that winged silhouettes darted airborne. Their shrieks were horrendous affronts to human ears and their forms huge and taloned, and surely the razor red of their sights caught anything they thought they could kill, but Ulf heard the bat of wings and low he drew, like a black rock amidst dark plains.


    Onward he trekked, until night waned and he crossed the first wicked border of the Whilderwheats: a pair of trees, with white roots, long, twisting bodies that wrapped tight and delved inward as if demented by the arcane, and branches of hurt maroon, scythed out from the black of their trunks. In the peripheral, where more trees strangled stone and bent out from jagged gaps in the rockside, the visage was a constant, and the effect a malaise that trailed each eye that found it for miles on.


    Ulf stayed low, striding squat in the underbrush below the claim of cliffs and crossing fields with a haste that fed him speeding to the next sward, where nature defied definition, and grasses towered with their endless waver, floating grasp. The Whilderwheats were long and empty, graced seldom but solely by the feral, but carrying on meant its enduring for weeks more.


    Old, worn moans bounded up from deep down in the rifts, like an aged smith¡¯s mutterings who from iron smelted that earth¡¯s core, while from all around echoed howls and the hymns of unseen horrors. The grass smothered each scream then shot it out fettered and wrong, and so sound too numbered among the ranks of the enemy.


    Trusting only his feet and the firmness of dirt beneath them, Ulf joined Arakvan¡¯s spectors; floating, striding, moving without weight. But the land was loud and wounded, and sans some lament Ulf quickly was made foreign by his held tongue. The moon, in some strange, awful manner, knew he did not belong, and against him it beamed a blinding blue that bade him downward. Through dried gulley and rotted grove he tread, finding paths etched in stone and roads of wheat--frosted--and mint, of a green too sheer and petals too toothed. Staying away from the light, he stalked swiftly, skillfully, and within hours had become naught but another Arakvinin predator.


    That cool, jittering night, despite all its wails and wraiths, was a solace to him. Among the darkness he could breathe easy, and beyond the colour of day things were of a perfect clarity. There was him, the path winding forward, all that hungered to entrench it and all that would die in its dirt. Almost all that there was to be known was unknown to that dark stranger, yet Ulf understood the rules of their game. Hunters would hunt for thrill and flesh, prey would hide in sweat and blood, the wind would strike cold and the grass would drown the slain, as the moon cursed all below it to die undone. The land¡¯s terrors were not known, but they were understood perfectly, and thus in a realm of tremendous dread, Ulf found great comfort indeed. Without words, without thought, with only the true thrust of his blade to guide him, that cloaked outlander aligned with the swards¡¯ spooks, and from hour to hour he carried on.


    At last, after what felt an eternity in the glow of the rifts and the silver of the plains, dawn fell over the Whilderwheats. An amber flame took the horizon, sparkled like an infant star, then stretched itself into the low skies. The clouds softened and through them came an air of chilled orange, until the heavens were taken by the waking sun. The cold light from below dispersed, the wails subsided, and the fields teemed with waking life. Blairhogs trot joyously from divot to crest. Undvarks sang their grating songs from atop the Redcress arbors. Chase ensued across the valley; some playful as others ended in chews. Ulf, still, was witness to it all.


    What drew near was driven back by his growl. What reached far was severed by his blade. The graver threats that could not be persuaded with a swift bloodlet or a fierce call searched for him, though from sward to sward they found no tracks to follow, no scent to sniff out, and no form to catch in the thirst of their eyes. He moved with the wind itself, and as quickly as each gust wisped past, the shadow of Ulf was elsewhere.


    Onward he carried, undetected, though with shins stinging from endless stone stores in his path and a stomach growling, unquenched yet. Even his eyes, tempered yet unadapted to the pale haunt of that land, ached under early daylight. Then the clouds that remained darkened, caught the amber of day in their folds and swallowed it, and gathered strong. Strong and deep, until soon the tender dawn was fanged by storm clouds.


    Looking high with the smell of a sweet pungency in his snout, Ulf frowned and pulled his cloak high. The world grayed like an ill midnight, then hail snapped downward. First it only announced itself, as the frail scampered underground, then it came in torrents. The sound was a deafening batter and in the bliss of that disquiet Ulf hardly noticed as the mud beneath him turned to puddles. Askew in the filth were beetles, maggots, the weaker and more drab, flushed together above ground.


    To Arakvan, he was a stranger, and so hail was a disbanding shout. It commanded him to widdle away or drown, but in a learned defiance he pressed onward--broke to a chase--then settled when a beast at last came into sight upon the low bracken of his route. The creature was deer-like, if deers had a web of antlers on their crown, second arms--mighty and long--stretching over their front legs, and hooves that ended in stabs. Its fur was of a pale grey and from its rear floated a black tail of loose wisps. They were prey still, but in the Whilderwheats even the stag¡¯s flesh could not come so easy. It was a fostbar. It was beautiful, but here its sighting meant only that supper drew near.


    With it were two others; a mate and a fawn. The fawn slowed their trot just enough to allow Ulf to slink in behind them. It had been over a day since he ate anything other than jubburries; an infant berry of sour insides. Yet it was not hunger that brought Ulf creeping behind the fostbars, but rather a keen insight. He knew with a storm came a new, worse class of predator; one that could brave hail and lightning and fill its belly unaltered. Only the native fauna could be accustomed to it, understand how to evade it and elude even the worst of hail itself. So Ulf followed the family of fostbars, over cliff and plain, as they led him towards their home, albeit further east than he intended. He passed south for a while, knowing his route left him, but pressing on with the certainty that the rain would render him worse than a detour alone.


    An hour drained past as he minded his steps with caution, but the rain only grew fiercer.


    Mud dragged him back. Hail beat him low. When the fostbars at last led him to the base of the Lunga¡¯ar, he felt a quiet relief. The river was wide, rushing, mustering a rapid violence under the fed hail, though it meant he was further than before, and something other than a longer sward was a joy to behold. A fog draped the river but it remained a shallow crossing, despite its speed. From the rocks stacked high at its side, he leapt, splashing in the weakest depth of its other end and parting the fog for a brief moment, before it regenerated itself and obscured the Lunga¡¯ar¡¯s secrets once again. Ulf felt the need to pause a second, while sulfur filled his nose, but quickly reminded himself the river was not his concern, and the fostbars would not await him.


    In just under another hour the mates and their fawn at last arrived home, or at least in some kindred shelter. The earth dimpled and a stream filled its crack. At either side were more Redcress arbors, protruding out crookedly from the great stone borders of the drop, though under them was a worthy shelter that obscured all the stream below its maroon maze. At its end, a cave more akin to a passage formed, and in it the fostbars filed to rest and slumber, and for a moment elude the hail.


    Ulf knew even a creature as timid as the fostbar would defend its home if a stranger knocked, and in the violence of a storm the desperate beast would have to die. He stalked along the cliffed canopy, reaching stone just above where they laid. Then he stopped, listened close, as a greater splash under a longer fall caught his ear. Swift, Ulf found the crevice. From its slit he watched the fostbars sleep, heard them snore. They seemed so tranquil even in hail. With grace, even when their fur was matted and drenched. The fawn seemed only a ball of hair, cuddled tight by the doe and shivering in its sleep.


    Frowning, Ulf Eldric grabbed the hilt to that thin, wicked blade at his hip. He searched for a landing amidst the fostbars, but the puddle directly below him snapped away his sight. Ulf saw it for only an instant; with only a glance, but it was enough to omit that immediate pull to militancy that had so long kept him breathing. There was his reflection, blurred amidst the ripples and by it he felt betrayed. He was a shadow; a storm¡¯s sharp stranger, with hard eyes aimed down. Ulf forgot himself in that gaze. It had been so long since he last saw who he was, what his long way south had made him. Creases had wedged themselves alow his eyes from so many nights spent out of bed, far from any right rest. His wounds from long ago were dry cracks, and their dull shade seemed to tighten his face in scrutiny; hollow the memory of its visage. In the beat of rain he was glitched, until only a black, hairless, robed phantom remained to return his watch. When, he wondered, had he become a man of season? Which kill--which loss had fulfilled this vision before him? What strike of the blade had swayed his heart cold?


    Then he saw the family again. The fawn still shivered, its meek little head scrounging deeper into the fur of its mother. The doe still embraced it, unawake but ever loving. The other laid closer to the entrance, so proud of its kin it truly believed the sting of its hoof could repel even a feeble predator. Pride would be its death. There they were, in clean puddles, with only one another to fill the cold of their cave. And there he crept, a thing of shade upon the roof, visiting in the storm.


    His hand at last fell away from the hilt. Ulf turned, laid onto his back, clasped his fingers together at his waist, and squinted up to the hail while it pounded his skin into rock. The force stripped his head of its hood and the wetness sogged his strength, softened his stature. Glaring high, he watched the clouds darken as midday died out, as if some answer was buried in those undying folds of air. The screech of hail was everywhere, drowning out every other thing, and in that madness Ulf closed his eyes, failing to find any comfort. But after minutes of tensed endurance, his ears soothed, opened wide again, and just under him, beneath stone, like the heartbeat of a mouse in the wall, he heard the fostbars snore.


    Ulf sighed deeply then, though rest he did, with an unease and some calm alike.


    An hour again passed, while he sprawled below the storm. Some distant howl too near to preserve slumber shook the cave. With a haste the fostbars emptied out and mantled up the sides of their alley, through the Redcress arbors with gentle leaps. Ulf rested longer, hearing them scuttle away east and letting them gain a distance so as not to feel chased. A chased creature took risks, and a daring guide was not one worth following. After minutes were spent, he lumbered up, collected himself and gazed off to where the howl had emerged: back west. The fields were quiet, weak from rain, and their shadows fled before the steam of his eye.


    Unsatisfied, he turned and pursued again. After an hour more faded and the clouds darkened, it became difficult to discern night¡¯s approach from their number. In the obscurity and through their fear, the distance between him and the fostbars heightened, until again a scream like a fevered roar rattled over the plains. Only this time it drew from the east, and so Ulf hastened to a sprint.


    He tore across the sodden mounds with ardor of a reluctant, needing sort. Through the rain he hurried and past trees he slipped, then the realm opened wide and the valley ran quiet, as if even the bugs had migrated beyond. The stink struck his nose before he witnessed the red luster coating the grass, but, entranced, he stared at it anyway like some unbelieving fool. With heavy steps, Ulf came to stand over that flattened earth. His boots swamped with lifeblood. His gaze, once steeped, grew fierce and unkind again.


    There laid the fostbars, atop the grime of their insides and stomped dirt. The male was torn in half, with snapped ribs arching into the mud and legs spasmed askew. The doe was still panting its last breaths, though three gashes great enough to tear out its heart hewed the right core. Her high arms were drained; sucked dry. The fawn curled up near her hindlegs, gushing at the throat with its spine snapped back. Its tiny head was bitten clean off, but the other two still had eyes to gape hollow at heaven.


    Ulf unsheathed his blade. The bodies were slaughtered, though hardly feasted on, rendering this a sport killing. Large claws that crush bone with a grip, teeth that seep veins of their colour, a power that can tear a fostbar in two, with an evil that dines only where its lust yearns to. This particular creature--some mighty stalker of the storm--happened to yearn for the baby¡¯s skull rather than the wholeness of the father¡¯s meat. Ulf scouted the perimeter, knowing in an instant he was standing in the leftovers of a seasoned Arakvinin killer. It was not hungry in the least, he knew. It was only bored. In the wounds were caught ashen plumes and on the fawn¡¯s neck stringed an oily ichor.


    This was a sylvan aetroll, he wagered, and it claimed the storm itself as its hunting ground.


    With one quick, hefty cleave, Ulf denied the doe its misery. Then the family was joined together once more, in their triangle of decay, with a bloodied pond as a last, cold, embrace. Then the hail hit harder, and their bond was flushed into the dirt.


    ¡°You were wrong again¡­¡± said Ulf, in quaking softness.


    The tracks of the aetroll were wide and heavy, clawed and winged. They killed the grass they breached, and their trail of conquest led east still. Drying his blade on its victim, Ulf sheathed the crude thing and carried on unafraid. Over the southward Bulwark¡¯s Trail it tramped, then through an untold expanse of hackneyed wheats that killed hours more, until the light behind the clouds was gone, and dusk was undeniable. Now there would occur a predatory overlap; when the night fiends and the sons of the storm both emerged to feed. The result would be a calamity of sound and slaughter that Arakvan itself would harken, though, ironic as it was, Ulf was nowhere safer than in the shadow of the sylvan aetroll. The scent of tar was its maim against the land, and any who valued life--fierce or frail--knew to tread far from that horrid reek. But the fostbars were not so wise, and Ulf was not so forgiving as to let his guides rot without first drenching his blade.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Yet the rain, too, was vengeful. Begging disbelief, the torrents grew wilder still. The hail fell like sidelong pebbles that cut up the earth. A boom of thunder cracked, jolted all of Arakvan like some growl of a world¡¯s stomach, then lingered, as while elsewhere thunder was a snap, in Arakvan it was a curse; long and cruel. Tremors tore the realm awry. That explosive pound was the only voice that could quell the hail, and quell it did, before resounding far, far beyond that with a warcry that was only murderous.


    Now Ulf did indeed scowl, for he understood that this was no mere storm. Drawing his hood low over his eyes, he quickened his pace before the scream of the Skjallstrom. So it was called, in the name of one of the All-Father¡¯s sons. The tale told of Skjal, a young and sly libertus, who left earth and its creations and his good noble father to live among the clouds. He wished to be as free as wind, though in abandoning earth the All-Father cursed and forbade his son from ever returning. So Skjal grew wrathful, sprouting lightning down across the land he once tended. It was told that each crack of thunder was Skjal¡¯s anguished plea to his father to free him from the clouds, and the particularly powerful, barbaric storms that followed the thunder were named in his memory; as if believers truly thought that might appease him and spare them his fury. It did not. Arakvan was marred by many things, though few were as unforgivingly monstrous as the Skjallstrom.


    In an instant, Ulf wished the hail would persist forever, for what came after made even black, drowning skies seem like the stuff of a clear day.


    Lightning split the atmosphere, shattering the storm and drawing fissures through the clouds. They came as massive, blinding stems of bright power. Their sizzle was a violet, though the propensity of underearth fumes hugged the skies, heated each bolt as they breached Arakvinin air, and brought them down in a white red that left inked craters in their wake. Like some devilish orchestra of shrieks and swats, the hiss of lightning was a constant and the crash of its strike was a strident quake that left life twitching until the next fell down. Some unnatural nerve in the underearth caught each aggress, carried each bolt underground and reverbed its vibration for miles. In the onslaught of red light, madness seized the land in a choking fist. The rain filled shallow rifts, though when it trespassed into those with great depth it fell far and ended only when it bashed against its alien flora. The rain, in that remarkable space, did not belong, so when it met plantlife its touch was an acid and all below it sogged and dissolved. Burning fast, their smokes climbed high; revamped by the hail rather than dispersed. When the fumes slithered above ground, the lightning¡¯s glow filled them, and cardinal fogs broiled out from below.


    Such natural violence recalled Ulf to the Gargantan and its blizzards that left bodies mangled and frostbit. It was a charming reminder, and though the Skjallstrom was a terrible, violent beast that proved the apex predator of that fractured land, it would do naught to spare the sylvan aetroll who thought itself its lord.


    Onwards still, he carried. His gaze only hardened as the cold grew stronger. Through a wooded terrace he crept, then up a steep cliff, to spot an old wreck called Fjordrun at its other end. Massacred by the storm, Fjordrun was made more lowly than it already was. An old hamlet once, some time past the land was ruined and, straight beneath its homes, gave in.


    In the formation of a masticated star, the earth itself sank. Once a low hill, Fjordrun became a gaping tundra. The hamlet collapsed to the rift¡¯s base, killing all inside it and anything below. Only a pedestal of rock and moss at its dead center remained, with a dilapidated shack atop it, slanted and battered. Along the outermost edges of the drop were ruins; old porches, half-sundered, and ajar posts with nothing to wield sticking out from mounds of debris. From his height, Ulf perceived the star of Fjordrun. Its depth was mountainous, and so the risk of reaching its center was tremendous. Up from the descent came that cardinal smog like its own grounded storm. At its bottom were piles upon piles of cleft wood, rotten bodies impaled upon stalagmites, and the tawdry remnants of fences and boards, with ramshackle roofs of hay laying browned in shadow. The sight was appalling, a damnable, hellish desecration of ruin cursed and devoid of its colour, as if the All-Father himself smote Fjordrun for their sins.


    In cautious approach, Ulf pondered what sins such a modest, backroad town could accomplish, before settling on the decision that the All-Father, if he were true, was nothing other than merciless. It was then fitting that a creature as equally unkind as the aetroll had made this its home. When he drew near the ledge, he reconsidered, seeing the great leap of shadow before him and knowing that this place was always its home: the aetroll had crawled up from Fjordrun¡¯s dead star, and the bodies dropped down to it were its first taste of clean blood.


    There was indeed a time where a drop so horrible would cause him fret, but Ulf had seen a thousand drops and each time denied them his life, so unhesitant he sought the star¡¯s still standing heart, alongside the shack slumped atop it. A Saldark pine stood leaning over the chasm, and up its crooked trump crawled Ulf. The bark was soaked, but his steps stayed true, and soon he was crouched in its branched head. From there, he leaned back and braced himself, then dove outward. The gap proved greater, and for a moment he was airborne staring down into demise amidst red fogs. Seeing that great pit, Ulf could not summon spite even as his heart raced, but instead simply frowned. He caught the roots at the pedestal¡¯s edge, though they nearly broke off in supporting his weight. Their wood was slick, but his hands were firm, and up he crept until the summit was under his feet.


    Facing the last home standing, he sniffed and filled his nose with tar. The aetroll had been, though this house remained closed and boarded. Too strong to be hindered by wood alone, Ulf wagered there was no scent so sweet to lure the beast inside. On reaching its door, he realized he would be the first to enter this home since Fjordrun fell. Surely, the raiders could not breach its gap. His blade slid under each of the three boards blocking the window, and one by one popped them with enough force to litter the ground with nails. An elbow shattered the glass and like a bagman he rolled through.


    A hole in the roof filled the floor in a thin layer of rainwater that made each step a splash. A table was overturned, a bed was propped against the door, broken pottery and shards of chilled clay hazarded the floorboards. White scratchings traced the walls; nail-made. A couple old bones laid in cracked bowls or bent shelves, but all were picked clean. The only thing that remained upright was a stool adjacent from the door. Beside it laid an old woodchopping axe, and just out of reach from it was a corpse. It was a man, stretched sickly, pale, and with maggots living in his rotten flesh. So ravenous they were, that the dorsum of his back was opened and his spine showed through.


    To the right of his curl and before Ulf¡¯s feet was an open trunk on its side. Uninterested, Ulf traced his fingers along its edge. Within were old parchments, an unruly dagger, some carved model of a knight, chalk, and a fist-sized arachnid that had webbed within. Ulf grabbed the spider by its leg and lobbed it behind him, then slapped away its webs. In its silk was a hairbrush, and when in his hand Ulf paused for a time, tracing its balsa handle and the little bristles fit for a child¡¯s hair. He pulled off the webbing. The hairbrush slowed his mind and eased the squint of his gaze. When he saw it, his eyes were elsewhere, and his fingers came delicate around it, for only a moment. Ulf frowned, realizing then the seconds it stole, and chucked the thing aside. Picking up the parchment and thumbing through, he found a letter left amidst the blank sheets, scrawled in charcoal.


    I die here, this is what is. No food, beast outside. Can¡¯t make the gap. It¡¯s been days breaking teeth on old bone and eating the worms under the floor. All-Father save me, I am your servant. If my dear Jennette finds this, know I think of you to warm me in this cold place. Know your memory keeps me brave beneath the creature. Light is fading. I do not know if I will live another night. My belly feels like it¡¯s bleeding. I hope you live, Jennette. I hope the underearth didn¡¯t swallow you like your mother. I couldn¡¯t save her, either. Can¡¯t save myself. Now I starve. Sorry state, but it is mine to face. I hope I can keep your memory when I go. I hope I do not forget. Do not forget. Do not forget. I hope I do not forget-


    Ulf lost interest and discarded the paper. The dead man¡¯s daughter was no less so, surely. Now he was maggot food. Standing, he looked over that overturned corpse again. The face was bearded and sunken, and the eyes were wide with terror. Too old to escape, this man had made his shack a tomb, and so inability buried him. He was unworthy of care. Yet somehow, this incompetent corpse held his focus. Some shame in its dead gaze or desperation in its cold fingers stalled him. Here was a father, who failed. In fear, he starved, and now a stranger unearthed his story like some lackluster bedtime tale to be told then forgotten. For the first time in a while, Ulf¡¯s frown subsided. He did not smile certainly, and it was nothing as ugly as a scowl, but deadpan he was enthralled to the father¡¯s limp form. The maggots filled his eyes and their tiny chews scratched his ears, and, for only an instant, Ulf¡¯s mouth fell agape.


    Then he recalled who he was--where he was, and shook the thought from his head. Returned to his usual sternness, Ulf crouched near the stool, rolled the body on its back and observed it. An amulet hung around the father¡¯s neck, so with a fist he tore it off. Rising, Ulf ripped the silver pendant from the necklace and dropped the rest back on the corpse¡¯s chest disinterestedly, then pocketing the silver. For all he knew, this was no victim. This was a fearful cur who let his wife die and did not risk himself to find his daughter again. This was nothing other than another weak-willed whelp, deserving only of dismissal. And dismiss him Ulf did, carrying his attention back to the entrance so quickly it was as if the sight disturbed him. The silver was his, the story no one¡¯s, and greater matters begged heed, so Ulf clambered through the window again and abandoned the tomb to the rain.


    Hail¡¯s bite was a needed calibration. He had soothed in discovery, and ease in this realm--like every other--meant a fool¡¯s death. Ulf raised his head to embrace the cold of hail, hear the thunder, see the flash of lightning, feel its tremors through the earth. It was a discomfort, though it calmed him, and ready again he dropped his narrow gaze to the gap.


    The leap was meagre, and the moss swab at its other end would keep him rooted. Yet the Skjallstrom aged fast, and the air had smogged grey. Hail lashed away the world¡¯s colour. There was, for a time too long, only shifting shades of black, the white gusts between, and the sudden shocks of returning lightning. They, their electric raids, and the fogs from below brought red to that shade-soused abyss, but still did Ulf leap with only his own instinct in only the night¡¯s darkness. He caught the moss, though it tore, and quickly he swung himself against the rockface. Dangling over death, he thought back to the father at Fjordrun¡¯s heart, who for this paltry scare elected to starve. Coward! he hissed, before lifting his legs--with the strength of his arms alone--into higher footholds, then mounting the cliff. Thunder boomed to announce his arrival. Lightning lent its gleam to cast his silhouette red.


    Ulf took two steps further, then hit a hard stop. His body tensed, his head tilted to accommodate the dig of his ears: a stomp sounded low just within their grasp. Then another, then two more after; deeper, fiercer, with a stirring fury crashing them into the dirt. A fevered roar--sullen but perverse--buckled the cardinal fogs aside. The stink of tar took the air.


    The sylvan aetroll had come.


    Ulf drew his keen blade like a low flag of black intent, and murder would answer its sway. Outstretched at his side, the dark, wicked weapon caught lightning¡¯s flash in its edge, and granted Ulf an evil arm of scarlet. His knees bent, his brows furrowed. An avid fluency took form under that black leather. Mercy, in all its temptation through fear and wear, was gone. Now there was only the hunt and the storm before him, and Ulf was learned to their ways. Here, the quicker, crueler claw would prove true, and there lived no fiend under the sun who could hate as ferally as Ulf Eldric.


    But indeed, the aetroll was a worthy competitor. Out from the fogs blasted a mass of gnarled fur. Its tangled, twined hide made it vast, but demented, as scaled bands of black interceded it. The aetroll was a wrongful tempest of sheer onyx and infernal valor. A crane¡¯s face, with a snout-like beak that drooped fangs and sprawled mandibles still wet with blood, found Ulf. With its wide, white eyes upon him, he was consumed by a bloodshot twitch. The thing¡¯s arms were logs, and from its broad, spaced fingers--of which there were three per hand--ran four layers of nails, each longer and with a curve more crooked than the one before. It stood on two feet like a man, but those feet were trunks that wedged earth inward with every step. It stanced upon talons, heaved by broad thighs riveted in pale blue veins. Its core was skinned, without fur or flesh, revealing a dense rib cage that little skeletons fell captive within. The bone was a jade rock, but filth from old kills and lounges in putrid waters cloaked it in befouled grease. The limbs of the long dead parted between its great ribs to hang limp out from its gut. So long was their torment, much of what it devoured melted in the acids of its stomach and fused with its horrid form. So gigantic were its outer claws, old, stolen skin clung beneath them still. Under its arms ran a scaled webbing, and the aetroll, in that darkness, appeared winged. Hail had shagged the beast, but it was unfeeling to something as puny as the cold.


    ¡°At last¡­¡± said Ulf, with a whisper.


    Insatiable was its desire to kill, so with a great burst of urge it lunged. The Northman dropped a hand to the dirt and pushed himself into a quick sprint. As the aetroll breached the air, Ulf slid low, and behind it he emerged with a blade soaked in its left ankle¡¯s blood. The aetroll barreled through the fogs and, from its massive strike, blew into the rift of Fjordrun. Its raised arms slowed it to a glide, and the moment it caught the pedestal at that old hamlet¡¯s heart, the aetroll kicked off into a soar. The rock exploded under its talons, and so in a wave of water and earth it returned to the cliffside like the dark soul of the storm. In raising his eyes to its plummet, Ulf watched the aetroll blanket Arakvan¡¯s lightning. Its rim shone red.


    It landed with a double-fisted pound that summoned a tremor worse than thunder. The land broke under its pummel, and from the cavity fell tides of dirt-strewn shock. It roared, furious, in finding Ulf was not a puddle beneath it, but coursing along its right side, under its strike, with new blood over his blade. With a prompt turn, Ulf slashed its spine, then, bracing himself, let the ruptured earth throw him into a great evade. Turning with pain on its back, the aetroll unleashed a furious swing, only to find its opponent a good distance from even the longest nail.


    The aetroll trotted the gap into nothing and in seconds towered over the outlander. With a flurry of power, it descended against Ulf. A duck dropped him below the first, wide arch. The next came down for his head, but a roll put it behind him. Mud jumped under the fist, and that alone was quick enough to catch Ulf¡¯s leap. The third was a clap of both swings meant to crush the Northman into goo, and learning from his low shifts, the aetroll aimed for his legs. But Ulf was faster again. He jumped, landed atop the closed fists as they unleashed their seismic clasp, and keeping his footing he devastated the aetroll¡¯s jaw with a deep, mighty slash. Red spurted out and caked him in colour. Dark ichor dripped from the wound, and grabbing it the aetroll wailed and stumbled while Ulf leapt again. Only this time, he did not choose distance.


    A menace as brisk as the wind, his phantom form crossed the mud and assailed the sylvan horror between its shrieks. His blade wisped over the thing¡¯s wrist, then up through its broad waist to run blood over its thighs. It roared again, anguished, and threw an impulsive claw at its aggressor. But Ulf was seasoned, and no attack so poor would strike him true. He backstepped the swing, then rushed in behind its breeze, cutting straight through a vein on the leg of the sylvan fiend. The man moved like a ghost, fading in and out of touch and returning to suck dread, all the while swerving his ajar blade like a homing gust.


    Terrorized, the white eyes of the aetroll grew impossibly wide as it bellowed its malice. Ulf beheld the stems of lightning reflect in that pale spot. His grip tightened.


    A double-armed sweep forced Ulf to a distance, and before it could be undone the aetroll turned and leapt. Its great jump brought it high, and from there its arms spread to glide it away. Ulf was unwilling to see this hunt dragged, so from his cloak he produced a dagger just as the leap began, and when the aetroll pierced low air, steel tore through its wing. Disoriented and off-balance, it fell like a confused comet. The aetroll scampered to its feet, but when it turned Ulf was already before it again.


    He did not rush nor speak threats against the beast. Ulf only laid his blade bare, let the lightning fill it, and waited. Insulted, impossibly livid, and with a ruined wing, the aetroll roared again, but this time its wounds lessened it, and the thunder stole its sound. In hearing its own weakness, the beast grew fearful while the storm screamed around it. Aware, it felt each pelt of rain carry away its blood and saw each flash of lightning surrender its reddened form. In a moment, the sylvan aetroll had seen itself become a victim, and the thought enraged it.


    It came to him with a barbaric strength, entirely unhinged. Colossal fists moved with such momentum and berth they shot rainfall into thick splashes. Wails echoed incessantly, flinging spit, ichor and blood into the mud erupting at its feet. Earth tore up with its every move, light molded around its every shift. When the thunder rumbled, it sang a long, ceaseless song of the aetroll¡¯s anguish, and for a tense collection of seconds it did truly seem as if the storm had served that wicked monster.


    But of what worth was rain and lightning, before Ulf Eldric of the North?


    The aetroll¡¯s defense was strong and angry, but also was it fast and unthought. Like a black landslide it encroached around Ulf, and like a breeze he surmounted it. Each arm that the aetroll raised fell again with a new gloss torn out from within it. Each scream was assailed until they subsided, and soon the aetroll--without knowing--came against its foe at a limp with low arms, and groans rather than roars. Bloodied and with a furless patchwork, the beast wobbled, until Ulf grew tired of the affair, and with a final few cleaves butchered the creature. His blade whipped its knee, pulled it down from its chest, then opened its neck wide. The aetroll collapsed at last, and from its throat leaked a horrid pond of lifeblood and oily saliva.


    Twirling his blade, breathing deeply, Ulf wedged off the head of the aetroll. He picked it up from its wild hairs, paced towards the cliffside, then gazed down at its lifeless, bloodshot eyes of white. In that splintered snow, he saw again the fostbars that laid mauled in the grass. Suddenly, his chest dropped and all its adrenaline whisked out. Here was their killer, torn apart and opened from the inside, but still did they lay dead in that flattened grass.


    And so of what worth was this? Ulf wondered, before chucking the aetroll¡¯s skull into the gaping rift of Fjordrun, where so many homes and bodies stacked. On the headless corpse, he wiped his blade clean, let the rain peel away its reds, then sheathed it again.


    Night was young yet. Still, there was much way to make and much killing to carry out. Disinterested again and with his mind already elsewhere, Ulf charted a path back south through the waning Skjallstrom. The sylvan aetroll, the fostbars, and ruined old Fjordrun would die in his tracks. The rain did well to steal his focus, until all beyond it was forgotten.


    Through a spyglass of old ivory and atop a far cliff of shielded rock, however, lurked watchers who would not forget. Impressed, the pair of beasthunters observed Ulf¡¯s departure; marveling at the great bulk of death left so casually in his wake.


    ¡°A sylvan aetroll,¡± said Horral, peering through the glass. ¡°All-Father¡¯s eyes¡­¡±


    Eidrik heard, but held his cap low to cover his face from the storm and from Horral both, while he looked elsewhere. ¡°He¡¯s a killer, aye,¡± said Eidrik, feigning disinterest.


    ¡°More than that,¡± Horral chanted, to be heard over the storm. ¡°It¡¯d have took a dozen furrfiends to drop a thing like that. And here he comes, like a boy at last forced to chore.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Marvelous¡­¡±


    Eidrik stayed silent.


    ¡°Man like him¡­¡± Horral pressed on, consumed in sight. ¡°He might just mean something. Given cause¡­ he may well be a chance, Eidrik.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯d never leave Galehaven,¡± warned Eidrik. ¡°Just another runaway butcher.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t believe that!¡± shouted Horral while thunder usurped his speech. He lowered the spyglass to look against his kin.


    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t I?¡± asked Eidrik. ¡°He told it plain he¡¯d kill us if he saw us again. Now here we stalk, miles from Eritle, from our reward, to play chase with some foreign cur.¡± He averted his gaze. ¡°You¡¯re chasing wind, Horral. And all you¡¯ll get out of it is the cold.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± he said, peering again. ¡°Maybe, old friend. Or maybe this wind is what¡¯ll drive our spark.¡± The old man smiled tenderly, watching Ulf¡¯s silhouette stride into the unknown. ¡°Just maybe, we¡¯ve found our flame, at last.¡±


    He watched a while longer, but Eidrik only frowned.


    ____

 Hall of Adulation

    Chapter 8 : Hall of Adulation


    Outside the glass were canopied streets entwined and streaking murders of white corvids. Inside sat a dull chamber, lit scarcely by candle. Cold stone floors crawled below a modest ceiling, uncustomarily devoid of its grand arches. Sitting by the window¡ªwhich dominated all of the western wall¡ªwas a crumpled sack of sagged flesh in a chair with wheels. His skin was loose and veined richly. His left hand twitched, his gray old eyes batted, but he was otherwise still. Like some blighted trophy, Jo¡¯er Ovalin loomed crestfallen in the bleak edge of his hall, his stare sent tilted through the glass, where streets bustled and winds blew and life was lived in grandeur and distress all the same. A great scowl took his face in sight of the winding streets of Galehaven. Looking up, which seemed to him a great effort, he beheld the Ashomdus Wrack: a wide-armed monument of waved stone standing spine-like to one of the city¡¯s many rugged mounds. Jo¡¯er gazed, trying to piece together some reason behind the eternal vigilance of its stone eyes, some justification for such longing servitude, such sake for a duty without yearning its boon, but he found only the shadow of its brow. Impossibly, his scowl sunk lower, then the door came ajar.


    In stride came Veidt, with a loose coat of black silk and gray trousers so plain they seemed unbefitting of his station, and even that of a steward stations lower. His dark hair was done into a tail as it often was, and on his face beamed a certain splendour of soul. Behind him stomped a hulking ingot of strength, coated crimson, with a hangman¡¯s helm and a stature so immense he had to crouch, place a fist over the entrance¡¯s head, and wedge himself sideways into the chamber. Osi Dragul closed the door gently after his entry, though the power behind even a lone finger sealed it unevenly, forced a sound with the semblance of a slam. Annoyed, lingering near embarrassment, Veidt shot him a probing glance, and Osi slowed, then straightened, indignant. He turned to sift his hard gaze through the chamber¡¯s decor, but in that it was limited, and quickly he came bored.


    Jo¡¯er did not greet his son nor shift to spot his guard, yet he knew full well who had entered his hall. The eyes of the Ashomdus Wrack held him forward. Seldom did the old cripple receive visitors, and rarer still did he receive those who denied him the courtesy of a knock before entering his chamber.


    ¡°Father,¡± said Veidt. ¡°I¡¯ve good news.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡± asked Jo¡¯er in a frail croak, seconds from decay, it seemed. ¡°What goodness has the High Ovalin found today?¡±


    Veidt stepped close behind his father. ¡°Not found. I daresay forged, for indeed this was a troubled pursuit. Yet I think it will prove more than worthy.¡± He raised a hand, tempted to brace it upon the chair of Jo¡¯er, but the shadow from his slumped back made the leather¡¯s touch an imposing thing, so his hand fell to his side, and his words resumed with an impersonal force. ¡°As we speak, a team of mine charts into the underearth. I believe, dear father, in some odd days¡ª¡±


    ¡°Dear father, the High Ovalin says,¡± groaned Jo¡¯er, miserably forthright. ¡°And when, Veidt, have I ever been a dear thing to you? You and your raiders, pretending at nobility. Saying ¡®dears¡¯ and ¡®sirs¡¯ like it means something to you.¡± He scoffed, and in woe shook his head.


    ¡°Would you at least know the object of your scorn,¡± Veidt asked, his enthusiasm since staled, ¡°before naming it wrong?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I know it. I know it everyday, when I see fires spark up low in the byways. When I smell smoke draft in from the West, I know it.¡± Jo¡¯er turned to Veidt, and shared a hardship with the blue sting of his eyes. ¡°Your deeds are not some hidden thing as you deign them to be, much to the ache of the house Ovalin.¡±


    Jo¡¯er returned to the window and Veidt fell compelled to gaze against it too. What scroll of squalor painted beyond the glass¡ªin such muddy dyes of brown and gray¡ªcould earn the care of his father more than his father¡¯s son? What, in all that filth and cold brick, was better than him? Veidt flickered with a certain fury, but suffered it silently, then spoke again with calm, a reluctance that could not overshadow his spite.


    ¡°And does its venerable head know some horrid truth Galehaven does not?¡± He paced aside, dejected. ¡°Suppose you¡¯d rather I leave our gates unmanned, so that you can roll to your window and see a quiet sky.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard tell, boy,¡± Jo¡¯er persisted, his chair creaking under his dreary slump. ¡°I¡¯ve heard it said all that red metal you prance about in wasn¡¯t forged¡­ and where else does red come from, eh? Surely I¡¯ve taught you that, if anything¡­¡±


    ¡°You taught the distinction between want and necessity, father. Mere wager and true conviction. I had thought you¡¯d at least know it yourself,¡± said Veidt with a forward reel, before attempting to slow himself. ¡°It is that same necessity that brings me before you now, to share our victory you are so desperate to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Necessity, says the good lord, bathed in harlot salts, with the very sigil of wanton strength to shadow his every step, from alley to bar back to alley again.¡± Jo¡¯er spat against his own floors and that splat of ailed discontent struck his son¡¯s eye like venom in his neck, sporting a sickened vein in its sight, and indeed his throat did choke when it sought speech in wake of that shame. ¡°Drop your deceit at a weaker door,¡± Jo¡¯er commanded, firm despite all his frailty.


    Sunken, Veidt reclined. With one step back he made himself tall, as if to distract from the briny wane of his pride. He fought to swallow, and when he at last gulped down that caustic nerve, his gaze filled the cracks of the floor, for in truth if they aimed high, they would break the old man¡¯s decrepit little heart.


    ¡°And where might I find a door weaker than your own?¡± asked Veidt, a grudge loading in his jaw. ¡°No guards to shield you, no stewards to tend to your many needs¡­ You speak so highly of nobility, father, while clearly it has forgotten you.¡±


    Now Jo¡¯er laughed, cruelly, with a pain of tongue that peppered each gasp. ¡°Is that what you deem noble, dear boy? Whores to pamper you? Better men to man the door?¡± Again, his head shook, guilty of his role in raising the lord, blind to any silk accessories of his soul. ¡°What son have I, who sees merit in the sum of his spoils¡­?¡±


    ¡°And yet,¡± Veidt began, with contempt now quivering in his stare that brought the room to a rattle, ¡°there was a time without whores to clean me and blades to keep me whole.¡± Now, he stepped near, brazen and appetent in an ignoble secrecy, looming upon a dear, sour truth soon to break and amuse by its clatterings. ¡°Do you remember Njall, father? Do you remember the horror in your old eyes when you saw what rode home, crumpled over that wagon?¡±


    Jo¡¯er rocked in discomfort and, sensing his vulnerability, Veidt propped a heavy hand over his father¡¯s shoulder, then leaned low. He felt bones jitter under his fingers and so his fist tightened.


    ¡°So quick you are to shun my providence.¡± Like a bite his tone hardened; drew fast. ¡°But without it you were fearful, poor, crawling from bed to porch to pray your son home.¡±


    His father shook loose of his grip, contaminated by it, though it strained him and made him wince. ¡°Aye, ¡®cause then there was a son worth praying for!¡± he rejected, snubbing the sight of his boy for the window once more. ¡°Now there¡¯s only another beast in the world.¡± For a moment, his voice wavered and the words came forlorn, clasped by an evil memory still shallow in its grave. ¡°I¡¯ve seen enough beasts,¡± Jo¡¯er lamented, his harsh upset retired.


    Veidt¡¯s stare thawed. He recalled his father¡¯s torment, his maiming at the hands of an Arakvinin horror that left him crippled, and there was renewed some benign rapport.


    ¡°If I was then the man I am now,¡± he began, honest and of great regret that shuddered his words, weakened all prior warning. ¡°That monster would never have touched you. Not with one hair on its hand, it would not.¡±


    Jo¡¯er shook his head, like some teacher whose words a student could not grasp. At last worn down and feeling of his age, he succumbed to a hunch and blinked wet eyes at the glass. ¡°You would¡¯ve slaughtered it, Veidt. As you¡¯ve slaughtered so many others,¡± said Jo¡¯er. ¡°And as it slaughtered me.¡± He sighed, deeply. ¡°Do you not see it, boy? You¡¯re little different from the horror that set me in this chair. Save that it came from below, and you were born of a woman I loved.¡± He keeled forward, whimpered, effete. ¡°I thank the All-Father she can¡¯t see you now¡­¡±


    Starstruck¡ªby that tone that swore it served neutral truth, by his own father¡¯s unanswering antipathy¡ªVeidt at once shrunk; away from his anger, from his sorrow and all his cautious thoughts. As those croaked slurs trickled down his ear, the room expanded before him, the shadows snagged, and the chair¡¯s idol twisted until seated in it was a stranger. The mere thought of his mother concussed him, splintering his credence. Its rifts were belief, and they grew and darkened, and in their depths fell sin and need and all the burden of neither with shame playing their shepherd. Njall flashed red in his eyes, its carnage trickling close in behind like light chasing a falling sun. From that burning wound, he heard the whispers of those he dragged dead to their graves, the starved, hounding wails of those that slew them; all shames set aflame behind his bewitched eye. The shades of Scourgers drowned him in fur, fury and terrible, terrible anguish, as each of their gruesome deeds sang to him again. Again, were the mountains real and the snows deep, the skies loud and the cries deafening. Beasts in cave and burrow, eyes perverted upon men. Again, that dread loom and the hush of the fallen. But, in a lapse of breath, Veidt found an air of clemency, impossibly, and the might of those monsters narrowed his eyes in hate. Their unwavering will to feed, to persist flogged his thoughts¡ªtheir invincibility to the war cries that condemned them and their focus that prevailed beyond even an arrow¡¯s pain¡ªuntil their taint twisted his lips into toothed delight. No different, he thought, and suddenly a fiery truth took him that wedged wrath out from his lungs and set his heart pumping after it.


    ¡°No. ¡®Cause she¡¯s dead,¡± said Veidt, a stone, unfeeling grind in his throat. ¡°She died carrying you about like some sickly babe. Tending to the chores and the labours you proved too feeble to answer.¡± He stepped in front of Jo¡¯er and his wheeled chair, though with his back to his father¡¯s nettled, embarrassed scowl, and like a performer at his stage stanced centerfold before the glass. ¡°But I am here and ever I shall remain, until age takes you. For unlike her, I need nothing of you.¡± Over his shoulder he threw peril. ¡°I, despite your beliefs, father, bear the strength to stand alone.¡± Veidt came close, then crouched to level his gaze with Jo¡¯er¡¯s. ¡°And you are wrong again, for that beast that left you broken was nothing like me.¡± His eyes crawled over the crippled man as if they sought to peel at his skin and, when they raised, a grin¡ªbrimmed with diffident merry¡ªperched below them. ¡°Indeed, it was a far better thing than us both,¡± he told, sincerity pulsing his loom, until it drew far beyond that little chair.


    With his son out of sight, where there was once relief Jo¡¯er now trembled with worry. He had seen that same gaze just then that returned fractured from Njall so many ages ago. It was wrong and his role in its birth made his skin pale.


    ¡°Come then, Veidt,¡± said Jo¡¯er, cautiously, quietly, with an uncertain hurt. ¡°Tell of this victory we¡¯ve staked our hearts for.¡± There was a command, but to Jo¡¯er, the compromise of allowance was surrender in the strictest sense.


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    At last unopposed, Veidt leaned back and savoured a silence. Then he smiled, breathed conquest while his mind settled, and returned adjusted once more.


    ¡°The monarch of the underearth,¡± he said, proud. ¡°The great Brintcrag, who existed only in whisper and myth before, has been found. Rumors rise from the depths of its grandeur. The digs yield sight of its tracks; wide and guttural, mightier than the earth that sports them. Now, it is hunted, near the bellies of Harlm. All of its power¡ªto subvert, to dominate¡ªwill be brought before us soon. Even now, my bladesmen bleed for it: the Call.¡± His head soared with wonder. ¡°Imagine, after so long, after so much searching, the will over the monstrous will be owned by man.¡±


    Jo¡¯er stayed silent. But his shiver showed the truth of his fear.


    ¡°Arakvan¡¯s arsenal¡­¡± Veidt said in a daze. ¡°My own. With nothing more than a horn hewed off its owner, and a bag to carry it home.¡±


    ¡°Such dreams,¡± groaned his father. ¡°¡®A monarch to monsters¡¯¡­ Do you trust these fables beyond reason, Veidt? Does the escape from your humanity inspire you so, that truth is forgot?¡±


    ¡°Truth be damned,¡± he scorned. ¡°The Call is a means to an end. For all things, all ailments of our beast-riddled age. For all war, misery, famine¡ªfor all time. Whether its blast bends them servient or scares them off in droves, the Call is victory.¡± Now he did look to the window, where morning peeked its blazing head, and unperturbed he gazed long, wishing he was there under the earth with his killers to cull the great prize. ¡°Arakvan is owed to its horrors, and by my will we may claim the means to master them all: a perfect power, at nature¡¯s bloody summit.¡±


    Jo¡¯er shook his head, defiant still. ¡°You¡¯ve found only an old beast¡¯s bones, Veidt. The underearth is quick and cruel. It will cave before your intrusion until every bladesmen you can buy is swallowed into darkness, and the debt is repaid. If it makes a sound or tears the damned world apart, all you¡¯ve done is unearth another weapon.¡±


    Veidt turned to face him, frank. ¡°And how else, then, are wars won?¡±


    ¡°There is no war, Veidt. There hasn¡¯t been for years.¡±


    The door came open with a romp and a swing, and into the hall a guard stepped calling. Before his words could be heard, Osi rose against him, and with a fist clamped across the man¡¯s neck he bashed the intruder into the wall, and by his throat lifted him until he gagged.


    Veidt called him off wearily, so the trespasser fell to his knees, panting, with the great shade of Osi hanging over him. The guard was sent by Sunt, and shared in haste that the High Conrord awaited his lordly peer in the Hall of Adulation, with dire news. Reluctant but relieved to leave his father for a thing other than scorn, Veidt stalked down the corridor and up a flight of narrow stairs, until the floor before him was high but dark, without glass to show it sky. He passed a long blue carpet with gold edges, its risk of wear allayed by a dozen guards.


    Striding to its other end, the High Ovalin gazed up at the great door of iron and gold, where corvids laced around metal bands. Osi pushed the doors askew, then, with a wave from his master, sealed them behind Veidt, and placed himself in the way of the entrance; a barrier against any intrusion. The guards there bore certain curiosities, but none persisted past the gaze of Osi Dragul.


    The chamber within¡ªlong and wide¡ªwas high-ceilinged, but made a narrow passage through the sheer volume of carved exploits walling its sides. Like some causeway of rite, robed, hooded, and faceless men of sandstone twirled and capsized along the chamber¡¯s either length, infatuated in worship and so crazed to their devotion there seemed an aura of animation behind their eyeless frenzy. They were without direction, and yet all aimed forward, to the monument at the hall¡¯s very end: a great gazing orb, etched into the wall. It was called Father¡¯s Watch, and the mist of its pupil that was layered with a dozen lashes sought to encapsulate the cold, vibrant eye of the All-Father himself. Casting a light against the massive orb were lanterns, hanging high from ceiling chains. They fed its roll an underlining shadow that fagged the power of its gawk, and in doing irked that intense alert of the Hall of Adulation.


    With his brown scowl upon it and his stance adding to its shade, Sunt admired its every chip. His robes¡ªblue with gold streaks¡ªwere malformed, fitted as if they aimed to accommodate a third arm or a doubled hip. While they laid over him lax and cloak-like, his heart and gut were unsheathed of them, alongside an adjacent shoulder, his right leg, and most of his waist, with none of its silk reaching so far as his knees. Under was a light steel of red and black, darkened under the loft of his robes and strong to the eye that did indeed envelop him in full. From his hip hung a conductor¡¯s stick of white marble with a battered edge, though far more akin to a baton.


    Hearing the door slide shut, High Conrord spoke with stealth, leisure, and a snakish mime that cut his words low. ¡°Morning, Veidt. I must be candid, you were not expected to arrive so unguarded.¡± He turned to set his watch upon the High Ovalin, squeezing him in the tight slit of his stare. ¡°Though I suppose when one guard is Osi, one is many.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± asked Veidt. ¡°Did you hear his stomps?¡±


    ¡°Felt them,¡± he corrected, half serious. ¡°Though I prefer a tool more slight.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± said Veidt in a slow approach down the hall. ¡°You and your rats.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve all rodents in our employ, Veidt. Some just happen to be armoured.¡±


    Veidt closed the gap. He wrapped his hands behind his back and shared a stare against the stone eye, unimpressed. ¡°Why am I here, Sunt? We usually save this lovely banter of ours for night, at least, when there¡¯s ale to actually make it pleasant.¡±


    ¡°Ah, you do have affairs to attend to, I suppose,¡± he muttered. ¡°Such as the revolt in Ochros, which I hear is gaining. Or, is it the fell town of Banor this morning?¡± Sunt shrugged. ¡°The good Father was particularly intent on keeping that one above ground, if I¡¯m not mistaken.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s as ¡®good¡¯ as the pork that fills him,¡± groaned Veidt, ¡°but if it¡¯s hell for Banor¡¯s pigs, the Pale Gut will find new meats to burden with his ¡®intent¡¯. In the midstwhile, yours should stay firm upon your own affairs. It¡¯s easy to confuse your station, Sunt, but not so easy to take it back, once the wrong eyes glance twice at your deeds. Does our good Father know the limbs we¡¯re paid to send your purity north? Has he heard how desperate pleas for ferrovine grow anywhere higher than Helmdor¡¯s Spite?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll care about that when there¡¯s something real to care for,¡± Sunt dismissed, before twisting with a sly aggress. ¡°Oh, but my apologies¡­ I¡¯ve forgotten how charitable you¡¯ve grown in the time between your hangings. Surely, the hardships of the commonfolk are of much greater worth to you than things as mere as gold and silver.¡± The brown of his stare narrowed upon Veidt, and in them resided a dark force. ¡°Perhaps Arrenfaeld left you changed, Veidt. I just wonder if you discovered this knack for good will before or after you set it aflame.¡±


    Veidt turned on him then, a bitter forsaking in his squint. ¡°Careful, now. Such a grave allegation to be made so early. It would be a shame to sully noon with its dismiss.¡±


    ¡°As I said,¡± said Sunt, on the verge of a grin. ¡°I prefer a tool more slight.¡±


    ¡°I do not,¡± Veidt revoked.


    ¡°Clearly,¡± said Sunt, reeling off diffusively. ¡°Boasting of your vengeance to our Vithicar just as your position was softened under his words¡­ It was great luck that those bandits, who proved apt enough to massacre a hamlet, were found and dispatched of so swiftly.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Truly, a worthy feat of the Crimson Clad. A shame, though, that they linger still amidst the high swards when they could instead return to reap their rewards.¡± Impish, he held Veidt in his sights. ¡°Or perhaps their rewards are with them now.¡±


    ¡°Believe it or not, Sunt, they remain where there are those to protect. As is their duty, no matter how many times you and Lydae fantasize of my villainy.¡± He found the Father¡¯s Watch again, then lost himself to its thousand etches while his mind roamed the faraway winds. ¡°You may be quick to turn your back to anyone with empty pockets, but there are some who fight for reasons greater than stacking coin. There are those who suffer the winds, beyond our haven, for the sake only of those without.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad,¡± Sunt quipped with a keen smile. ¡°I do hope those garrisoned at Searaith prove as enduring in their suffering. Especially with such a fierce wind towards them, and so many folk without a haven to protect.¡±


    Veidt turned, crossed his arms and leaned against the adoring horde of stone to better face Sunt and all the mystery of his words. Sandstone fingers crept over his shoulders like a derelict embrace to their screaming conformity. ¡°Speak clearly, Sunt,¡± he demanded. ¡°I am not one to fall enthralled at these trite subtleties you pride yourself on. We are far from the beggars of the Nydessius. You can dare to be cruel, here.¡±


    ¡°A swarm of raiders comes in from Meddlelfore,¡± said Sunt. ¡°Some hundred strong, I¡¯ve heard, with their sights set south upon Searaith. They seek to plunder the Gold Etch, presumably. Perhaps for ransom. Perhaps pleasure, but regardless they¡¯ve made the Whilderwheats their hunting ground, and their appetite only grows.¡±


    ¡°A lie,¡± Veidt denied. ¡°For you would divulge nothing that does not ail me.¡±


    ¡°You mistake me, Veidt. From their dispatch we both gain,¡± Sunt reasoned, trailing towards the shallow depths of the hall with his hand tracing along their devoted masses. ¡°If Searaith falls, as does our stock of ferrovine, and my powers in the wake of that loss become as finite as yours in failure to protect it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, so you say,¡± Veidt wondered, unsure and impatient. ¡°I will offer this threat to Searaith''s northern garrison, and we will see through their blood what your words are worth.¡±


    ¡°Searaith?¡± asked Sunt, curious if not challenging. ¡°Not Eritle?¡±


    Now Veidt paused a moment, seeing Sunt anew and hearing his story over in his head. He considered if perhaps the band was far larger than told, or perhaps far smaller, or perhaps the threat was the question itself; purposed only to extract some obscure fact from him. The uncertainty darkened Veidt, as already did the morning prove all too trying.


    ¡°Eritle¡¯s garrison stays with Eritle,¡± he said firmly. ¡°My centenars will concur.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d sooner risk Searaith than lonely old Eritle?¡± Sunt pressed. ¡°What value is there in that, aside from a cleaner conscience and more cabalder to fog the world?¡±


    ¡°If you spoke honestly, Sunt, then the northern garrison will prove more than worthy,¡± he blurted with a haste. ¡°With such a passion to learn Arrenfaeld¡¯s fate, I am surprised how soon you¡¯d leave Eritle to the fires.¡±


    ¡°Do not underestimate this threat, Veidt,¡± said a stern Sunt. ¡°We have our battles, but if Searaith is threatened as is our state. As is the Clergy. As is the very memory of Datharl, the First. There is more at stake than our prides.¡± He produced a stack of papers wrapped by twine and held it to Veidt, who received it in all hesitance. ¡°Accounts from the guards at Nelkard, backed by commonfolk reports. They were seen last alow the Haddlebush, due south.¡±


    ¡°And so they were,¡± said Veidt, flipping through the edges of the sealed stack. ¡°Then let them die, for both our sakes.¡±


    Veidt turned to leave, though halfway down the hall Sunt stopped him.


    ¡°And the sake of the realm, of course.¡±


    The High Ovalin laughed, then carried on. ¡°Of course,¡± he said, leaving the chamber as Osi absorbed the sight of him under his giant stature.


    The doors shut, and the echo of their close boomed through the hall; riding up each stone curve to shout tenfold at the Father¡¯s Watch. Sunt savoured the quiet that followed, humoured by some discrete thing, then with an acrid eye rivaled the monument¡¯s ogle. Its thousand etches filled his glare, and Sunt felt relief, for in that moment he beheld the wounds of God. How could the All-Father, he thought, if so hurt and aged, ever assail him for his sins?


    Sunt bounded down the hall, left the bleak chamber, and took to his own, high in the keep¡¯s towers. From there, his hand worked, and a letter was forged. Veidt was undelicate, and revealed whatever he sought to the northeast amidst his digs had already demanded the bulk of Eritle¡¯s garrison, meaning it was a precious thing to him indeed, and something he could never be allowed to receive. So with haste did Sunt write, and soon, by his sway, an outfit rode ardent to the Bridgebarge of Theragus, where they would thus remain, until blood came at last. Then was a second letter composed, crafted slower and with eyes ever to his back and whoever might gaze over it, and when done it flew west, on and on towards a camp, clustered along some shallow gully just low of Searaith¡¯s first mile. There, eager minds awaited it, and blades were sharpened till it came.


    ____

 Wolves

    Chapter 9 : Wolves


    High loomed the Haddlebush, a bark behemoth strangling the skies. Its trunk was tremendous, and from the tendril roots it fed down into the dirt came a craggy plain below, abrupt with land raises and just as sudden with its falls. The rugged steep was laden in giant leaves, the size of a man¡¯s head, coloured in ambers, reds, and violets all the deeper. From the towering branches of the Haddlebush they fell and heavy did they weigh upon the ground. The mountain of oak could swallow a town to its inside and remain unfilled, and indicative of that insatiable hunger its arms ranged to cloak every sward in shadow and bask each soul in fear. At its peak was an arid woods of wide-woven bark, stabbing out and stretching up and conquering heaven at such a height one from below could look up and feel their knees wobble with the thought of a fall. Here was a city to birds; some of gargantuan feather with talons that slew, others scabbed and modest scavengers of low air. Like refuse slung against their homestead, rope wrapped many of the lowest branches, and low they ran to sway hung corpses. The dead alone laid the mortal claim to the Haddlebush, but their skins were rotten and chilled, and birds pecked of their flesh to suck the sweet blood beneath. They were a puppet army, slaves to the wind¡¯s drag and shove. So many bites in their hides let organs ooze to drip over the horrid drop, while blood fell to the gales to be slapped and splattered across the core of that colossus. From the very bottom to the top most shallow, a carved stairway of wood encircled the tree so that the hangmen could rise to their grim duties, but what breed of hangman could summon the courage to dare ascend was another question entirely.


    Breaking the fallen leaves into dust in their trot was an unseemly horde of men. Caked in dirt, rough with wounds untreated, and echoing carelessly up the trunk of the Haddlebush with their swordplay was a fat sum of raiders, reavers and worse. Their camp was a rattle of cheap tents and quickly-roused stone walls, no higher than a hip. Sleeping bags slumped under the winding roots and legs dangled over their edge as folk sang and fought and feasted on stolen spoils. Midday cast its grey glare against them, somehow worsening the honour of their play. Its bleak glimmer proved the dark of their grins and that hollow want hot in their eyes.


    They were some dozen, no greater than thirty, but the Whilderwheats had been kind. To their great fortune, the beasts proved scarce, as if a greater hunter had been through to chase them out, and in the aftermath of the Skjallstrom they found stone homes undefended and skin free to take as they pleased. Now they reveled by their campfires and wrestled in their smokes. To the inner edge of their camp, where the tree shed black, indeed it was the deeds more vile; more undeserving of the light that crossed its earth.


    The ground was soiled with blood beaten out from bound farmhands. A raider squatted over a blonde man, kicking his ribs until he answered some mad riddle the raider himself surely did not know. To his side, a pair of marauders stripped a younger farmhand, then beat him with sticks until his dance made them snicker. Then further back, under a great arching root, a man and woman¡ªwed¡ªtoiled in the dirt. One was a dimple-cheeked brunette, beautiful if not for her thin chin and broad temple, and of course the bruises that stained it. Her husband was fair in turn, with a healthy red beard and a bald head that revealed all the glamor of his gaze. His jaw was firm and his smile full, once, but beatings had driven out its handsome grace. Now he breathed heavy, with his face in the dirt and a boot pressing it down, while his wife wept with hands bound behind her back. Then a man, smelling of manure and mud, fell over her, and her cries were silenced under his thrust.


    The clamor of joyed carnage owned the air of the camp, as to its outer stretch amassed the bulk of its members, in a crude circle where they formed their arena. Garrott numbered among them, though he was granted a high root to sit upon like some thief-king¡¯s throne. Grinning, he watched the combat with a spectacular angst. The crowd rooted and roared, shifted like a disturbed tide, while the combatants stumbled and bled within. On the dirt already were two bodies dressed in rags, their wrists just recently cut of their bonds. A third commoner battled earnestly, drenched in sweat and with a gut already nicked. Inexperienced, he stumbled over the corpses of his kin with a panic, and that same unnerved need to survive drove him flailing at his opponent, who had been charitable enough to lend the man a short sword. But his own was long, hard steel, and he was clad in a winged, steel half-helm.


    ¡°Come, pigfuck!¡± the raider beckoned, his taunt a grimy rasp that accommodated well his backroad foulness. ¡°Come, show us this strength you use to please that sweet wife of yours!¡±


    The crowd laughed, Garrott grinned further still, and on the man came with all the fear and none of the fury, despite his wife already lying dead in the terrain behind him, near his brother and their hired hand. Too ugly to take, they called her¡ªthe love of life to which in all things crucial he was betrothed¡ªbefore slitting her throat to the bone. Now, here her mate whimpered and crept, shaking around the rust of his hilt. It was clear to all in sight that he had never before used a blade for anything other than cutting his carrots and skinning his hares, chopping only the wildest wheats only to pull at the cabbage beneath them. It was with a gatherer¡¯s instinct that he came forward; cautious, committed more to a quick escape than a killing lunge.


    ¡°That¡¯s it, pigfuck,¡± his foe egged on. ¡°Let me see the might of an Arakvanin man!¡±


    The petty yeoman swung forth. With a twist of the raider¡¯s wrist, that short sword he fastened himself to so dearly was dropped to the earth. The bandit out from the wide and savage Meddlelfore beheld then an easy victory, but did not relish an end so near to his play so ardent, so he stepped slowly, like a bear to its deer backed against rock, with lumber entrapping it and a lame hoof abandoning flight. The raider feigned a lunge, toyed upon the farmhand with death, dangled his own eternity before his very eyes with all the cruelty of man direly uncouth. The commoner shivered, jumped, and again the band shrieked out their cheer.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± the raider pressed. ¡°Are we scared, pigfuck? Are we scared of¡ªwhat? A little blood?¡± He turned to the crowd with a chirp. ¡°He¡¯d never last through Meddlelfore, to be sure! What would we wager if he dared duel an oak? Might he chop the tree down over himself?¡± They answered with a cacophony of chuckles and bids, and turning back to his prey that raider saw tears and came vicious. ¡°Don¡¯t cry on my fucking pit, pigfuck!¡± he yelled.


    With a step the gap was gone, and in a twist the common man lost his head. Terror petrified itself over his skull while the tongue slipped and squeezed between fear¡¯s last snap. Already did his killer seek the next skirmish before the head had rolled, eyeing first the captives still in use under the tree, then turning to his own kin. His blade aimed straight and found each man¡¯s chest, save Garrott, and to all he spoke his challenge. Some hooted with jests, others took haste to hesitate; framing their unwillingness as a thing just short of cowardice for all to see, but none embraced that grimy offer of a badlands duel he so coarsely pettled. Loud, the raider grew, until all under the tree had to hear him and see the sprawl of his arms, then question their impugned clout.


    ¡°Who will prove mightier than a man bound!¡± he called, fearless and as resolute as the metal in his hand. ¡°Or is little pigfuck our day¡¯s champion?¡±


    Again, some dissuaded him through careful words, unkeen on losing life to a matter so mild, so frequent and already so visited in their eastbound gallivanting. Others distanced, waved off the challenge, pretending they had some other importance to attend to. Names were fed to the arena, but in question their owners dispersed, and soon that package of lewd, craven vulgarity did indeed surmount the pit¡¯s opponents, and for a few scarce seconds became its champion.


    ¡°Is my might our greatest!¡± he asked in boast, but that victory¡¯s seconds were spent. An air of sharp, hushed restraint breezed through the band. It was a sound lower than their chant, but like a choir¡¯s cadenza all fell silent, as if a conductor¡¯s stick crossed their jugular and wrapped tightly over the throat. All knew¡ªeven Garrott, whose grin died¡ªthat the voice belonged to Rhaebjorn.


    ¡°What might is there¡­¡± he spoke, unseen, ¡°in killing what¡¯s bound?¡±


    A wave of dismay flushed the pit¡¯s champion of his bold ardor. The crowd looked at him the way one sees blasphemy spoken before its victim. Bouncing blades fell low, throats stilled. The camp, in a moment, was as quiet as the land before their arrival, and so again the wind ruled. Out from a high perch stepped an ashen cloak, ghostlike. His face was white wood with only eyes and nothing in them. On his back laid a brutal scythe, bladed at both ends. In an effortless descent, the form struck the earth, and its grey folds came apart at the chest. Upon it and below the wispy garb was a deep leather, overlapped by two crossing bands of iron that formed an ¡°X¡± across the core.


    ¡°How strong are you, reaver?¡± Rhaebjorn asked, in a slow approach that split the swarm. ¡°Before an unburdened blade?¡±


    His hand touched the center of his edged staff; fondled it with a smooth love, then tensed into a fist that aired new life through his cloak. His form warped, changed, and the cloak unwrapped death in the form of Rhaebjorn.


    ¡°Let us see,¡± he ordered, and the raider tensed into terror.


    Averse but with his reputation weighed then against his sword hand, he stifled his heart¡¯s tremor and readied his weapon. In a lunge, the raider cut at Rhaebjorn to kill him before his scythe was drawn, but quick did the grey wind change, and the longsword split air. The spectre watched the steel fall, waiting until it nearly struck dirt to turn his eyes at the wielder, amused by such a meagre slight. In that closeness, with the reach between them minute, the pit¡¯s champion saw straight through the slits of the white mask. He beheld something look back at him from within that ashen swirl, and his mouth fell agape like a beast paralyzed. Something sinister watched him from that darkness. Something in that dim, inscrutable space wanted him dead.


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    The raider leapt back with a wild slash, but Rhaebjorn let his foe¡¯s fear drive him far and stayed unchanged before the swing. Now, at last, his scythe was lifted from its rest. The staff was obsidian and the steel moonshone. At each end of the dark rod a curved blade grew, though either aimed opposite from the other. The weapon was a hurricane in wait in and of itself. Rhaebjorn left it to his right hand and carried it high overhead, then bent his knees and placed a free grip to the ground. His head bowed and aligned with his kill, then he waited.


    ¡°Pigfuck,¡± he said simply, uncharged.


    His confidence evaporated, the raider forced his hand forward. With a growl he jumped at Rhaebjorn. Few beheld, in that spur of grim motion, what actually transpired, but all knew with a clarity that the raider¡¯s blade never met Rhaebjorn¡¯s own, and at the scythe¡¯s end a flat pommel struck the champion across the jaw. It could have just as easily been the blade that found bone with nothing more than a twist, but as Garrott could see and that doomed raider soon learned, Rhaebjorn did not seek a victory so unenjoyed.


    The next spars were an instant batterance that flipped every grin from the crowd into bleak consternation. The raider¡¯s sword whiffed, and the pommel answered with a bludgeon. Twice, then thrice, then two times again. The last fell against the knee and popped it from its socket. Bloodied and bashed, the pit¡¯s champion sank to a doglike crawl and groveled before the mighty form that laid him low.


    ¡°Please¡­¡± he whimpered, feeble, desperate, humiliated before his brotherhood and with a pride absolutely impaired. ¡°Please¡­ end it. I¡¯m sorry, I swear¡­ you¡¯re right, I-I¡¯m not mighty¡­ n-never was¡­ just¡­ let me die.¡±


    For a long while, Rhaebjorn watched the pitiful display. He let the pleas soak the air until all the camp¡¯s merry was burnt away, and then longer still he watched those ragged breaths and those scared, begging eyes. Then, compliant, he used the blade at last, and the man¡¯s face tore in two, but the helm remained miraculously untouched.


    For the rest of the day, the fighting ceased. The corpses were dragged into a pile that would burn in their wake, and atop them as king laid the champion of the pit, without a mouth to smile at his great victory. Rhaebjorn returned to some unseen root to lurk, while Garrott laughed heartily at the grizzly ordeal and those that idly cleaned it up.


    Under the roots, however, the merriment did not cease. In the deep shade, shock and horror could not dispel that iron-bound bane that reaved upon the helpless. Still, bodies shook with fervor¡¯s torment. Still, eyes wept and wounds dripped. The captives were a carnival of urge, endlessly indulged upon and within. Eventually, as day became noon and tents were packed away, the dancing farmhand was beaten to death. The blonde to his side, unknowing of the riddle¡¯s truth, at last felt his ribs break and jut against his lung. When his breaths staggered, his assailant grew unnerved, and so granted a quick cut into his skull that bled out his brains into the path of the wed pair. Still, the wife was enjoyed and the husband was made to watch, though consciousness came and left him like a flickering candle, often leaving her to hurt alone.


    A particularly disheveled bandit kneeled behind her and pulled at her hips. His grunts were scratchy and his humps ragged, chapped. Around him bustled his peers, packing up their few belongings and stuffing thefts into satchels. Casually, they stepped around the affair, though one stopped to ruffle the woman¡¯s hair with a snatching pet. After most the warband was cleared out from the roots and aimed to the plains ahead, Garrott finally approached to see what had dragged their departure. When he turned the corner, he laughed.


    ¡°Tyran!¡± he called through a grin. ¡°How bloody long¡¯s it take for you to get it up?¡±


    The jolly devil jittered gleefully. His deed enveloped his every sense, making him shake with a pleasure that did humour Garrott, until his eyes fastened and his gaze fell carefully. Along the hand of his bladesman, half concealed under his sleeve, was a stretch of skin scabbed white. His master frowned deeply, as anger swelled within him, for upon Tyran¡¯s knuckles down past his wrist ran the Patch.


    ¡°Never took you for a liar,¡± said Garrott, standing menacingly tall over Tyran. ¡°And yet even now your skin pales with sickness.¡± He shook his head, the deed ceased, and the wide eyes of Tyran filled with terror, as his victim came equally mortified; feeling the corruption wedged inside of her. ¡°A shame you die here, Tyran. Would¡¯ve rather¡¯d gutting you for the lads to watch.¡± He placed his hand over the man¡¯s head. ¡°But we can¡¯t take chances with plagues, boy.¡±


    The force of a boulder rammed Tyran¡¯s skull against the base of the Haddlebush. The first slam sent him spinning and scattered any thoughts that might voice mercy, but by the fourth his bone broke in and red seeped out. By the seventh, his eye drooped from its socket, though there was left no life to purge. Garrott, disinterested, let the corpse fall flat, and hardly noticed as Tyran slid alongside his victim once more. The brunette woman saw the stare adrift in that clobbered head, which now sagged into goop. The lifeless watch alone made her jaw drop, but when she beheld the Patch crawling up his arm Garrott¡¯s words from before made sudden sense and descended against her. He, through his lust, had infected her with a death worse than his blade could grant. Only dread was in her then, and it pulled her from the dirt with a tremble.


    Garrott propped his greataxe against her throat, slid its flat edge over her jugular up to her chin, then tilted high, so that their eyes could meet. And meet they did, holding for a time while he savoured her fright. She could smell the gore staining his hand and nearly puked, as well as the rot emanating from between those cracked lips. Garrott caught her gag in his ear, and pleasure was a clot between his black teeth.


    ¡°Not to worry, madam,¡± he said. ¡°This is a fortune for you. With all that disease up your ass, none of his ilk will dare fuck you again.¡± Then his head swiveled and he found her husband, fainted in the mud. ¡°Especially not him.¡±


    The axe raised and planted into the ground at the other side of the man¡¯s head. His eyes had no chance to open before the light behind them died. With a spasm, he went limp and gushed himself out over the dirt and across the fingers of his lover, who could for a time only look into his splintered skull, before the reality eventually set in.


    There was an instant of apprehension, but before despair could scream out from her bloodied lips her heart failed her, and she struck the dirt. Garrott snorted, humoured, then shrugged and carried on.


    In short time, the band was wayward, with the Whilderwheats spanning before them and the Haddlebush looming behind, when their final member deigned to follow. Stepped out from behind some nook in the massive trunk, Rhaebjorn floated across that desecrated earth. He looked blankly down at the bodies and the divots and the insides that filled them. None of it was to his interest, but when the body of the tortured woman laid by his boots and under his watch, his ears flexed and his gaze narrowed down against her. He enveloped her in his narrow sights. Rhaebjorn breathed some cold, cryptic air, then carried on, leaving her to the shade of the Haddlebush to stalk the caravan that droned away.


    There she remained, as hours painted her in her husband¡¯s blood and worked disease deeper down into her. A sigil of decay, the only thing left was for maggots to make themselves known, and when evening arrived they too did curse her flesh. One wrapped her fingers and bit into her palm, another crept up her thigh and began its burrow. A third inched across her temple, then drove down at her eye.


    And the eye came open.


    With a gasp she coiled up into panic. The plump, pale maggot died in her fist and flew against the bark. Its kin were swatted and stomped, and she arose wounded. After a second standing, she wished she had let the maggots burrow deep into her mind until it could form thoughts no more, for the pain of sight and the knowledge of its sequence was an anguish far worse. Her hands were a faded scarlet, and in wondering why, she felt at the dark gloss across her cheeks, with each inch she fingered granting an inch more to that frantic width of her gaze. Still, a pain writhed between her legs, and she knew death was not forgone in the least. Her husband¡¯s body laid unmoving by her feet, soaking her toes red and answering her wonder with a wet truth.


    Lost to the fog of awe, she dropped her back against the base of the Haddlebush where bashed brains ran dry. Her hands lost feeling against the bark. Her eyes clouded, unwilling to see the rotting mound beneath her. She wobbled towards unconsciousness again, until the unfelt touch of flesh embedded in the wood tossed her into a slip. Her barren legs twisted and she fell back into that murdered mud with a splash. Blood erupted up around her and covered her lap, while under her legs sprawled bits of butchered men.


    Clasping hands over her eyes to seal away the sights that were too horrid to be true, Jennette wept. Fiercely first, then gutturally as her voice drained from her, then at a wail as the sun fell away from her horror.


    She was but another widow of Arakvan, whom night would soon devour. Like a widow, like any faithful heart that was snipped so suddenly of its strings, she wept with words unformed and pushed tears down between the blood of her fingers. Like a widow, she laid and bent and wrapped herself low as if that could subdue the sickness in her stomach or the pain in her chest. Like a widow, her voice eventually gave out, the stink of rot overpowered her, and she sat there silent, unmoving.


    Then, unlike any Arakvanin widow seen before, with the dull, gaining doom of sunset glowing against her, she stood. Jennette stepped over the mess of death and neared the pile where they stacked the other slain. Very unlike a widow indeed, she stole rags, a cloak, the half-helm from its slain champion, then fulfilled the robbing by plucking an old axe up from the weapons thought too poor to carry along, and so discarded.


    Unlike any victim Arakvan had ever known, she donned that bloodied helm bearing wings and heaved up the old axe over her shoulder, and with a gaze of stone staring through the slits of her steel, Jennette stepped in the tracks of the caravan and into the swards beyond.


    Death would have treated her kinder, but it had others to see first.


    ____

 Under Avarice

    Chapter 10 : Under Avarice


    Argolan laid quiet alow the ledge. Its fey tangle slept eerily under a black shroud. Night was not yet come, but Argolan¡¯s gap of earth hiked its horizon and the sun soon hid. Eritle glimpsed the waning light. Beams of a drab saffron crept quietly between the boards of the cliff-town. Its denizens knew they had a last instance to savour day, then nightfall was to be theirs again. Then, the Scourge was to crawl back up the rocks. An evening so sombre meant only that the doors could again not go unbarred, and then it was that Eritle cowered with its sun.


    Rain hastened against that sodden mound, and with a crack of thunder torrents joined the descent to soak its old wood and sink its roofs. Some shambling silhouettes darted across the street, submerged in cloaks with hoods drawn low to fend off that hail they knew so well. A scarce few crossed into the town¡¯s tavern: Ellimon¡¯s Bale, and the rest vanished behind closed doors. A glow of chrome gathered rank between homes as cabalder fumes climbed. The roads of Eritle puddled, became rivers. A worthy rush of rainwater patrolled each downward path, but if they were without the wail of the clouds they would sit silent, and if without the yellow fog they would lie lifeless.


    Powerless to do otherwise, the captives of Eritle, whether by illness or guilt, swayed from their iron heights, devastated by the fanged hail. Their prisons were without canopies or warmth, and so it seemed the will of Galehaven was for its caged to die cold. By an edacious rust or some careless mishap, there was, however, a cage come undone. Out from its bars seeped an older fellow, deathly ill, hacking blood about. His skin was only thick enough to cover bone. He was granted a wide berth on his waddle up the hill-roads, for the guards, in rain, kept to their ales and Eritle¡¯s brothel, and the common folk had no quarry with the plagued.


    Nude under dark skies, the elder itched his skin until it bled, stumbled about to fall hard and often against homesteads and the rush of the street itself. In that chrome mist, he was concealed, and the gaunt shape of him alone could show through. Those that did glimpse him believed they beheld some lesser beast wandered in from the plains, and quickened from sight. Up he crept, muttering madness to his own ear and staring impossibly wide at everything that moved yet at nothing material. Soon he reached that great ledge behind the brothel, where the cage of the bald woman hun. She watched him stagger¡ªmuttering¡ªpast her hang to that wild drop. Then off he stepped.


    There was no scream, nor pound of impact. He was given soundlessly to the depths below; swallowed by Argolan. It was a miserable spectacle, but aside from the mockeries of drunken guards and the chants of the diseased above, it was the sole spectacle she had witnessed for some time. Indeed, she preferred the lack thereof. Hurt, the woman watched the ledge for a long while after. Her face drooped down the bars. She expected something; a wail of misery from his plummet; the first finger that would climb back up; or the howl of a beast that set teeth into his corpse, but there was nothing. Nothing at all, she thought, and while the sight indeed sickened her she felt compelled to grin.


    Death¡¯s insignificance was a freeing notion. Without eyes to cry for or voices to curse the bodies that fell, they were nothing more than meat. She¡ªgrinning¡ªwas nothing more than meat. It was a joyful thing, to her, to her starving belly and her sleepless gaze. It was a wonderful joy indeed to know she did not need to carry on or fight out or find a goodness in the world. She could starve and rot in that cage, then know with all her heart that that was right.


    Perhaps this would be the night, she wondered, when death knocked at last. A low eye could spot her heaving ribs. A drizzle could and did chill her to the bone. There was much room in that coming night to die, and so when she blinked through her weariness and saw the falling sun, she saw too a comfort; the warm hand of an old friend, consoling, telling her that she had done enough.


    She released the bars, forgot the old man fed to the pit and slumped back against that hard iron. Rust stung her spine, but what did it matter? Head high, she embraced the cold of rain and laid her limbs wide to hug death.


    ¡°So tired¡­¡± she whispered, so faint her words were hardly audible. ¡°So weak, after so long¡­¡±


    It would be a calm storm to die in, and a quiet night to eat her soul. But silence in Arakvan was a distrusting thing. When noise swells, folk dream of the quiet in the plains. And when they are alone in that expanse, with only the gales to whisper to them and the ghostly grass to bring them touch, they close their eyes and clasp their ears, and pretend there is a town over the next hill to drown out that silence and all that stalk in it. A quiet comes when it is feared and, when relished, it strays far.


    And so it was that rain¡¯s rhythm was hastily brought company that evening. From an attic, down between the alley of Ellimon¡¯s Bale, up along the edge of the main road, between the curve of higher rock and the sump of crooked earth where water pooled deepest, came uncaring things in long cloaks of black. Bundled tight, every inch of underneath was concealed under their dark drapes, and to hide the wildness of their eyes that was most unbefitting of Eritle they dipped sharp hoods. The fogs turned them to shades. The rain blurred even black. With an aura of decrepitness, of a long wayfaring, the two spoke in whispers from their alley coven to the ledge that had just swallowed a soul. When they reached the terrace looming at the brothel¡¯s back, the valley in their glimpse lost its last light. They, in the fall of the sun, became invisible, unreal.


    Yet their voices were left behind. Slowly, the itch of nearby mutterings awoke those collapsed senses of the bald woman. Ached, irritated, she dragged up her sights to find them, which proved trying enough to prone her once more. Once found she kept them in sight. Through a curiosity that sought some souvenir for the afterlife; some modicum of held spirit, she stayed with their words a time, while her belly howled, quivered, and in the cold her skin paled.


    Hushed words emitted from those hoods like wells yawning echoes of the fell. Bottomless, gushing disembodied callings. One pitch belonged to a woman, stern and with the gravity of command. The other was deep¡ªtoo deep for a man, but horridly etched as if it mouthed the pain of monsters.


    ¡°Some days, yet,¡± it said. ¡°Then we ride south again.¡±


    ¡°Do you have to sound so plain about it?¡± the woman asked. ¡°Chance Odr has it right. Maybe you really do prefer it out here, in the rain and wind. And shit.¡±


    And in answer, the wind hardened down upon them. She brought her hood lower, though he stayed unmoving, consumed by Argolan¡¯s lurch.


    ¡°Winter comes,¡± he said. ¡°In time, we will wish it were only rain.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the meantime I¡¯m concerned with,¡± she said. ¡°Never thought I¡¯d say it, but I¡¯m ready to see Galehaven again. He owes us a great deal for this. All of it. I would sooner see myself paid in copper than suffer another night in lonely Eritle.¡±


    ¡°Yet we¡¯ve done precious little,¡± he lamented.


    Now she looked to him curiously, nearing frustration. ¡°Little?¡± she asked, bewildered. ¡°Was Arrenfaeld a little deed? What of the Haddlebush and the farmers hung from it? Was that meagre before the mighty Nadaar?¡±


    And Veil Nadaar shrugged, gazed onward. ¡°All of it is. All of it¡ªonly shallow evils.¡±


    ¡°Shallow?¡±


    ¡°They will bring us nowhere,¡± he knew.


    ¡°A village lies in ash, Veil,¡± she reminded, firmly, trembling under an undecided ire. ¡°Its people are dead. Burnt.¡±


    Veil Nadaar heard her well, but the pat of hail parted him from his care. He lifted his eyes¡ªgold stabs¡ªskyward and from under his hood came what seemed a snout of scales. Razored teeth shone between his words, and so it was even in calm he came dangerous.


    ¡°Do you think it will rain tomorrow, too?¡± Veil wondered, adrift.


    Many things was Arawn: a warrior of no more than thirty summers, without a scar for any. A knight, come crestfallen with the demise of the kingdom she served. A killer, who thought too much for her own good. But there were many things too she was not. She was not patient for forlorn ramblings, and she was not immune to the cut of rain. Arawn Dandril shook her head, and from her shift swung black locks. She had often a squint masking her gaze, but the truth of her eyes was a green vulnerability, that sought to understand what they witnessed and, at times, to forget what they watched. Her face was a graceful mold, most becoming of a noble but, at its sharp, strong-jawed edges, tainted with a hue of resilience inheritable only from a generation¡¯s toil. Now her stare was short of sympathy and with an emerald irritance she abandoned Veil to her peripheral.


    ¡°Great,¡± she sighed. ¡°Veidt has us chasing dreams, and you¡¯re off in the clouds.¡±


    Again, thunder sang, but a tame thing it was. Almost like a lullaby, she thought, to soothe the sun into its slumber. Seeing the sleeping fields and hearing the miserly snores of Argolan below them, Arawn wondered when a proper rest would come for them again; beyond the hay of an inn or in a sleeping roll below the stars. When could she close her eyes again? Arawn wondered sourly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll fight for this relic he craves so deeply,¡± she told him, ¡°but I will not die amidst these swards¡ªbattling peasants. Burning farms.¡± She spat, and her coarseness barely disguised her discomfort. ¡°This is beneath us all,¡± Arawn lied. ¡°Certainly, it is beneath him. We stake our lives over myth.¡±


    The rain hardened, and so her last words were forced into a crueler pitch. While to her the gaining torrent begged a tightening of the cloak around her, to Veil it was nothing. Still, his face aimed skyward. In the folly of wonder, Arawn looked against him, which was always a vile thing, and immediate was her regret and the effort to hide her gaze. But already had Veil caught it in the golden pool of his serpentine head. There seemed only emptiness in those hard sockets, but something did indeed tighten around her from deep inside of his skull.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Veil was one of the kinnit: horribly misshapen men, mutated from Arakvan¡¯s curse or some underearth taint, and born with the skin or the claws or the sickness of beasts. Most mothers who fostered such horrors counted it a blessing that they survived the ordeal, for to be sure kinnits were strong, and they seldom awaited their own birth to see the world. It was the awful truth that many parents bled to death, when the kinnits within them bursted out of their own volition. It was a truth all the worse that when those mothers did survive, most wrapped their babes tightly in cloth, vanished without a word, and were not seen again until they had visited the river and come back alone.


    But some were too wise for slaughter, too loving for murder, or too scared to drown their sons and daughters with a warmth so new in their hearts. So kinnits did spread through the land, pushed to the wilds or the drabbest nooks poverty could conquer, to live out the hard, scavenging lives of beggars. Veil Nadaar was no different; a son of starvation who knew how to run from a knife before he could walk from his cradle. But where others succumbed to ruin, or made themselves servient, or ran off to join the Baelgarth, Veil tired of his persecution. As a child, he donned a blade, and before it ever dried he was a man. Slaughter had made him, but just as harsh as it made his soul it instilled an evil vigour in his eyes, which Arawn now found herself trapped within.


    Of the kinnits, he was a wyrm-man. His ears were winged scales. His skin was rough and craggy, like the armour of a drake, coloured a green of immense dark. Where a nose would run, his face jutted out wickedly and fostered a snout. Now it slid askew and Arawn shuddered at the teeth within, dulled by years spent chewing on things stronger than bone.


    ¡°Take heed, Arawn,¡± he warned. ¡°I¡¯ve seen many question their orders. In Njall, when the food ran bare¡­¡± Veil saw bloody memory in the clouds. ¡°But Veidt is our lord. Forsake him, and I will ensure you die in these fields.¡±


    Arawn Dandril was no stranger to threats. When words of warning struck her, she rose tall and served them a steel answer. Yet Veil spoke without malice or lust, for carnage was as ordinary to him as the sun to the sward, and Arawn knew in a moment that it was a promise. Too swift and too strong to count among the power of men, Veil Nadaar was alone, prey to no one and mightiest of the Crimson Clad.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Arawn said with a nod. ¡°But if our good lord has us chasing fairy tales much longer, you won¡¯t need to unsheathe your sword for me to die.¡± She turned away. ¡°Enjoy the rain, Veil. Our storm is forever yet.¡±


    Her cloak flapped behind her as if the gales sought to drag her back, but in a step she was alley-cast, and in two she was shadow. Veil was uncaring still. For reasons beyond even a sage soul¡¯s wager, the rain maintained its entrancement against him; a drab spell that returned to him naught but a soaked cape. The hail struck centerfold to his very pupils, but his wrongful nature let him stay unblinking. The water glistened down his snout, sliding between the cracks of his scales and completing him with a smooth, opaque filling. He did not relish the cold, yet unruffled he dared to wonder and always did his rogue thoughts settle on violence. So Veil Nadaar made himself chill, and savoured an unthinking mind.


    A kinnit was a rare sight anywhere that was not unnamed. The bald woman gawked at the wyrm-man, only fascinated further by the ferocity of his words. Perhaps here, she thought, was some excitement to be claimed before hunger left her limp and the guards remembered their duty to chuck her over the ledge. Then she paused, while the thought sullied her, and hoped in good faith they would burn her instead. Leaning against her bars drearily, she chirped to him.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t think they let your ilk in any place with roads,¡± she said, earning her a golden side-eye of disinterest. ¡°Though I¡¯d wager you¡¯re not one to be ¡®let¡¯ anywhere. Are you, kinnit?¡±


    He did not answer and, excited, the woman leaned further.


    ¡°Or should I call you Veil?¡±


    Now he did see her in full. With his turn, she saw him too: a cold jade wrath in swirls of black. Veil took a few steps nearer, strafing her cage. He saw the hunger skinning her, the exhaustion resting under her eyes, as well as the apathy fattening within. Settling some distance from the bald woman, closer to the cliff than her cage, careless while the wind and rain ruffled his garb, Veil faced her directly. Hail stole their colour and left them both solemn, but still did he see a brilliance of will within her. Intrigued, it drove Veil even closer, so near in fact that she did not need to strain herself to be heard, but from between the bars she beheld not his courtesy, and instead only the powerful steps and the haunting eyes.


    ¡°Are you afraid, child?¡± asked Veil, with all of his age suddenly rank in his deep speech.


    ¡°Should I be?¡± she retorted, making some effort to seem unaltered before him.


    He raised a fist high and from it extended a cracked finger. She followed it, then found herself stranded against a higher cage, where a young fellow had keeled over. His scrawny little hands hugged the bars even in death, petitioning mercy to this world and the next. All over his stripped frame were scabs of white. The Patch had claimed him.


    ¡°He was,¡± Veil said simply. ¡°Held his bars so long his palms lost their skin.¡±


    The bald woman strained her eyes in disbelief. She did not understand how he could perceive a thing so high and hidden, but it would be foolish to hear the grate of his tone and think it false. So she leaned back, impressed, and nodded.


    ¡°Better to die here than below the earth, where there¡¯s nothing to see but rock.¡±


    ¡°Is it?¡± he asked, gravely, before turning to see that lightless horizon. ¡°With the sky above us, we think of all that lies under, all that the sun can touch. It makes us bold, inspired. It makes us believe there is more for us to take and more for us to feel. More to live on for.¡± Then he turned back, and his eyes were bloodshot. ¡°In rock, there is only rock.¡±


    ¡°And are you so cursed with hope, kinnit?¡± she asked, deflated of her whimsy.


    ¡°I am cursed,¡± Veil confessed, while the rain came harder, ¡°as its killer.¡±


    She listened truthfully now, with her mind stricken of any intrigue or jest. The rain, despite its fierceness, was quiet before the power in his words, and all the darkness of the world was dim next to that gold burn of his gaze.


    ¡°I¡¯d imagine there¡¯s nothing duller than to live like a blade,¡± she said, earnest. ¡°Trudging from battle to battle, with your soul worth only what it takes. Perhaps hope to you is a lie. Or maybe you¡¯re the lie, to think another killing leaves you any different than the day before.¡±


    Veil drew close then, towering over her in her squalor.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t it?¡± he asked, with the hilt of his broadsword becoming a clearer thing.


    She was unshaken, and rose to one knee before him like a stone shore to a wave.


    ¡°Well, tell me, Veil the kinnit¡­¡± she began. ¡°How many lie dead because of you, and how many days have you gone weeping in the rainfall like life is some curse?¡±


    Now he eased back, seeing her courage confirmed. She was not some wildman or one of the plagued as were her neighbours. She was something much more, and for a moment, Veil shortened beneath her and her short prison of contempt.


    ¡°Indeed you earned this cage, if only for your tongue,¡± he said, then turning again to the horizon. ¡°But where you see the sun rise, I see a great fire that can¡­ immolate us all¡ªlike flies under glass.¡± Veil shook his head and the rain lightened. ¡°It is easy for a dying woman to speak of hope, when she does not need to suffer tomorrow.¡±


    She surrendered to a sit, feeling his words, then shared his stare against the night. ¡°What ease is there in dying young, between rusted old iron and held under the cries of madmen?¡±


    Now Veil scoffed, as if she danced around some verity they both felt.


    ¡°What ease?¡± he asked, smiling in so crooked a way it seemed he had never grinned before¡ªnot truly. ¡°The ease of not needing to want,¡± said Veil. ¡°Not needing to know that you failed desire. That you gave up on purpose and called it happenstance. The ease of living under avarice.¡± He looked to her over his shoulder, while she tautened with all the weight of that malice stained in his eyes. ¡°You can say all you want of our world, but your words are wind until you¡¯ve seen it to its bitter end.¡±


    Her defences overcome, the bald woman sank lower and offered her thin fingers through the bars as one offers tribute. There they shook, then steadied, and the barren stretch of her chapped palms was answer enough.


    ¡°Am I not caged?¡± she asked, her voice falling frail with a stressed uncertainty.


    ¡°You are,¡± Veil nodded. ¡°But you are not hollow yet to die so meekly. Ask yourself, girl, are you ready for what¡¯s next? For oblivion? Or does the land of the living scare you more?¡±


    His words fell with might despite the lowness of his tone. They bashed her sidelong, opened her up to the cold of hail and the stab of crude iron into her back. Suddenly, her rags felt too thin and her cage seemed too small, and a moment reigned where fear was paramount within her, and she could only quiver, pale and stammer with words unformed from thoughts unknown. Each drag of rain down her shoulder was an accusation against her and finally did they melt away the stubbornness of her scowl. An empty visage rose up from that crumple of sickly limbs. Dead eyes, mouth agape, she met nightfall anew, but now there was doubt heavy within her. The all-encompassing black seemed too immense to stomach.


    Then she considered it, truly, for the first time in a very long time: the end. She saw the rolling clouds of darkness and forced her eyes up to see their tears; feel the fury they fell with. There was a cruel, unforgiving anguish with each beat. There was a furious thunder that cursed the land below it like a child scorned. Then there was the majesty of those dark skies, stretching forever, promising every embrace and every cast of the earth, and as a light between shadow-doors it found her, vastened against her, and she hearkened to it as if it were a beckoning god. It existed, and it was true, buried under an infinite broil of air and evil. It was a goodness in a sea of wrong, and she had to know for certain if it could dare be witnessed by mortal eyes.


    ¡°Maybe there¡¯s something after¡­¡± she thought, awestruck. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s beautiful¡­ or the wind just runs on, and Arakvan forgets.¡±


    Veil heard her, then heard too the quake of her fear. He nodded, and looked with her to that swallowing sky. So long had he searched and so bloody was his blade, but still he could not call tomorrow his. In that hail, the cold told him it was only darkness, but the gall in her finding gaze made him look longer, harder, until it could be thought true.


    Then he shook his head.


    ¡°A time will come when this land carries on no longer. When the horizon stops,¡± said Veil. ¡°Arakvan will collapse under its sins and fall into the earth. It has to.¡± He turned and walked away down an alley, his cloak blending with night¡¯s shade until he existed in voice alone. ¡°Nothing can live ashamed forever.¡± Then the voice too was gone.


    Her solace was returned, though hardly noticed. Night deepened. She sat for some hours in that cage, while the moon came wide and blue upon her, while the howls of the swards shook the sky. The moon was imposing, but its blue soothed the eye. The howls were ferocious, but some whose throats shrieked ate naught but berries and leaves. There was something more to be witnessed, she thought¡ªthere had to be¡ªand at once her surrender felt sheepish. She tensed with the idea of her own bleak death, where her eyes would eventually close and she would sprawl sideways in her little iron grave. A little white puppet, to be tossed to the rocks. It nearly made her sob, and in pain she dug her nails into her bald head until there were sure to be scars against her skull. The challenge bled her. The storm¡¯s rally concussed any truth she could grasp onto. Yet her eyes then dried, just before the first tear could form, as while there was indeed a great wound within her, Ander was a coward no more.


    In a burst of action, she sprung against the bars and rammed her jaw into their iron¡ªonce, twice, and again and again until her head bobbed and a pair of teeth came loose. She gripped one tight, wobbled it while blood ran down her bruised chin, then tore. Ander screamed in terrible pain, but a string of her gums held the tooth in place. Panting, abrasive, she pinched it firmer between her finger and thumb, then with a deep breath and a deafening roar, ripped it from her mouth. It snapped from its bonds, spat blood at the bars.


    It was then, in the quiet twilight, that Ander began her work. Sleepless, starved, she bent over the plucked tooth like it was some unburied treasure. Time after time she scraped it against the iron, until it started to chip. At its edge, a sharpness ensued, if only so slightly.


    Wonder brought light to her eyes.


    ____

 The Thousand Plagues

    Chapter 11 : The Thousand Plagues


    Miles upon untold miles, did the Lunga¡¯ar stretch south. A rabid titan, it split the countryside from the Whilderwheats down to the Bog of Ochros. And along its riverbanks, prowling like some craven merm-man, was Ulf Eldric.


    The way was arduous, as often did the Lunga¡¯ar spike and plummet, but its shores foamed thick, and in their float crept the most mild-mannered of beasts, who contented themselves on the eating of stowaway insects and the catfish of the stream. But the way ran long, and many a time came when Ulf¡¯s soft steps were not enough to elude the fauna of that fjord, and he was bade to slay or flee. For the sake only of time he chose most the latter. Yet again, instances arose when blair hogs grew too bold and toadrigs reached their hammerhead tongues beyond the bounds of lilies and moss. And thus corpses were felled in patterns along the length of the Lunga¡¯ar; some grizzly telltale of a greater predator¡¯s passing.


    It was made an easy thing for Eidrik and Horral to pursue the Northman unseen, for indeed the way was straight and true and well-evidenced, as Ulf stomached few detours if his blade could rent them swift. Where the river¡¯s jagged bends tossed the two ajar, the rot of new death was keen on their snouts. In some disorderly game of cat and mouse, the outlander strode and his shadows filled with furrfiends, spotting from afar through their ivory spyglass.


    Horral was especially light on his trail, but Eidrik¡¯s steps came to drag. With equal doubt and wonder he turned often to gaze back north, where the shadow of the Haddlebush crept on the horizon and the Cleft of Teroe soon dominated the way north. His mind was wayward, true, but his steps answered to Horral alone. It was for his sake that Eidrik pushed onward, intent on seeing the aged fellow not lose his grin that hung lantern-like amidst them when night was dense, guiding the way and casting off the shade of worry.


    The unlikely ensemble perused by a river hamlet, bustling with splashing rowboats and slung nets and the calls of catch and warning. It was most modest and the vibrance of the Lunga¡¯ar painted its people merrily. Here there were wares to browse, shelter to share, and a refuge from the many ailments of the road unknown, however derelict. To the dismay and bewilderment of the furrfiends however, their dark leader routed past the hamlet and all its cheap spoils, returning himself to the grim wilderness instead. Eidrik was disconcerted by the sight, though Horral¡¯s head came high. He pondered in a mystic light what solace one so battered sought. It seemed to him unlikely that such a thing could even exist, but the pace that outlander set was undeniable, and the commitment to see his way tread surmounted even the aetroll, so it could not be named false.


    Still, fascination aside, the furrfiends came weary, as where they found a full night¡¯s rest Ulf Eldric distanced from them. The outlander slept half the sum of a normal man, woke perhaps by nightmares or determination itself or both strewn together. He did not speak alone or soften in his way, and sights a tourist might hearken to he passed uncaringly. It was clear the man had seen beauty in his life before, but deemed a gawk only wasteful.


    Night came and went and they were all left a trek lower, further out from the heart of the Whilderwheats, deeper into Thedrun, and nearer to the first bubbling pond of Ochros, with the Cleft a gateway to the far north. The shores hilled upwards gradually, until the collective looked down to find their boots on summits, rank with bald cypresses. The fjord was far below them and ceaseless; it swerved high and soon, through some strange twist of stone and wood, the river came level again. Then it split, with morning¡¯s aureolin soft in its foams, and rushed ravenously down a steep arch of cliff. Ulf stared down the depth, considered a leap and a grapple to its base, but the rocks were wet and slick, and a poor grip could leave him crippled upon the stone, for carrion-cravers to find and devour.


    Scowling, he turned eastward, and crept into a shallow wood that traced slanted down the cliff¡¯s bank. The phantom vanished in the leaves with a rustle, and leagues away, the furrfiends ducked their spyglass to share a frown.


    In a glade of that wood, surrounded by ruby-leafed cedars, sat a lone farmstead. Unfenced, the mark of hoof-like paws had desecrated the crops spanning to its front door. Mares like gaunt mongrels, called brungs, were slacked by the reins to the posts of the cabin. They were hungry things, sapped of their strength and majesty, but a mount in and of itself was a treasure to be seen, as scarcely were they found outside the bastions of Galehaven. Theirs was a neigh of angst. Nervously, they eyed the peripheral, expecting smittledogs or grown krawmors to come and bite from their flesh. Saddles wrapped around their ribs and dug deep.


    Inside, the riders lurked; drifters in gold and blue, forsaking a duty in Ochros yet boasting of their crests all the same. The roof was small, the space cluttered with tools and oaken crafts, and seated at a short table were two soldiers with the farmer like wasps among the ant. Their swords were left upon the tabletop, solely so that they were seen. In their reflection, the fatigued gaze of the farmer tensed, though the span of his years and the hardship of his labour had brought him under a screen of aloof placidity.


    His brows were thick and his tongue well-guarded. His speech was of grunts and sighs, and his body bulked with a dormant strength that was still minute amidst young arms. A scent of mint and hay swarmed that chamber, while morning brought a gold glow in the door ajar and over its floors. At the windows brushed petals and vine, and that dawn would be a fine thing were there better company to foster it with.


    These wanderers from Ochros, however, were not that. Already had they fattened on his stock and tossed their discards to the wood beneath them. With a willful discourtesy, they moved where they wished and plucked what they wanted, all the while berating their aged host. They scorned his hospitality as an elder¡¯s disinterest and jested of how his wife found him plain, so left him alone to his shack and his field, to plow and feel only plight. Of course, they knew nothing of that man across the table or the rancor he held, but Ochros was harsh and diseased, and their time in its fog left them spiteful of lives led normally and folk unbeknownst to bloodshed. The dread-stains of the Bog were steaming in their eyes.


    Scarfing down a chunk of strawberry, the first of the soldiers¡ªa broad foe of good fitness with fingers the size of sausages¡ªchucked the stem to the wall, then turned his puffy, red-wet cheeks to his host.


    ¡°Some fruit you ¡®ave,¡± he spat between chews. ¡°Take it the missus wanted meat, though. That why she¡¯s not ¡®ere?¡± He badgered, leaning close. ¡°Did the ol¡¯ bitch need meat?¡±


    Then the other chirped, and his was a countenance of jolly unrest. Thin were his arms, but swelled was his chest. ¡°Ye see ¡®er again, ye tell ¡®er I¡¯ll give ¡®er some real fucking meat. She might even walk back to ye, cross-legged!¡±


    Together, they laughed and spat strawberry onto his table. The farmer watched red pulps gush and sink into the wood. Already, he thought of how he would wash them out, what strand of cloth and what brand of soap he would treat to the table, as if the antagonism against him was some distant affair to which fate was unconcerned.


    ¡°Yeah, old boy¡¯s not a talker,¡± said the fat one. ¡°That¡¯s why you¡¯re out ¡®ere, old boy? In the middle of pissing nowhere, with nothing but dirt to stick your cock in at night?¡±


    More they laughed, more they ate, until his cupboard became a scarce space. Then his ale they found; one humble bottle of backwater swill, aged for a decade. He did not drink, and there it sat as a reminder of the day he stopped. Now, its cork was popped with a battering against the edge of the table, that broke too the glass of its neck. Hoisting it high like a trophy, the fat one waterfalled it into his gullet and gulped down the bitter brew as if it were only water.


    ¡°Me?¡± he burped. ¡°Don¡¯t mind quiet folk. Not at all. Knew this widow out in the bog. Tits like hams. Quiet, she was. Quiet till the end.¡±


    The other laughed, then his glee waned, and the words weighed on him true until he frowned, uneasily. Anew, he gazed at his comrade and the bits of juice flying out from between his teeth. Then down he looked, to the width and power of those fat fingers, and at once he felt sick, like all the stock he indulged upon would soon come back up. He drank deep, until the thought was lost to a burning chest. The ale was fire on his tongue, but it did well in scattering his mind.


    ¡°Ochros¡­¡± he groaned, sick. ¡°Things happen there. Just how it is.¡±


    The farmer looked plainly against him, until the soldier¡¯s weathered eyes rose, and pulsed with abashment. All the mud on his chin and the dirts in his teeth were made clear, then his returned watch became an unsightly thing.


    ¡°What?¡± he asked, loud. ¡°Ye think I¡¯m a liar? Ye think it¡¯s¡ªwhat? Pigeons and fucking pies down there? In the bloody fucking swamp?¡± Now he leaned it, and shot a finger of caution at the old farmer. ¡°Ye think ye¡¯d fare better, don¡¯t ye? Than the lot of us?¡±


    Hearing that rampant upset, the fat one laughed like he was hearing an old joke, resurfaced again between kin. Then he shook his head and raised the bottle.


    ¡°Some whoreson ye are,¡± that thrawn other griped. ¡°Ye even know how to swing a sword, old man? Ye ever bore steel against a thing other than rabbits? And fucking rats!¡±


    He slammed his fist down and the board below him cracked, sending the table into a tilt that snapped a leg. The measly feast and all its waste swiveled and fell, then rolled over the wood while the fat man jumped back, shocked but amused more.


    ¡°Fucking All-Father!¡± he chuckled. ¡°You¡¯re a right fiend, Jaerod!¡±


    But Jaerod did not hear him. He saw only the farmer and those faroff eyes that could never be impressed; never illuminated with esteem or marvel. Not even terror, it appeared, could cloud his blunt stare. So Jaerod laughed wickedly, through a toothed scowl, then picked his blade up from the remnants and grabbed the farmer by his gray hairs. The sword pressed into his neck and cumbered his jugular. The strain on his scalp showed veins through his temple. His old eyes were frantic then, as air was short, but still fear was not in them. Jaerod panted nervously in sight of his snubbed effect.


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°Ye¡¯d never make it,¡± he promised the old man. ¡°Ye¡¯d never come out what we¡¯ve been in. Ye ¡®aven¡¯t the ¡®eart for it.¡± He shook his head, fearful of something growing at the back of his mind that drove his steel deeper and brought his stare to a tremble. ¡°No one ¡®as the ¡®eart for it.¡±


    The farmer, who by name was Arrel, saw the madness. He saw the wild taint of torment and, more than that, the beat of guilt, but all of it was nothing to him. He remained blank, and wondered if he was to die that day. Outside his cabin, the brungs neighed with a sudden alarm, and then he frowned upon hearing his answer. Their panicked stammer dragged the soldiers outside; moths to flame, and before them stood a stranger from the dawn.


    Clad in only black, the form was unyielding to light. Through old scars, Ulf found the pair and served them a dire dread. They fumbled for swords and soon bore steel against the trespasser. Mild in his intrigue, Arrel peered through the door from where he sat by his broken table, and beheld that shade of the wilderness with some agita, as it faced down his guests.


    ¡°Who are you, stranger?¡± the fat one asked. ¡°We¡¯re of Galehaven. Of the Clergy. You¡¯d be wise to run off, ¡®fore we get impatient. You don¡¯t want enemies in the capital!¡±


    Ulf only titled his head. ¡°I¡¯m taking your mare,¡± he told them.


    They had been victims long enough. It was the suffering of Ochros that faced them then, outside that little shack. In the gaze of the commanding stranger, they saw orders and disregard and the pain of weakness that had for so long marked their duty. And they were unready to stomach it again.


    ¡°What¡¯d you say, Northman?¡± the fat one asked, twisting his sword through the air as if gouging out an invisible wound. The other took a hurried step closer, descending the porch to face the wanderer on even ground, with a grimace shielding his dread.


    But the wanderer did not care. He saw the cedars sway in the wind. He saw sunlight crisp the red of their leaves. And all the sky was blue, as if Arakvan forgot its own horror on that morning.


    ¡°I¡¯m taking your mare,¡± stated Ulf.


    The gales chilled the pair then. They looked to one another, unsteadied, but the moment of hesitance drew too long, and with a whip of air the gnarled blade of Ulf was drawn.


    ¡°Come then,¡± he commanded.


    Through pride alone, they answered the challenge. They struck first, and Ulf¡¯s sabre whisked thrice, then fell. Metal clung, a spark struck the grass. The black cloak of Ulf streaked past the two, as behind it they collapsed; the fat one with a slit throat and Jaerod with a stab through his eye that opened the back of his head. Blood puddled in the earth, and in the quick carnage the brungs gained fright and broke from their loose bonds to trot into the trees.


    He watched them leave, then frowned, before turning his eye inward. Over the cabin¡¯s threshold he stepped, where Arrel was found by a broken breakfast with a look of shock heavy upon him. It took some seconds for the Northman to deduce what had occurred with the littered food, and a second more to decide he did not care.


    ¡°Food, old man,¡± he ordered. ¡°And I¡¯ll leave you with what¡¯s left of your table.¡±


    His bewilderment neared defiance. Arrel stared in awe of all the unlawful deeds done in that morning, but soon he hastened to fetch a meal of bread and fruit. Half a cone loaf and just short of a dozen berries he perched upon a plate, touching them through a towel and never with his bare hands, then set all on the counter in the loss of his table. Ulf looked at the food with such disinterest it would be easy to think him full, but eventually, he ate a berry, as unnatural in his hand as an axe in a child¡¯s. It was sweet, tender.


    Arrel had already returned to his seat, hosting the wild nomad as if it were any other morning. And in turn, that nomad watched him. Arrel was steady in mind, reliable in body, but his hard work did little to conceal the white scab working up his shoulder. Under Ulf¡¯s scrutiny, he hacked, and blood fell over his fist. A little white scab scrawled out from his palm. Infected with the Patch, Ulf realized, but with some time left to dwindle. The Northman did not believe that alone hollowed him to the extent that he could look upon murder in his home and not fall unnerved, and so he recognized it was loss.


    Elsewhere, his sights struck, until all of that cabin was revealed to him. A second bed peeked its corner out from the back of the house, but its sheets were unused so long they puffed high. It was morning still, and married folk seldom slept alone, so at once he deduced that the shack fit two: a father and his daughter.


    ¡°What became of her?¡± he asked, idly.


    Arrel¡¯s inscrutable, desolate sulk suffered an instant blemish. His eyes widened, shocked further by the stranger¡¯s skill, then settled in sight of all that he was and all the experience coiling despondent in his face. Arrel leaned back in his chair, let it finish its creak, then his gaze narrowed lazily again, and he sighed deep; through a want to relinquish speech rather than a soreness of the words summoned, but indeed, his soul too was burdened by them. This, Ulf heard, as if he had heard it a hundred times before.


    ¡°Hogs,¡± he grunted. ¡°Came in night. Dragg¡¯d ¡®er from ¡®er bed.¡±


    The Northman nodded, indifferent. ¡°Find the body?¡± he asked.


    Arrel¡¯s head shook. ¡°¡®Aven¡¯t looked. ¡®Aven¡¯t dared.¡±


    Ulf ate another berry and listened intently to the grind of his anguish. His glare flickered up a moment, recalling some seemly notion, then he nodded. ¡°Good,¡± said Ulf. ¡°Find some joy in what¡¯s not known.¡±


    ¡°Hrm,¡± Arrel grunted again. ¡°Ye don¡¯t think I could stomach th¡¯ sight?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± was the answer, frank. ¡°If it were blair hogs, they would¡¯ve bred her.¡± Ulf bit from the bread, chewed hastily to utter his words unclouded. ¡°It ruptures the kidneys, bleeds one from the inside, ¡®til death.¡±


    At last, Arrel¡¯s composure faltered. A bead of sweat fell from his yanked grays. The vision of such a thing darkened the creases of his wrinkled visage, until his face fell to shade. He buried it in his hand and rubbed down to his roots.


    ¡°All-Father¡¯s eyes¡­¡± breathed the old man, strained in keeping his heart extant. ¡°You don¡¯t mince words, outlander. T¡¯ think, a black in m¡¯ home, telling me of m¡¯ own daughter¡¯s death.¡±


    ¡°A lie would not make it otherwise,¡± Ulf affirmed, undaunted.


    Now Arrel nodded to himself and forced his head up again. ¡°Twould not,¡± he concurred with a stray watch, before seeing again the asperous emblem floating in his hall, like the reaper come to tell of death. ¡°Common, this seems to ye. Hrm? Death and misery¡­¡±


    Another berry vanished behind his cut lips. Ulf swallowed hard.


    ¡°Aye. I¡¯ve traveled long.¡±


    ¡°Ye¡¯ve yet t¡¯ see it, then. Eh?¡± asked Arrel, now equally void. ¡°A reason to settle.¡±


    The Northman winced, and his eyes bore a new rigidness. In Arrel¡¯s words, he heard only delusion. He heard the folly of belief, that vowed life could be made stagnant without killing all its reason, and he heard vanity. The thought had met him before, but was left asunder.


    ¡°Like you did? What became of that, old man?¡±


    ¡°Ease, Northman. Ease,¡± said Arrel, emptying his last haste against the stranger. ¡°Too many beasts afoot to trouble kinfolk with cruelty.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I found your reason,¡± the Northman admitted. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s an old road.¡±


    Another bite. Another berry. Arrel was made witness to that cityscape of scars Ulf claimed as a face. In their ancient blood, there was buried pain. When the Northman¡¯s face came burdened with even a subtle emotion that stretched his lips or widened his eyes, those old wounds cracked and red split through in droplets. His own body kept him miserable.


    ¡°A road yet tread?¡± asked Arrel, saddened.


    ¡°Does it matter?¡± Ulf snapped. ¡°I stand here before you now, all the same.¡±


    And there they were, together; bereft and abandoned to the waking world. Both lacked the heart to mince passion in their words. Both watched the sands of death fall upon them with each passing day. Dawn did its best to lighten them, but they were of an infinite dimness. They were kin, for a moment, in mourning. Arrel was fated to die in the coming months, all by himself in the woods, as his body gave way to the white scab of disease. Ulf was sentenced all the same, with each day that he rose and with each step he took further into nowhere. But again, neither had the spirit to wish it otherwise. This was their world, pitifully, and it had no wonders left to unveil.


    ¡°Aye,¡± said Arrel. ¡°Love¡¯s a fickle thing.¡±


    At that, Ulf was awakened from his dawdling. The berry on his tongue lost its taste. With a flap of his cloak, the plate was abandoned, half-ate, and he stood by the door with his back to Arrel and all his fantasies in decay. There was no place for kinship on his road, and Ulf would not be slowed by the daydreams of the damned.


    ¡°Good ¡®eve, old man,¡± he said.


    But before sunlight could assail him again, Arrel stalled that affray with what he deemed a kindness. Though it was anything but, and in the shade of Ulf¡¯s cloak he knew his words were wasted, but still he wished upon that kindred spirit a last courtesy.


    ¡°Mind yerself out there, outlander. Ye know beasts, true, but there are worse things than monsters. Men can kill ye just as easy. I¡¯ve seen ¡®em. Raiders in their iron. Furrfiends in their leather. Scarlet ones, even.¡±


    To all his warnings, Ulf paid no heed, but when the last words were uttered he froze in his stalk. Evilly, with a malice so potent it shuddered the cabin and shot the dying man¡¯s hairs high, the Northman turned his brown gaze upon him. A fury shook his old scars.


    ¡°Scarlet?¡± he asked, with a hiss.


    ¡°Hrm,¡± grunted Arrel, left off-guard from the sudden vigour cast against him. In a second, all of their companionship he envisioned was gone, and the power of destruction in the outlander loomed over him; a knife against his neck again.


    ¡°Speak,¡± Ulf ordered.


    ¡°What¡¯s to say? They were a faraway thing. Headed north. A pair of weeks back, now.¡±


    As a serpent constricts a sheep, Arrel was squashed under all of Ulf¡¯s ire. His benevolence became foolhardy while his trust dried up. In his chair he shrunk, quivered, and life became a beloved thing to him again.


    ¡°North where?¡± the outlander asked with a crude jolt of his jaw.


    ¡°Through the Cleft, I wager,¡± he told truthfully. ¡°Up Eritle way. Not much else there, for men of Galehaven.¡±


    Again, Ulf was at the door with one foot beyond. ¡°Speak not of this,¡± he commanded. ¡°To anyone.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll kill them, will you?¡± Arrel called.


    Yet the stranger was gone. The wind brushed in, and on it was the stink of murdered men at his front door. Arrel was alone again, with only memory and scorn. It was without a scowl though that he rose from his chair; without wrath that he collected his shovel; devoid of anger that he dug two graves, behind his little cabin and late into morning. There, the guards from Ochros were laid for maggots to dine upon, but with the courtesy of a roof above them, albeit dirt, so that they did not meet the world beyond cold. Then old Arrel dug a third in his glade, and on his knees before it he prayed. He prayed for his daughter and the life she never got to live, and the thought of her smile¡ªof her laughter, finally broke his dull discontent.


    Arrel crumpled in the dirt, and his old face vexed with tears. Smiling through his sobs, he reminded her empty grave of their times together, with a whimsy so ecstatic it made him shake. He spoke proudly to that dingy pit of her fool dreams of seeing the world, the crops they used to tend, hand-in-hand, that now stood dry and stomped. He remembered the way she hugged him, when the ghost of his wife kept him awake, and he remembered the glow of her eyes when she told him to sleep again. Always was she brave, and he knew in his heart that that courage stayed with her until the very end.


    Then Arrel produced a kitchen knife and slid it inside his wrist, down to the elbow. With a meek gasp, his limbs jerked. Arrel slid limp into the pit, while the blood of his arm filled it.


    ____

 Bellflower Grove

    Chapter 12 : Bellflower Grove


    Long did the Lunga¡¯ar guide him, but at once he severed its leash. Abandoning the asylum of the winding fjord, Ulf deserted into the inner plains, and so it was that the farther he tread from the riverbed, the more pitted the swards came, with equal ascents at their brake. The land altered under his steps and all newborn haste, and at midday he was among prodigious hills, cleaving through bracken. North pulled him. Eritle was his anchor, dragging him deeper and deeper into that sea of hurt soil and bawling chasms. Indeed, the cypresses stacked high and the stones piled strong until he was at the bottom of an otherworldly ravel. There, like a metal man upon the seabed, he nudged on through all the muddle and thatch with an enlivened pace. With the colour of crimson in his mind, he could not be deterred.


    Then the land opened and the trees shrunk away. Ulf stood in a spotless field, bordered by the overgrowth of bluffs, at the crown of a grand mound. At such height, the Cleft of Teroe watched him; a gigantic sail over the sun. It was a lonely mountain rent atwain, or so it seemed, with two gargantuan spikes of curved rock facing one another and forming a toran of iced winds. A portal to winter, the Cleft was his way ahead, and through it he would find the fastest course to Eritle.


    First, he stopped. Beneath him was an expanse of growth, teeming with bellflowers in miraculous dyes of plum and teal. They caught the sunlight in their petals and burred with its ardour. The grass whitened here and the gales did not blow; smitten by the tousled oaks manning the brim of the swath. Here was a grove of splendor, though it would be blemished as easily as any other field.


    Ulf found a lone stone in the grass and seated himself atop it, an uncanny blotch of rock like his throne. His thrawn blade was brought out and laid across his knees, and a stare of sheer devilment took arms against the climb to the south. For in truth, Ulf had known the furrfiends followed him for some odd days, but at last he tired of their meddling, and while before a distance was allowed, now he had tracks to keep to, and their trespass could be endured no more. It was first the glimmer in their spyglass that caught his eye, then a stretch of stamped grass pursuing him; beheld from atop a cliff. He was worn thin from their pursuit, and atop that mound he awaited them, so as to bring them the fate they so persistently chased.


    A time did pass, and doubtless, the furrfiends had drawn close, but watched with great heed through the wild flock of that cliffside. Ulf was alone, unguarded, with an arena untrapped. There was only him, but their nerve did fester and bruise, as the outlander, upon his measly stone, sat with full faith he could achieve his victory alone, and such was a frightening thought, reimbursed with each wind spent. Through a slit in the fronds, Horral believed him, but Eidrik only scowled measurably, and clutched the haft of his axe in wait. Ulf had already seen its ammolite, however. Impatient, he produced a whetstone from his cloak and slid sparks from his sword into the dirt. Horral understood that the stage was set, and so with a deep breath and a restful tread, he meandered beyond, into the bellflower grove.


    Sunlight smote them. Horral came straight, lax, slackened over his cane, but Eidrik¡¯s lurch was apace, laden with wary leers forth and back. His axehead caught the light and glowed; an opal lamp among the imbued petals underfoot. His brows weighed heavy and his teeth clamped shut, while he strafed the grove¡¯s ledge, though his vigilance never abandoned the Northman at its center. Horral was rapt, and his gaze indulged both the warmth of day and the cast of earth.


    ¡°So this is to be it,¡± said he, a guest to that open air.


    The clouds were scarce that day, and those few wisps floated adrift, untethered, over a naval duvet. In their frame was the sun¡¯s clinging gleam. All was right, yet Ulf savoured none of it. His stare was cast to the steel laid over his knees.


    ¡°This is not such a horrid place to die¡­¡± remarked Horral. ¡°Flowers to rest my head on¡­ a last clear sky to take with me into the afterlife¡­¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just darkness,¡± Ulf corrected, under the screech of shot sparks. ¡°And this is just dirt.¡±


    Horral, no longer the sky¡¯s thrall, jabbed his cane into the soil. He watched Ulf, heard him sharpen away, and pondered at all the misery encased within that withered skull, lining each ancient wound. What awful goal forgot him to his spirit? What ambition so morbid could make him heedless to the bellflowers strangled under his boot? In this outlander, there lived a thousand anomalies, and Horral was then a scholar to their ciphered tomes.


    ¡°Heh,¡± he chuckled. ¡°I nearly forgot: you have no heart, outlander. Tell me, which loss was it that undid you at last, and cast you out into these wilds? Was it a wife? A son? Perhaps a daughter?¡± Horral shook his chin at the riddles of the universe, dumbfounded by their foulness. ¡°I¡¯ve seen your ilk before, Northman: pained, yes, but cruel. Quick killers always die slow, man of the Gargantan, and it¡¯s never the blade what ends them.¡±


    ¡°Have you a song for me too?¡± asked Ulf, in a flotsam charge at Horral¡¯s old word.


    Whatever compromise the elder furrfiend envisioned or goodness he grasped, Eidrik could not see it, and no longer wished to stake his life on trying. He came along Ulf¡¯s side, at a distance, and tapped an anxious finger to the axe. He heard the outlander¡¯s hate, and in its sound tumbled to a dozen other evils, where before circumstance had arose questions of integrity against him, and always had his mercy yielded iniquitous costs. This was no misconceived victim at his pupil¡¯s bond, nor any noble sufferer keen on second chances. In that wretched cloak of night and those eyes of unhearing intent, Eidrik saw banditry, saw betrayal, and, in the cold clench of his own weapon, saw a means to smother that zealous flame.


    Yet Horral¡¯s words came first, and always did they prove apt in stifling Eidrik¡¯s wants, no matter how vulgar or how needed. At the tug of a leash, his throat strained, swollen with a sordid thirst, and in a growl he forwent his urge.


    ¡°How long have you been bleeding, friend?¡± asked Horral, his voice low with eager sympathies and his heart sterling in its crave.


    He, in all his goodwill and unalloyed intent, was as imperceivable as he was vapid, to Ulf. Either the moral slush he spouted was deception aimed to entrap Ulf¡¯s weaker senses, or he himself was so naive to think that there was some gain in healing the hurt striders of the wayward road. Whether a delusion or a lie, the path would not reward his wants. Horral had survived long enough to see grey grace his hair, but his journey spanned no longer. If not him, Ulf told himself, it would only be another murderer in the swards to undo his goodness.


    ¡°So many wisdoms¡­¡± Ulf said; a cynic¡¯s applaud. ¡°So many words¡­ To what avail is a learned mind, if in the end, it cannot learn to do what is called for? What worth is all your knowledge and heart, if it only slows your hand?¡±


    Horral scuffled his whiskers, poised a finger upon his chin and, subject to the skies again, he thought at that question. His eyes pleaded upon the stars unseen, but their lone renewing blaze brought his answer hot upon his cheek.


    ¡°There are greater things,¡± he vowed, ¡°than seeing tomorrow. Greater things¡­ can be done today.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Ulf lied. ¡°And mercy is no doubt among them. And companionship. Kindness.¡± It bore the sound of a curse.


    ¡°I have no quarrel with you, outlander. Not truly. That, we both know.¡±


    ¡°I know you¡¯re older now than you were in Arrenfaeld, where last I spared you. I know your old ears did not fail you to my warning, and I know that whatever you want, I am quick enough to see it undone. You¡ªand your friend,¡± he shot a stare at Eidrik¡¯s creep, ¡°followed, against my will. Now, you see how deep it cuts.¡±


    ¡°What if what I want is wonderful?¡±


    A gale, more formidable than its flock, whooshed into their grove, then. It rattled the growth at its brim, ruffled the bellflowers in their bloom, brought a chill across the mound. Coldness was theirs again, Arakvan was recalled to them. That raw, polar flail swept away Ulf¡¯s thought, hardened him in a killer¡¯s clad once more, and when the brown of his gaze lifted from his steel, there was an ice of life within it, that turned their grove dark. Suddenly, his cloak¡ªlashing in the breeze¡ªseemed as if it chewed upon the grass and slew its flowers. His shadow came ravenous and under it, growth twisted and died.


    ¡°Then let your wonder feed these flowers,¡± he said gravely, ¡°and your words die.¡±


    Horral¡¯s kindness fell flat. Fearless, he tapped his cane through the grass and strode up to the outlander¡¯s rock. A jump from him, he came, then stalled and basked the Northman in that grey isolation of his disappointment, which was a heavy thing, bolstered by all the creases and strains of skin flexed only to form it. His approach made Eidrik uneasy, and with a few steps the furrfiend came a lunge closer, so that he might part Horral from his untimely demise. He sensed Ulf could indeed render it swift.


    ¡°I do feel sorry for you, Northman,¡± said Horral, stern. ¡°Truly, you must have seen some wicked things, to think in full heart, that this is the only way.¡±


    ¡°The only way doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Ulf rebuked. ¡°This is just what¡¯s quickest.¡±


    ¡°So I die for convenience? For the crime of following you when you would rather go unseen?¡± He shook his head. ¡°You must not see how fascinating you are¡­¡±


    A cloud came forward from infinity and clawed into the sun. An immediate dimness took the field, while more skyward clumps shuffled out, shepherded over the light. The heavens were maimed silver, sooted, with godly neglect. The life of the grove mourned, its teal and plum dyes donning wintry dryness, while under the clouds a pale stain crisped the grass. Colour was shed like a season¡¯s change. In the shade, their words grimmed, and forced were all to consider the danger of their company anew. The lie of warmth was gone. The sun was negligent once more. And they were left barren on that hill¡¯s crown.


    To Ulf, it was a falsehood. There was nothing remarkable within him¡ªnothing worthy of greater regard. He was a different brand of a too saturated breed; a killer more competent, but a killer still. Horral could not be good, for his words were false, and in deceit he revealed the depth of his animus. Ulf was not of a pride so needing he could fall to an ego¡¯s snare, so it was defiant that he arose, and with a raise of a spurning chin, his blade was at once whelmed against Horral¡¯s throat. Loose skin rippled under the maw of that steel, his veins bleached, but he made no move with his cane, nor empowered his grip upon it. Eidrik¡¯s axe was drawn in full then, and close he stomped until Ulf¡¯s undoing was a chop away.


    ¡°Will this restore you?¡± asked Horral.


    ¡°It will liberate me,¡± Ulf answered.


    ¡°Of our violent chase?¡±


    ¡°Of your incessant appeal. Of your urge for an alliance that will utterly undo you. Of your boy¡¯s doubt of evil, that you peddle to each fork in the road.¡±


    ¡°Is it truly so insufferable?¡±


    ¡°It is a lie.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Horral jolted. ¡°And what then is your truth? What is right about your wild scurry up and down the Lunga¡¯ar? Of your sudden lunge north? You head for the Cleft, outlander, and if it is only truth that we speak now, then you will die there.¡±


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Your fears are little things to me,¡± he said, while his blade aggressed.


    ¡°I do not know your reasons, but I know your path. You¡¯re willing to waste life and not time, and the Cleft will treat quick feet with deep drops.¡±


    ¡°And you are the only chance at seeing its end,¡± Ulf guessed. ¡°Men trade service when skill fails them.¡±


    ¡°What know you of the Baelgarth, who haunt the Cleft? Or the striders of Teroe, who drag mares into the night? Or S¡¯va Kotai, that fiend of old myth? You do so pretend at reason, then treat yourself honestly, and accept that wantonness you brand your skill may not suffice.¡± Horral grinned down at the steel wedged against his neck. ¡°I am old, true, but wisdom finds a path better than the foot. And in the Cleft, a poor path will be your end.¡±


    The gloom of Ulf¡¯s study was irksome, but Horral kept composure below it. Eidrik, however, had no patience for diplomacy when steel was drawn. He heard only insult in their barter, and unwilling to witness Horral as some booted mut, he lowered his axe and took to the space between him and the outlander. His gawk was a menacing deterrent, ogling the flesh it would tear and stooped down against Ulf. He stepped slowly, carefully, and placed his own throat against the Northman¡¯s extended sabre. With his jugular like a gentle ram, the furrfiend walked the steel apart from Horral and replaced his drooping neck with Eidrik¡¯s own, like a sacrifice renewed, then gazed all the more vitally into Ulf. The outlander felt the urge to seize advantage, and rip through his throat before Horral could respond, but some warning intensity in Eidrik slowed him, and he felt compelled to not abandon his watch, even while the furrfiend¡¯s neck reddened alow Ulf¡¯s blade.


    ¡°Luck runs out,¡± Eidrik whispered. ¡°The Cleft¡­ that¡¯s a fine place for it.¡±


    And Ulf heard him, and treated with that unruly gaze. The will to place one¡¯s own flesh low to the block was startling, and indeed it made Ulf consider the pair anew. Horral¡¯s kindness softened them, but there was both experience and deed beneath it, and only when one was threatened did the other presume his proper countenance. Horral flipped his cane forward and a thin blade shot out. The command was simple: release Eidrik or fight.


    Ulf made his choice.


    He narrowed against Eidrik, and that aggress allowed the furrfiend a moment to reel away from the sword and raise his axe again. He chopped Ulf¡¯s armament askew, then, under the cover of its clang, with a low cleave, Eidrik hunted his knees. But in a moment, the Northman was beyond him, and a cloud of petal-dust and hewn turf brushed high from his axe¡¯s splint. Through the guise returned Ulf like a wasp, stinging and circling and rebounding, yet with brutal force. First, he struck the pommel and wobbled Eidrik¡¯s stance, backhanded steel into the axehead, lodging its weight away and forcing its wielder to stumble, then he thrusted against the flat edge of ammolite and threw the furrfiend onto his back.


    The Northman spun his sabre with an ornate pronouncement of doom, and unleashed it against his prone foe. Yet his strike spouted sparks, and repelling it was the caneblade of Horral. Under their crossed bites, Eidrik breathed relief and fury. Irritated, Ulf turned his attention to the dour sneer of Horral, and the aged man gave a knowing, struggled grunt.


    Now Horral was fast for his age, and their spar was a dexterous exchange. They moved in flurries; gales through grass. Ulf was a panther, seeking and imbued with each cut, whereas Horral was a fence, molding and bending to keep the creature at bay. But where age took Horral¡¯s limbs to a quiver, Ulf¡¯s moved with power, and soon the furrfiend¡¯s swiftness was a depleted defence. Eidrik swooped in with a shoulder to lift the siege, but Ulf stepped aside and all its strength was wasted. In his slip, the Northman kicked up a foot, and caught Eidrik in his shin. The axeman tumbled through the bellflowers, while Ulf returned to Horral, though fell shocked to see he had not rushed in to claim his free cut.


    Horral spun the caneblade, slapped it on his shoulder with its edge aimed high. Then he took to tour around Ulf, eyeing him curiously, and the Northman readied his attack again. Eidrik rose but waited, pacing to find a flank he could rend.


    ¡°Such power,¡± panted Horral. ¡°It would be some shame to see it snuffed out in the pits of the Cleft.¡±


    ¡°As you¡¯ve other means for it,¡± said Ulf. ¡°But your desires are not mine.¡±


    ¡°Are there desires in you, outlander? Or is it only wrath?¡±


    ¡°See for yourself,¡± Ulf ordered, as his gnarled blade jumped.


    The crooked crashed against the slender, and their swords fiddled out a squeal. Ulf¡¯s bursts could not be tamed. His speed prevailed, and while Horral grew lazed with each defence, Ulf hastened upon him and backed the furrfiend against the earth, thieving the strength out from his knees. He slashed for Ulf¡¯s vitals in an urged gambit, but where weaves fell short steel found the path, and Ulf was untouched. Indignant, Horral rose with what was left of his strength, and Ulf cleaved down to meet his force. Their blades locked and fire leapt. Between the twist of steel, their eyes found each other: vengeance upon shock.


    ¡°And if you fail?¡± Horral heaved between breaths. ¡°If the Cleft is your grave¡ªwhat of all your desires then? What of your power! Spent away in a mountain tomb!¡±


    Eidrik came up behind, to a pivot of black. The clash broke, a kick battered Horral¡¯s chest, and turning, Ulf slipped his blade below the curve of the planting axe, then backed an elbow against the tip of his sword to enforce the trap. The cleave was caught. Ulf launched it aside, jabbed a knuckle into Eidrik¡¯s throat. The furrfiend choked and fumbled, and when error was done his eyes steadied upon falling steel. The sword pushed against his temple and there it stayed; a reminding victory. Ulf turned towards Horral as he scampered to his feet.


    ¡°If death finds me in that mountain, then I never might have prevailed to begin with,¡± said the Northman, drawing blood above Eidrik¡¯s brow. ¡°And then, to die here would be a great kindness. Done even by rogue, petty hunters.¡±


    Horral spat through an exhausted smirk, and chucked his cane to the earth, where it toppled and tore through the flowers. ¡°But I am not kindhearted this day,¡± he proclaimed.


    ¡°Dying unarmed isn¡¯t honourable,¡± Ulf warned. ¡°It¡¯s just easier.¡±


    Horral came to a weary rise. A hand smoothed the ache of his booted chest. He breathed heavily, shuffled from foot to foot. Horral¡¯s smile now bore red, and his age seemed eclipsing of life at last.


    ¡°Nothing¡¯s easy,¡± he denied. ¡°Not here, it isn¡¯t. Cleft¡¯s not easy. The Lunga¡¯ar¡­ isn¡¯t easy. And we¡­ we wayward travelers of this bloody path, outlander¡­ we need each other. Or off we¡¯ll be picked, one by one, by beasts and bandits and the evils of men¡­¡±


    ¡°And you are not among them?¡± Ulf asked, disbelieving.


    Shrill and worn, Horral¡¯s voice wavered. It fell to thought, came to a laugh.


    ¡°Of course I am!¡± he cried, breaking up between crazed glees. ¡°I feel greed, seeing my betters ride on¡ªon horseback to walled homes. I feel¡­ malice! Malice, seeing pain done unto poor folk, when its doers go unaccosted! I am evil, of course! when claws come for village doors, and I then must be.¡± He shrugged a blithe surrender. ¡°I am Arakvan, true,¡± declared Horral, ¡°as are we all, never to deny it. But I want to see it better, you see? I want tomorrow, vain as it is, condemnable as you might find it, to be a lighter thing. For the fool''s thought of perfect to perhaps some day be real.¡± He fell over his knees, panting, quivering in his merry with unkind thoughts. ¡°I don¡¯t need to feel it¡ªdon¡¯t need to see it¡­¡± He shook his head. ¡°But I need to know.¡± Then his gaze came high again, and an accusing mercy fell to Ulf. ¡°That has to be enough.¡±


    Choice weighed on the Northman, under the bare truth of Horral¡¯s words. He could still feel Eidrik¡¯s heavy breaths wobble his blade. He could see the vein that would pop if he pressed his profane steel an inch closer. He saw the axe in the earth that might cut and bury him, if it was let up for but a moment. Horral¡¯s empty hands and his full eyes, he saw. That grove, its cold and heat in equal measure, he saw, and all the bellflowers¡ªstamped and tall. Like a town of man, it was. There were those that fell flat and those bloomed high, under a sky that could not care and underfoot of vile, warring gods. There was mercy and madness, evil and good in each tangle and tromp, encased within that little arena of teal and plum and brighter whites. The gales brought it change, the sun yielded splendour, and the cold recalled it to cost. It was much like any town of man Ulf had witnessed before, and he and his brawlers were nothing more than titans scuffling in the dirt. It was just as weak, trivial, vain and doomed as all he had suffered prior. It was just as wrong and finite and no less fated to nothing. Ulf tired of it all.


    The grip on his hilt tightened, Eidrik winced. A deeper gleam of red came streaking down his brow. Horral beheld the eyes of the outlander fall to a squint, and knew, with that twist of the wrist, that his journey was done and his hopes were delusion. He dropped his eyes a moment, breathed deep, and readied to pick his cane up once more, for the sake of noble duty and furious revenge. He was unsure which would first seize him. Eidrik sealed sight away, then whispered some prayer under his breath. The grove was set to sip of the life Ulf promised it. The clouds were drawn to hide the deed. His gnarled fang retracted, then, with a crude whip, unleashed.


    And the snow fell.


    The first snow of a winter still dormant. The first warning of nature¡¯s wrath. A glitter of radiant white drifted down. It was soft, more water than ice, and with a gentle cold that calmed the skin. It dotted the bellflowers and sparkled in the grass. On Ulf¡¯s sword-hand it fell, and awestruck, he watched that white spec become nothing in the lines of his seared leather. Like soldiers awakened from a dream-war, the three slowed and stuttered skyward, pegged idle by Arakvan¡¯s first frost. The clouds were mending scads of ivory, and their milk-white drizzle was a sample of sanctuary.


    To Ulf, it was the hail of recall. The cold touch carried him away and launched him headfirst into the frigid sea of the White Gargantan; a young man again. He arose amidst black smokes and cries of war. He spun with illness overbearing in his mind, and dropped to find scarlet seeping out from his side. Over the nearest mound of snow, screams called to him¡ªdesperate and scorned. Through the fog of memory and the illusion of pain, he mounted that white hill, then slid scurrying down its other side, where a rise of ice forbade the beyond. Over the ridge, a village sprawled, entrenched within those horrid snows. The houses were charred and the streets cluttered with dead. Wails shook the air worse than the winds. Between the ash of those homes streaked horses, and dangling from their ribs were bright red boots.


    ¡°How can you stay so dreary in such a perfect place?¡± a guiding voice beseeched him, lost somewhere in the stars but never nearer, and never warmer.


    ¡°Perfect doesn¡¯t kill when the clouds go dark,¡± answered an echo.


    ¡°Not here, fool. This world. It¡¯s¡­ well, it¡¯s just perfect.¡±


    And the cold enveloped him and the snow flashed through his mind. At once, the grove surrounded him again, and all its blood and bellflowers, now steeped in frost. The voice, the fumes, the wails, and the red was gone, yet still the snow fell, and in his mind that condemnation was clear. He toiled over it, unable to discern truth.


    Are you wrong again? Ulf wondered in the blank sprawl of his mind.


    His blade fell low. Eidrik finally let himself breathe, while the threat withdrew from tearing his head in two. He did not shift, instead watching his saviour unsteadily like he were a werecat with foam in its jaws. Horral however, was ecstatic, and collecting his cane he strode over to help Eidrik to his feet and dust the dirt off of him. Grandfatherly, he probed each cut and bludgeon and ensured none delved too deep, then with a reconciling joy slapped the suspense off of his companion¡¯s back. The pair gazed then to the Northman, who for the first time in days of observing him, elected clemency. Whether it was from pity or kinship, they were uncertain, and Horral did not care. That outlander who knew only wild murder and nights in mud had strayed from his own certainties for the preservation of another, and in that there was victory. In that, there was some modicum of hope.


    ¡°Through the Cleft,¡± Ulf commanded, sheathing his blade. ¡°Then I will hear of your desires. Hinder me before then, you die on the mountain.¡±


    His cloak flapped away; white specs softening its shade. With one eager and one too jolted to argue, the two fell into pursuit. They seldom spoke, though were a swift band. As day waned on, Eidrik took to hunting amidst their roves to blur the memory of his complete defeat. In eating, he groaned of bruises yet healed and moves of the outlander he deemed improper, between mighty chews. Often, Horral would laugh at him, but Ulf only watched when there was no wilderness to watch instead. The older man enjoyed the silent inspections, keen on forming findings of his own in that etched, northern face. Eidrik did not. With each stare he pondered anew if it would have been better to die or kill him and leave fate to the bellflowers. He knew that it was a fluke of fortune alone that appealed to the Northman¡¯s senses, and knew that their guest would have slaughtered them both had the skies stayed silent. But his malice thawed in sight of a giddy Horral, and Eidrik was sure that the old man thought he saw a miracle. So quiet, he remained, while Horral told tales and jests and laughed alone.


    Ulf, no doubt, thought of the easiest means of dispatching the pair. Eidrik, too, could only consider death, but as to whose and when he was left uncertain, as behind the sway of that black cloak, destiny was a fickle thing. Even as hours were spent, Eidrik still turned his eye south again and looked for their own path they were better off treading. Some misery it would be, he thought, to die in a stranger¡¯s dream, when friends awaited them still. Gradually, the thought of their abandonment done on behalf of such a fantasy scathed Eidrik, and soon he came to glare at Horral with an almost mild loathing for setting them upon that aimless path.


    But walk it, he did. And unwaveringly so, until the grove was miles behind them, and its frosts came wet, and under the perishing of snow crept bellflowers; some bent by boots, some cleaved by steel, some still as tall as ever. In their wake, that place of hidden grace was a disorderly thing, and never, in its many wounds, would it grant solace again. Such was the cost, it seemed, of their alliance. He only wished it was worth it, and that such was the extent of destruction suffered for their sake.


    Folly, of course.


    Through the winding hills of the Whilderwheats they bound, up to where the land arched and the stone shone through, then farther still, to the mighty rise of mountain where the Cleft of Teroe perched, like a door to damnation, to the scale of giants.


    ____

 All That You Wish

    Chapter 13 : All That You Wish


    Winter¡¯s first fall proved a capricious dust and soon did the clouds recede all advance. Quicker than first they formed, the snows melted away, and that fitful storm reclined into some shadow of the horizon where it would not be seen again. Yet its breach had caught the world undertow unaware, and so petals of summer sank grey and wheat-yards blenched under dismay. It was so, in the hours thereafter, that the trealderflies and the great horonails¡ªwho glided on lard and gaped to swallow the bold but most premature of clouds¡ªwent south with some haste. In vivid feathers and elsewhere scaled grey, they would be a frightening sight amidst the low swards and reign as kings of wherever they lay. Yet in the sky Arakvan¡¯s taint was scorched from them, the sun fostered a loving grace, and like brute angels since survived the storm, they came with shining scutes and quills that blazed, guiding all others to better earths.


    From below a tangle of hard trees, Ulf and his furrfiends peered up at the otherworldly thing through their oaken web, while it coursed opposite of them. It surfed light. Its yawns were gladdening thunder. But it was in moments beyond them, and the sky was empty and sad again in the wake of the mighty horonail. Horral seemed in particular effect at the sight, as if he imagined that the whale-like monarchs abandoned the land below not to nobler kin. There were still scars on his chest from those powers that loathed the sun.


    Though winter was far off yet and the Faraday Solstice a distant dream, its winds went uninformed. The land was cold, worsened while their path winded upward to steeper steppes. The grass shrunk ankle-side. It dried of its colour and crushed under rock, and stone conquered the realm ahead with grey salts and sheer monoliths worsted by time¡¯s hand. It was a plateau of crawled, impoverished earth, that grasped at the esteem of mountains from mounds of waylaid ore. Sound moved heavily there, and though the trees were scarce, where they grew they grew crooked and brawn. Blair hogs stalked the distant country. Birds of fierce ilk cawed when hunt was given between that bouldered affray, and in shadowed slouches of sod they made their home. All routes were an oxbowing contrition of land, vast and molested, prey under the giant barbs of Teroe in the realm of Thedrun. The journey from then on hassled the boot, so by Eidrik was Thedrun again cursed. They could be by naught alleviated whilst under the dark of the Cleft. Not even the man-sized flyers drew so high as to grace its image.


    In their stroll, Horral began upon its history. He claimed mystics of the under-Isyncra and the outer-plain gnatkins might too recall, but do so dubiously, that the barren mountain of Teroe was once whole, sporting health in its shadow in aeons past. Though in times of honour and glory, before that tyranny of Scourge and Patch, when Arakvan was yet young and unnamed, a king called Taerovin marched north, for battle against an enemy long forgotten in the bowels of the Morlen Saints. Yet the young mountain defied his passage, said Horral, so with a sword of onyx the King tore the old rock asunder, from sky to root, and through that carved Cleft tread he and his warband. Behind their advance, the land sickened, feeling of its wound. Its flourish dissipated and its beasts fell to frenzy, and ever did the clouds hail. It was told that the mountain fathered that wretched stretch of earth, so that in its death its kin went wild and untamed and, above all, uncared for. Myth alone could well recall that the King Taerovin and his warband never arrived at the great lurch of the Morlen Saints, but that the sons of the Cleft, with fang and claw, followed those men into the stricken heart of the mountain, and there laid them to waste.


    Storymen and their arts would have it believed that those fallen of the army unsung still manned their passage, though in sight of its dejected perimeter and all banal and miserable flush within, myth was indeed optimistic. The land before them was denied the triumph of the tales it inspired, but possessed the sorrow of a thing embraced by time alone. It simply was and forever had it been. In aeons more, when language was to be forgot, it would persist. Horral dared to ponder if he and his compatriots could ever belong to some such fool¡¯s myth of the neighbour era. It was joy and dread to imagine what awaited them in the ancient hollows of rock.


    Frail was the Whilderwheats¡¯ claim to that morose sprawl. Maps marked it as the border battling between Thedrun and the wheats and as so it sat the sulky crafts of division. At the end of that glum crawl higher, the Cleft perched like a lighthouse, and its height was such that the mounds slumbering cumbersome at its feet seemed flatter than dirt; depressed waves. The mountain stood alone, a spiral in a sea, and all around it lurked the half-damned and the sore-eyed that could survive and feed still in a place so barren¡ªso dolefully starved. Wolves wearing skin rotten and not their own; elk under antlers slathered in tar; reptiles with most bone revealed; and Ulf, Eidrik, and old Horral, who tread amongst them as both vigorous enemies and outland thralls, unbeknownst yet to the new hardness of Teroe¡¯s Shade, and thus lesser than prey. It was a subdued, cackling land; a wart in the world, befouled but in secret. They could not catch its dire crafts neatly in the eye.


    From atop faraway cliffs, the ridges of distant caves, uncanny glints came against them, but hooves did not trot and talons did not reach. They were guests, honoured in some chilling order like soundless sacrifice, as if their meat was to be stored for worthier fiends, or perhaps what once marauded and devoured then roamed sick and feeble, and so the Shade had no defences left to mount in its graveyards. Eidrik doubted that comfort. The winds reported to and fro, betwixt crags as if to herald schemes. When his eyes met to Ulf, he wondered if the outlander too could hear them. The trees were slender, unwell shrouds, too akin to stalking folk when in the periphery. Eidrik pondered with what ease his axe could crack them.


    Over that badland were old dooms they slipped along and over. A hill very near them yet still a spyglass apart, became a battlefield in the attuned study. Aged smokes still wafted about it, slothfully up from the bedrock. The scent of decay ran rank in the passing gales. And over stone and dirt, the slain lay abandoned in their crummy irons. Much were of a crest blue and gold and cheaply clad, bearing polearms and broadswords. Others bent¡ªbroken¡ªunder broadcloths of violet with grizzled, uneven chins itching out of their halfhelms. Capes of navy hung from upped lances like flags in the breeze. Sigils of a hand half-man and half-monstrous, with a bandaged thumb, marked the burly dead.


    Horral, aloud, wagered Galehaven had again overstepped in its claims of Arakvan¡¯s north, where in a season gone only the snow would rule, and surmised that the Baelgarth had descended to remind their lords why the Cleft was for so long and by so many unwalked. Yet glory belonged to neither, as far did the carnage splash to scour the crannies of shallow Thedrun, and from all the woe and bloodshed no new flags were raised and no new thrones were fashioned. Eidrik shrugged, adamant that it mattered none. When curiosity called and they glanced at Ulf to see how he fared before the slaughter of a land not his own, they discovered in their lapse that the outlander had left them, and with a frustrated haste rebounded towards him, who amidst the unknown and the ghastly quickly emerged as an authority.


    His step seemed detachment, though they guessed some learned foresight governed it, to bade him ever on. Evil did live in those burning hills. Shambling in the brooks were wilted things, born of fire. Each of their triad had sound tell of which ways to reject. In the calm of composed paths, Horral told tales of intahrin: men revived, at the will of maggots. Black skulls smoked of colour, sweeps of sluggish rusts. Charred, ceaseless things rose up, and Horral vowed that they knew contempt for those yet to join them in death. Their witless floundering could do naught to ensnare the trialed however, so as tales they remained.


    Forward they marched, through the trickle of undeath and down a bank to a lowly, pitted terrace, where a stream of murky foams and¡ªin them¡ªfish flowed. There, the sentries did not dabble. Dribbling, it led lower and revealed, below an eave of underbrush, a pond; bubbling wan and silver. Pine trees numbered downcast, gluttonous over the basin to dip to its hoary boons, sought by a tentative cold on its edges and a glimmer quite sickly to its depth, as if sipped in passing by the Deln arr¡¯ Chnek. But alas, day aged, tiredness thinned the muscle of the calf, and the furrfiends could forgo their hunger not an hour longer, as could the outlander at their helm.


    They stalled there, in search of cod and prowlus, appreciative of the shade that kept the crows from them and cooled those festering binds of their soles and shins. Eidrik found pleasure in avoiding the sight of the Northman, though Horral could not help but gawk through some old astonishment at his endless, malnourished gravity. He wondered if perhaps there was not a man at all in their company, but instead some wicked hybrid of the Scourge that learned to speak like one. It could be, under all his scars and leather, that Ulf bore the body of a kinnit and procured through that animosity his stamina, but his demeanour did wield all the ache of man. Not even a kinnit nourished in the slights of despotism could achieve the sulk of his brow. No, thought Horral, he is far too monstrous to be anything but man.


    Eidrik sludged into the shallow brim of the pond. He snapped a gnarly root from its tree and poised it overhead like a spear, then worked to fetch supper. His jabs could catch nothing, though when time waned and chance struck, what fell impaled by his makeshift lance was too diseased or puny for men to eat unailed. Horral sat himself in the thorned wreath of a young hornbeam. From his perch, he dangled his feet boyishly then turned to taunt Eidrik, with sharp jests of his slowness, but Eidrik carried on, unamused in his labours, and Horral laughed alone. Ulf stood very near, still with his back to the water and his focus upon the surrounding hills that dwarfed their gullet. Always vigilant he was, and in that thought Horral succumbed to a pity that glummed his callow lounge and brought a softness down to that form of cold black studs.


    ¡°Trees won¡¯t grab you, friend,¡± he joked. ¡°The soil here is timid, forgone by nastier things. You can let yourself lay a moment.¡±


    ¡°Only a moment,¡± said Ulf. ¡°Such is the quicker thing¡¯s kill.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe it. Don¡¯t think I can: that you came all this way, from the faraway North, never sleeping an hour late, never feasting where you could starve and still live.¡± Horral bowed to the wilderness and questioned their barbarism anew. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t make it a week if that week was just wandering and carving. Not without our fisherman here at least, to catch the hand when it falls. Not without a pie there and again, to reward my good efforts, of course.¡±


    To no surprise, Ulf did not receive him and, to some displeasure, he did not answer.


    ¡°But we are worlds apart, I suppose,¡± continued Horral, less proud and himself. ¡°I wager from where you hail, my pies and jests would leave me quite still, pale under the snow. Though all your power and your will, alow the roofs of our sort, would rend you perhaps the most miserable guest there ever was.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Aye, the sward¡¯s best come only hopeless to a dinner table. But by the campfire, there¡¯s none you¡¯d want more, to tend to you in the bleakest loss of day. It¡¯s a good thing Arakvan is all cold and grey, Northman. I fear we both would not belong otherwise.¡±


    Some spur of flies, some wind through leaves stole Ulf¡¯s attention, to Horral¡¯s humour and wonder both. ¡°You have a home?¡± Ulf asked simply, careless.


    ¡°Oh, I have hundreds, my friend. On the rug of every soul I¡¯ve saved and every town I¡¯ve shielded, aye, I¡¯ve a place to lay my head a little while. ¡®Course it¡¯s all hard and shit-spewn hay, but I say anywhere out from under the stars is worth giving thanks for.¡±


    ¡°Until your host cuts you in the night and gratitude leaks out over your chest,¡± Ulf groaned. ¡°You¡¯ll find allies on your road, but there is no end to the march where folk forget their hunger nor where the silver¡¯s hid.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯d be disappointed,¡± said Horral through a giggle. ¡°I¡¯m afraid goodwill earns little in the way of fortune. Enough for an inn¡¯s stay and to keep the cane razored, scarce more. But I¡¯d not have it otherwise, not in this life or another. So many lords, so many noble families over Galehaven her people never recall¡­ What is their extravagance worth, I wonder, if all that look up against it loathe the shimmer?¡±


    ¡°A man of the people.¡±


    ¡°Then you¡¯re accustomed?¡± Horral asked. ¡°What, someone you slew spoke similar?¡±


    Ulf came divided by a sudden breeze, as if it dragged birds of prey behind it. ¡°Good-minded folk do well being slain on their own,¡± he dismissed.


    ¡°I¡¯m caught off-guard, Northman,¡± said Horral slowly. ¡°Here I thought it would not be till we were in the jaws of S¡¯va Kotai that you at last denied me my evil, in sight of the truth of what lay under the skin. But it is strange that we may call each other good, without names to go with it.¡±


    ¡°Your mind is good,¡± he said bluntly. ¡°Your deeds are another thing, Horral.¡±


    Their bond, with only that spoken soreness to shear the air of it, was made uneven. Eidrik glanced at the pair behind him, suspending his search for a short moment to gaze warningly upon their phantom, who knew more than he should and lied longer than he must.


    ¡°Arrenfaeld, then,¡± the older man realized, leaning back in his wreath with a gape of fascination, a tinge of mild spite. ¡°You followed us longer than you let us believe¡­ My deeds are bloody, Northman,¡± Horral admitted. ¡°Certainly; a mark of the territory. Evil even, by meek standards you have without doubt abandoned. But at day¡¯s end, when my blade comes slack to my side again and at last, the world is left a blood-splat better. A yard, known to one fewer fear.¡± He puzzled himself, wobbled with his certainties. ¡°It is a weight adrift, I suppose, quite elusive to any satisfaction I may mount, but real when my hands come to it. And you, stranger of no name, with steel, secrets tight ever to your chest¡ªcan you say Arakvan is greater with you than it was without? Hrm? Might you lay claim to whatever goodness it is that you dream of then deny in me?¡±


    Their offense, their ponderings, all the passion of their stock and the assiduity for their trade meant nothing to Ulf. His cloak flapped past them like the backhand of patent neglect and returned to the plains he was. When his voice came, it came sombre and forbidding, and in deliverance that wretched place coarsened, quieted to bless its chorale.


    ¡°No,¡± said Ulf Eldric, ¡°for it does not exist. And if you must have my name then call me Ulf, but you may rue the burden of it.¡±


    There it rang and in the wind it hung, befouling of all below it. It was a name spoken like a curse; the trapped air of a centuried crypt escaping out under the finding sun; the dead air at discovery¡¯s end. Fate could indeed prove Ulf a bane against them all, yet Horral was not so young and sporadic to align with fret in the face of the first shudder. He bided his time, chewed his words, glared enraptured upon the shade afloat in their midst, wafting with its last fragment of identity; the echo that sought. So sheer was the dark of his garb, it appeared to mortal eyes that the air around him altered, tormented by his touch, tangled to grant the churl his proper canvas. So immense seemed his presence, the wilds could do naught to stomach him.


    ¡°Hrm,¡± nodded a reckoning Horral. ¡°Ulf. Fitting, for a man of so few words.¡± He hopped down from his tree and paced before the Northman, earning his steady watch. ¡°But I find it almost misleading¡­ aye. It¡¯s far too simple for one as riddled as you.¡±


    ¡°You imagine every leaf has a story,¡± said Ulf, turning apart again.


    ¡°And they all do,¡± he pressed, slipping with him away. ¡°A happening needn¡¯t be grand to become a tale. It might stay as simple as the fall from the tree and the stomping into dust. Beaten about by wind, plain-to-plain, then dried over grass till Winter¡¯s coming, when a boot cracks it at last down to shards.¡± He strode alongside the outlander, and shoulder-to-shoulder they beheld the stirring cliffs of Teroe¡¯s Shade. ¡°Some stories are duller than our dour minds can imagine, others are so extraordinary a lifetime by quill couldn¡¯t capture the sense of it, but a leaf is a leaf, and all have their part when the gale rides through.¡±


    Ulf said nothing, and Horral spoke on.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°We are no different¡ªno nobler, of course. Some of us will die vain, falling to long and arduous respites. Blind ever to any glint of any joy. The boy orphaned by the beast and soulless by its killing. Yes, some hug the bastard sorrow forever, and like winter greens they fade off into nothing¡­ but every leaf might in time shed new colour, no? Turn gem from dross; blow off and out from its divot to see the sunrise again. Someday, aye. Our tales are left to us to decide, and though they may come without the ink and the snap-escape of their agonies as does a book, they are not frightless. Not easy, to walk as well as they write. They take everything we have and leave only bone, and at the fading we must wonder if our tale was one ever worth being told. It is a marvelous cost, to be remembered.¡±


    They shared that horizon. Its vast, vacuous embrace¡ªflickering gold and tempered by goring hills¡ªstained them, and in its silence the gales were all; couriers for the absolute.


    ¡°I fear it every day, y¡¯know,¡± said Horral, older under evening¡¯s light. It was a scouting flash, ensuring there was not a youth aboard the earth that could still be believed to be everlasting. ¡°Dying for nothing¡­ that old thought does haunt me, Ulf. Even when I know what I do is good, it serves me no escape. Not a second of certainty. Why, it¡¯s folly to try. All men and women and maybe beasts too have to fight what they are. They have to decide, eventually, amidst the toiling and the unbearable, if they¡¯ll seek out purpose, or if they are to be that purpose themselves.¡±


    ¡°And what are you?¡± asked Ulf, plain.


    ¡°An old fool,¡± he sighed. ¡°Whose lived too long and thought too hard on things that will far outlast him.¡±


    ¡°Then were your years worth it?¡±


    Horral grinned and the sun filled his teeth. ¡°That, my friend, will be told at my tale¡¯s end. We can do nothing but hope until then. And I do. I hope, truly, it is a wonderful end.¡±


    Ulf stared into that endless sprawl of stone and field. He narrowed his gaze against it, striving to see something more, something at its end that could be worth all that barred it away. But he could see only a sly, winking light and a scowl set in.


    ¡°Hope cannot aid us,¡± he said. ¡°It offers no arms to quell the world¡¯s feral.¡±


    ¡°Nothing can,¡± Horral concurred. ¡°But still, we march on, track our shins through wheat. And we fight, whilst calluses take even the spared finger. Still, we journey to the plain¡¯s end, intent on seeing something mayhaps a spot better¡­ don¡¯t we? It¡¯s between here and there and all the leagues between that we decide what that is.¡±


    ¡°And if there is nothing?¡± asked Ulf. ¡°Nothing to be¡­ nothing to want. If it¡¯s only fields, then the frosts and an ever fainter delusion that it¡¯ll end? What have you left, by sunset, Horral? Only the truth that you were wrong and a shame you must meet to death.¡±


    ¡°If that¡¯s what you believe, Ulf,¡± said Horral, earnest, ¡°then you would not have carried on this long. You know same as I that Arakvan cannot be wholly evil. You¡¯re just yet to find something good enough to blot out the bad. This, I know. The struggle finds us all.¡±


    Ulf scoffed. ¡°And this you have for me?¡± he guessed. ¡°You¡¯ve a purpose, tucked to your sleeve or your next false arm, so noble it will make me cast off my journeyman¡¯s cloak and blade, and join you in song?¡±


    ¡°You did not need to aid us against the Gleeman,¡± he said with a sternness. ¡°But you did, and in doing so betrayed your own efforts to seem soulless, so speak no more of my songs. There is a worthier fight for us both than what these swards and cliffs can offer, Ulf. There is a fight for Arakvan¡¯s heart, in distant plains, and my vanity is the trust that your wicked blade should number one day among the victors.¡±


    ¡°Many men I¡¯ve seen, Horral, with goodwill a gloss upon them,¡± Ulf said, with the harsh aura of threat. ¡°Many men I¡¯ve seen buried in the name of dreams half-made. All that you wish, however tender it may touch the mind, is but damnation when hands blacken to make it true. And there you are left, in the scattered clouds of your long fantasy, with nothing left to grasp at but a memory of a time better.¡±


    His last words were loud pelts and battered the peace of Horral¡¯s resolution. In impatience and dire nerve, Ulf strode to the mouth of the pond where Eidrik splashed and sprung failingly, and in a swift unsheath and a brutal thrust, a stark-gilled sterlet came up impaled from the basin. He tossed the slaughtered thing to Eidrik, who caught it against his chest, then Ulf was gone up the cliffside beyond.


    They were very quiet then on, and quietly it was that Eidrik pleaded his caution to Horral with nothing more than slanted eyes. Yet the aged furrfiend only shrugged and fell towards the Northman¡¯s shadow. Uneasily, Eidrik stalked after them, with fish and axe in-hand and a frown set upon his face, that failed to match the green primality of his gaze. With them was a wolf, yet decided on its supper, but again, Horral clinged to his faith. The wetness of the fish darkened Eidrik¡¯s glove. The cut into its gills was precise and whole. By the slit, it was well hollowed.


    That putrid excuse of a lake proved to be their last solace, as beyond, the land accented, walled them away with piling crags. Walking was then only for the ridges between climbs, and after an hour of scraping hands against stone and lining fingers with the dirt of those sharp ascents, the trio breached the plateau of Teroe. Though conniving branches and starved moss swarmed along the cliffsides to their flank, there the land was deprived of right life. So it was with rock that the expanse stretched some ways, through the uncouth and many broken boulders. At the plateau¡¯s heart, like the door at the end of a disorderly stairwell, laid the mighty mountain, split atwo. The path between was coarse, ragged, jumbling between altitudes for a distance, and at its sides the mountain stacked to curve over it and pinch the sky. This, they named the Cleft, and indeed it was a cleaved thing, brutishly askew, hewed seemingly by a colossal garrote. Wind rode through the path and to their ears, even from afar, it was a daunting, sinister whisper, luring them into those great stone jaws. The plateau continued to climb all the way to the doorway, so up the rock they lugged themselves unopposed.


    ¡°There she lies,¡± heaved Horral, prevailing upon his hundredth mount. ¡°What madness can drive a man to seek such a forsaken road, I can only wonder,¡± he glanced at Ulf, ¡°and you can only sheathe to your frown. At least we know it dire.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be daunted,¡± said Eidrik to the Northman. ¡°The Baelgarth prey on Galehavenin stock. We step carefully, keep our voices low, and only the wind might assail us, but she too rides cruelly when the boot sits unsteady.¡±


    The Baelgarth, whose title was a groan of caution, were kinnits, who for only survival banded together and by rumor had Ulf become accustomed to. Through what decree called just persecution, the half-men learned enervation, and through fatigue at last they learned violence. It was so when Galehaven, at command of the Pale Vithicar when he was yet young and without veins to count his faults, pushed the first kinnit paradise¡ªa ragged slum¡ªinto the sea, that they scattered and, blood-sewn, understood without arms they would go accosted to earth¡¯s end. Many learned embrace and retreated to the outer realm, while others rallied, then returned assault. Through their spoils they came apt for war, and word spread plague-like through the lands of their presence that would not succumb again. The kinnits of Arakvan, from then on, were offered a choice at their very conception, if they survived their mother¡¯s knife: Embrace suffering and long flight, or become all that was feared in them and own a walk of earth again. Sanctuary could not reside on a cloud. What emerged from the dwindling was battle-tested and larger than any coffin that had ever come for them.


    Solitude became what man could not soon reach, and so in cliffsides and caves and some horrid slots of the underearth they gathered. It was so rumoured and feared amidst the streets of Galehaven that one year, wind would break, the cold would freeze the Clergy¡¯s steel, and down from their hills the Baelgarth would come, with patient fury and long without mercy. With each frigid gale that fell through the Cleft of Teroe, a warped ear followed it.


    ¡°I do hope you understand what you face,¡± said Horral, raising over a scarp. ¡°The Cleft makes for quick passage north, if the time is desperate and its purse spilling, but for wise cause it is shunned.¡±


    Ulf blew up the cliff face; his steps precise and his mantles firm. ¡°I have seen a hundred shunned lands, Horral. Your mountain will not turn me.¡±


    ¡°And how is it you¡¯ve discovered such skill that great dangers are little things to you, eh?¡± he wondered. ¡°Surely, the Gargantan alone could not teach you all your power, else our Clergy would march to melt the snows with each season changed.¡±


    ¡°It taught me sight,¡± he said staidly. ¡°True sight, unburdened. When that is learned, the rest arrives with ease.¡±


    ¡°Am I to believe you are without fear? That will be a handy insight indeed, when I must save your spine from the joust of Baelgarth.¡±


    ¡°Your beliefs are your own and so they should stay, but of course I fear a many things.¡±


    ¡°Yet nothing clawed, furred, or steep, it seems.¡±


    Ulf stopped then and turned at a low summit to watch Horral scamper up the side. When he stood with him on that rock, the Northman parried all Horral¡¯s gall back against him.


    ¡°A soldier does not fear a sword, does he? He fears its cut and this you know well, rebel,¡± said Ulf. ¡°What then lower than a soldier am I, to fear the grandfather¡¯s fable?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d prefer silence all the way up the mountain?¡± Horral laughed.


    ¡°You come too easily distracted, too keen for your grinning comforts. This will slow us,¡± hissed Ulf. ¡°If we are slowed to a stop, I¡¯ll see you and your curiosities plummet from the Cleft.¡±


    Eidrik was last to reach the summit and up he came with stiff paranoia widening his eye. He strode between Horral and Ulf and threw the latter a warning ire; his frown stuffed in threat. Ulf swerved aside in swift forfeit, for an intolerance of delay and an urge to find worthier focus. Slowed not for their inquisitions, his silhouette vanished behind the crowns of sharper bluffs.


    Horral grinned at his expertise, yet to be bothered by it. His smile shined, as though the Northman left them in his tracks then, before he did indeed have the heart to make his pace light. Eidrik was not subject to that same adoration and he stopped there upon the cliff, confronting over a dry valley the Cleft and, coveting some unspoken thing, Eidrik looked to his companion. There was a fullness in his disfavour and, knowing the sight of severity, Horral¡¯s pleasure fell away.


    ¡°Aye,¡± granted Horral. ¡°He¡¯s far from the kindest we¡¯ve shared our road with.¡±


    Eidrik watched while his old friend spoke, then paced past him, to gaze unattuned upon the looming mountain that was a dagger to stars. Evening had come. With it came harsher winds, dimmer depths but with more unknown to fear within them, and a discomfort of the spirit that bade words sharp and willed aches unignored.


    That plain and all its blight was a reckoning in wait and beyond waited nothing better. There was Eritle, a village of squalor, sickness, behind a curtain of utter rock that laid teeming with half-beasts and their predators, whose wild malice was complete. All of it was to be suffered and all of it endured, for the sake only of a stranger with his cold heart and unyielding blade, so blood-etched it may well have been his own limb. Eidrik struggled there, in sight of that bedeviled rock, to see some goal in the outlander, or some greatness in Eritle, or even a goodness to be unearthed in the march between. He found risk and ruin alone and his shoulders sank.


    ¡°What is it, Horral¡­?¡± he asked. ¡°What is it you hope to find out here?¡±


    ¡°Same as ever,¡± Horral answered. ¡°A way out, for us all.¡±


    ¡°A way out, you say?¡± Eidrik echoed, doubtful.


    A brood came over Horral, with all the Cleft¡¯s peril fat in his gawk. His words slowed, lessened. Through them came a vagueness of intent; an irresolute spirit. ¡°It has to be out here¡­¡± he hoped, with the rasp of many years melding his tongue. ¡°Something we missed, a risk we didn¡¯t take before¡­ a secret our eyes lapped¡­!¡±


    And Eidrik heard Horral¡¯s age flush out his heart. ¡°A secret, heh?¡± Eidrik watched his friend carefully then. By bladework, done day through night, and wayward strides from gully to rock and everywhere amidst, he suspected if in part Horral fell away from what was real; split to despair by that intangible breadth. Fashioned from sorrow into an aspirant of change, he laboured through the need to not be no one; to live as more than a cog in that infernal engine. The old fellow may well have attached himself to the dream of something better, so tautly the skin tore. But better was few and far between, Eidrik knew, and now that high wish aimed daring to the mountain of old Teroe and its visitor ghost.  ¡°And you¡¯ve found it¡­¡± he reasoned, trying to see sense. ¡°In this¡­ runaway butcher.¡±


    ¡°I know you miss them,¡± said Horral, nodding his faith. ¡°I know. It¡¯s been long¡­ but we can return ourselves, or in-hand with something new, Eidrik. Something that stands a chance to change things, to prick the red fist¡­! I know you want¡ª¡±


    ¡°What I want is for our friends to know we¡¯re still alive!¡± Eidrik cut. ¡°I¡¯ve no want to sleep soundly knowing each night, they stare out over the walls, guessing if they might never see us come under ¡®em again, while we¡¯re off in the hills playing at some fantasy¡ªsome game. I don¡¯t want to sleep, Horral, knowing each night they fear for us¡ªI can¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°And what then is our second choice?¡± Horral demanded, his ire whetted. ¡°To run home with nothing? To stake them all, for our greed to not walk alone any longer?¡± He shook his head. ¡°The path is hard, Eidrik¡ªyes, but it must run a ways yet, or it shall keep hard forever. And not only for we who walk the plains, but for each in the byways too. I know you¡¯ve not forgotten! For the sons and daughters of the vile¡ª¡±


    ¡°Valiant words are as good as any to die on,¡± said Eidrik, ¡°but your rich soul means naught if it¡¯s snuffed out mountainside¡ª¡±


    ¡°For the Clergy¡¯s plighted¡ª!¡±


    ¡°¡ªwhile our blades belong south! And not with this¡ªthis dark wanderer!¡±


    ¡°They belong where there is good to be done!¡± Horral snapped. ¡°Where they might aid another! Galehaven is of a thousand protectors, Eidrik, but what has Eritle? What has every home and farm alow the Haddlebush? What had Arrenfaeld!¡±


    ¡°For silver, we carve up monsters,¡± Eidrik scolded, his bother become antipathy, set to smoulder. ¡°That¡¯s all we do. Arrenfaeld was awful¡ªa shut eye to the All-Father that its like comes never again¡ªbut it would be a lie to meet awful things to low odds, as if we might stand in way of ¡®em. How long will you pretend cutting down a hulkat is any nobler than slitting a soldier¡¯s throat? How long, to your eye, will evil bear flags?¡±


    ¡°Until all those evils are ash,¡± came a swift retort. ¡°That¡¯s the charge, Eidrik. That¡¯s always been why we¡¯re here, why we toil and till sunset bleed.¡±


    ¡°This is not duty. Not in a place like this. Not with him.¡±


    ¡°Oh, there is more in him than you see,¡± Horral said in a swivel.


    ¡°No, Horral,¡± Eidrik groaned, weaker, with Ulf¡¯s cut still high upon his brow. ¡°No. I fear, in him, there is nothing at all.¡±


    ¡°Ulf is a chance,¡± said Horral, returned at once. ¡°That has to be enough.¡±


    ¡°A chance at damnation! He said it himself; we¡¯re fools to see a friend in him.¡±


    ¡°I will not abandon this, Eidrik,¡± said the old furrfiend, standing firm. ¡°Indeed, I could be wrong. He could very well be only evil and with him I might even die. And that thought¡ªfailing, here, without ever granting to our friends a right goodbye¡ªit sickens me. It does! But that is the cost for the dream I will suffer. Our dream.¡±


    ¡°I know you will,¡± Eidrik groaned in relinquishment. ¡°And know I will suffer that cost with you. Until the end, as I always have and as ever I will. But this is not hope here you grasp at. This is just another stowaway, with terrible strength. Bowing his iron not to crush us is no virtue, I name it a devil¡¯s sloth. And under it lurks something all the worser.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s just alley stabbings, then?¡± shrugged Horral, abrupt and trembling. ¡°Burnings? Theft and murder, all under night? Is that then to be our creed, forever?¡±


    ¡°I do not relish it,¡± Eidrik said, his chin low.


    And to that Horral fell exasperated and came loud. ¡°Oh, All-Father¡¯s eyes!¡± he cried, rubbing his head at the mountain.


    ¡°But what else is there? But him?¡± feared Eidrik. ¡°But danger!¡±


    ¡°No, you don¡¯t believe it,¡± said Horral, shaking off the thought as if it might infect him. ¡°I won¡¯t think it so.¡±


    But Eidrik¡¯s reply came doughy and true and, under its sound, his watch was a tint dimmer; part of him spent in service of truth. ¡°Don¡¯t I?¡± he asked.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing out here, then?¡± said Horral, vexed. ¡°You really believe that, Eidrik? That we toil for nothing¡ªthat nothing in these endless plains can ever aid us?¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t fall to your fantasies, Horral,¡± said Eidrik, stern still, but with a mourning in his words, as if in his speech a wound was offered. ¡°Perhaps he will aid you, but he is a killer still.¡±


    The thought glummed Horral. Apace, nervous, he stammered aside. ¡°If that¡¯s true¡­ if there really is nothing out here, not in him, or his might, or Eritle, or Arrenfaeld, or what the blue-golds seek in the underearth, or any of it¡­!¡± He shook his head, and his eyes came full and feeble upon Eidrik. ¡°If it¡¯s just Galehaven forever¡­ then we are far better off giving up now.¡±


    Eidrik could not answer, for an answer did not exist. Silent, his woe fell to Horral, who in a soft stare saw all the hesitation and gaining fright; the unsettled speculation that this path led astray. Yet it was too late, and they would not live to war forever, so Horral again shook his head, ridding himself of his doubts, then scampered to the next descent in hastened pursuit of Ulf. His words trailed behind him, though while quiet they fell crude and hard, as an axe strikes earth.


    ¡°And that I will not do.¡±


    _____

 Into the Cleft

    Chapter XIV : Into the Cleft


    The mountain was a glaive, voracious, split-edged and laying skies asunder. About its endless appetite did clouds ache, adrift. Hooked along its brilliant slopes writhed the glow of a horizon, since forsaken. If the Scourge bore architects and worship could be by the underearth fostered, then certainly the Cleft of Teroe would be a monument to beasts. It curved, hateful, towered to a wintry recluse. In it was the utter power of earth, emitted from its every snag and serration, and down its center was a darkness and light both, mingling as if twin energies bade its vein blood-clot.


    In they went, down a narrow crevasse of all cold and crumbling. Onwards meant miles of tight harm. From on high came sprinklings of stone, to preserve that pressing threat of the landslide. Their way was a ravine of leaps, threatened, jostling from steep rim to gutter tomb. With a scamper they seemed cloudward, then was immediate descent and deep earth ensnared them, where under the glimmer of vanquished sunlight they glimpsed their own shadows fall out to infinity. Teroe¡¯s depths were unconscious in grandeur, and in woe of collapse petty boulders came crying past. Others stepped, Horral warned, higher and heavier than they.


    They beheld deep respites in the low weave of the land, where wells of night swallowed all that the summit discarded. Not even the sound could survive those bottoms, that writhed like roots down into the underearth. But above lurked no lesser fear, as those jagged peaks were eyes over all and the every tiny intrusion. Fangs down from space they seemed, hummed in malice for the unearthly.


    In the grand rupture they felt abandoned, then above and distant rolled skitterings, as a damning recall to how unalone was their trek. In the breadth between half hours, they found too a tail vanish to its ridge, or a hoof scamper to an unwitnessed hollow. Life was scarce in Teroe, deviant, green was a forbidden light. Plants that grew in Thedrun¡¯s crown grew to their sides, webbed unabiding through the ground like cancers, and bore petals that could sooner trap a hawk than a bug in their spikes. What a mind could call spiders came thrice as broad, cast in unwrought hairs, carrying to them bellies of sucked blood. The flies were cantankerous buzzards that fished each crevice for flesh, with eight eyes for their every hooked tether. Yet the outlander was learned to such vermin, and the hook he yanked to slay its wearer and the spider he spotted to pierce its hide. Eidrik and Horral did not trouble the pests, knowing rather how to bore and appease the passersby.


    Over what rockface they passed tracked an eerie smut: a sand of bright blues, slacked over the breaks of wall. The path at their feet and towards the Cleft¡¯s innards sprouted fungi, broad-stemmed in low caps, all in dyes of silver. Up from the wiry growths came flakes, an afloat shred and luminescent, casting but whiter greys through the air tread through. In the light of the fungi, the band discerned striations over rock, great scratches in stone, that scrawled near them and soared higher, where some creature of prowess seemingly sprung to lurk. When they dared to wonder at that ridge in the drawn eye, all heard and rattled whilst a shriek echoed down in answer. Without doubt they knew it to be the crying of a chronic hunger, ever unquenched, heinous in search.


    The three came squat, lower without word to creep their trepid hour in the brook, eyeing the spans above readily, jittering fingers over their hilts should that loud doom knock. Yet pass they did, and unassailed, and the land heaved them up to a valley of battered columns and the passes between. The sight of sunlight was their reward, though the mists swarmed in cool day, to flog and by gloom turn it pale. Unto the breach did gales rock, to resist the triad¡¯s stalk with each ledge stepped. Wind grated against the Cleft and out it weeped shrill and wanting.


    The furrfiends drew hesitant, aware of what spiraling damnation awaited the poor foot, though Ulf remained steadfast, unyielding to the tantrums of the wild. He strode up a gyration of stone, leapt to its near pinnacle, etched shallow and woefully unto the side of that greater height, and followed until it ducked to an alley again. The furrfiends were of a gentler pace, though swift to again claim their lead, and sage in the routing thereafter.


    They stepped across chasms from which amethyst stores bloomed, aside gutters still with the rotten sacs and caps of ancient merchants, under barbed ramparts long neglected and bodies impaled then only bone. A stair brought them up and between tight cavities, where in the wall were galleries to fast visiting then vanished ghouls, who joyed amidst the clutter of stalagmites without face or a sound to their steps. Steel and size warded them away, but their furred grope knew its longing. Moss clumped at their backs and made tendrils of their arms, each withered but with a belly full. A grunt from Eidrik cast their spell aside, and upon exiting the stair Ulf emerged late, with a blade bearing the blood of a wrist.


    In finding worthier heights, they found too the braiding of roots, strange sorts from which no trees grew. They ran in dense tangles, constricted the rock below them, shone with cold white. To a perilous eave did the band draw, one glimpsing its fatal descent by a smug inch, and the root¡ªnamed jotahr by Horral¡ªcrossed down into the lone wall. He slapped it with his cane, slid the blade through a buckle in his belt, then gestured them towards it. The three dismantled, around it they wrapped themselves, steadily, without question, yet a tinge unnerved in leave of their floor.


    The wind was fierce on their backs and hungrily did the fall grumble, a watering maw under their dangling, though even under arms and armour the root kept, solid. Ulf breathed in the frost of that exposed cusp. It held a scent of home and it soured him. Swifter he pawed to its end. Eidrik could not help but hold himself tight against the roots, pinning his belongings and soul to the jotahr, shaking from his mind visions of his sac unsealing and spilling to the long drop all that he owned. That loss was more irksome than his own life. Braced firmly to its shacklings, they could in fair time sidestep till its end, where a curl of earth led them high again. Hastily each ripped upwards, off the rim of demise to the crutch of a trench. Above glistened an open sky. There was star-visited sunlight and the Cleft¡¯s bucklers before it.


    All over its limbs, jotahr writhed, and by their touch was the ground chilled, made blueish grey. On its turf nestled a flock of crows, with burgundy plumes and long, flexed throats, though when Ulf¡¯s shade and its gnarled disciples stepped into sight, the murder vanished in a feathered cloud. Alow the crush of wind, a cawing sang.


    The trench¡¯s end was a sharp change that roots seeped over like a waterfall. Down its ravel the three climbed, with their fists full of jotahr and their eyes of the beating, tightening plummet. Their soles hung again atop a terrible pitfall, and from there that mountain¡¯s immensity could be beheld, unaltered. Chasms, competitively equating themselves aside intermissions of sky. Down it they worked in good diligence, until breaths were spent and hands clammed, and with a leap they could disembark to a near jut. It caught their steps¡ªeven Eidrik¡¯s with all its heft and Horral¡¯s with its stumble¡ªand carried them to where the path burrowed unto a worser slab.


    They did learn, from their drudging through the voids of world, that the Cleft was only a plane of hard chaos, so massive it startled and so aimless it killed, construed from the machinations of a mad conjurer, who saw folly in straights and future only in dire stone. Few wayfarers lived to see what concluded the climbing plight of Teroe, so it was a pound of proud disbelief when Ulf and his furrfiends stayed standing, remarkably undamaged, and night in commemoration drew near. Though the way was long yet to the nomad¡¯s gold, indeed the pair proved as experienced as their guest was capable. Horral¡¯s age was not fortune and Eidrik¡¯s strength not ill-made.


    ¡°Night will know no kindness,¡± said Horral. ¡°Not for us. I know you care little for a full rest, Eldric, but know that things will come in twilight that even the Baelgarth would not risk. And this land is theirs.¡±


    The caution was heard, and by a grunt did Ulf consent, yet an hour remained to them, and busily it was spent squeezing and in mantling. The last bit of light was draining out from the sky when they reached their site: A dull cavern, with a rift between it and the climb higher, and a winding steppe tracing its flank. Above it was only mountain, straight and sheer, and in staring against that looming giant, Eidrik saw their camp as its grizzled mouth. He wondered if rock would fall to clamp shut upon them in their sleep.


    From their shallow gape, the world was low and open to them. In a growing darkness they witnessed Arakvan. Jagged cliffs, crying fields, rifts eclipsed in dusk¡ªit was all known to them before, but from on high all its rugged wounds seemed part of a greater thing, bricks in a wall, ink in a tale. Forests in firefly festival; packs, chattering at drudgery; grasses alight, to twirl in lower greens. Gusts of quick calamity passed and hollows did snooze to recover and again defy. They seemed, from that mighty distance, to belong more than burden and, for a moment of waning daylight, there could be a hope for Arakvan, for its blight and croon. But the lowest of clouds laid between them and the lands below, and perhaps it was a lie of the fog that brought a betterness from obscurity into mind.


    When Ulf glanced against it, the beauty of vastness or the quietness of an afar thing failed in its enchant, and sneering he crept to the cave¡¯s depths. Eidrik remained there a while, poised over his axehead as if it were the top of a signpost gesturing fates, and he strived to see¡ªin that endless stretch¡ªthe first home of Galehaven. But it laid, as even he knew, so much farther than an eye could grasp, and he wondered there, with the cold of the mountain smoking his breaths and wind pushing him nearer to the ledge, if he would ever see that wretched sprawl of wonders again.


    Horral sensed the same aching and so drew beside with a tap of the cane, reposed in its industrious melody. Deeply, he breathed in the view, letting the wealth of lungs applaud the spectacle. In all his years, never had he drawn so high, to stand so immense above it all. To see the landscape of his common stalk, his own earnest continuity, as by night and a march nothing more than another tile in its motherland, he thought to bawl, but for a smile was swayed. Horral pat his fellow on the shoulder, his mannerly press the print of conviction, of recall that this was joy¡¯s accolade; this was triumph for that time between providence.


    Eidrik grinned, proven in modest throes before paradise. While by Teroe¡¯s cold chapped and made rumbling, a true pleasure it was. Weirhymn and Corralain together bore witness to their home anew. They saw a largeness they could never before reckon, an astral course of chameleon glories. Cliffisde, clawing their monument, the world knew might and Arakvan its future. It was clear, potent. There could perhaps be a gentle world again. Such a thought seemed worth the crack of their lips, the shame of a smile beside the grim third, as if nature¡¯s bounty sufficed to renew them. By one crisp inhale, the plight of old felt contestable. They could believe, in that moment, that in the blink of some still flashed a riven dream of new day.


    ¡°The Baelgarth can have me, for their banquets or stakings,¡± said Horral, hardly welling tears from their plotted spill across his cheeks. ¡°Name it the toll, for a thing as priceless as this.¡±


    At the fringe of majesty until the thick of night, gratitude was their lantern, translating the world¡¯s intricacy, though the dark did gain its hour and sleep washed soon over them. Horral¡¯s snores filled the cave. Ulf was silent. After a time of long, patient night, he saddled to his feet and strode from their shallow grot. Each hour slumbered through was thieved of everything greater. So awake, neurotic in his distress, Ulf came apart and climbed high. He passed the gap, mounted its other end, and from the cliff admired the cave. If he listened carefully, he could still hear Horral snoring. It seemed quaint for an instant, like some timid bear of the country complacent in its den, but quickly he discerned that if he could hear the old man, so too could worse predators. They risked him in ways they did not know, by deficiencies they could not treat. A cruel gaze then fell upon them and their cave, and the Northman¡¯s gawk twisted with grudge, as he imagined their ineptitude taking him too.


    Ulf could not be allowed to perish upon the slopes, he told himself. The notion of those bumbling fools dragging him down with them struck him like a malady takes a newborn, and it became all his spirit could achieve. There he loomed, a shadow on the mountain, staring with eyes whole and malign. A blade he did not recall unsheathing sat tight in his fist. It would be a plain thing to kill them. It would perhaps be a noble thing. What good had they truly done in their labouring lives? What merit made them worthy of a life longer than the Gleemen, the adventurers of early Meddlelfore, or that piled cast of depleted Arrenfaeld? It was not virtue to empty vice on beasts, then take from the peasant his coin as comeuppance. Ulf asked himself, from atop that great perch, what made those furrfiends any better than him?


    He found no answer. Perhaps the truth was that the hunters in their cave did deserve steel, but they were yet to show that glint of teeth untrammeled. Certainly, Ulf knew, in their guts they possessed the survivor¡¯s evil, that made reasonable all walks that were onwards, but it was just that they lived at least until they showed it, and he and them were without doubt akin. Then, they could die, to suffer and be saved from it all.


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± Ulf whispered, derelict in his lurch. ¡°I can give them that kindness.¡± His sword swung back into its sheath and he turned his eyes to other hunts. ¡°When you¡¯ve earned it at last.¡±


    Morning drew, sheepish and uneager. At some point in the night, Ulf had returned with a wolverine of the mountain cast over his shoulder, then slumped it across Horral¡¯s fire. The old man stabbed his cane through and hoisted it up in smoke. There it roasted and all watched it burn, the skin char, the meat tenderize. The smell filled their snouts, wetted their tongues. It was done before the sun had risen in full and under a soft, warm amber, they divvied it up amongst themselves.


    ¡°Never ate barverin before,¡± said Horral. ¡°Suppose I haven¡¯t yet spent my share amidst mountains. Granted, thought it¡¯d be thicker, like turf.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve tasted turf, have you?¡± Eidrik jeered. ¡°Beside the Grey, I wager. No doubt from Angmerl¡¯s cooking.¡±


    ¡°You call that cooking? She just finds something that looks dead and burns it to bone. And what did Caelum say? ¡®She can¡¯t tell she¡¯s chewing unless that fat neck of hers hurts?¡¯¡±


    They laughed and on they went, jesting, storytelling until the barverin¡¯s bones were dry. Ulf said nothing. The furrfiends stomped out the fire and scattered the ashes, then chucked the bones of the barverin off the cliff, so that no hunters could find and trace the scent to its source. They knew however, that the greatest of predators were not below the mountain, but near its summit. Only upon peaks did conquerors lair, as the children¡¯s tales rightly gambled. The extremities of the land housed its drastic sum. Upon the precipice of crowns or chasms, it was tradition for the furrfiends to kiss the hilt, beg the warrior¡¯s esteem for the challenge of befouled lands.


    Across the gap, atop the ridge, the path narrowed again, cragged and truculent in guard of its meddling, with a slope taut and lolling high. They winced under stone rain, hastened sideways to the slit¡¯s end. Ulf and Horral bursted out with quick breaths, their chests squeezed, but Eidrik came clasped between acquisitive rock before the alley could be rid of him. His puffed chest, with an axehead to his back, proved too broad, so sweating, strained, he fought to wedge himself across then back, but to little avail. The capture infuriated Eidrik.


    Horral snatched him by the stretched wrist and went to work pulling him through, filing his discontent, yet even the outlander¡¯s eyes came wide, and like all his hairs stood high when he saw, above the pass, lurking like a fanatic in the nosebleeds, stood a visitor. Its snout was long and deformed into a flailing trunk, toothed at its end. Its body bore two legs too many to live among other muts, and far too broad was its chest to battle wolves and be called fair quarrel. Its fur was matted, filthy with grime and thieved blood. Its tail was twinned, barbed at its end. Yellow eyes fell from it, with a human greed, and in its paws was a power that crushed the rock beneath it. Avid, it snarled, and from a jaw below its trunk sizzled foam that struck and burnt Eidrik¡¯s shoulder.


    The furrfiend howled, agonized under pickle fumes. He tried with vicious heaving to hurry himself through. Even with Horral¡¯s pulls and their then frantic gusto, he could not breach the trap of the passage.


    ¡°Its trunk!¡± screamed Horral in warning. ¡°Watch its bloody trunk!¡±


    And the trunk coiled and whipped. From its spiked gap bubbled a caustic green. A sole drop loosed down upon the furrfiends, catching Horral on his left knuckle. The skin crunched, blackened, and the old man jumped back to see a dark fist conjoined to his arm. His shriek was of a fervor unbefitting his own tongue.


    Furious, Horral growled at the wicked thing, whilst an acid loaded again in its trunk. With a flap of his cloak, a dagger launched up against it. The steel beamed through the thing¡¯s front calf and there it stuck. The natnite staggered, whimpered, fell away a moment, but returned with madness in its gaze.


    Snubbing the trapped Eidrik, it whipped its trunk forward and out gushed a toxic blaze. Hurriedly, Horral and Ulf leapt aside. A pool of green splashed and seared the stone between them. The earth bubbled and in its heat popped apart the colour of health. In the same damage, in visceral aching, was Horral¡¯s flesh gloved and through spoiled fingers he beheld his friend, wedged firmly between cliff-scars. Trapped, under the natnite¡¯s gushing perversions. Horral was frenzied. He called up to the beast in villainous spite and took a fearless step under its perch.


    ¡°Bastard!¡± he screamed, ruptured through power¡¯s griefs. ¡°Strike me again, dog, I¡¯ll thieve your fucking hide!¡±


    The hand grilled and with each second of shouts it melted more. Ulf was caught unsuspecting, in sight of that passion that begrudged even terrible pain. The studs of his own garb became trivial supports.


    Snarling, the natnite furled then lashed its spew. Horral dove low. From the splash an ever slight sum of droplets struck his boot. The leather fumed, but he was not perturbed. He raised his hurt hand to the creature, standing afore its miss and shaking fury back against it. The bone of his knuckles tensed out in challenge. The skin was burnt through. The old fiend¡¯s lips twisted and emitted was a wild laugh. Ulf¡¯s brows shot high.


    The beast readied its next volley, crazed in turn, but in wrath had forgone instinct. At the sound of a scuffling, again it peered down to the foe siphoned and ignored, only to see Eidrik had relinquished his freedom to instead climb higher. With his feet spread and stationed against either side of the crevasse and his strong, veined hands heaving him up, he came near the ankles of the beast.


    Startled from the ravening of its prey, it turned its trunk against him, though with a lunge and a tight grasp, Eidrik caught that fanged trunk in both fists. With violent strength, bolstered by fraught and the madness of agony, Eidrik ripped the natnite down from its landing. Its legs kicked about, its claws scraped the walls, and aimlessly, ceaselessly, its trunk spouted acid all about its fall. With a thud, a shudder, then a creaking groan, its back broke at the bottom of the crag.


    Up it looked sore and vengeful, only to see Horral step near. He thrusted his caneblade through its neck. Horral pierced its jugular then tore sideways, opening the throat. Green goo splattered out from the wound as it wailed, twitched. Eidrik shimmied from his snare and vaulted that demise dividing them.


    ¡°Fine work,¡± Horral congratulated, scratching his chin. ¡°And in good time, too. If it burned you, never would we squeeze your fat damned bones out from here.¡±


    Eidrik thought to laugh through his panting, but when witnessed to the bone of Horral¡¯s hand he fell swiftly to panic. With all fingers he gripped Horral¡¯s arm and gawked over the burn. It was grizzly, smelled of oil and vinegar, yet the old furrfiend grinned no matter.


    From his pouch, Eidrik produced a vial of a clear elixir and doused it generously over the wound. Horral flinched and impulse pulled him away, but Eidrik kept him near and beyond accommodation, until the wound was doubly disinfected, swabbed of its foul bloods and acids, and bandaged tight. Ulf granted them an undisturbed solitude.


    ¡°Not poor work, old man,¡± he said quietly.


    ¡°Not poor? Ha! A cheap reward that is, Eldric,¡± Horral griped. ¡°But from you, let it be an honour. They say a journey is unwhole without a wound to recall it.¡± He raised his black, bandaged fist to Ulf. ¡°This may yet prove a tale better than the leaf¡¯s, after all. If, that is, we do leave this accursed place to tell it.¡±


    Eidrik slapped his back, assuring he stood steady, then trekked on. ¡°Teroe must find better than a natnite for us,¡± he said. ¡°Though never have I heard ''em to prove so seeking. He was enraged, this cur. This is an ill omen for what sits above, I fear, if even the solitary flock of the mountain have come to hunt with such abandon.¡±


    ¡°Winter draws,¡± said Horral. ¡°We¡¯ve no more than weeks now, then the snow comes to eat without end. Things get hungry in the prewinter, my friends. Then they get mean, and so are swords dulled.¡±


    Ulf shook his head. ¡°This is not the doing of winter. Year long does the mountain know cold, and freezing does its flock persist. The natnite was desperate, to test itself against three so large. Something has taken its common prey. Something on this mountain¡ªsomething greater¡ªmade it starve.¡±


    Wearily, Eidrik glanced at Horral. ¡°You don¡¯t think¡­?¡± he began.


    But Horral shook his head. ¡°Only myth,¡± the old man dismissed, before carrying into the windings beyond.


    On creaked a ledge, a ragged advance until white blue broke it. Over its ford they bounded, splashing through cool mountain blood. In its flow they washed themselves and sipped. Its crispness came like rapture upon them after a time so testing, spent malnourished with only crusts on their tongues. Across the stream, the crystalline underbites of Teroe speedily stole their abode again, where fresh sky staled. They grew accustomed to the tight crawl of its gullet, undaunted to again trek lower, and even Eidrik, in all his hesitance, was perturbed no longer when the ridge above them dribbled or the walls echoed each gale¡¯s haunt.


    When sunlight next struck, it met them to an alcove that hung drearily, possessively over a rutted terrace, in detached governance of a slum of old white stone. By a glance low they found unnatural architectures, where columns half-succumbed and ruined men-at-arms sapped, chiseled, decrepit. Marble floor, jutted through by a growth of shimmering ores, sheeted the terrace, scaling from the walkway beneath their balcony to an archway opposite them, hoisted by pillars and yawning a powerful black. Along the stretch to its step, statues of shieldmaidens lined, some fallen, some broken apart. They were a corridor to the thing beyond¡ªwith snouts, spears and ghastly squints¡ªand that thing was implanted halfway into the cliff face that shadowed it, with much earth crowding its stature. Debris stacked over the land like leaves in fall.


    They went squat and still, sheltered behind the cut of the ledge. Neither needed the others to whisper warning when the patter of metal sounded below them. A cluster of five roamed lackadaisically onto the terrace, between marble climbs.


    Broad spangenhelms chewed steel masks, in concealment of their cheap effect. Only wild eyes showed through, darting, and from behind narrow slits. From the back of each helm ran false grey hair that was wrinkled and scraggly. Tufts of fur, scale, and bone crept out under the masks: a decay of mortality, oozing off. They bore chainmail made deft, tossed over by broadcloth tunics. Trimming the sides were hues of dark, faded violet, at the cores were blotches of a greenish grey, and on their chests sat sigils. They showed a reaching hand, half-clawed and half-fingered, the thumb under bandage.


    Two of the scatter wore capes, long navy, while the others¡¯ backs laid bare, hunched and broad. Their strength was resonant, beastial by the lurch and stroll, to name them sternly to the ranks of the Baelgarth. Two were shaggy and half-faced, pale or burgundy, hunting by sniffs. Axes were blunt in their fists and trailing was a sabre, gripped to a wizened fellow, curled serpentine. Inclement eyes shone in green scale. Its stalk was focused and interrogated what rubble it passed. The final two were well concealed in their irons, though one¡¯s chin was skinless and its eyes an unwell red. The mouth of the last dripped black gunk, and they bore hammer and spear.


    In they marched to the terrace¡¯s center, where in ruggish slur they recited upsets, tapping iron upon the statues, inspecting but bored by their memorial judgement. Ulf caught them with a particular intrigue, as never had his travels north met him to beast-men, and indeed kinnits were a striking sight. Their forms were jagged, irregular, as if scrawled with paint and coloured by water, though seldom could a brush achieve a hue so gruesome. Albeit fatigued and tantalizing the ruins with their hard touch, speaking of ill tales and doomed foretellings, there was a melancholy that followed them and sounded off their steps, stripping some of the strength their forms boasted. They were the embodiment of Arakvan¡¯s dejection and grit, and that looming, imperceivable sadness of a waiting warfare intangible only greyed their violets and harsh greens. Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°Horrid lot,¡± the white-furred said, low and crude and devoid of any aim to his words. Speech was his own harassment. ¡°Better dead. These quakes¡­ Teroe could suffer rogues no longer. Stirred its belly.¡±


    The serpentine chuckled, twirled his sabre. ¡°Fine armours on that swollen dreg, though. Captain, may¡¯ve been. Would¡¯ve been a pretty thing, had you not rent it atwo, what with him inside. Pretty, warm thing, might¡¯ve been.¡±


    ¡°He knew the barrier crossed, when first he and his bagmen tread unto the mountain,¡± the first groaned. ¡°He knew the Cleft offers no descent not a grave. Higher, or comeuppance, yes? Better he rests in the ditch than above, amidst culled rock.¡±


    The fleshless one perked up, leapt near the maw of the ruins before them, then turned back with gleeful eyes and a crackling throat. ¡°But then there is our good grave. Lower, we go.¡±


    A stump of brown fur rolled his eyes and past. ¡°Giddy, aren¡¯t you? You¡¯d rather it here, beside the long dead, before a right bed, I¡¯d wager.¡±


    ¡°Gonna pretend you don¡¯t feel the freeze, Guht? That the cold¡¯s of no bother¡ªindecent deed be damned? Dreamspeak¡­ Let my nights be with the dead, if there is good sleep at last. To be warm again, but once it was our always, you recall? Down on the ground¡­¡±


    ¡°If the world was without swords, yes, yes. I say you are asleep again, to fool yourself with ancient wants. You¡¯ll eat the good captain and his batch quick as a rat, when the skin¡¯s off. Groan then of old peace, with your belly full and chin bleeding.¡±


    The furthest two of the pack strode on, into that stone chasm that broke the cliff face. Three remained to meander about the terrace, idle and disinterested, yet searching for signs of combat returned to them like deserters uncertain at the field¡¯s fringe. Horral nearly felt pity, looking down. Their worry was ceaseless, their every venture in unrest, for while men could savour some calm when the swards parted and in the divide emerged a hamlet, a kinnit was left at shut doors to wander further, ever onwards, until up sprouted a place so detached, vicious that it would not begrudge them the malaise of their presence. And so was the Cleft, as cruel and cold as they come, and there stood its denizens, in a lair of ruptured stone.


    That axehead of ammolite came drawn. Eidrik felt his sympathy, knowing too well the maltreatment levied against Arakvan¡¯s diseased and unsavoury flock, yet these kinnits were of Teroe. It would be folly to expect mercy from killers so seasoned. Horral understood just as well, and with a quiet breath his caneblade extended.


    ¡°Eidrik,¡± Ulf murmured. ¡°Fell the serpent-man. The axe will overwhelm him. Horral, you¡¯ve speed over the thin one. Gut him and mind his feet. And this bearish cur I will kill myself.¡±


    In sight of the firmness in his command, they readily concurred, considered only the first step to violence before Ulf shattered their concentration. He leapt out from the alcove. Beastial eyes rose fast upon him, so when his feet hit the earth his sword was locked already, with the axe of the brawn, furred kinnit. In a moment, the sabre of the serpent-man sped upon him, but a fallen Eidirk jolted through. The third rose perspiring, shocked at the carnal burst, and when his hammer was ready to crush, Horral¡¯s cane clanged against it, battered it aside, wrapped below the head, and thus were the duels drawn.


    ¡°Bandits!¡± roared the ursine.


    ¡°Call not for help!¡± Ulf answered. ¡°Your kin fall in turn.¡±


    Then did the bear malformed come ardent in his assault. Mighty was his axe, certain to break with fury what it fell against, and by its blows was Ulf driven back as if fighting a flood, each strike a caging hope proved vain by the spark. But where it gathered force, Ulf slipped away and to his swiftness, and soon the axe could not touch him. He repelled it, sent its volleys astray. Much ferocity expired in empty air and the kinnit¡¯s heart came heavy. Ulf closed in, sensing ripe retribution, then unleashed his power. The kinnit¡¯s guard was scattered. A myriad of firm bludgeons blew his iron aside, pummeled that bulk of force backward, until at last a precise thrust sent his pommel whirling, and through an open chest Ulf drove his blade. The thing, more bear than man, roared an unbridled agony, but of resurgence rather than relent. With a shaggy fist he clutched the blade impaling him and met the outlander to his madness.


    And so was his soul tribute to the frenzy. Bloodied and staked in malign energy, the kinnit fostered an unyielding but barreling assault. Ulf stole back his sword and found retreat between parries. Such wrath was admirable, but a shallow accolade in the warrior¡¯s grim charge. It did not suffice to startle, and in quick time Ulf gored the skull from its shoulders. Headless, it struck twice before recalling to tumble, then with a thud it did, where white fur in a puddle darkened.


    In the midstwhile a thunder surged to his back. Eidrik would not tolerate exhaustion, pain, in the drive for survival. He arrived against that serpentine cur with a flurry, each swing hard, too violent to accommodate the capacity of his own muscle. His opponent was cold of blood and of monstrous dexterity, so far from that opal basher he strayed, under, around and jabbing. It gambled on Eidrik¡¯s tiring and lost, for the furrfiend refused to bow his axe and pant and allow his drained spirit to sap his hands of their muster. His power persisted, impossibly so, growing with each grunt until the furrfiend was coated in sweat, baked red. Then he gave a cry of war and overhead his axe fell as if descending upon wood to be split. A foolish guard rose against him, but the serpent¡¯s sabre chipped apart from its hilt and clanged upon the stone. For a first time, the kinnit¡¯s eyes did widen in fear. A sidelong blow tore into his gut to lay those pupils lifeless.


    Against his enemy even in age, Horral was more ruthless, more ready, breathing his reliefs before victory was claimed. The Baelgarth against him, wet with dripped ichor, was outmatched by a foe so seasoned. The hammer was struck at the pommel, once and twice more until it cracked, then a high slash parted the hammerhead from its oak. Defenseless but brazen, the kinnit fought on with a splintered staff. It was inept against Horral. With his hilt under a skinless fist, he tore his enemy apart in three foul, rapid cuts.


    There was no peace. Returned from the bowels of the cliffside crypt came the brown-furred and the skinless upon them. The ursine mate leapt from his steps slashing, eager and with vulgar thought answering his own fears, his brown hide a chestnut wind broken only by metal. Eidrik came to and axe met axe. The other stalled, stepped stuntedly, nearly amused. He formed a grin frail with no flesh to soften it and spun his spear expertly so, clearly no gutter flock. Ulf frowned, then rose with caution to oppose him.


    Eidrik and his match were balls of iron, bouncing off one another, revenging with blasts that shook the stone beneath them. Mighty was that Baelgarth, but in speed he paled. Eidrik stepped beyond the reach of the kinnit¡¯s blows, caught a slack axehead again and again. Beneath such strength it splintered, cracked as glass does to a battering, then, in a final sweep of his ammolite, fled the kinnit¡¯s grip. Defenseless, he swallowed steel. His jaw, maroon and ruptured, fell loose. Voiceless, the kinnit gagged, collapsed.


    The last of their number moved well. He was experienced, his health satiated on the rush of warfare. Carnage thrilled him, clear by his dazzle of spear and gaze. He seemed content, completely, to face one so hideously adept as Ulf, yet the Northman exchanged no pleasure. To Ulf stood only another creature to be felled then forgotten, and he fought with keenness to kill, fast and far in every slash. The kinnit savoured that contempt, let it swell the infection of his eyes. He sought to pierce Ulf¡¯s legs, that lagged behind the swiftness of his hands, then laugh at the ooze that left them, though Ulf allowed him no quarter. The fashion through which he shifted and his form altered were alien, unnatural. They skipped convention and reached distances that ordinary men should never know in one breath. The spear was lost to the cloak, the grin to the charge, then the outlander¡¯s blade ripped into his chest. On his back, the kinnit¡¯s merry failed him. The smile stretched to gasp.


    Ulf stepped over him and drew his sword high.


    ¡°Enough,¡± he ordered.


    The chest opened. To Ulf¡¯s sides emerged Eidrik and Horral like loyal cavalry, only to see that the battle was done, briskly so. That terrace was made wretched. It stunk and its every crack held guts, yet the victors moved on.


    ¡°A fierce cast,¡± noted Eidrik. ¡°But not soldiers. Not disciplined. Guided only by good instinct, like Scourgers. Perhaps the mountain unnerves ''em. These Baelgarth seem too keen on death. Too desperate, as if to end their own persecution. I wager it is only an age more till the last are by blue and gold undone. Galehaven will not wait forever to dress this peak with its flag.¡±


    ¡°Our coming was an early salvation, perhaps,¡± said Horral. ¡°Briefer, I hope. All-Father¡¯s mercy, if ever the Crimson Clad look to climb. This is their home, Eidrik. They would not stomach guests of our ilk, but such violence as this¡ªit is a pity.¡± A distant gawk fell upon the corpses, as if their gnarled skins were the clothes of children, torn apart. ¡°Were Thedrun kinder, a coming such as ours would never be met with murder. There are guilts to bear, ours or otherwise.¡±


    Ulf shook his head, carried on. ¡°Do not slow for your sympathies. These curs¡ªbe they beasts or bastard sons¡ªwould feed us to Teroe¡¯s pits without qualm. They rot in their solitude, away from man¡¯s hands. That is clemency.¡±


    Onwards he strode. They followed. The jaw of the crypt demanded them, whilst other paths decayed into grand plummets. In it was darkness. Shade spanned forever, silence gained thick. Horral produced from his cloak a match touched in sulfuric sticks. With a flick against the wall it shone bright and blue. In an instant, the way was revealed to them, warbling navy like a grotto half-submerged.


    Corpses shelved the walls. Murals of long blades influx and shapeless beasts untamed devastated the floor and ceilings. What laid there was ancient and robbed, and only robes and rags remained to those entombed bones. The iron rings of champions marked them in simple glories. The steel of the stalwart laid amidst refuse, though rusted, chipped. In times past, to be shelved was an honour, but Arakvan had corroded what dignity the crypt retained, while the centuries sent maggots to dine.


    From Ulf, Horral, and Eidrik the dead were offered no special restraint in passing, nor shock beside their entropy, the theory of sacrifice, or even the effect of mild unsettlement. If ghosts persisted in the old crypt, they must have grieved again. The three wayfarers were far too accustomed to the sight of the skeletal to be perturbed then. They were nothing more than trapped puddles of an older hail, and beyond did storms breed and birth unending. It was so that they came deep into the tomb before their pace jutted, though deeper meant higher and, with a cold breeze that claimed no direction, they carved through darkness and nearer the summit of Teroe.


    When at last the gloom retired its frights, they stood on a balcony. Its railing was aged and beaten. Beyond it lurked another valley of Arakvan; it laid quiet but waiting between pillars of Teroe, thorned and starched under a fogged shimmer. Pinks scouted the clouds.


    The balcony was of ordinary stature. From a sway in its stone came a path winding upward, splintered but defiant over a nipping gorge. Its ground was a mosaic of blue and white stone, an italic mesh dancing through its convolutions, circled around the stall¡¯s heart where a coffin loomed. It was rich with indents of war waged and golden triumphs, a flat appraise, though the lid laid askew, the body within was only bone, toppled, deprived of its wealth, and air had rotten its every refinery.


    Horral came first out from that darkness, then Eidrik at his heel, and behind, with a distance great enough to spare their shadows, strode Ulf. Hardened were their gazes, as before the railing and its escape stood two more of the Baelgarth, ready for a long while and in wait. They had heard the footsteps of their intruders echo up the crypt. By hardened gaze alone, it was evident they had prepared themselves to slay whatever the dark granted to them.


    One was feathered in a steep black. Tall, burly, with eyes of earnest. He was a hawk made man, with a glaive in his right fist and a short sword in his left, but still did his human essence attach itself. His plumes parted to show scabbed, sickly skin. His black sheet broke to demonstrate the wrinkled white of his flesh. In sight of himself and shame of his taint, his frown was deep, a nurtured malevolence. He wore plate mail, stripped from some nobler corpse, embedded with royal livery in dyes of amber and gold. To his side stood a shorter kinnit, born of a bull, supposedly. Though scrawny, her head was malformed and made large, and from it curved great horns that could gore what her body was hopeless to move. She was clad in iron, bore twin blades. Her fur was grimy and brown, and like her kin it was abrupt with human patchwork, granting her an ill appeal, as if either tried ardently and failed to resist the corruption of feather and fur.


    Horral and Eidrik squared against them, man-to-man, while Ulf strafed the chamber¡¯s edge, never relieving them of his watch.


    ¡°Trespassers,¡± greeted the bird-man, with a glum detest. ¡°Is it your hate that has brought you so far, to be nude in our winds, or are you only the land¡¯s mad, desperate to see the Cleft¡¯s end? To know, perhaps, if even such a thing might exist?¡±


    Horral stepped closer, jumped his chin. ¡°Indeed we seek its end. We would pass unbloodied, if could be, though I will make no perversions for peace. I am no liar, as the blue-gold charlatans that once promised you paradise here. Five of your friends are dead upon the lower steppes. A killing done by our hands.¡± He shot steel from his cane again. ¡°I do not believe that is an offence you can forgive.¡±


    ¡°It is not,¡± the kinnit answered, with a beak half-maimed by sprawled, manly lips. ¡°Though our age knows little honesty, furrfiend. It is for that gift that I will send you quickly into death.¡±


    ¡°Forgive me,¡± said Horral. ¡°That, I cannot allow.¡±


    ¡°You are not above your ilk of the south, furrfiend. All blessed men. Beside the damned, all morbid. You think your coming, your pace, whatever purpose these rocks hold for you so worthy that it is more than our lives. Our quiet. This harsh, wind-bitten leisure we have clung to. Yours is the deception of the corpses, furrfiend, that man the Cleft¡¯s bottom. Pierced through by my glaive. You will learn, as did they, that your greeds mean nothing, so high above the land you know. That Varcull¡¯s claim is made and your reign fated. You will learn, as did they, that here your journey ends.¡±


    And Horral felt his words. He shriveled beneath them, coiled under that soft malice. What bestowed him such privilege as to teach the earth¡¯s corners man¡¯s butchery? What merit was there in breaching the yard and flattening the palisades raised? Then his eyes fell hard onto Ulf, who approached already to the hawk-man¡¯s flank, and he felt all the fright and wonder of a force wild and yet eclipsed by Arakvan¡¯s leprous touch. Could that outlander, Horral asked himself, be worth the toll? Before his convictions were formed, the Baelgarth answered the break of their gate. Horral sealed his frets under a frown.


    He has to be, thought the old fiend.


    Ulf snapped into action. The bird-man, sensing the threat of his lurch, veered to match him, while the bullish creature leapt forth to pair the furrfiends to her blades. Despite her gaunt frame, she proved swift, repelling the axe and caneblade both, then strong enough to answer their advance with returned power.


    The hawk-man was a hurricane, coursing against and around Ulf¡¯s defences. Yet the Northman was quicker, with an eye more keen, and upon that steel gust he rallied his force. Two blades¡ªone weighty, one swift¡ªmade the kinnit beyond reproach. What came quick and near to shedding his plumes was parried by the short sword and what charged from afar was pounded by the arch of his glaive. Ulf was split between distances. Wickedly, the kinnit cawed at him, though it was akin more to a shriek, dribbled through by man¡¯s bitter intent.


    That wail was the melody through which the battlings of the furrfiends sounded. Quick, combined, they matched their mutated aberration, made war with its horns. She swatted the caneblade sidelong with her gores, clove Eidrik apart from his aim. They hastened upon her, sure they could overwhelm her guard, though the twin swords moved skillfully, precisely to catch each swing. Some unseen power in her thin limbs shoved all blows aside, then from her throat rang a croaking neigh. It wanted so hatefully to be human, gaining velocity by the discordant umbrage of its own call.


    It was for only a moment of exhaustive assault that Horral¡¯s resolve wavered, in sight of that bull¡¯s enraged but vulnerable, mortal thrill, yet a moment was more than enough. She slipped under Eidrik¡¯s axe and the force of his strike threw him past her, then with one blade she caught Horral¡¯s slash, and with the other whipped steel against his chest.


    Hesitance vanished and fright usurped its spot in the soul, like pus seeped through blood¡¯s wound and into its stream. Horral pulled back as far and fast as he could, struck by visions of a body hewed apart and demise aboard the mountain. It was indeed a rapid retreat, but her reach was greater. The blade caught his left shoulder and slid down his breast. It was shallow, but deeper than needed.


    He winced, cried out, staggered until he found his back. Blood seeped from his core in an instant and the bull closed in. She dropped a stab upon him, but an urgent swing of his cane smacked the kill away. The pain pulled him from his true sight. His breaths slowed, his arms failed. His blade waned in his grip, though Horral could not feel the hilt¡¯s sensation leave his hand.


    Eidrik bore witness. There was a gut pummeling of immediate failure, souring his energies, but it was too quickly overtaken by the feral agent, and that agent was fury, in its most senseless form.


    The bull-woman tried again at Horral, but Eidrik stole her. Lowering his axe for the swiftness of a free hand, Eidrik threw a fist against her cheek. A tooth flew from her crooked jaw, chased by red spits. As she stumbled, Eidrik gazed down at his beaten friend.


    Already, Horral¡¯s eyes faded from their focus. They could not find their brother looking down, praying to be received, in the lobby of a darkening limbo. His hands twitched and his cloak sogged, like damp laundry cast aside. Eidrik could not understand how a face of such weakness could rest upon a visage always so serene in its confidence, so resolved to strength. When Eidrik came to terms with the hurt that coursed through Horral, and impassioned he did, Eidrik found the bull-woman again, but with an otherworldly thing masking his eyes.


    She witnessed it, readied to repel it, but could know it only as evil.


    Unhinged, ammolite drove through the air. It bashed her blade time after time, then swept with such ability that it carried on to swat her second. She readied a gore though Eidrik allowed his urge to carry him, and following his slash he spun, to return with power renewed. The axe tore her snout apart and threw the kinnit onto her side. Her breaths were then rasped, unsteady, murked in a clog that rendered each pant a dreadful heave. Yet she rose, to dive at him with two stabs.


    As if barring a door, Eidrik slid his axe sideways and shut his staff down over her twinned lunge. Her wrists bent, cracked. The axe turned and tore upwards again. Its long hilt struck under the chin. A nasty gush fled her jaw and the rip of her snout, though then she could not recover in right time, whilst it poured over her own tongue. It was in terrible shock that she beheld ammolite tear into her gut, wedge deeper, then¡ªwith Eidrik¡¯s contempt faced to her¡ªjerk out, dragging a clump of sundered intestines with it.


    He slew her under an abominable bellow. The bull-woman dropped her twin swords and collapsed over the wound, curled into a fetal position and breathed no more.


    Eidrik then flew to Horral¡¯s side. His frenzy was forgone in full and his gentler upset restored, as in his friend¡¯s eyes was a light adrift, and in Horral¡¯s hands was a grip that could answer Eidrik¡¯s own no longer.


    Ulf, in the meantime, kept the hawk-man at bay. While he warded off the kinnit, his stare worked through the adrenaline of the quarrel. The platemail was dense, too much so to cleanly cut through. Only were its well-guarded ligaments and the beast¡¯s head itself exposed to a killing blow, but the Baelgarth¡¯s glaive and blade worked too quickly to allow an assault so plain. In seconds more of exchange, Ulf found his chance.


    He drew near and with a low slash beckoned the hawk-man¡¯s sword. Where the kinnit ravaged, Ulf feigned and in quick time leapt back. To match his margin the glaive whirled, inches short of the right speed and thus inches short of wrecking Ulf¡¯s chin. Rather than close that gap with the blade¡¯s plunge, Ulf whirled a hand through his cloak and emerged gripping a grey, cracked crystal.


    In one motion, he crushed it into his fist and his uppercut was dust. The kinnit reeled back from and coughed at its taint. Instinctively, his glaive cleaved the gap between them, certain his foe would advance, but that grey mist was whole and unchanged. The kinnit came puzzled, shivered at the hilt, but before his answer was realized Ulf¡¯s blade launched through the fog¡ªthrown¡ªand shot between his eyes, to stab out the back of his half-raven skull.


    Falling, breathless, the hawk-man died instantaneously. It was only a tinge less swift that Ulf reclaimed his blade, with a deep inhale and reborn disinterest, knowing the affair was done. A mess of feathers wrapped around his boots. He would not be bothered by it. Packaged limp in its deformity, it looked close enough to a monster. The whispers of Eidrik enlivened his senses however.


    He and his mate laid at the foot of the crypt, with a short armoury littered about them and the hewn bodies of the Baelgarth drenching their panicked ground. Eidrik was wet with a berserker¡¯s dew, with all fingers rapid and undecided. He propped Horral¡¯s head upon his knee, begged him to keep his eyes wide. Red was in the white of his scalp, slurring whispers and batting blank eyes. Eidrik cradled the old man like a child and in his embrace Horral seemed young again, though he wet his brother¡¯s lap. Ulf saw, scowled, though under his upset was something more¡ªakin to recognition. The Northman looked no more.


    ¡°Keep your damned eyes open, Horral!¡±


    ¡°Come on, come on, bastard. Breathe, damn it, breathe!¡±


    ¡°Just a flesh wound¡ªthat¡¯s all! You¡¯ll be well, Horral. I swear it!¡±


    It seemed so very familiar, though with none of the fondness a memory should rightfully yield. His body was well but his heart failing. The blood loss was inconsequential, for it found its origin in a decrepit chest. Ulf gazed out over the open wall of the tomb, over the railing, where lower summits spiked up and a sprawl of crags tread unto the rock beyond. A steady wind came over the long way of stone. He could see clearly the first field and Teroe¡¯s forfeit. Eerily, his eyes slid over his shoulder to the furrfiends.


    There they laid. The old man¡¯s skin paled and scarlet filled his belly. He seemed no different from the Baelgarth who laid massacred. Weaker, even, without their inhuman girth or grit, with wrinkled skin coursed through by burning veins. They were unequipped to contest crimson. The old fellow¡¯s service would slaughter him. Could it be kindness to end them sooner?


    ¡°All-Father¡¯s eyes¡­¡± panted Eidrik. ¡°See us¡­ See us!¡±


    The furrfiend sped through the cloak of he and Horral, emptying out vials and vats and padding cloth and searing skin. He would give his own bones to that dying elder had he the force of will to tear them out, and it was clear by the pulse of his gaze that he loathed himself for lacking it.


    ¡°Damn it, breathe, Horral!¡±


    Already, the screams lured predators out from their cracks and pits. Too long had they lingered in that dreary crypt. Ulf considered it well: Horral could evade all the heartache of resisting and Eidrik would not need to know the morrow¡¯s shame. He would not need to taste regret, feel it sour his lungs. He would not need to wander and hollow until his knees gave in beneath him. He could die still sad, still with a heart. That was a mercy. That would be kind. The Baelgarth¡¯s butchering was an ignoble thing and too willingly had they partaken. The promise of their twilight was abided by. Eidrik and Horral were killers proven, plagues on the land and, above all, plagues that dragged at his heels like iron chafes.


    The sword turned his wrist a lethargic inch.


    There would be no finer moment. Horral was already succumbed, Eidrik was black of heart with his senses in the stone. In one cut, he could be rid of them, all their intentions¡ªmalicious or bothersome.


    He stepped closer, cast his shadow over him and brought his boots just beyond the little pool of Horral¡¯s blood. Eidrik still scrambled about the wound to clutch at its leakage, to spare himself that crestfall of the red glimpse. One cut, Ulf thought, and all of it was done. Focus restored, the path thinner. Alone with resolve.


    ¡°Please¡­¡± Eidrik begged, his sorrows and furies overlapped, confused.


    Please. And there it sang. Ulf could imagine nothing so insulting as a plea. When chance fails you, when might wavers, when the mind can enforce itself no longer, then arrives the plea, and it arrives heavily, by an escort of tears. He heard it from Eidrik and the stars both, screams accosting the sane ear. Intrusions of the moral upper story the land in man¡¯s beggering dreams. It was a thorn in his skull and dabbing his head he could not retrieve it. Cold swept over him, a chorus for the rhythm of a wish.


    Ulf stood on snow, still as a relic from storied frosts. Entombed in the unfurled disfavour. He knew what awaited inches from where he stood, under ash and the lessening storm. To jump his eye was to cripple the muscle. Ulf knew, in full heart, what cowered upon that bank of snow, clutching the chilled beloved, crying mercy to the clouds. And up Ulf looked, high to the uncaring blizzard, as if its swirl of white tendrils was of warmer grace than what laid below. Below, so near to his feet.


    ¡°Please¡­¡± said the voice weakly, beaten, forlorn.


    He could not see the voice that begged. He lacked the will to bow his head. No, Ulf could not look into those misunderstanding eyes again, but at the defiant blink his stomach churned, showed to the shuteye disgust. It was to condemn him that the clouds wailed their deeper cold. He shrunk against its dudgeon, felt an impulse to shriek.


    ¡°Please¡­¡± it echoed, over the dunes of frost.


    It wanted for only him. It penetrated the gall that betrayed it. Shame shot down. Ulf¡¯s gaze dove against the culprit and victim too, a surge of action unsure whether to wrap itself around them or cut them apart and forever quiet their pleading. Yet when his eyes fell, the snow was gone, the cold was tame again, and Eidrik crumpled below him, holding Horral and murmuring need. His grave face had come distraught and like a tragic step in forsaken history, Ulf saw him. He despised the sight.


    ¡°Your remedies will not save him,¡± Ulf stated.


    From Eidrik, there was no response. There was only the begging and the wounded breaths. Ulf clenched a fist and brought it before Eidrik. When the furrfiend raised a glance, he saw a flask of leather, wrapped in twine, sitting in Ulf¡¯s hand.


    ¡°But this may,¡± said the Northman.


    The flask was snatched from his grip. Its cap rolled off and was left to skid over the mosaic, its whites and blues. Through Horral¡¯s cold lips ran hastily a pulp of dark, dim orange. Every last drop sputtered down into his throat, though Eidrik paused after each swig, to shut Horral¡¯s jaw and force the liquid to fall. Soon, the flask fell empty over the stone, cracking in its discardment. Still, Horral did not breathe. His skin only came paler. The veins seemed as if they were about to burst out from their flesh.


    A cloak twirled in the corner of his eye. Eidrik did not look up but he knew, in some corner of his mind that could feel only contempt, that the outlander had left to trek again into the mountain beyond.


    ¡°Please, Horral¡­¡± he whispered. ¡°Not yet¡­¡±


    Eidrik was touched then by a presence never before his own, in the ribs of the Cleft. The limp old man was a baggage of tons in his arms. He swore over his bleached sprawl, that if by Ulf¡¯s deeds schemed and indelicate his friend did not awaken, that he would give chase. To the ends of the world unknown he would haunt his black stranger, until the belly was pulled open and the heart twice gouged. This, he swore, and the vow did clutch him in some shaking, deep-seeded odium his thoughts could not name nor in reason grasp. Even his quiverings seemed less an aching than the wanting stammer of madness. Eidrik¡¯s eyes were shadowed then, their emerald greyed, cast over in soon-storms. When he could feel the body in his arms shiver no more, the light of thought too deserted him. Eidrik could see only the ammolite of his axehead, enshrined in a then eager and singular mind. It was a disc of scars beyond count, though by his vow at that crypt of new, foul lootings, the axe would bear at least one scar more, before it could be cast aside and at last forgotten. He pledged to make ruptures of the very earth.


    Then Horral¡¯s chest came high and with a burst he breathed. Concocted adrenalines stabbed his heart through. A quaking in his breast riled a vicious gaze, but viciously returned to life it was.


    Eidrik erupted, alive again. He said a thousand things, made a hundred provisions more, chased each rise of the old man¡¯s chest and was intense and tender to the cut that split it. He consoled and comforted, wrapped himself around the frail breaths of the old furrfiend. Their form molded into one bloodied rock and there it stayed, rocking back and forth, gently but of course unshakable.


    If Arakvan¡¯s hollows and deeps did permit any joy so exotic it could indebt the soul, brand it with gratitude, then Eidrik was certain in that instant he felt it, amidst the carnage of that awful crypt, under mountain shadow. The furrfiend believed, as each breath from his brother pressed raggedly against his hands, that that was the happiest he could ever be in his long, enduring life.


    _____

 The Bleeding Apathy

    Chapter XV : The Bleeding Apathy


    Half-handed, shoulder in a sling, and haggard under mummified breaths, Horral began his limp along the bridge, in fluctuant staggers. Eidrik aided, of course he must, by his lent and illimitably goading arm, which brought in the old fellow a jerking insurgence. Horral loathed the sly propounding of graces, accommodations that were the excerpts of patronizing wholes. His mind sought the Northman, in the very twitch that made the curious question jolt. There was a sizzling like deprivation, scalding and to any health of focus reductive, commandeering life¡¯s new gratitude and the bleeds higher into the blasphemous, congested gate of Teroe¡¯s false heaven. He needed a boot¡¯s research, that could name only what it walked, and for Ulf, who saved and then discarded, unrequited he so coveted a title. A note to again recall him to the stranger and the wilds of his clemency, when in need of the rallying next step.


    Eidrik ducked the thought. In haste, had the butcher Ulf Eldric carried past their toiling. Elixirs were not amends for abandonment, for the scattering of an even fragile fellowship unto the slicing, dozen veils of indeterminable consequence. Mercy was his afterthought and flight his convenience, thought Corralain. There was a blink almost retaliatory, when Eidrik glimpsed the fantasies like shepherds loosed across Horral¡¯s gaze. He could not mend the vision, so instead pictured an imperious snow at Teroe¡¯s tip, where sat a patient frostbite, that gleamed in sunlight only to slur out grim malady. He dared not ponder reunion while by their loud comforts still so sweetened, so allowed in word.


    The haze of old Horral¡¯s eyes was a guesswork, gambling on their finding of gold ingots as keenly as the Northman¡¯s return. He had not for a long time awoken to victories. Of his defeat, he could hardly remember the acts. It was like a wind visible only to his eye¡¯s inertia, scathing and formless under study. Eidrik spoke softly for the traveling since, thus Horral knew how near they both had come to losing a brother.


    Their bridge was ancient ore, as had housed the Baelgarth sect, queerly fastened amidst rock as if, for a treaty¡¯s honouring, long ignored: rebel earth. Wide, without railings, the bridge was a pillar shattered from memory, shard to an unsalvageable greatness. Its sides were chiseled grievously, worn low by winds and fat steps. Its bottom was braided in jotahr, where celebrated was cold infection. They fled their battleground, came up its slopes, and there did the bridge span higher, boarding an urban hollow, where above the twin summits stood to guard, against the stars, the parched throat of the mountain. Its teeth were mighty stalagmites, its spits were scaling, snuffling creatures, its end was darkness. For the first time in their lives, the wind appeared to blow beneath them. Extraordinarily, they walked then above even the gales, as if Arakvan herself was surmounted. Footwork held its own melody, symphonies of a tried dawn.


    At its other end, Horral¡¯s dismount from the stone top landed him on a weak foot, scrunched his gut and squeezed his wound. He groaned feebly and fell forward, but Eidrik caught him, laid him there upon a flat slab below a long, sharp overhang, where veins of ebony ore bubbled. There he rested. Horral watched, in his ailed slumber, starways of black, in the grey cosmos.


    ¡°What a bleak sky¡­¡± he remarked, in odd jest, or delusion.


    It was clear he would come no further in no time near, and so Eidrik set himself scavenging for anything that could be turned to fire. Yet the land was barren and slain at such heights, hunted thrice over. Any burn that caught, the cold could snuff, as while wind did seem beneath them the air held a stagnant chill, ever rebounding out from nothing, lurking like grievance for a harsh, immovable mourning. Irritated, though with greater concerns, Eidrik sat at the foot of the slab and cast his cloak over Horral. Cold, hunched across his axe, the furrfiend waited for whatever might dare to test his guard, so intent on being sentinel that he could suffer a hundred shivers before considering escape. His comfort mattered none, for if upon that slab Horral died, Eidrik may as well have frozen to death as its foot.


    Night came and passed. For hours, he listened to Horral¡¯s breaths and the twitch of his boots, gently scratching rock. While twilight reigned and its horrors howled in the surrounding heaps, Eidrik stared down darkness and let shade grow below his eyes. Even when his stomach teased him and his mouth ran dry, he did not lean back, savour a sprawl, or wake his friend. When the sun rose, his face gleamed, for in the light Horral could be warm again.


    Begrudgingly, uncertain of his whereabouts or even the time of day, Horral rumbled up from his lay and rubbed weariness from his eyes. A quick sting above his ribs recalled him to circumstance, and with a groan he rose to hurriedly return Eidrik his cloak then offer him good thanks, as he had when they first left the crypt. Already he tired of the stacking debts, the burdensome infirmity. He was opened and charred and failed to feel intact. Horral did not know his friend went without sleep for his sake, though if he had their journey would stall a day more.


    Up they went, tracing that ugly peak where the only path their eyes could make led on. It came to a walkway, a guileful curl, that shouldered abrasions like an avalanche in-wait and edged a great skid down into the splatters of void. Malformations in the rock lent crude roofs, though marred and split by returning sun. Old bits of columns and collapsed stairs laid about, buried by time. Further, they saw even skulls peeking up from below the mounds, and black eyes bade them onwards with haste. There was a sorry grave, but only worse to be shared. In the bones were chafings, as if once the decor were arms.


    At last, the way led down again, the land spread wide. Through a crack in the rock they crept, and beyond it laid a tundra; a well at the foot of the last summit. It divided the union of peaks and so far down and so cold was its plummet, that mists shrouded all the well swallowed. Disturbed, insatiable fogs.


    Each quarter of the great crater cut in, below storied carvings beyond the immensity of bluffs. Four they were, of dark ore. Giant, morose statues, full of ill-temper and doleful vigilance, as if before that chasm, under hoods, above beards, they had seen their loves released. Their wear was drab, found the waist then fell under fat belts, to mold unto mountain before legs could find form. In their hands were greatswords, held hilt-up, intricate with hacks glamorizing all from the grip to the pommel, demonstrating unending swirls and coursing vines and winged mutts. Each blade was awfully broad, and down the gut of each monument they rode until those robed bellies vanished into uncut rock, at which bridges blasted out near the hips, in the same hue and width as the blades before them. From each corner they shot to connect under a lone pavilion at the dead centre of the drop. It was embellished in ribbons of silver curving up its posts and gold trim that outlined the roof. A large, looming thing, to mortal folk its pillars could well be towers with stalls within. From its roof, by a brass chain, hung a massive bell. A hole in the middle of the X opened the clapper to that savage sink below. There coursed an air of sanctity.


    ¡°All-Father¡¯s eyes¡­¡± Horral breathed. ¡°What is this wonder of man, to be pocketed so far away? Think, Eidrik, how we are one of a handful to ever lay eyes upon this treasure of stone. The world below has seen and left generations without ever knowing this laid here in the mountain¡ªthat Teroe was ever touched by man. Marvelous!¡±


    Eidrik tilted to that scored stone, uneasily. It seemed too quiet, and their watch too desolate, dejected. The winds below grated up through the final maw of the Cleft and climbing from its depths came a melancholic rumble, that startled and affixed as does a whisper from a stranger. It was unnerving, did not belong, but in sight of things so vast and mighty and old and refined, neither did they.


    ¡°Yes, I see the stone,¡± he said. ¡°Grand. And I see too how steep it drops. There must be another way, elsewhere.¡±


    Already did he search, but Horral whirled onto him. ¡°This is the only way¡ªthe only route we¡¯ll find before the Baelgarth discover our sin. There is not time to track backwards, Eidrik. They¡¯ve been lost to good swords by our work, and trust that they will hunt us through every crag until Teroe sits far behind us.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d find better odds against the blades of the Baelgarth than upon this walk,¡± said Eidrik, eyeing the onlooker giants. ¡°If here, like before, you stumble, and I am not quick enough to catch you, it is a long fall into death. There are no guards to this chasm, no cover to shield us.¡± Already his calves quivered, atop the watch of that gravitating damnation. ¡°Haste alone favours this, but I say a search will in time yield better walks.¡±


    ¡°In time? Time enough has been spent by my lounging¡ªmy lazing through dumb, frivolous injury! You have been patient, my friend, but now we must take flight from this mountain, shed our reserve, before it can crumble down against us.¡±


    ¡°Centuries have seen it intact.¡±


    ¡°There is no furrfiend whole who still lends the wilds his faith.¡±


    ¡°No, you must tell me, Horral. Beyond your wrong guilts¡­ is this truly a risk you¡¯re willing to take?¡±


    Eidrik did not need to mention his defeat to recall Horral to how close he had drawn already to oblivion. The old fellow was silent, in pure airs, astride at cloud-top. This was a bridge between other things, he knew. There was, in Eidrik¡¯s appeal, embrace: yearned for comfort, soft-spoken camaraderies a dream could sate itself on. Then there was the bellow of fogs beyond. There was destiny¡¯s charge, derived from the graveless.


    Down Horral gazed at the sparkling drifts and the glance challenged him. Whose shadows did he step across? Alive, otherworldly and spared, to bask again in glories. It was not dread or south imaginings that were the drummings of his collapse. He did not see paradise, amidst the crypt¡¯s gores, when the gates appeared to him. Eidrik¡¯s pleading had been a loiterer wisp in nirvana, yet it was a field he saw: A pasture, wheats in their bliss and bliss in their reel. There was an entity, blinding and eternal, checking its garden; the sunlight or the sudden storm or the prewinter pondering, lending its loose eye. Some gorgeous spectre, mildly engaged.


    It was such a serene respite, to lay in and seek slumber below. In a field, so akin to all he had conquered before. Under the last warmth, as it seemed, ungoverned but ensured. Yet it could not be so. The martyrs of every yesterday did not languish to raise a thrall, this he knew. The breath of Teroe Horral would take with him, but it was the caneblade that must sit forever tighter in his fist.


    ¡°He will be beyond us if we tarry,¡± said Horral, in a soldier¡¯s dour intonation. ¡°Our path and his cannot yet split.¡±


    ¡°Madness!¡± Eidrik barked. ¡°That cur took his leave of us, readily, while your very spirit waned. Have you forgotten? Withheld all help as you bled, until at last in his twisted mind he stumbled upon some cause to keep you alive, if barely. He watched us writhe, Horral, studying our weakness, like the Cleft¡¯s own ruinous little overseer!¡±


    ¡°And yet I live,¡± said Horral, a shine in his gaze. ¡°When first we joined him, Ulf warned he would discard us if we tarried. And I failed. I proved cumbersome indeed, Eidrik. A bleeding junk, and despite it he aided me still. There is a justness in him, fearful under the eye. For our charge, we cannot let it slip so meekly away.¡±


    ¡°What justice did you realize, Horral? What justice seen, through your blurred eyes, as he left you to bleed?¡±


    ¡°Have you not yet considered, that perhaps he abandoned us only to softer pursuits? He saw our unreadiness against the Baelgarth, oh yes, and let it fester¡ªapart from those aims of his so dire as to unmake us. Name our pains the price of his mercy, my friend.¡± He bounded on with his cane, a heavy lean over each tap. ¡°Nevertheless, we would be fools to ruin this spectacle worrying of what¡¯s elsewhere. I am younger than you say, but old still, and I¡¯ve learned that once you leave a place like this, all the worries you recalled in it seem small. How could anything of ours after all be large, Eidrik, amidst these mountains of stone?¡±


    Tap, tap, tap he went, Eidrik on his heels with a hand kept in wait just below Horral¡¯s elbow. The old man breathed deep of that crisp, petrichor air. Pain ailed him yet, drastically, and no matter how hot his commitment came it could not be ruled apart from the follies of sickness. So Eidrik kept a stern watch over his friend, who wobbled less with each step but hunched lower every hour. There was a conflict within him, where his nerves succumbed to sloth, the appetite for rest of an enduring acrimony, and his mind, his love and dedication to its route, pulled him all the while to his feet.


    ¡°I recall no time in our history where the homes of men possessed such artisans¡­¡± Horral said, eyes in suspicious marvel. ¡°This is a feat from a world apart, surely.¡±


    ¡°You think from below?¡± asked Eidrik.


    ¡°I think nothing. It is in times like this, I find, where my eyes do things my mind cannot. Were I to doubt what I see, I would start to ponder, and say then that these stones hold black magic in them, or that the land was different, easier when the builders laid their hammers, or even that in the days this place was forged, there was no mountain here at all, and its architects stood on flat land,¡± he said, swinging his head. ¡°But it is harder simply to see. It is greater.¡±


    ¡°And so it is,¡± vouched Eidrik.


    They strode on. In approach, the furrfiends beheld a brass lacing, spiraling around each axis then seeking the monuments too. Swaddling their lower reaches and vanishing into the fogs of the Final Maw was dense and unruly moss, grown through by shuffling cistus. Nature¡¯s tendrils as well weaved amidst the jotahr underfoot, albeit less rank, and rose then to swath their broad, open walkway in soft petals of white and pink. As they drew nearer, they found the moss was thorny, that its greens were sodden.


    Their earliest impression was all distrust and ammolite, and Eidrik did wager it was rain-wetted, though that paranoia of wayward souls and the fret of one with others to protect made him kneel by it, offer it his instinct. He swabbed two fingers against a patch of moss then raised his hand, to watch it drip its opaque ichor. Too thick for any storm to foster, it appeared more akin to a residue, like the slime from the belly of a great snake.


    Instantly, a suspicion fell over him. His face scrunched. Eidrik stood and caught Horral by the elbow, then dragged him faster towards the pavilion. The old man tried at his wit, though upon seeing Eidrik¡¯s sternness quickly shared the severity, and made himself silent. The rumble from the fog sounded again, as if the earth moved under its mists.


    They stepped swiftly now, and came very near the bell when Eidrik realized another scheme the moss dressed: the stone was worn. It laid riddled in dents and creases too gargantuan for man¡¯s feet or a brung¡¯s paws, wounded once then many times over, by some great weight shambling across it. Stakes, he thought. Like massive stakes stabbed into the ground. Whatever residue he had spotted before, here was its throne. It slicked the pillars of the pavilion and sludged the bell. Every fine inch of chiseled stone was gunged over, and even Horral¡¯s weary, sore eyes could see it clearly now.


    On the bell were murals of battle. Weaved through with brass and iron, it drew yellow spearmen and shieldmaidens battling and crying out against a hideous, gluttonous form. It dared the mind¡¯s depravity, defied quick conception. In examination, they could see only a terrible giant; an arachnid, etched so in rust and lifelessly without colour. The furrfiends saw it both, then shared a last stewing glare, before hastening on.


    Then again, the rumble sounded from beneath them, though louder, more upset, like the earth below those mists was grating together, in an ire about to spew.


    ¡°We need to leave!¡± ordered Eidrik.


    And the mists parted. The rumble came to a roar that pierced the sky. A great fog dashed up from the throat of the mountain, and through its silvery, smoky barbs was spat an infernal mass of spiked plates and pale blue scales, working ravenously up the side of the plummet, casting landslides with every step. The mountain bled as the beast came higher, and though they dared to think of it even then as only myth, Horral and Eidrik both knew, in all their awe and morbid fright, what emerged from the belly of damnation that maps named Teroe.


    Out from the Final Maw crawled S¡¯va Kotai.


    No mural nor tale could encompass the grotesqueness that ripped up the rockface before them. It was four-legged, like a crab, with feet like spears that tore stone apart and heaved up centrefold a slab, with a hundred fangs to its trim. Its shell was bright, white blue, and nearly all of S¡¯va Kotai¡¯s wicked body was sheathed in chitinous plates, spiked and barbed by warts that came corralish. In the edges of each plate sat tufts of polar fur, that dragged long and wispily in its wake like clear fumes.


    Its underbelly was somehow most awful, and in that expanse the blue of its shell stretched no more, to emit a more gruesome terror. Limbs dangled and flailed there: little human limbs, wearing grimed nails and cold flesh. Its gut was a symphony of corpses, collected amidst stomps and devourings, by gnawings and ichors, over the ages to form one gelatinous horde. The wind of its speed brought them thrashing, as if they yet lived. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Hairs swayed behind its every step, though while white hairs rode its top, beneath it drifted black. So immense was its rampage through the Cleft and so ancient was its watch, that the blood of its victims had stained itself against S¡¯va Kotai¡¯s lower legs. Like moss did its fangs drip, though even its smallest piece could match the sabre of a man. The beast stunk of rot, carnage, yet its own maw did better to affirm it.


    At the front of the slab, the plates peeled outward and ushered forth teeth like tusks, numbering in the twin dozens, shielding a bottomless jaw that fell webbed under the string of flesh and human tendons caught between its teeth. From feasting on meats for so long, a bloody grime had melded against its gums and then bubbled whenever hunger¡¯s spits again coursed through, which in turn dropped hot and clear. Eyes that were dips in darkness kneeled above that wide, ghastly breath, from under the folds of chitin that safeguarded them.


    A thunderous bellow echoed forth from it. It shook the Final Maw and made sprinklings from its monuments, and while S¡¯va Kotai¡¯s cry seemed only guttural and shattering, the roar soon twisted into something new. Its cry flaked, stole a human tongue to utter out a single word, gargled and playfully.


    ¡°Run!¡± it and its corpse-hive bellowed.


    The stone quivered from its stampede. Dustings of the pavilion crumbled against the furrfiends beneath it. They beheld myth vindicated, feared, in that lapse of action and stink of thought, if the artisans that laired once in this mountain had never left, but been driven rather into extinction. Here rushed a worthy culprit, carving the cliff in voracious appetite. Eidrik was stunned, locked in place. He could not feel his legs before a witnessing so titanic. His lips stammered and his frame dwindled to a slump, but Horral, despite all illness, was wiser than shock.


    ¡°Onwards, fool!¡± he cried, grabbing Eidrik by the elbow and hobbling in full haste to the end of the other axis, where the cave¡¯s cut promised shelter once more. ¡°Out from here! Out from death!¡±


    Snapped from his trance, Eidrik broke into a sprint, yet in doing so fell away from Horral. He tried to slow himself, whilst his every nerve outran them both. Eidrik pulled the old man forward but Horral¡¯s pains dragged him right back, kept him to a disjointed stagger. His chest felt on fire, his knees throbbed, though he was left without fair change; forced to brave that mauling burn or suffer S¡¯va Kotai¡¯s insides. Fright benumbed them to the ache of their bodies, the exhaust of their staminas.


    S¡¯va Kotai crawled up the rock, came level with them then ascended farther. In seconds of travel, it sprawled across the massive, robed gaze of a monument to ensnare its full face. Its legs bent inwards, lowered its core, then all four blasted out, lunging the great beast through the air like a comet of pale blue. Down it fell, to strike hulkingly upon the pavilion, and all of the Final Maw quaked from its plummet. Each axis rattled, rained rock. Eidrik and Horral tumbled sidelong. The roof beneath S¡¯va Kotai crashed inward, the pillars snapped out. The power of its descent and the weight of its lurch sent shockwaves through the bell, and that chime fell to the drop below, ringing violently amidst smashed stone. The mountain was drowned, for all of the bell¡¯s descent, in stentorian clangs.


    ¡°It¡¯ll eat us!¡± the monster bellowed, to the tune of a thousand stolen tongues that meshed together into echoing abomination.


    It scrambled up from the collapsed heart of the Maw and there a vast pitfall formed in its wake. In an eerie sprint that was both gallop and crawl, S¡¯va Kotai fell after the furrfiends, who seemed like ants in that valley of giants. Each step with which it staked the bridge was a pounce in their flight. They wobbled, but Eidrik was relentless and his instinct unwavering. He took Horral under a firm arm and sped ahead, outpacing the rumbling. Still, the creature gained, and still was the way long, thus Eidrik, in a huff, heaved the old man into the air and slung him over his shoulder, then charged on faster feet than he had ever before donned. The weight did little to impede him. His mind was made.


    The cavern¡¯s split laid afar yet, and though his will was indeed ceaseless, his thoughts did dip. Eidrik, in sight of that distance staving off salvation and hearing the hungry rampage at his back, felt doom creep up through his flying legs. Somewhere in his tire, the drip of dismay joined in his sweat.


    S¡¯va Kotai neared. The rubble of its ram shot up by their feet like the sparks of wrathful flame. They were shrouded by its grandeur in stride, hearing lustful, heavy breaths at their necks. The bell continued to ring out far below them, still plummeting: a waning anthem of annihilation. Eidrik felt himself eclipsed under the ancient wretch, and in desperation and a last bid of strength, threw Horral forward as far as he could. It made a mere lunge¡¯s gap, but decidedly Eidrik turned apart and against the creature. He brought his axe high.


    The old man barreled across the stone and rolled a sprint short of the exit, though could not make himself crawl through while Eidrik still manned the bridge. In a haze, horrified, Horral gazed back against his companion, who brought an axehead down against the creature¡¯s charge. Horral¡¯s skin tightened around his terror.


    S¡¯va Kotai was caught unsuspecting. It prowled without predators, and to see tiny prey turn to the offence taught it shock, in the midst of a wide bite. Across its mouth, the axe ripped, pulling a shriek out from its maw. Eidrik gave the blue of its slab a red crevice that split both lips. Its charge reeled. His ammolite came soaked under spit and blood. Amidst the anguished stagger of S¡¯va Kotai, Eidrik pulled thrice to loosen his axe from the chitin on which it caught.


    He readied another blow, but the sight of its underbelly struck first. He was enthralled in angst before those dead, swinging arms. They seemed to reach out for him, for aid or to condemn. They seemed alive, saveable.


    Only for a moment did his hesitance last, yet it was enough, and when his senses returned to him a great leg was found poised overhead. He shuddered, Horral cried out. A spur of impulse threw him back, toggled to a lunged knee, and the stake struck down to implode stone. It nearly tore off his lower half, but just barely did he evade it, and instantly the rest of those blue spears closed in, as if they were chopping up a fish trapped upon the cutting board. He scrambled on his hands and knees, dove and rolled while, just short of his heels, rock erupted. Eidrik leapt to his feet and ran again.


    He could feel the wailing nest of its guts stretch for him, so blindly, madly, he swung his axe to the rear mid-sprint. The chop caught its legs and bounced away to no effort. A spark shot. Chitin encroached. The swing had slowed him, so with a jump of its hind legs, S¡¯va Kotai¡¯s shadow took dominion of his flight. Looming above him, it stamped its legs to his either side. When he looked up, as trembling he did, he beheld a chorus of crying corpses. Human hair, child-hands, chewed feet swayed against him. He fell petrified before that mangled affray of trophied souls. They, in their limp swing and reek, cursed him. Eidrik was hardly aware when the creature bent down to throw its own sadistic gaze against him. He barely noticed as its teeth curved in.


    Yet Horral did, and, for his friend, he forwent his weakness.


    A whip of the caneblade pulled up its jaws, then split a cluster of fangs from their loom that had dared to divide the brothers of hunt. To its great mass however, that sharp tool was a wasp¡¯s stinger, an irritant and unallowed. Angrily, impatient, the beast battered Horral aside as if he were refuse. A flat shin to his stomach took him off his feet. With his strength he might have evaded it, but ailed, Horral crashed out to a loss of breath and his blood. When he did rise, his gaze was foggy and his chest hacking. Blood was on his shaking hands. His chest felt scorched beyond what adrenaline could tame, forbidding the rise of his feet again. It nearly took his heart too into its burn, and clutching his chest the old furrfiend fell onto his side, wailing and panting and useless. A wet eye searched out his brother.


    That distracted moment earned was enough for Eidrik to slip out from beneath the beast. He took with him an axe-worth of flesh, though cleaved only its underbelly, scored with claimed corpses, and so felt as if his heavy breaths had rewarded him naught. The creature turned to him, stomping ajar atop the bridge that could not fit it. Both its eyes broadened from their narrow channels, to reveal starry eyes of silver. They were massive, imperious, yet impossibly human, as in them lived a want and a reason, helpless to surmount its own hunger.


    ¡°Can¡¯t die!¡± it bellowed, borrowing words of the long-dead.


    Eidrik had neither the wealth of breath to elude it again nor the strength to stagger it back. The last relent soothed his lungs. Of course that was the end glaring unto him then, spitting and spewing and stamping its murder. Ammolite rose high. With only his axe, his drained spirit, and the resolve to not die unarmed, Eidrik stood against death. So my oblivion is the cost of his life, he guessed. I thought it more! His grip tightened and his knees came squat while the beast roared at him, playful as a child with its doll.


    ¡°So be it,¡± said Eidrik, resolute at hell¡¯s door.


    Through its great, shambling legs, he beheld Horral, crumpled on his side. He seemed a sacrifice then, with the bridge below him as a plate to offer the feast of his insides. Eidrik could not bear it. He could not stomach the thought. The furrfiend cried out his rage, shaking his axe in heavy fists, then met S¡¯va Kotai readily at last. For a lone moment of targeting dooms, they were both monsters of that Cleft, both keen killers for fate, clashing at Teroe¡¯s peak. In Eidrik¡¯s final thought, it made sense.


    ¡°Svarkahl!¡± screamed a voice, like grating anvils, pronouncing dismay.


    S¡¯va Kotai veered suddenly away from the furrfiend, hearing a known utterance. It saw, before Horral, stood then a form of black, with a gnarled fang in-hand. It saw a phantom, crude and stark. It saw Ulf of the North, who spoke against it the Under Tongue, and challenged that mythic horror for dominion of the mountain.


    ¡°Kae¡¯rinn val darr!¡± he yelled. ¡°Vas vol daerith!¡±


    It cried out at him in answer, thundered to a ram. All of its hungry, playful tendency was void. It heard in Ulf an intelligible challenge, a risk of ancient experience, and, in an instant, desired his slaughter. S¡¯va Kotai leapt through the air and pounded at the earth where he stood, but the Northman was quicker, bolder, and under its lunge he darted forth.


    He stepped swiftly, yet his blade, carved of bone, was somehow swifter still. With each step, Ulf swung, and with each cut a knee¡¯s tendon was nicked. Blood spurted out from its legs to chase the cloak that whirled between them, though none could catch his form, and Ulf emerged at the other side, between it and Eidrik with a scowl weighing his face.


    The moment he left its shade, Ulf leapt up and wrapped his hand around a hanging fang at its rear, then plunged his blade up through its bottom. The pain jerked it and S¡¯va Kotai coiled into a scurry. Its spine forked and Ulf, keeping his grip firm, rode the momentum of its arch. It carried him off his feet, whirled him through the air and landed him on its plated back. Its pained rattle did not alter the course of his blade. His sword jumped then planted in the space between plates, where it lodged itself and where no shake nor stir could unlodge it.


    ¡°Marrka¡¯en ras dolas¡¯sh!¡± Ulf cried, quickening the beast.


    His blade sank deep, bloodied its tufts. With both hands, Ulf wedged his steel like a lever, wrenching off its very hide. A hard heave popped out a chunk of its chitin, but before it could tumble away the Northman stole it in the lesser hand, then again did he stab at the wound.


    Agonized, S¡¯va Kotai bucked. Ulf was kicked into flight, landed with a roll nearer to Horral. He found his feet, and it was upon him then with a vengeance in the silver of its eye and blood spoiling the clearness of its blue shell.


    ¡°Vas sil¡¯kan,¡± said Ulf, stepping forward.


    Whatever was uttered, S¡¯va Kotai understood it well. First it recoiled, deterred, then bounded back with the frenzy of insult. In his wounded watch, Horral realized then that the outlander wanted it enraged. He wanted it clumsy, so that he could cut it apart.


    ¡°All-Father¡¯s eyes¡­¡± Horral breathed in shock. ¡°He is mad!¡±


    It struck first with a left leg, though sparked off its own plate, that Ulf swerved shield-like. He again swung to its knee, slid aside its prod, then lanced the wound. An explosion of stone walled him and he eluded with a lunge, slipping through the scar and stealing its whimper with him. It was a heinous wheeze. S¡¯va Kotai distanced then galloped forth, absorbing the width of the bridge in its slam. Ulf leapt just out of reach, already envisioning the counter, though the shock of ruptured stone bashed him farther to fall on his back. He embraced and turned the shove to a roll. With a wince and renewed hatred, he was on his feet again.


    The demon of the Cleft repeated the smash and Ulf scampered back, though while before it let him fall, then it filled the gap with its own teeth, and in a fearsome clamp of jaws sought to steal Ulf¡¯s skull. The Northman could not evade it, so instead plunged his makeshift shield in between its teeth. Its eyes widened, appalled, while its own chitin wedged its mouth agape. S¡¯va Kotai had brought its head low with eager appetite, and so Ulf seized the opportunity to cut at its eyes. In one fell cleave, he stole its left gaze from it and let red flood silver.


    S¡¯va Kotai cried, gave a gruesome jolt. In its suffering, Ulf slashed out at its wounded front, while Eidrik tore across its back. Scraps of chitin bounced against the bridge. Cornered and half-blind, it gave a last roar of resent and sped off, crawling down to the underside of the bridge where they could not follow. Eidrik breathed relief, nearly grinned as it scampered, wailing on the ground below theirs, but Ulf gave no quarter.


    The Northman sheathed his blade and leapt from the bridge in pursuit. For a moment, he fell in open air, and in that moment the furrfiends gawked in horror as much as amazement, sensing a suicide, yet the moment died and Ulf vanished from sight. Eidrik sped towards the ledge to catch him, but saw that that outlander, in all his vile, fey prowess, had grappled to the jotahr rootings under the stone.


    Before him in his hang, S¡¯va Kotai crawled, upside down, to elude them, to heal and hunt again. Its driving legs were anchoring pitons. Ulf could not allow it. He swung himself forwards, parted so boldly from the jotahr and, before he could taste the breeze of the plummet, landed on S¡¯va Kotai¡¯s upturned belly, on his hands and knees. He crashed into a web of dead limbs, but remained unperturbed. Ulf stood, swatted away that enveloping decay, and sped to the front of the creature, where a wounded knee laid in wait. Even upside down, the Northman¡¯s givings brought about its limp. Ulf winded his sword back, gathered his power to his wrists, waited, balanced, until the right leg was lifted from its brace, then tore straight through the gash.


    The might of his swing severed the leg at its centre, and thus its tether to earth was split. Ulf ran up the bend of the intact front, kicked off into a leap, and with one hand caught the colds of the hanging jotahr, as below him the beast fell. It screamed out an execrable wail, with little human beggars accenting it, then plummeted into the mists of Teroe. Its hairs and bloods dragged behind it, but all vanished below the mountain fog. For a long while, the cry distanced, until its stakes found ground again, and S¡¯va Kotai fell forever silent.


    Ulf sheathed his blade then gripped the jotahr in both fists. He swung, climbed to the ledge of the bridge and heaved himself up its side, though found Eidrik¡¯s open hand ready for him, beside disbelieving eyes. Reluctant, but worn incredibly so and with either arm aflame, Ulf locked his hand with Eidrik¡¯s, and together they brought him up.


    The furrfiend could not yet speak. He needed a moment to see and understand, guess at the rationale for such an awesome stunt, but realized by Ulf¡¯s stern and dismissive demeanour that never could he fathom the breed of entity it demanded. He relinquished his efforts with a shake of the head.


    ¡°You are not a man, Northman,¡± said Eidrik. ¡°Thank fuck for that¡­¡±


    Then he was gone, speeding back to Horral¡¯s side. As he had done before, he brought Horral onto his knees and inspected his injuries, eager to spot any slight that might infect or ail. Tenderly, he peeled back the bandages from his chest, readministered his foxbutter to the edges of the cut, then, with a needle out from his cloak and sterile linen from Horral¡¯s, began to stitch the wound closed again. Horral¡¯s eyes were removed from his own healing. They were trapped upon the phantom that had prevailed through devildom.


    ¡°I might say a hundred things,¡± said Horral. ¡°But I must settle for ¡®thank you¡¯. A conquering such as this¡­ you are truly fascinating. I¡¯d thank the All-Father too, for returning you to us, if I believed you were ever in his favour. You and that wretched blade, that I wager now could answer even the slights of deities!¡± Horral sighed out exhaustion, gratitude. ¡°It is good to see you again, Ulf,¡± he said. ¡°You might imagine so, but I am one for more endowed goodbyes.¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± added Eidrik. ¡°There are not words for this salvation, unlikely as it looks in you. I believed this old rock our grave.¡± Eidrik glared around them, stomached the sight of ancient sacrilege and a grave fret, then scampered back to the grizzly craft that was cliffside in Horral¡¯s breast. ¡°I knew you to be a butcher, Ulf, when first in the wood and the death of the Gleemen we found you. Then again, as after the Baelgarth you scurried away.¡± He looked up from his stitching, tenderly, for only a moment. ¡°Now, I know you to be one,¡± said Eidrik. ¡°Only a right butcher could slay S¡¯va Kotai and stand so unscathed.¡±


    Ulf¡¯s share in that delight was its own dissuasion. He felt their affections grappling him and shook his head, shirked free of them.


    ¡°This killing was no conquest, and neither was it for you,¡± he declared, hiding his panting under an affirmed jaw. ¡°It has been a lifetime since last I slept indoors. The fiend would fetch as much.¡± He gazed off into the riled mists after the corpse, breathing the baleful aftermath of another lie. It was bile on his lips and with repugnance hexed him. ¡°Now, the Cleft has swallowed it, and I will lay below the trees again.¡±


    ¡°Dreamspeak, man!¡± protested Eidrik. ¡°What delusions did the high snows leave in you? You have gone against myth and carved her apart. Somehow, you spoke and it heard you, Ulf. You gave warning to a damned Scourge-lord and found its heed. You see greater worth in a lump of gold or an inn¡¯s season, then I see a fool.¡±


    ¡°Myth?¡± asked Ulf. ¡°What fell to the mists was a svarkahl, furrfiend.  Mountain crabs. They prowl the Gargantan, in the half dozens.¡± He turned away, and the clamp of his glare left no tells as to its truthfulness. ¡°What hunters are you, to not know your prey? One svarkahl escaped south, and here did Arakvan raise a monarch.¡± Again, he glared to the mists, cursing their trivial degradations. Was he, by his coming, claimed already for such tortuous accessions? ¡°Too long, has this land been dying, furrfiends. Too long, has it eluded right judgement. Your home hosts killers, but they keep to their curtain no more.¡± His words went elsewhere. ¡°I will make ash of your every myth, before I bow again to these tricklings of empty tyrannies.¡±


    At that, the furrfiends shared their shock in each other¡¯s eyes, while Ulf strode through them towards the cavern, as if their journey had never been stunted to begin with.


    ¡°I go without reward or the distance earned in sparing it,¡± said Ulf. ¡°You offered a debt of service, and in your own tour you bleed away.¡± He looked down at their lay and its stitching, those fragile powers of brotherhood again flexed. Somehow, impregnable. ¡°We have ways left to this mountain. Show me now what worth you offer here,¡± he commanded. ¡°Before the mountain is behind us, and your worth is gone.¡±


    _____

 A Flake of the Withered Root

    Chapter XVI : A Flake of the Withered Root


    All through the morning, a recurrent chipping was heard across the terrace. Gentle as a moulting tick, from a scurrier in its thicket. When the brothel¡¯s backdoor swung wide, it ceased, guarding its silence as the ledge streamed with grasping tongues, that whirl of felt hips. The dance of simmering envies, grinding warmths were silhouettes before sunrise, blurred so in Eritle¡¯s chrome gloom. There rubbed drudgeries, corporeal as fictitious loves, imagined more than admired. Most shut their eyes. The prisoner listened. Slurpings. Flat-hand strikes.


    A pleasant vigour possessed, then the morose recollection, then its scattering. Wearily, after the terrace drained of its denizens and the brothel¡¯s door came shut, the sound of scraping resumed. That noise, subtle as the strike of a clock¡¯s hand, was an iron resonance, dangling low. Rust chittered, by day degrading. A bar most wilted manned the jail¡¯s front, marred by the streaks of white, raking labours. Over it hunched a goblin-like, polluted skin stretching tight to frame and dark, conniving eyes prying upon it: grubby as a ghast¡¯s obsession.


    Against that bar, again and again, under nascent moonlights through to the jousting sheens of day that did temper iron¡¯s sting, a lone tooth was slid, sharpened. Again and again, while the belly¡¯s demand loudened, fingers pinched to seize that little white drop. The nails came crooked and befouled, the eyes fell sewn to that rod of cold iron. Rain assailed, fled, fell again, though the work did not relent.


    It was midday when the last chip sounded. A moment passed of quiet inspection. The bald cretin curved around her prize, as if it were more precious than even a king¡¯s ransom. It could not be lost. Ander found in her hands a tooth no more, and instead a fang, with a thin nick at its end. She grinned, with delight bright in her eyes.


    Her hands cradled the tiny thing, tremoring through her starving and dread of release. It was the last morsel to her name. She snuck it between the bars, pressed her shoulder to the cage, bent her arm in, then picked at the lock. Ravenous, nearly by the daydream consumed, Ander snatched, tugged until its socket was found, then in crept the tooth. Her gut was tightening. Thrice she missed her mark, quivering at the failed jab and imagining failings into dooms. Her grip kept to that key of dregs, and on her fourth effort she discovered the socket, as a cold sweat took her. With a strain, she thrust, shimmied, twisted; softly first, then fast the other way, repeating and trading speeds until¡ªin that tiny block of metal, under the frantic ear¡¯s alarm¡ªshe heard a click.


    Ander paused where she sprawled, shoved halfway through the bars. Awe congratulated her, as even in scrupulous efforts she presumed her schemes could not suffice, but that tiny pop was freedom¡¯s call. Its promise celebrated any suspense. Over her left shoulder she peeked, to the alley adjacent, seeing silence and still shadows, then over her right, where the brothel bustled with muffled shouts, though its doors kept tight against it. She took a breath, carefully unslung the lock, checked both ways again for a witness or wrongdoing, and, seeing naught, burst forth from the cage.


    The weight of her leave rattled it, cast a mean coiling that creaked and snagged. The iron squeal beckoned her back, though even starved and sleepless did her soles find righteous speed across the slickness of poured-over stone. Above did the depraved, diseased glare low, captive but agog, though those that sought to earn from a shout were drained below the breeze, muffled. To most perceivers amidst the gaols of Eritle¡¯s tops however, Ander¡¯s escape came barred behind a most bilious coat, and so she snuck out from alow death¡¯s hand unseen and swift.


    Her stride was hobbled, terrorized. She trembled, awaiting the clasp and then wayward in the blistering cold. Only free did she realize that chill reaper that long hungered for her. Free? Every crevice, every call was a hunter¡¯s mark. Every step that was not her own was a predator gaining upon her. Free. First came fear, for the whistling, splashed vows of penance, then shock without felt retributions, and long did that wonder carry with her, riding along the ridge of each roof and the shade of each alley passed. Free! It was a trek of slips, brittle sprints before, at last, Ander understood, in the echoes of her patter, that she was free.


    Then she paused, dropped her back against a wall of wood in a narrow, puddled path, and slid down to a seat amidst its filth. There she regained her breath. Her legs still shook, her stomach growled, but her mind could care not for either. She was free. Free, she told herself, eager to convince, and for what? Winds howled, distant chatter echoed through the roads, the scent of a passed storm filled each breath. The day was young and grey, and Ander held it in the palm of her hand. Without a right way or waiting solitude. Without the closure of a grin to find her in the winds. She did not realize how thinly the world resisted her spring, as if the clouds were too busy gossiping to ever gaze down.


    ¡°Thought it¡¯d be sweeter,¡± Ander whispered.


    Time passed. Day waned. Each dint in the wood was learned to her. She could trace every etch of the stone below, count every crack in the oak. There was no scamper of pursuit, no wails for avengeance, no bells to toll and alert. Perhaps no one had even noticed the cage stood empty. Perhaps they did, and they did not care. Her face dipped and her eyes flattened of their surprise, their tension. Ander, crumpled in that alley with her legs bent in rainwater, felt ashamed. Her hands clawed into her almost bald skull, where she felt now a brown fuzz gather: the hundred nubs of forming gold.


    Out from death, she thought, in sight of Eritle¡¯s walls rising above her. Out and? Onto what? My second, bleaker destiny, yes¡­? She could not laugh. Is this where I find my reason? Wood and rainwater¡­


    Of course, there was no answer. Eritle was silent. The skies were calm. She was gaunt, isolated, a ghost of the crawls between homes, amidst shut-door sanctuaries. It sickened her, worse so than her time in iron had, more viscerally and charging some contempt in her batting nails. What possibly could there be beyond the bars? What sweetness was there in that vast, grey world that was simpler in its virtues than empty-handed death?


    Ander did not have the explanations, but in that isolation of her gutter she realized she must have a cloak, or guards and the cold would steal her away again. Wearily, divided, but sure of need, she shambled up to her feet, then worked her way between shacks, down each backalley, away from every light.


    Through the dark did she come upon a lower ledge of Eritle, open to a steep and a winding road both. Two cobbled homes concealed her there and at their backs sat a pair of wagons, both reeking of dead flesh. Crows idled themselves upon the ragged yard. Rakes, shovels, pickets and boards laid about the space. The stench promised greater seclusion than real barriers.


    Hanging over the box-seat were old stirrups, loose reins, a brown, flat cap, and a coat of grey¡ªworn and wide-hooded, donned often to stave off the storms.


    Once more, Ander armed the narrow eye against her peripheral. In seeing nothing stir amidst the shuddered windows overhead, she crept to the first wagon, plucked the hat from its mantle, thieved the coat beneath, then returned the cap to barren wood. It was creased, smelling of manure, but resolved she dove one arm into it. The second sleeve was thrown over her shoulder just as a voice beseeched her, and her spirit leapt from her bones.


    ¡°What¡¯s a lady like you doing out in the back¡¯ens?¡±


    The chirp seemed youthful, but coarse. Spinning on her heels, Ander found the speaker. There was a boy in rags, slung over the side of the other wagon, with his arms swinging limp in the wind.


    ¡°You¡¯re not from ¡®ere,¡± he guessed, pleasant. ¡°Tad too tan.¡±


    And Ander was pale, but the flesh of the child was ill and white, and his eyes half-clouded. She wagered he was diseased or dull to remark on a thing so meagre, to fetch a conclusion so unwhole.


    ¡°Taking a walk, is all,¡± said Ander. ¡°It¡¯s rare enough, on our cliff, to see a day without its rain. Where by fogs we are not devoured¡­ Foolish to waste it indoors, no? What¡¯re you in a carriage for, anyway?¡±


    The youth smiled, showing bent, perky teeth, and leaned near excitedly. ¡°What?¡± he asked, waving his arms at the bleach of his wagon. ¡°You can¡¯t see it? It¡¯s a digman carriage! For the wounded, whatnot.¡±


    Ander took a long look at the boy. Aside from the wildness of his glare, she found no injury nor ailment. The digmen hauled off the dead or deathly injured in their little chalk carts, spending their days faraway from living things, amidst the rot, working shovels in distant swards. The boy was without stains or open cuts. She could not believe he belonged aboard such a morbid ferry.


    ¡°You don¡¯t seem to be dying, little man,¡± said Ander. ¡°And a digman¡¯s carriage is no place to play.¡±


    ¡°The front¡¯s my handsome side, you ask my mother.¡±


    He shimmied from where he sat and showed Ander his back. A slash of flesh lacked, like a duvet peeled messily apart. The gash brought his spine¡ªbleb-dressed, askew¡ªto the wind. It seemed unearthed and by a hammer bashed. So crooked and vivid was his wound, Ander almost gagged. There was a malign flavour to her belly. Clearly, infection took to the gash, though he watched her unbothered, smirking all the same.


    Disturbed truly, but in certain obliging curiosities, Ander again took him under her detached insights, sharpening her care. In the sway of his hands she glimpsed his wrists, where tiny black holes sat, pierced once by a thing sharp and thin and gliding clean, that left loose flesh by seafoam-greens discoloured. The veins lined dark and blue, like in the pits pooled poison. His vitality was dispersing, slipping off its muscle. In Eritle¡¯s cabins, she surmised, had a cleric of the backroad dispersed their miracle, fed the wrist swill. The remedy rejected only the odds of the boy¡¯s return. Ander¡¯s shoulders sank. She lost any wish to gaze upon that ailed child, though his eyes were too giddy to elude, and his time too short to spurn.


    ¡°That¡¯s quite the wound,¡± said Ander, dejected. ¡°You must be a fighter¡­ I¡¯ve seen soldiers laid low by less.¡±


    ¡°Sagans say I¡¯ll fight it back, say I¡¯m strong,¡± remarked the boy, offering up a shrug. ¡°Sagans lie.¡±


    She nodded, though no words could leave her lip. No kindness could repair him, no gentle touch could stave off the bleak or renew his faith. It seemed that the only thing she could do¡ªthe only human thing, empathetically helpless¡ªwas to watch him, smile with him, and hope he might wither unafraid.


    His smile faded, perhaps in recompense for his imagined misgivings, his natural dilapidation of her ease. He felt that his eye¡¯s return was untoward, so gave his sights to the horizon. It laid buried, across an endless stretch of fields and brawling winds that irritated the willows. His squint found the clouds where sun did not breach, brushing on to envelop Eritle. Again, did the grey emerge to pout across their cliff.


    ¡°Day¡¯s end,¡± he realized. ¡°You oughta¡¯ head indoors soon. Out ¡®ere ain¡¯t no place to be once there¡¯s thunder.¡± The boy bit his lip. ¡°Ain¡¯t no place to be at all.¡±


    Turning to Ander, he grinned again, remembering his courtesy and the batterings of its lesson, though his gaze was dim then, without young expenditure to its watch.


    ¡°After all, wayfarer, soon there won¡¯t be none out ¡®ere but the dead!¡± he laughed, though it turned to a red hack.


    Stiff, they saw one another. His giggle was conquering, a defilement to the sure ear. His head fell low and his jaw stretched out, spraying the mad cacophony up into the air. There was life in his flailing anew.


    Ander propped her chin high, gave the boy a last endearing look, then sealed her heart away and by a swivel deserted his climb. She could not banish the knowledge that by morning he would be fed to distant rock. Slow, uneven steps carried her away from that unnerving laughter. Laughter that, somehow, she envied. Laughter that she silently prayed she might hear again, alongside the blackbirds of dawn. Some farewell was uttered under her breath, then was the sound of the doomed child drowned in the wood her walk laid between them.


    She coveted a distraction, and it was then that her ribs wheezed. At once, hunger was again absolute. Ander had forgotten how many days she had dined on bugs come to eat her, drank of rain while passersby laughed. It seemed astonishing that her legs could keep her sickly frame afloat, and the idea of keeling over, to be dragged to the same wagon as the child, shot fire through her feet.


    Through some shoddy bizarre she tread, with her thieved hood brought low to mask her. The sky was gone under canopies of brown, guarding against the elements for their packed amble but rendering it lightless, in infant-night. Some half dozen booths lined the corridor, but there was but one customer for every two stores. The clutch could fit no more.


    Among them was a furrfiend, made by his surcoat: burgundy, antiquated, with a ravening motif of some many plumes and mauls. Under was steel, unalloyed, and too at the helm shaped to a mammoth¡¯s likeness. Skulking decrepitly from stall to stall, vendors made no efforts to tempt him.


    Two cloaked commoners rifled near, bartering and poking. Before them sat an aged woman behind her wall of cobblery, tiredly awaiting a buyer. To her side, a younger man wasted the day cleaning spotless tools of oak and iron. An unfriendly fellow watched them both, over his squabble of fruit baskets. Much of his harvest was of a lesser colour than what the earth would readily emit, more touched by mold. It was habit to cut around rot in Eritle, however.


    Ander strolled through, certain she could afford not even the dust of their wares with all the emptiness of her pockets, but keen to seem belonging. The old lady shot her a cold glare, disapproving so as if she knew Ander strode in stolen garb or guessed that she strode penniless. It was such a constant discontent however, that Ander knew she went unrecognized. She ignored the crone, ignored too the hecklings of the fruitman when he hassled for her eye. Before a low booth, clouded over by cheap tapestries, she stalled, in sight of its drab reds and greens. The banners seemed woven in the man¡¯s own yard, who stood tall and smirking, with a sooted apron upon his breast. Each bore stringy trim, tatterings of oil and the creases of disproportion, yet it was what laid upon the table between the banners that made her halt.


    Four short swords were laid out on the wood. They were thin, of indelicate steel, and one wore a coat of rust. The smith¡¯s grin steadied towards her.


    ¡°Need steel?¡± he asked. ¡°Ah, but of course you do. Whilderwheats blow as they oft again do. The homewife or the cripple can do without, granted. You do seem short of any folk so drab, friend.¡±


    ¡°Drab, is it?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Take to your home, bar your door, then others must up and keep the road, no? Bow your blade, means another¡¯s ought to raise theirs in your stead,¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°Not a thing¡¯s more drab than that, not on our rock. Living, the onus of your fellows. Day after day, spent serf-like. Blades like mine, they rid you of such guilts. Bloodily. Quick.¡±


    ¡°Well, least they needn¡¯t suffer the fields, to toil with the rest of us,¡± said Ander. ¡°I¡¯d choose these nooks over the plains, any day my wits were with me. Sooner be bored, yes, than¡­ than that.¡±


    And at that he laughed. ¡°Spoken like a man unlearned to the wild¡¯s riches! But you¡¯ll be hopeless to ever lay claim to them unarmed, friend, this we can both hold certain.¡±


    ¡°Hrm,¡± Ander scoffed, and raised her chin to him so that he could see the truth of her face, the scraggly but acute complexion. ¡°Spoken as a man who¡¯s never had his riches lost.¡± She picked up one of his blades. It was broad, slightly curved at the tip, and deeply she gazed into it. It was too light to the touch, too wieldable, forgoing any forceful investment to devastate. ¡°Home does seem a modest lounge, yes, till you¡¯ve been too long without. Far too long, then it¡¯s all you¡¯d ever dare crave. Then, your riches come plain.¡±


    The sight of the blade took her, and so her final words drew faint. The steel was enticing, the hilt so smooth in her fist.


    ¡°And yet each day,¡± he said, ¡°our furrfiends march out again.¡±


    ¡°And each night,¡± said Ander, ¡°they speak a little less.¡±


    ¡°True, though not all prove apt for the challenge.¡±


    ¡°Not all know it,¡± she said, and her gaze warded him off.


    Freed of his pestering, she fell to the sword, then a warmer thing. It enveloped her by the weight, soothed an aching through its convivial returns, of gleam and straight, as does a friend long apart. Frail as her fingers were, it was without strain that they curled fiercely to a grip. Its solidity absconded with hunger. For an instant, she felt whole, resumed from long tenebrosity. The stagnancy lifted. But the sword¡¯s familiarity, a heat as it was, held memory¡¯s singe. The comfort of old touch was vanquished and all was recalled. The mercenaries, the mines, Harlm then the Morlen Saints. The sins, the sins so many, inexorable. Or was that the coward¡¯s word? She faltered, fell aghast. That blade could not belong to her, for before was the one entrusted sharper, sturdier, forged of finer steels. It made her no more able. The hilt was a sickness. It did not belong with her, she knew. Ander could not believe she was worthy enough to again be culpable.


    Like a hand brushed against the brazier, her fingers snatched and she tossed the blade back to its table, keen to be rid of it.


    ¡°Not to your liking?¡± asked the smith.


    ¡°No,¡± said Ander. ¡°I¡¯m rich enough already.¡±


    She left, through a quiet that deserved guards. The road that stretched to the main square daunted her, teased discovery, so instead Ander strode up a winding back-path. The streets seemed evacuated of their securities, as if the bells had tolled and the boys gone to war. Where once furrfiends would waft and bladesmen mingle, there were desolate corners, vacant shutters. A power had been stripped from the cliff-town.


    Her alley was isolated, squeezed between the tilts of jagged homes, deformed by the upward screech of bedrock. Above, clothes hung over a wire. They were drenched and had been forgotten for days. Murals of chalk scratched the walls, by rain were faded. A doll sat in a puddle, bashed, gutted of its stuffing. Its beady eyes held her for a moment, then Ander splashed past it.


    The corridor became a climb, eerily unvisited. A creek of ramshackle boxes and barrels led forth. Beyond were sacs, split and festering, homes for only insects, clutter to be webbed. Where not sodden, they were splintered. Bugs or grain, she was starving. The thought felt putrid, was loathed by its difficult dismissal. There was the honour of a tradeswoman, then there was demise on the morrow, in the wet heap of a once-town.


    She pulled the tops off the barrels and wedged off the boards of each box, clawing through cobweb and strapping. The wood was so cheapened and by the weathers brutalized that it cut her in the search, and so scrawny had her skin become that it bled. A red-fingered hermit, taken to the backstage of seclusions, Ander could not let her pain dissuade.


    Then, like a foul breeze, the taint of rot touched her. Her nose scrunched and she jerked aside. A cough came, then a second sniff, then she froze in her labours as the body revealed.


    There he laid: a feather fallen from Eritle¡¯s imperiled spirit; a flake of the withered root. A man was crumpled against the walls in the alley¡¯s end, behind a fortress of bags and barrels. Either the cold or the hunger took him. Grey skin clung around his bones, entrenched his cheeks. He seemed to be carved out from the gutter itself, and great black flies buzzed about to call his corpse kingdom.


    At his feet sat a little cup. In it was a handful of copper coins. Cold killed him, thought Ander, with a hand over her nose. She heard a clap high above. Windows had shut to the finding. Perhaps in her rummaging she had again stirred the scent. The feat was disconsolate, proving the town¡¯s terrible stakes. Her want was to turn and leave, but a shame too reluctant reached for the cup. Ander lowered herself by his toes then scraped out the coppers: chilled, light. They were an insignificant sum, instantly robbing the effort of its desperate worth. The shame was tenfold. Her stomach alone forced her onward, away from his dead, judging gaze. The whine of her gut was the drum to her step, and both beat glumly until the alley was behind her.


    With those spare coppers in her pocket, she restored a hope upon that sorry cliff, and hastened to Ellimon¡¯s Bale. Somehow, the sad thought of spending her wealth seemed able to renew the dead man¡¯s efforts, as if Ander might eat in his stead and honour him, but it was naive, she knew, to name her chore anything but the theft of a grave, to buy broth for dignity.


    She liked to think, on her path apart from him, that he might have been content, if only partly, begrudgingly, to know in death he achieved the provision his kinfolk failed him in life; knowing his final deed was perhaps to save a fellow. Her fret was¡ªand such haunted her all the while up and low to the tavern¡ªif the life preserved was even worth as much as his tomb¡¯s pride. A thought for fuller stomachs, she thought to herself, before arriving at Ellimon¡¯s Bale.


    At the mantle of a lower bluff, overshadowed by steep homes that circled its back, sat the tavern of Eritle. It was the prize of an open path, cutting right of the main road. The exterior was shoddy. Mud entrapped and glass shards dressed it. A deep puddle took its first step, and often was bad ale poured down into it from the second-floor balcony. A trio of labourers stood there and drank daylight away. One shouted to her, though it was indiscernible and she did not care to guess. Through the puddle she went, then into the darkness beyond the door of Ellimon¡¯s Bale.


    First that drew her eye was the mantelpiece, where to the left wall, kissing the tallest flames and glowering against the hearth, perched the head of a rodent fury. It was eyeless, wore fangs in its sockets. The whiskers were netted and bore a crust of blood. About it was a wrathful eminence.  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    The bar slouched to the far end, tended by a dirty, mean-eyed woman. Behind her, stairs snuck up and down. The rest of the chamber was consumed by roundtables, topped by lanterns yet to be lit, dented iron tankards, and wooden bowls full of either porridge or stew.


    A scraggly grouch faced the fire, an old man hunched at the bar. Within were the weary, toasting to done, tireless days. Their cheers were low-spirited harrumphs. Elsewhere tables were left empty, to allow a lone guard his corner. He was face-down in a dew of his own ale, and had been for some time. Even in the tavern, he wore his blue-gold metals, as if believing without he would go accosted. His helmet was on the table, upturned, with a flute in it, wrapped in laundry.


    Ander kept her head low, her feet quick, and took a seat at the bar, a stool apart from the older man. She nodded to the barkeep.


    ¡°Stew?¡± Ander guessed, then placed down two coppers.


    The barkeep¡¯s gaze was solid and she said nothing. She vanished to fetch a bowl. Ander was surprised to have made it so far, still anticipating that boom of punishment, guessing when the guard would rouse and strike her, when the barkeep would chuck back her pay and name it fake, yet the space was silent. She belonged like ice in gin. At last she would eat, and surely even slosh or elkfeed would sit sapid in her belly if it were only dumped in a bowl. Her stomach came near a burst. Anxious, she skittered her fingers over the counter, caught one in a spill of ale, and, ravenous, brought the taste to her lip. It was bitter, ravishing; she staggered under the bludgeon of cotton fists, mean reliefs.


    ¡°Have you an affliction?¡± asked the older fellow to her side.


    His hair was pulled back to the scalp and there it sprawled, grey and weathered. Plain brown eyes watched her, swollen by some sudden insight or glee. He was dressed cheaply, as a dirtied and diligent farmhand. Ordinary and welcoming. He may have been on entertainment¡¯s hunt, but his pleasantry was abnormal and, Ander, suspicious of it.


    ¡°Eh?¡± she asked, confused.


    ¡°You sport a clean head, girl,¡± he answered, as if it were as obvious as the distinction between seasons. ¡°So, are you afflicted? A curseback, hrm? What took your hair, is all I mean¡­¡±


    ¡°Have you some affliction?¡± asked Ander in turn. ¡°To sit here abandoned, with stew in your teeth, speaking to bald women?¡±


    ¡°Right!¡± he chuckled, then a bulge merry and gruff. ¡°What, then? You think an old cur could do better in Ellimon¡¯s?¡±


    ¡°In this crawl?¡± she asked, glaring vaguely about the room. ¡°I¡¯ve faith you could do worse, man.¡±


    ¡°Aye, that I¡¯ll drink to,¡± and up came his tankard, and when it bowed a foam was wet on his lips. ¡°Right, it is. You¡¯ve the eye for it. I¡¯d wager my days galavanting are done, now behind me. Not any damsels about praying for wrinkles, no? Lest they might be tended to with the shovel and rake,¡± he chortled.


    ¡°You needn¡¯t cheapen yourself so,¡± said Ander, amused but unenthused. ¡°Even the shovel asks more than most can answer. We go among those of the cup, now, who might only beg and shiver. You see it about you. Those who hack, scratch at their skin. Tending the fields, well, that¡¯s more than worthy enough.¡±


    The barkeep smacked a bowl and spoon down upon the wood, and slid them sluggishly over to Ander. She grasped both, gave thanks, then poured her sights and smell into that steamy heap of broth. The water was dark and chunky cuts of potato floated through. Ander tore in. She chewed fast, gulped loudly, much like a wolf bent over its sheep, with jaws dribbling. The bowl was half empty before she realized the immense scent of onion drifting up.


    ¡°Been some time,¡± he began, ¡°since I¡¯ve seen anyone eat Gaerhild¡¯s stew like that. Lest they went too drunk to taste.¡±


    The barkeep leveled him with a hard glare, but he laughed through it, then her watch turned curiously to the bald woman.


    ¡°We¡¯re upon prewinter,¡± said Ander between bites. ¡°I¡¯ll not turn my nose from a hot meal. Not with frost in the wind.¡±


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t let me slow you,¡± said the old man. ¡°Keep up like so, we might even prove the tales true, and find Gaerhild¡¯s smile. I¡¯d say that¡¯s a sight worth two drinks.¡± He took a swig and Gaerhild shook her head at him, then through the reek of ale came his rebuttal. ¡°Though I¡¯d wager your scowl would be the less frightening.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t get Odirn too drunk, stranger,¡± said Gaerhild, eyeing Ander. ¡°Or it¡¯ll be you who tosses out the old bastard.¡± Then she turned away from them both and took to cleaning tables, but over her back her gaze kept, to Ander, and the curiosity of all she was.


    ¡°All-Father¡¯s eyes,¡± said Odirn. ¡°The hag loves you.¡±


    ¡°That, or mayhaps she hates you so that the plain tongue seems pleasant,¡± answered Ander, filling her cheeks with hot brew and sensing her stomach swoon.


    ¡°She was at a time more spry, if you might fathom. Lighthearted, even. Once ago, each cup she filled with a grin. Threw a kind word to all past her door. Now, Gaerhild¡¯s come bitter, sorry but sensible as it is. Ellimon¡¯s Bale, come darker. And Eritle weeps, so they say. Weeping Eritle. Rubbish little saying.¡±


    ¡°Was it you that at last wore her down?¡±


    ¡°Her mate,¡± he said bluntly, earning Ander¡¯s gawk. ¡°A winter back, he passed on. Strayed far from the cliff, near the Haddlebush. Some coloured, pretty little berry he sought to pick out there. Strayed too far, clearly enough. Peddler found him torn to three parts. Work of a beast without name and oft is the same story retold. ¡®Course you¡¯d never speak of it to Gaerhild. She¡¯d gut you. Or sob, mayhaps. That¡¯s a far uglier thing. Worse than blood spilt, no? Alas, she¡¯s seen enough of both, so we speak of it none. Bale keeps quiet, that way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that,¡± said Ander, unsure if she was supposed to coddle or challenge his doubt. ¡°Vile workings, out in the wheats. Land¡¯s always wilder than we remember. Seems as if¡­ as if once there was more earth to share, mayhaps.¡±


    Odirn took her in his stare, smoothed over her frame with the arid lure of his eye. It faltered, flared up from its dryness. Something gleamed then in his gaze. He discovered his smile, as if hearing again a fond tale of childhood. She held an independent wisdom, not without ancestry.


    ¡°You remind me of my son, y¡¯know,¡± said Odirn. ¡°Well, I¡¯d wish you and him could meet. There is that unnamed colour to the two of you. Dull as Arakvan keeps us, we mustn¡¯t discern it. But it¡¯s keen to lend its hand where needed, and that you sense. Keener still to take a leap, if only to see where the foot lands.¡± He took a long swig, swallowing some reflection. ¡°Aye, I see it clear in you.¡±


    ¡°You think more of me than I¡¯ve earned,¡± said Ander, queasy under the weight of a compliment. ¡°I¡¯m not the kind compatriot in your ale¡¯s vision, Odirn. I can be uncaring. Cruel, even. I¡¯d wager what¡¯s left of this stew that your son¡¯s of a finer ilk.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s my kin. How good could the bastard be?¡± Odirn laughed, before solemnly he settled. ¡°But aye, he was no saint neither.¡±


    At that, Ander went silent, to see the old fellow anew. There was a woe basking in his soft eye¡¯s ebb. She let him speak.


    ¡°Liked to roam, that fool,¡± Odirn recalled, his voice grave, but learning to bleat. ¡°He¡¯d wander south, what seemed seconds ¡®fore nightfall, dreamspeaking of hills to climb, storms to see, whatnot. Speeches for fools. And I told him as much. Wanted the world under him, oaf he was. Rain hadn¡¯t the power to dissuade such heart. Night neither¡ªeven twilight was bright and possible in his watch. Hadn¡¯t fear for the beasts, nor the cold, nor the worser dark below our lands. None of it.¡± Odirn shook his head. ¡°The time did come, as it comes to all errand soldiers, when he at last thought himself ready. Wasn¡¯t long ago¡ªa week past, even¡ªmy boy went to Fjordrun. Planned to leap the old rift, ¡®gainst all heed, of course. Always ¡®gainst it all. And what¡¯s he find? Horrid devil; an aetroll, he called it, though already did it lay butchered. Some warband fell upon it, no doubt. Ah, the reek of it, of its insides what seeped, of all the fur bled through, threw him back home. Cast him off his adventure.¡± Another swig, another hard swallow. ¡°He weren¡¯t ready, the little fool. Couldn¡¯t stomach what¡¯s out there.


    ¡°Yet it dwelled on him, yes. Like a week in the palace, but your gown didn¡¯t fit. Back home he came, and the smell came with him.¡± What seemed a frailness wobbled in his squint, though it was rather the hate of such. ¡°Learned he weren¡¯t the hero, my boy did. Not the adventurer, nor the furrfiend, despite all his after-dinner ideas. The boy was only that¡ªa boy. My boy. But when¡¯s that ever satisfied our seeking youths? So, he tries his damndest to find the same thrill here, at home. The same thrill of Fjordrun and leaps and aetrolls. Ha! What hope of that is there in a place like this? He climbs, he picks pockets, he taunts off. He seeks, again for the taste of that meal what soured him.


    ¡°So the time comes, as for all it does, when his hand nicks the wrong purse, and a man in blue and gold strings him up in a cage. Little iron cell, what teetered in the breeze. Still red, with the last bastard what died in it. Hung right over my street, it did. And what could I do? I can¡¯t climb anymore¡­ I can¡¯t rally ¡®gainst soldiers. I¡¯m old now, you see? My only powers were to watch, pray, try as I might to chuck food up to him and speak with him when the night drew lonely. Ah, but the boy didn¡¯t want it. None of it. I was plain to him, you see? Plain as the town what caged him and the guards what turned the key.¡±


    Odirn finished his drink, sucked the liquor that glazed his lips, then anxiously he blinked about for more. There was a clear drip to his left eye and an ache to his throat. His wrinkly cheeks trembled with words yet formed. There was a jitter in his roving grasp.


    ¡°It was cold last night. C-colder than usual. So¡­¡± A curse tempted his tongue. It lost and in his stool he slacked. A decided and pretend complacency enveloped him. ¡°So my boy froze to death,¡± said Odirn, stilted. ¡°In the rain. And Eritle weeps, they say. And so it does.¡±


    The stew felt cold in her throat. That hunger at last appeased was at once unearned. Her meal was sullied. Her friend was sagging. She felt rotten potatoes swim in her gut and onion choke her. They both pictured then the cage, home to the body that would never descend, imagining which way limped arms dangled, where ended the laurelling of the prewinter. She herself seemed a rare contrivance of decay, a rebel of the deadened heights. Yet if otherwise, none would mourn her and beg sympathies bar-side. There would be an unchanged Arakvan. Despite those ironies at work in the cobwebbed rafters, she sat free to sip hot stew in Ellimon¡¯s Bale, while Odirn¡¯s child started to reek.


    ¡°And for what¡­¡± she whispered under her breath, distant, with a gaze imbued to her bowl¡¯s bottom.


    ¡°And for what¡­¡± Odirn echoed, equally faint.


    They were the patrons, hunched over, of a formless prejudice, shuddering at only illusions of shouts. Tapping tankard-rims, scratching out those incidental italics of oak. Chains could be cherished at least for their brace, their unquestionable counsel. Free, she was. Free to be accountable, to be attended to. Ander struggled to see what virtues liberty had ever bestowed upon her. Her velleities were then lachrymose, but by onion and ale cauterized.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for your son,¡± she said, nodding, gaining force in her teeth. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for the man he could never grow to be. And you, who could only watch him die. And I¡¯m sorry for Gaerhild, this saddened camp of hers, and too her mate I¡¯ll never meet. Sorry for Eritle, its rains, the ill in its fogs, and the beasts below it, and all who march out to cut them away and all who cower and turn to their feed. For damned all of it, I¡¯m sorry!¡±


    Before Odirn¡¯s own wetted eyes, he beheld in the alehouse a ferocity take his friend. It melted away her composure, startled him by its rage of exhales. Ander slapped the spoon back into the bowl, splashing stew onto the counter, and rose with a stomp and a slashing glare.


    ¡°But I¡¯ve been sorry for so long,¡± she hissed, ¡°and I¡¯ve helped nothing! So you are wrong, Odirn, again with me as you were with your fool¡¯s boy. I am no kind heart, to dare and take leaps and test Fjordrun! See me now, man!¡± she snarled, as if by her lean unveiling his fable¡¯s monster. ¡°I¡¯m but another hood in your cold street, who ducks her eyes from the dead same as all others, and I¡¯ve laid in this mourning far too long!¡±


    Her cloak whipped away and to the door she strode. Odirn¡¯s chest was tight, and airless he watched. Unflinching, she passed the hooting, chugging crowds. Ander came to the guard, whose face was still pressed to his table, and dove a hand down at his belt. She plucked the hanging purse, silent so as to rouse no alarm, skilled enough to not stir him, and within another moment was beyond the door. Odirn frowned at her passing, though the frown was weak and ashamed. Ellimon¡¯s Bale had never seemed more quiet to his half-deafened ears.


    Ander hurried through the streets. Thunder sounded. The storm had drawn very near. A first drizzle fell over Eritle, so much like a weary alert, so akin to a weep. For her deed and departure, she held no prides. When her hustle gained and the distance grew and rain assorted her breaths, the reality of the words spoken hardened upon her. A shadow, from the tavern doors, sprawled to envelop her. Near a fright, she moved apace. Her own cruelties perplexed the rushing mind. How could she abandon him to that barren woe? How could she in any esteem survive thieving the fill of beggars¡¯ cups and thirsting for ales through dim alleys when above, by the thunder, a dreamer laid dead. How was it fair and how might mortal hands make it right, that in a prison of no viler dimensions a soul so brighter lost?


    Furious, she bounded down a quiet crawl, displaced amidst the backside of cabins. The rain gained weight and dug in at her nape. Cabalder hissed under the hail and up went yellow fumes. The call of the storm frenzied, a wrathful symphony over her charge. The cold was no burden. The wet was unnoticed. Only the cages above, could Ander perceive. Odirn¡¯s damp eyes, Gaerhild¡¯s scowl, cracks in clouds that looked like legs. Ander gave up a cry¡ªsavage¡ªlike her own vengeful resign, full of impure longing, that the thunder drowned and the rain ran from. She closed a fist and it flew against the wood before her. Bone or oak cracked, splinters burst out. Only by the pain of her knuckles did the ache of her head dampen.


    ¡°Sorry again,¡± was her lament.


    Red split her right hand. There was a quaking at the wrist, a throbbing imprint over bone, but rain proved swift to carry the blood away. It did not matter to her. Her spirit was then spent. Sore, eyeless, she shambled out from that alley, through the gaining torrent. Ander passed a myriad of hustling hoods who made for indoors, and upon that cliff of dreads she seemed an aberration. In the puddles she saw anger on a round head. All she could realize was how dense her fuzz had come and how undeserving she was of its gold.


    Time drained unnaturally while she wallowed; it may have been hours bleeding or days or a blink. Gradually, through the mirth of the storm, she did indeed bring herself before a cutter, who of course hid indoors. Her hair was the singular truth. It was arriving again, condemning. There was a rickety sign showing scissors somewhere in the roads, slick and dark and almost menacing under hail.


    She pushed in, was greeted but failed to hear it, dropped a couple coppers upon the counter, then fell into a low chair. The air was stale. The interior was tight and chilly. Through the cracks of oak, the storm breathed, hinting at its reserved, impatient damnation. A lone candle gave light to a cloth and bowl of water, beside scissors and short knives. It was homely enough and without a scent.


    The cutter, Toarelda, thumbed through the few coins discharged at her door, though could find no patch of hair upon Ander worth its sum. Speculatively, she guessed that Ander wanted that short blonde fuzz shaved from her scalp, and without meeting her eye Ander nodded. Toarelda shrugged, collected a flat knife, wetted her fingers and the blade both, then dashed water over Ander¡¯s head. Her gaze was in her lap, though Toarelda pulled her up by the chin. Ander was forced to behold the old mirror set in the wall before her. Its frame was chipped, its glass smeared, and the bottom left corner was cracked, but the image remained. Her sights dove back into the safety of the floor.


    Insects, wormy and dark, weeded through the boards. Filth filled the cracks. The wood was stained and battered. Somehow, it brought greater comfort than what lived in the glass.


    ¡°From whereabouts do you hail?¡± asked Toarelda, in a temerarious, yet casual inquiry. ¡°Long have I lived in little Eritle, and I count no years where bald women walked her streets.¡±


    ¡°And none will,¡± said Ander. ¡°As long as you do as I¡¯ve paid you for.¡±


    ¡°That is a fair thing. Yet I¡¯m an honest woman, girl. You must then know you¡¯ve paid too much for a thing as quick as this. Why, I¡¯ve more hair under my arm than what you sit before me today.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Ander murmured. ¡°I¡¯ve little use for coppers.¡±


    ¡°The wheats have treated you justly, then.¡±


    ¡°Justly? They do not know the word.¡±


    ¡°Young, but with resent already,¡± chuckled Toarelda. ¡°Then let me not waste my cheap wisdoms on your ears, girl. I wager you know what¡¯s worth knowing on our hill, and of that there¡¯s little. But I must wonder, and call such curiosity the extra copper¡¯s fetch, but why is a girl so eager to appear otherwise?¡±


    ¡°Why is a cutter so spent to steal her own fee?¡± Ander countered.


    ¡°Hair is my trade, measly as it might seem, though for my doings it does suffice. I have learned through an age to spot a strong root. Why, your roots are strong indeed. Strong and gold. You¡¯ve good hair here, girl, and it yearns to grow long and sway. In a battle it could be your burden, true, but you come storm-touched with no blade. Why then cut it?¡±


    Ander considered it, as she often did when the razor felt her scalp. Why cut it? It had been so very long since last she felt blonde locks by her ears. It made folk simper when they passed. It animated her in the river¡¯s ripple. It was silk under water, a shawl in wind: a part of her, perhaps that most rapt, though ancient was its disseverance. She could not remember its amity, its load. Then why cut it? Ander thought to snicker, for the answer was so plain and time and again provided, though to Toarelda she felt compassion in brevity.


    ¡°My hair¡­¡± whispered Ander. ¡°¡®It was too beautiful, I ¡®spose.¡±


    Toarelda boomed with laughter at that, but Ander¡¯s face kept stern. Ander was mute. In recollection of the perished golds, she found the mirror again, though then could not look away. By its centre, she was seized.


    The razor was swift and the work limited, so soon her head was smooth again. She saw a patch of pale skin, hairless, veined, rasped and made red, as if in perpetuity strained. There was a lurch of fastened skin, hugging low cheekbones; small, dark lips in illiberal performance for their sharp, worsted chin; a meandering set of teeth between them, its smile desecrated by one black slot. Above lurked the eyes, much different than how they had last appeared to her, militant in their return of gaze. In the dismemberments of Toarelda¡¯s mirror, they seemed so anfractuous, diverted, so grizzled and so old. So experienced and dissatisfied with their proficiencies, like the smoldering aftermaths of foul educations. Ander looked into herself then with a child¡¯s eyes, but her stomach dropped to behold a woman looking back: A woman garnished by red slits and bedraggled pleats. An umbra under her stare and cruds across her scowl. A woman witness to the hideous strictures of earth and returned with souvenirs. A woman starved, scandalized, with two insensate eyes and one grim frown.


    A woman she did not recognize.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Ander.


    She arose from the chair, turned deaf to Toarelda¡¯s pleasantries, and was gone into the storm again. The mirror was a basin of gloried plights, her own, then branded she did not skim the puddles underfoot. Each shard of her solicitous self gave her speed. By night, her shins ached and Eritle¡¯s haunts were at last encumbered, weighed down and drowned. Through the townsquare she strolled, delighting in the emptiness. Businesses sat shut, amber smokes broiled. There was serenity swashing atop the cobblestones. An epic of desirous fumes and hails swirled, battling through grey ages.


    At the centre of the clearing, overseen by shack-clusters and boarded windows, flickering with their subdued brights, sat a fountain, made of marble. Bouncing blues filled the bowl, wrought rapid by the rain that knew no relent. There was a bird akin to an eagle, with its wings sprawled and its hooked beak crying. Water fell in a low arch from its jaw, amidst a glistening whirl of feathers, hennaed: The Amber Falcon, who watched over Eritle amidst its storms.


    She leaned against the rim. Sprinklings dashed her back. Ander explored her surroundings, unmoving. Eritle had fed, clothed, and shaved her, though now she knew not where to go. She felt as if her heart was pending an inspirer¡¯s touch, to lead unto a nobler beyond. Last, her roaming led her to a gaol, like penance for a vain wager. Amidst the lightless gurgling of the square, she maundered that dreary gift of a second liberty.


    Ander jerked back, nicked by a knife in her gums. Dabbing her ache, she found the empty slot in her smile then blood under her nail. For whatever reason, it was humourous¡ªhilarious, wildly so. A grand jest was unveiled in her lordly thunder and as a prophet taught again she cackled. Yet steps sounded then, quite suddenly through the hail, and knowing the square was shared her laughter died out.


    ¡°Another madman taken to the storm, eh?¡± asked a dark, hooded woman, who drew from an alley to her flank. ¡°Seems to be Eritle¡¯s bloody sigil¡­¡±


    Ander recognized the voice, and over her shoulder she too recalled the face. It was the same woman who had stood upon the cliff, nights prior, beside the kinnit Veil Nadaar. Arawn did not seem to recognize the escapee. Arawn was cloaked in midnight, by the clouds spat over; an erect pigment of the lustrous dark. Ander saw a scabbard beneath the bellows of her garb. A scorching stare was under the hood. Ander pulled her own lower and ducked her eyes.


    ¡°To live in a place such as this¡­¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯d be madness to stay quiet under the endless sleet. My err was in thinking, at least, there would be none to begrudge me¡­ in storm and night. But our day is not yet done, and I have already been wrong many a time.¡±


    ¡°Oh, how very forlorn is this? You speak like the accursed,¡± mocked Arawn. ¡°I seem the least of your ailments, tonight. But if they are so profuse, why bother? The gate is low. Your leave of little Eritle¡ªits weeping¡ªsits no more than a splash away. At dawn, the Scourge will sink back to its pits. Yes? Go laugh in your wild night. Be free of the rain and let none begrudge you your madness again.¡±


    ¡°But it is not so simple as that.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is,¡± declared Arawn. ¡°I¡¯ve been here longer than I should wish. No less the fool than you, doubtless. In the wrong dark, no less brazen. Many nights I¡¯ve gone to the hill¡¯s top back to its doored bottom, and each morning I awake still in Eritle. First, I called it duty. Then, happenstance. Lies, lies again.¡±


    ¡°Then what is the real reason?¡± Ander asked, turning bold to find Arawn. ¡°Why do you suffer it, stranger?¡±


    Arawn scoffed, idled herself before the Amber Falcon, lent it displeasure, then took to the square¡¯s brim. ¡°Why do you imagine?¡± she asked. ¡°For the same reason as you, I¡¯ve no doubt. Look out there, to the lower black.¡± The horizon was unseen, gorging on wayward ambition. ¡°Where the turf is shuffling. Where wealth¡¯s but swinespeak. You do see it,¡± said Arawn, disgusted by herself or them both. ¡°Simply, I¡¯m too damned afraid to face those fields alone.¡±


    Then Arawn Dandril laughed, loudly, fearlessly, and before her chant little lights went out behind doors. She saw them, saw all the fright surrounding her, the nervous eyes that thought evil of her, and the chuckle came glum. There she stood, in the lowest drudge of a well of madmen and cowards, somehow feeling as if she belonged.


    ¡°Is that it?¡± she asked Ander, a tinge more fierce. ¡°Are you here, now, stumbling through the night, because you¡¯re afraid?¡±


    Ander winched, as if the accusation were an affront upon her. Was it only fear? Fear, crippling good self-possession in that wider world? Fear, casting even inaction in shame? Fear, burdening each free step with accountability for the caged? No, she thought to herself. It sounded much more like despair.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen the fields,¡± she confessed, doleful. ¡°I¡¯ve seen what walks them. There is nothing there worth running from.¡±


    ¡°What is it, then?¡± Arawn asked, quickly coming disdainful. ¡°Have you a father who won¡¯t approve? A lover, who so desperately needs you? Or are you such a fool that you have no answer?¡±


    ¡°I have my answer,¡± she stated, stern. ¡°I¡¯ve had it for years.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Good,¡± said Arawn, stepping closer. ¡°Then speak this truth of yours, or with the steel you feign your blind eye to I¡¯ll see you bloodied.¡±


    Ander seemed surprised, so Arawn spoke on.


    ¡°Yes, yes, you are not so subtle as you wish. Though I will admit, you blend in better now than you did in your cage.¡± Arawn grinned, eased back, and the smile faded. ¡°But fret not. I am no dog of Galehaven that wants all under its collar. But an answer indeed I crave, and that I will have before this night is done and blurs with all the rest.¡±


    Her threats did not rattle Ander. The clear strength, the obvious swordsmanship, the lethal advantage. Though with Arawn, her status was clear. She did not need to give assurances or apologies, to hide her eye or tug her hood. To be kind, to seek out sympathy. Indeed, Ander knew no company where she felt less restrained than beside that fiendish warrior.


    ¡°You¡¯ve spent too much time along kinnits, Arawn,¡± said Ander, earning her a crude watch. ¡°They have so sharpened your tongue. But if in this storm are to be our truths, then so be it, and let us forgo more secrecy. I tire now of lies.¡± She turned to the broader street, where a winding slushed on toward the gate. The night was drooling, the day¡¯s obscenities were carried away. ¡°I cannot fear these fields. There is no lie in that. Their beasts, neither. Oh, but of course am I slow to walk them. You have seen the fields, Arawn. Wander long enough, you glimpse true horrors. And not the hog or the blairhound, but that true and awful, so low in the earth. Stay long enough under Arakvan¡¯s sky, you see too the horrors that become of men, out amongst them. Good men, I¡¯ve witnessed. Women of courage. Kinnits even, with their wits and whatever scale or slime runs between their legs. I¡¯ve seen it¡ªtenfold what our land might do to its kind souls.¡±


    Then Ander turned, mulled heavily over Arawn¡¯s visage, who in bitter investment straightened and tilted back.


    ¡°And to a soul such as mine¡­¡± began Ander. ¡°Oh, but you know it, do you not? You stood upon that cliff. Sentenced to die in iron, pulled up to the unfathomably lesser poverty, to neighbour witches and our blighted. A soul so already poor¡­ What manner of horror could those lands achieve in me?¡±


    Dandril¡¯s gaze fell upon the puddles underfoot. She waded through them, scrounged for some truth. Then she scowled at Ander, and shook her head.


    ¡°Such insight, and such gall, yet still you manage to disappoint. So it is always a tedious night, on this bastard cliff,¡± said Arawn. ¡°You are all you denied. You¡¯ve wasted our quiet thinking yourself otherwise. But you know it, of course? You are afraid.¡±


    Arawn was then disinterested, or at least worked ardently to appear so, and gave Ander her back, then carried on with whatever task she first entered that storm to carry out.


    Ander hardly noticed her leave. She warred with her own and Arawn¡¯s words too. Measuring them, a hundred means across a hundred times, desperate to see the slithering telltales of a perhaps-truth. She did not know with any certainty what that affliction in her heart could be called, though not knowing was a sense then familiar, and it made anger swell in her fists.


    Though when her fingers curled shut, her knuckles flexed, and she felt the wound of her last rage. Suddenly, she did indeed seem a fool: another madman taken to the storm.


    ¡°Afraid?¡± she asked aloud, then laughed at a whisper.


    ____