《Keter》


 The Crown

    Keter rolled across the carpet of duff topping the forest¡¯s floor, dodging a mean-looking spear with a greenskin on the other end. The thing shrieked as it showed the needle-like teeth lining its maw. They were simple creatures, not much smarter than children, smaller than most men, and generally cowards. But there were many. The trees were crawling with these savage things; howling their chittering laughs and screams.


    Keter tried standing but his bare foot slipped and slid in the wet sludge. Had him sprawl to the soil, plowed by battle. The greenskin¡¯s spear gleamed in the moon¡¯s dull light before stabbing down in a wide arch. The moon already provides little clarity as is, and the dark clouds swarming above only made it worse.Keter slapped the tip away with the flat of his blade, but not far enough. It slammed into the hides around his shoulder with a vague thud. Had him suppress a pained groan as the leather was pierced.


    He lurched aside as another spear lashed at his face, heard the stone tip pounce in the drenched earth beside him. He pulled himself up, aching fingers clawing at a mud-wet tree stump, his crude sword held before him and its edge dripping with the patter of rain.


    The spear went for him again in a low jab. He jumped back, feet sliding along the muck, turning around the tree as the tip bit the wood, sending chips and splinters flying. The creature growled in frustration as the blade remained stuck, failing to free his weapon.


    Keter¡¯s blade darted out with a speed he hadn¡¯t achieved since his prime and poked thegreenskkin in its eye; had it sprawl back. Screams of agony. He spun around the trunk, wary for the other one. Keter wasn¡¯t sure where the damned thing was exactly. He¡¯d have to trust his luck with the spear. Little else to do about it, really. Sometimes that¡¯s all there is to it. Just a bit of luck, and Keter reckoned he was due some of it.


    He ducked low, hissing between his gleaming teeth, then darted around the pine. The spear cut a jagged wound along his forehead, but the stinging pain was not enough to stop Keter¡¯s¡¯ blade from thrusting straight through the thing¡¯s guts. Its claws grated along the ragged skins Keter wore as it flailed wildly, a last attempt at surviving. ButKeter kicked the thing away, had it sliding off his blade with the slurping of innards pulled from its bowels.


    He blinked as blood seeped down, cluttering his vision, and saw that the first greenskinwas still distracted by its ruined yellow eye. Keter reached it in one spring, and hacked it down. Once, twice, thrice his blade chopped at it, spraying dark blood and chunks of meat and shards of bone everywhere as the foul creature sagged to the soil with a gurgling.


    Shrubs to his right started to rustle, mad eyes leering from beyond the thicket; blinking with their yellow, frenzied stare. Demon eyes, almost glowing in the dark with their infernal gaze. Keter turned and made a dash to a field of boulders that must have tumbled from the adjacent mountain some ages past. The rocks were mostly taller than him and would certainly limit how many of these things could come for him at once.


    The stones shimmered with wet, rain seeping from their rough surfaces and pooling on the pitted earth. Footing proved to be even less favorable here than in the forest, where the water could be drained by the foliage. Seemed like this was the extent of Keter¡¯s luck. The rest was up to him.


    His blade was already held lower. Swinging it around for that long had his shoulders burning, wrists screaming. If it hadn¡¯t been raining, no doubt he¡¯d be drenched in sweat.


    He heard something splash in the mud to his right, the sound was almost inaudible through the rain¡¯s hammering. Pivoting around, Keter put his battered sword up to guard. A green image reflected in a blurry puddle before the greenskin leaped from its cover, screeching something fierce before the blade¡¯s tip punctured its gullet. It grasped the edge, blood come bubbling from its snarling maw before its eyes lost their spark and grew dull.


    Keter had lost count of how many weapons he had learned to use, but he knew swords weren¡¯t one of them. And it was evident in how he used this one. Hell, he wasn¡¯t even certain if it really was a sword; more like an overgrown knife, really. But it felt a sword, then, in his small hands. The hands of a child.


    Water trailed down his skull, and he blinked some of it away. Keter turned just in time to hack at another of those wild things, using the weapon more like a pointed machete than anything else. One swing and its arm spun off into the darkness. Two and its bloodcurdling scream gurgled off into silence. Three just because its head was still somewhat attached to its neck, and that wouldn¡¯t do.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Keter padded through the mud, silent, or about as quiet as one could in the mired mess. He arrived at an intersection, and before he could decide on anything, there were two pieces of ugly on him and very, very angry. Keter didn¡¯t understand why these things just didn¡¯t give up. Seemed to him there was no point hunting an enemy that crushed so many of your pack. Little gain, no?


    But questions were for calmer times. Now it was time for answers, and Keter¡¯s answer was death. The heavy blade soared down and carved a jagged wound down the thing¡¯s neck, smashing the shoulder and it kept on going until it struck the ribcage. The other one came from his left, but when Keter tried pulling the blade from the corpse, it remained stuck. He looked and saw the greenskin clutching the blade with it crooked paw, fire in its eyes.


    ¡°fuck.¡± He growled as the other tackled him. They rolled through the mud, kicking, punching, biting as the muck slithered past. They made another tumble and Keter¡¯s head slammed against a rock, had his ears ringing and vision swimming. He felt the greenskin¡¯s claws around his neck before his next breath and then its grip tightened as it started throttling him, nails digging into flesh.


    Keter snarled madly, flicking trails of bloodied spit into the things deformed face. The monster¡¯s black hairs were plastered to its skull, tangled with grime and twigs from the fight. He tried aiming for the greenskin¡¯s leering eyes but found himself coming short on reach. That cursed, small body.


    He gripped its long hairs. They were wet, soaked with rain and blood. Not ideal, but little ever is when your life is on the line. Keter started focusing on his hands, on the hairs, on the dirt; grasping everything. Then there was smoke, before the flames raged to life.


    The monster screamed, lurching back as its hairs were set ablaze. It looked mighty confused, terribly afraid, horribly surprised. Probably its first time seeing magic. Would be his last time, too.


    Keter heaved for air, coughing fiercely as his new body convulsed on the upturned earth. With his legs shaking, he snatched a rock the size of his fist from the ground and held it about as firmly as he could, everything being covered with slime and filth.


    The magic had been poured in a burst, and the flames died quickly now they were refused more energy. But before the greenskin could revel in its survival, Keter¡¯s fist slammed down onto its head, had the thing stagger to the soil. Again, blood squirting in Keter¡¯s face, quickly washed away by the downpour. Again, bone cracking and shards of skull flying, hairs still clutching to the skin. Again, and the thing was still. Lifeless.


    Keter held the rock above his head, watching the monster for the first sign of vigor and ready to keep on hammering. But if there was one sure method of killing anything, it was beating their head in with a rock. Primitive, true, but effective none the less. Evident, here, with the exposed brain and all.


    The boy dropped his improvised weapon, bits of flesh and hair still sticking to its smooth surface. He hawked again, almost vomiting. The thing had really done a number on his throat. Close combat had been one of his joys for long, practicing it almost daily for ages, whenever he had the chance. But this body was not sturdy enough for any real fighting. Soft, squishy, brittle. Still, it was leagues better than the shriveled husk he inhabited at the end of his previous life. Hand to hand should be a last ditch, anyway. No outcome was as uncertain like two men grappling each other with murder in mind.


    Water kept pelting down on the sodden forest. A good thing, too, as it washed all the grime from Keter¡¯s wounds. But nothing is given without an equal cost, this boy had learned long ago. The patter kept the subtle noises of the wild from becoming clear.


    Warily, Keter slinked back from where he had come, retrieving his blade along the way, moving from shadow to deeper shadow ¨C all the same to him for he had long made the darkness his own. Now, it was little more than another weapon at his disposal.


    Finally, he arrived at the place where this whole shit-fest had begun. He shot a last glance at his surroundings before leaning over and grabbing the rabbit-like creature, strung from a noose he had fashioned from some nettles and twine. All this trouble for two days¡¯ worth of food, at most.


    If he had known so many of them were around, he¡¯d have abandoned the meal and fled. But first there was but one, and he could take one. Then there came another, very sneaky-like. The cut hadn¡¯t been clean, and the creature got off a shout before crumbling to the pitted earth. Then the rest came running, like mad hounds drenched in the stench of blood.


    Keter gathered the trap again, bitterly. His head was pounding like a smith¡¯s anvil. The gash on his forehead stung bad, just like his punctured shoulder. He¡¯d dislocated a finger somewhere along the way, too. When, exactly, he did not know. There where the countless grazes and bruises and scrapes he¡¯d gotten in the frenzy as well. All of these would require his attention. Monsters and beast might be dangerous, but a festering wound kills a man just as well. Only slower. Much, much slower.


    Other than the lashing storm, coiling overhead, the forest remained still, spooked by the guttering battle. Now the moon was peeking from between the obsidian clouds, bleak light spilled between the clawing canopy, filling the growths with shadow. The thicket was full of holes and cover ¨C full of surprises, maybe. Luckily, nothing of the sort approached Keter as he made his way to the cave; the place where he had killed his first set of greenskins, and where he had found his blade.


    The moon had turned once, since his arrival in this world; since all this madness started. And Keter had never known a more blessed day.

 A Creature Of Habit

    Another grinding lick resounded in the hollow cavern, bouncing off the rough marble and echoing slightly as it trailed off into the abysmal bowels. His blade had been cleaned of all the blood and grime that had clung to it, and now Keter labored himself with further maintenance.


    There was something calming about the repetitive motion of sliding the steel along stone. Ever-careful of keeping the edge level, the curve true, the motion smooth. Man were creatures of habit, and sharpening had grown his habit indeed.


    He raised the slightly curved edge to his eye and allowed the early morning sun¡¯s bleak light to dance across the metal. Frowning, he rubbed his thumb across the cut, sensing a burr forming at the apex. He¡¯d ground off too much iron. Still, it was better than carrying a dull blade around. His father had once told him ¡®if the edge can¡¯t pop hairs, it has no use at your hip¡¯.


    Keter pressed his finger in a bundle of tinder, placed on the bare floor. Magic, for how obscure that it had felt at first, was surprisingly easy to use. He sucked in a lungful of air, so now he had both fuel and oxygen, all he needed at this point was heat. He pushed his breath out, slow, into the murky grotto, and willed fire to rise.


    The kindling started to smolder, uncertainly sputtering at first as he still felt the weight from his usage past night, but as Keter guided his breath at the begging flames - they grew, and more wood began to sunder. The clay pot with animal fat would soon soften up. Ready to be applied to the weaponry. Waiting for that, Keter stropped the blade on some leather in the meantime.


    Magic didn¡¯t seem to require words of power, animal sacrifice or other occult catalysts. You simply willed it, and so it would happen. Very much like one would command their arm to grasp a glass of water. Similarly, it still required a lot of control and experience; lest the glass shatter and the water spill. All fire required was heat, making it the easiest worldly thing to influence.


    Keter dabbed the cleanest rag he could find in the fat and started distributing it evenly across the blade¡¯s length. As his muscles stretched and worked, the aches from last night¡¯s struggle returned; especially his left shoulder. This, however, was nothing new. His previous body was a map of scars and gashes and patchwork. In time, this hide would harden too.


    Turning the blade around once more, inspecting the bowie grind, Keter found himself pondering once more; who had made this? Surely not the greenskins. When he had found this weapon, it was rusted, battered and unknown to maintenance. These things could make simple tools, true. But the secrets of metallurgy seemed quite a way¡¯s away for such savage beings.


    After rubbing the rest of the fat on the hide poncho he wore for clothing, Keter gathered his meagre belongings and set off once more. Humans or other intelligent life had to be near here, no doubt. The blade didn¡¯t seem eons old. It couldn¡¯t be a last relic from a bygone age. Or so Keter hoped. Greenskins weren¡¯t smart enough for their hunt to be enjoyable.


    Immediately after Keter left his earthen shelter, he was welcomed by the forest¡¯s sounds and smell. A low, chilly breeze, the last remnant of last night¡¯s storm, wove its way between tall trees and hardy briar. He sucked in a lungful of dewy air, marveling at the nostalgic feel lingering in the deepest core of his mind; from long ago when stalking the wild was his only nature. This was where he belonged.


    Keter followed the trail that had led him to the cave, moving past great arch trees and through everlasting scrubs. Nature was slowly reclaiming the worn earth, long trudged over many years by thirsty greenskins who made their way to water. And water he found.


    While the greenery grew thicker around the flow, and Keter¡¯s shoulder ached ¨C pulling at the crude stitches ¨C eventually the thicket made way for passage. The calm stream trickled across river-smooth stones, glittering in the pale light. Leaves, crumbled and auburn floated peacefully downwards, following the earth¡¯s slope.


    If there was civilization to be found, Keter¡¯s biggest chance of discovering it was to commit to the stream, as flowing water is a necessity for any thriving community to flourish. It could be used to drink and wash, but also clean and cook; to water crops and maintain livestock; even to power granaries, forges, watermills. The possibilities were near limitless given that the beholder sees its value and the many uses it presents.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    It came to him, then; an almost nostalgic sensation. Like the feel of grandmother¡¯s old rug between your naked toes. The sound of mother¡¯s cooing voice in your home. A lover¡¯s purr in the bed.


    Like honey to the bee; like water to the fish: blood was to the Destroyer.


    Its rich stench floated on the low winds, sweet and of bitter iron that teased his hanging tongue. He could almost taste it as real as he felt spit fill his agape mouth. Blinking, he rid himself from the trans-like state and slinked to the pricking bushes, bustling with dark leaves. Keter pressed his aching body to the damp soil, fingers of one hand digging in the biting cold. The other held his overbuilt blade.


    Through the clawing canopy, light sifted down displaying orange and yellows by degrees as the sun pierced the autumn roof. And from in-between the bright display, a creature of frightening bravura stalked.


    Its size rivaled a Kodiak¡¯s, yet its limbs were deceivingly lean. Hind legs like a preying bird, yet those at the front appeared horribly human; long, wiry hands and fingers with razor claws at the end. Its head was unmistakably that of a crow: black of plume and long of beak. Just as the two gargantuan wings, protruding from its shoulder blades; both black as pitch and draping like curtains of midnight.


    It walked on three, using the knuckles of its free hand like an ape, while clutching a gored greenskin in its remaining paw. Its head bobbed and swiveled around as the thing moved with eerie quiet along the sodden duff. Nearing the clear stream, the monster shot another glance around before dunking the greenskin in the water, three times, then holding it up for inspection while balancing itself on its hindlegs.


    Keter stared, fascinated, as the creature went through these motions almost mechanically; washing its prize. It seemed such a sophisticated habit ¨C ridding your food of grime and disease. Keter had never tried greenskin meat, as the sheer smell of the tainted, orange flesh had him riled. But, as the yellow ichor flowed downstream, and the meat cleared, it appeared significantly more appealing.


    As he laid there, transfixed, Keter lost track of time; staring aghast at the unnatural scene. The sun had climbed higher to its throne before the creature was satisfied with its labor. Now left with clear-white meat, it pranced off into the deep auburn.


    Keter took his time before raising himself, though he was shivering from the wet earth that stole the heat form his skin. Confident as he was in his abilities to kill a greenskin or two; the Prowl, as he decided on naming it, appeared beyond his capabilities at this time.


    The champion was not he who defeated all opponents; it was he who crushed all those he chose to fight. The nuance there makes the threadbare difference between life under the sun, and the embrace of a shallow grave.


    No matter how strong, how fierce, how clever; everything and everyone will meet their inevitable end. Even the Prowl had glanced around before starting its work. Proof enough for Keter to tell him the creature knew of death and danger. He¡¯d hunt it one day, but not today.


    *


    The river slithered almost endlessly, terraforming the world around it as it moved in the bosom of two inclines. Up ahead, mountains shapes like massive teeth claimed the horizon; the sun, dancing uncertainly at their peaks.


    Keter had climbed many o¡¯ mountain in his time, but never with the pitiful collection of gear he carried with now. Nothing but a crude hide poncho as clothing, a simple bag made of greenskin leather to keep some bare necessities, and his iron blade. Poise nor willpower would be providing any aid in the endeavor. Surely, he would freeze, starve, or die of thirst before breaching the summit.


    Squinting his eyes to slits, Keter peered at where the river coursed, where two piles of rock met, he saw it to be lower. More crag than mountain. At least his chances of surviving the journey would be better through there.


    As he traversed the terrain, he noticed that around him oddly shaped stones jutted from the soil, covered by a thin sheet of dead foliage or soggy moss, glistening with wet. They were cone or dome-shaped, and either smooth or strangely rippled. Some only poked up between the thicket, while others rose proudly between the reaching trees.


    And as he neared the mountain range, they only increased in amount. Close inspection showed them as no more than rock. At least not at first glance. Yet, Keter noted they slimly resembled sculptures, carved by nature rather than man with impressive symmetry.


    He continued walking, the sky warping deep and dark ¨C the sun no more than a slim line. Then there was a noise. He crouched, instantly; ears perked, eyes peeled, and legs strained to leap away at the faintest note of danger.


    The sound came again, echoing oddly with sharp pitches. All around. Frowning, Keter failed at finding the source. Pivoting, he took a step. The sound woke again, snapping madly like thin ice. He realized, too late.


    The floor shook, dirt crumbled, stone split and Keter was swallowed by the earth¡¯s abysmal maw.

 A Quiet Gathering Of Forgotten Thoughts

    When the dust cleared, Keter found himself sprawled on the harsh floor, wrapped in darkness. With his first breath he swallowed a lungful of floating debris; had him hacking and groaning and fighting for cleaner air. But solace did not come before his throat had been grated raw by the sharp sand, his mouth dry and burning just as his flaring nostrils.


    There was no light down in the pit, and Keter reckoned it didn¡¯t matter because his vision was ruined for all the dust that stung his eyes. He had his scabbed back pressed up against a wall while his hand sifted through the dirt, searching for the blade he had dropped.


    He already though of himself as lucky. Could¡¯ve skewered himself on the damned thing during his fall. It was sharp enough for such a simple task, Keter had made sure of that. The tip of a blade will always be superior to the edge when it comes to killing. This, too, his father had taught him.


    After blinking in the dark, and tears expelled enough filth from his eyes, his sight somewhat returned to him. but, no matter how well acquainted with the dark one might be, Keter was human, still, and in complete darkness he could not see to see.


    Giving up on finding his blade for now, Keter¡¯s fingers carefully palpated his bruised body, prodding for broken bones or internal bleeding. Though he ached all over, nothing seemed beyond repair. The thought of broken legs unnerved him. It reminded Keter of Norwegian mountains, of gear half his weight, a team-mate tripping and breaking his ankle. They¡¯d carried him far, after the bone had snapped. One to carry the man¡¯s gear, the other carried him on the shoulders.


    For near a week, they had dragged him up and down the steep slopes and along deep edges, through forest and snow and storm. They had no choice but to abandon him when they themselves had grown too weak. Left in the frozen forest with nothing but a pistol and a single bullet. For miles, Keter had heard his terrible screams. The cries of those who knew of their end.


    Sometimes, Keter still heard that tearing voice ¨C horribly accusatory, awfully frightened, dreadfully broken. Heard it when the wind howled between the trees. Heard it in the groaning of machinery. In his own voice, when its echo returned from the mountains. Could even hear it now, in the hollow cavern as the low air coiled.


    He crawled around, blind as a mole, on the flat floor as he sought for his only weapon. He paused for just a moment when his fingers slipped through the sand and found crevices, etched in the stone. He traced them with his thumb, round and around. A perfect circle, and within it, odd shapes and angles spun. This could not be natural.


    He sniffed the air, now his nose had cleared, and smelled a faint trail of oil. A thin smile lined his face and he gingerly rose from the deck, careful to maintain his balance with one hand guided along the cool wall. All seemed not lost.


    The smell became thicker as he neared it, following its wisps curling the stagnant air. Stalked it until his hand found a metal can emanating a rich, oily smell.


    He hadn¡¯t often used oil, though. And it made him quite hesitant of just setting it aflame in fear of a combustion roaring and burning through the dusty air until only cinder remained of him. Red-Sun had taught him all he knew, and warned Keter of dust-explosions, especially in enclosed spaces.


    He ripped a shred of hide from his ragged poncho and dipped it in the flammable liquid. Like a wick, he held it between two fingers, a few paces away from the rest. Keter willed it, and sparks enlightened the drab to flame.


    The fire ate away at shadow, pushing them back but not by much. Deep dark still swam about him, cloaking his earthen prison in pitch. But Keter was put as ease, as he noticed the oil to be slow-burning. Whatever remained in the can would last him a while before he could find something to fashion a candle or torch.


    After he lit the lantern with his burning scrap of fur, the darkness fled further and showed the world anew.


    His confinement was less cave and more tomb. Lime-like bricks lined the walls and marble tiles made out the floor, cracked and rubbed away by time, all homing strange carvings and etchings. Bizarre and otherworldly writing flowed around intrinsic shapes, impossible patterns.


    He leaned in closer, eyes wide and almost glowing in the dancing light, staring deep at the wall and finally saw that even the most complicated patterns were hundreds, thousands of tiny runes all flowing into each other to form a greater whole.


    When he stepped back, leaning away, he discovered the greater whole; an awesome work of art of man and monster locked into an eternal battle with one another and themselves. Beams and arcs of ethereal light flaring to life around the grand battle and disintegrating any who dared oppose the wielder¡¯s might.


    Whatever civilization ruled this world, they surely knew how to wage their wars. It was somewhat worrying, though. Keter had no idea how they would react to his presence. Would they realize he was different? Was he even different? Perhaps all this world¡¯s inhabitants were reincarnated. Perhaps not, and they would see him as a god or a demon or simply as a loon, spouting nonsense. That is, if they didn¡¯t kill him on sight. Many things to consider. But that was just part of the fun.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Life loved nothing more than to challenge, and Keter loved nothing more than to be challenged.


    He back-tracked to where he had fallen down and saw his blade laying on the floor, cluttered with dust, some of it still crumbled from the ceiling. Seemed like the tunnel had collapsed upon itself, sealing the way out with metric tons of rubble.


    There were two ways he could go: from where he had found the oil or to where he had yet to explore. Keter had not the faintest clue as to where north was, or the mountains or anything else. This was up to only lady luck.


    Giving it any more though would only waist his time, and diminish his chances of surviving, already so slim. He started in one direction, then thought better of it and turned around to where he hadn¡¯t explored yet. For no particular reason.


    The flames reached out like fingers as they lit the perilous tomb while Keter marched on for what seemed like miles, though it couldn¡¯t have rationally have been that long. He felt his mind linger on the sculptures and carvings written on the endless walls and tiles, some still pristine while others had worn to dust.


    Something flickered in the corner of his sight. He quickly pivoted, raising his blade in one hand and the curling flame in the other. It was a mummified corpse, frozen in prayer as it kneeled on the etched flooring. Forever showing their devotion to whatever deserved it.


    Keter guided the light along the dried husk of man, or once was such. Even on closer inspection it looked very much human, perhaps smaller than average in size. But it was hard to tell, as Keter¡¯s vessel was that of a young child; making the comparison arduous.


    Keter abandoned the remains, but as he continued his path, there were only more. All kneeling, all praying, all dead and dried and populating the hall in a quiet gathering of forgotten thoughts. Made Keter wonder whether this too was his fate; consigned to these hollows and forever lost. He quickened his pace, passing crowds of dead and pots filled with bones. If he feared one thing, and one thing only, it was a death silent as this.


    *


    He stood still and forlorn, his eyes burning mad. Before him the hallway split in two ¨C one path reaching left, the other right, and both sealed for a massive slab of rock that functioned as a door with one solid sarcophagus in the middle. They would not budge.


    He clenched and unclenched his hands, again and again as he weighed his meagre options. Already one day without water left him thirsting something fierce and weakened to boot. If he would return now, another day without drink would be the end of him. This small body was already suffering an array of injuries and exhausted by all the traveling and fighting. Two days without water would see it killed.


    The left door was untouched by the world, and fit snuggly in its frame. The other had seen some wear, and small fissures had crumbled on its edges. He glanced at his blade, thick and overbuilt, unwieldy and cumbersome. Perhaps strong enough to use as a prybar.


    He eyed the grand plate of stone again, estimating its weight. His choices were simple. Worst case, the blade would snap, and he¡¯d be left with a broken hilt and a slow death to await. But heading back now wouldn¡¯t really change much about the outcome. And that wasn¡¯t really a choice at all, was it?


    He stabbed the sword in the crevice, wriggling and shifting the steel as he pried it deeper; until it was almost halfway up the blade. As he fingered the hilt nervously, he spread his feet in the layer of dust, hoping for a decent foothold at least. His chances weren¡¯t opportune, but little ever is when your life is on the line.


    Power welled from his legs, into his back, through his shoulders and to his hands, wringing at the worn grip as every fiber trembled under the strain. His teeth groaned, and his gum started bleeding; heard some of them crack as he kept adding pressure. His shoulders swelled as they exuded every strain of strength, opening the wound once more, pushing, driving the grip forth.


    Blood thumbed and surged through his ears, white flashes of pain searing his vision, but there was no doubt. He felt the door opening, slowly. It grated the floor bare and Keter couldn¡¯t help but grin even under all the pain. Hurt, he could handle like no other.


    With a bellowing roar that tore his throat bloody he willed his magic forth and felt it raging inside himself like a vast, coiling, boiling ocean of mad power. With a last push, he heard a resonating snap before lurching forward and smacking to the tiles.


    He grasped at his bloody head, the gash there had now started leaking again, had him hissing angrily. He looked down at his hand, still holding the hilt. Only the hilt and a remnant of iron. He was left with less than half a blade, shattered into a harsh point.


    Though all was not lost. The door had opened just a sliver, just enough for his small frame to wring through. He gave a hacking laugh, then started coughing as dust welled up and entered his lungs.


    He shot a last glance at the stone coffin, etched with mind-bending shapes and overwhelming patterns made from countless runes and symbols. Gripping his blade, he pondered on what could be inside. All the deceased were angled in the tomb¡¯s direction, surely praying to whatever was inside.


    Keter licked at his cracked lips. A legendary blade? An artifact of old? The philosophers stone? He snorted, bemused. It was probably filled with deteriorating bones, and all these fools were praying to some long dead prophet. He would not waist his remaining strength or blade to find whatever was sealed inside. Not now, anyway.


    Picking up his oil-lamp, refiled from every depot he had encountered on his way, he started to the opened creak.


    A tight fit. He wriggled, wriggled like a mole in its burrow, the jagged slab scraping his frame bloody. He pushed out his breath again and pressed on. The thought of remaining stuck there was not a pleasant one.


    A last effort, and he fell through, almost dropping his oil lamp. A pitched shriek split the air, a blurry shape dashing from Keter¡¯s circle of light. Immediately he straightened himself, prepared to crush anything that posed danger.


    It looked at him from the shadowed edges of his licking flame, and so Keter neared; ready to kill. The fire flickered along dirty pale skin, worn hides, cluttered hair, and the awed face of a human girl.

 The Depths

    Attempts at any clear communication had proven futile, though not for a lack of effort on the girl¡¯s part. She, for whatever reason, had taken it upon herself to rabble as many incoherent words as possible when they had met.


    Even now, with Keter staggering down the catacomb, feeling the last remnants of vigor slip from his body with every stumble, she blabbered on in her guttering language. The absence of oil pots on this side of the crypt were the least of his worries.


    Her sentences were filled with R¡¯s and hard G¡¯s, making it sound as if she were chocking on something constantly. There was also little telling where one word ended and the other began. If only he himself could string more than two thoughts together then, perhaps, there¡¯d be any sense in what she was trying to explain to him.


    The light of his sputtering flame waned for a brief moment, Keter¡¯s sight already a greasy smear. His legs gave in and he floundered at a wall, breathing poorly. Again, the girl spoke in her vague tongue, holding something in her hands, this time.


    Keter watched the shadows crawl across a bag of hide she was presenting him. A glint in his eyes, and he saw it was a water-skin. He lurched for her, then faltered and fell into the girl, tumbling to the tiles in a tangle of limbs.


    Keter groaned, too tired to voice his irritation any louder. This was not the first time he went without succor for days, but it was still a thing this body had yet to learn and grow accustomed to. The girl rolled him onto his back and pressed the water-skin¡¯s end to his chapped lips.


    Oh, sweet water. But he was no fool. Keter, even in his blurred state, took care and only sipped small swallows. Too much wouldn¡¯t do him any good.


    ¡°Rog¡¯var Goghvih dor Virrah!¡± The girl said, again.


    Keter squinted at her, thumping her chest.


    ¡°Dor Virrah!¡± then pointed at him.


    ¡°Grievoh! Grievoh!¡± Keter paused between swallows, his mind churning. He pressed his hand to his chest.


    ¡°Keter.¡± But she shook her head fiercely.


    ¡°Grievoh!¡± She stared into his eyes with reverence, as if it were a thing of rarity. Novelty. Hers gleamed eagerly in the flames dull glow.


    She stared at his black hair, then at him and said with absolute certainty, ¡°Grievoh!¡± She seemed pleased about that for some reason.


    Keter sighed, but then perked up when she offered him a strip of dried flesh, which he devoured quickly, almost chocking on the thing. When his breath returned to him, he ate another, and another; filling himself well enough. I had been long since he had felt his stomach swell full, and Keter felt his lids growing heavier as he slowly sank into slumber.


    *


    His eyes sprang open, flitting around in absolute darkness. Where was his candle? His knife? Where was ¨C


    His mouth was open, and he was drinking something of bitter iron. Blood. Lurching away, sprawling to the dirt-caked floor and tried to peer through the shadows. A pause, then,


    ¡°Grievoh? Grievoh dorgh gha Doark.¡± Her voice resounded again, confused.


    Keter slowed his breathing. Why was he panicking so quickly? Had his mind grown to be that of a child, too? He hissed like a viper and heard the girl recoil. He was The Crown, not some kid. Magic coursed through his veins once more, reinvigorated by his rest. Keter sacrificed some heat in his veins and willed fire to burn.


    A small flame sprouted from his fingertip, yet not hurting it with its heat, as he was carefully redirecting it upwards and away. Keter spotted the lantern before anything else and carried the flame to it, and the pool of light grew. He saw the girl stare at the tiny flame with fascination.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Blood lined the edge of his blade, held in the girl¡¯s hand. Keter¡¯s eyes moved over her and found a shallow cut in her wrist. Whatever reason did she have to cut herself? He wiped her blood from his lips. Pointing at her wound, he cocked his head.


    ¡°Why?¡± He asked in a questioning tone. But she only grinned.


    ¡°Grievoh gough vagha dorst!¡±


    He shook his head again, failing to make any sense of her explanation. Judging from her clothing, all pelts and twine, she probably belonged to some primitive society. Perhaps they still thought blood to have healing powers¡­ Though that could actually be the case, though, Keter pondered. If magic existed, then why not healing blood? There was so much that he didn¡¯t know, but at least now his head was clear enough for thought.


    A bag, placed on the deck, earned his attention. He hadn¡¯t noticed her carrying it before through the blur of exhaustion. She got up from the floor, winding a crude bandage around her self-inflicted cut, and Keter discovered all his wounds to have been treated in a similar way, too. Not so primitive, then?


    She started walking and beckoned him over.


    ¡°Grievoh! Gha vet Virrah!¡± She tapped her chest again. ¡°Virrah!¡±


    And so, Keter started following the girl named Virrah through the aged crypt.


    *


    One path had long become many, yet Virrah never flinched or paused at the branching halls, confidently navigating through the vast catacomb. Every now and then, she shot a backwards glance at him to see if he was still fine. But for whatever reason, be it the food, the drink, the sleep or the blood, Keter had since long shed his fatigue. In fact, the warm magic wreathing in his gut pressed him for action. To move faster. This desire, though, he ignored.


    Watching her tangled, pale-blond locks ahead reminded Keter of how much he relied on her. Without Virrah to guide him through the endlessly branching pathways, he¡¯d become lost, and would remain so forever. It was not a pleasant thought. Keter felt way too old as to be lead around by a little girl, even younger than what his new body looked from what he had seen in the reflection of a clear pond.


    ¡°Wait.¡± He called out to her as she chose another path out of three. Virrah turned back to regard him.


    Keter raised his hands, gesturing to the different tunnels.


    ¡°How do you know?¡± He asked in a questioning tone.


    She took a moment to digest his query before figuring out what he meant. Virrah strode closer, then stopped and pointed at the base of her chosen path.


    ¡°Zogh Doveghn.¡± She said, blocking one hand with the other and nodding to his lantern. Keter understood and complied, stopping the light from spilling. A moment was all it took for his eyes to adapt to the dark, and where Virrah was pointing, he noticed a faint, glowing bleach-yellow. He realized, she had marked every turn along the way with some sort of concoction.


    That propped him to raise his eyebrows in slight surprise and to reevaluate this girl, obviously a lot cleverer than he had first given her credit to. Virrah¡¯s eyes were round as the full-bellied moon and blue as flame. Apart from the usual mesmerized twinkle they held whenever she watched him, there was now also a hint of smug satisfaction.


    As they continued their journey, Keter remarked that the tiles and brick on this side had eroded past recognition. The bewildering patterns and obscure shapes were no longer present. They had worn away in the passing of ages. There were also rough tunnels along the walls at intervals, too round for them to be natural, too harsh to be carved by sophisticated tools. Keter found that the longer he roamed in these depths, the more questions he had.


    His attention was caught by something on the wall. Pausing, he raised his lantern to the spot. In the warm glow, a deep claw-mark was cleaved in the rough brick. Four long gashes ran down the for length of his body. Whatever creature could have wrought damage such as this?


    ¡°Virrah!¡± The girl walked over after being called and positioned herself next to him. Keter pointed at the jagged grooves, and she immediately understood. Virrah flapped her arms like wings, then formed them into claws, and lashed viciously at the air.


    ¡°Grievfa! Griefva!¡± She tapped her chest knowingly. ¡°Virrah!¡± Then pointed at Keter. ¡°Grievoh!¡±


    It didn¡¯t make any sense to him. All he understood is that whatever had left those marks was dangerous. Something he had already figured out.


    ¡°Lead the way, then, Virrah.¡± He shrugged.


    *


    ¡°Leedh sthe wheiy, Sacrifice.¡± The Young God spoke again in his hissing tongue. It reminded Slickleaf of the noise a Splitjaw made when enraged; a sound she had only heard once in her life before and wished to never hear again.


    Once more, she started walking, following her marked trail through the Hollows of the Old Gods. The sack Silva, the Crone, had sneaked her along snuggly fit on her back. The food inside was running out though as none of them had expected her to run into another person, let alone a God. But that was fine. They were nearing the Hollow¡¯s end, anyway.


    No matter what the village elders had to say about Slickleaf, or their superstitions, if she brought back the black-haired, black-eyed Godling, they would have no choice but to lift her tittle of Virrah; Sacrifice. Though, she still wondered how the Young God would deal with the Herald who had made these Hollows its home.


    She shrugged to herself. If the winged speaker of the Old Gods would not listen to the Godling¡¯s tongue, he could use his wordless magic to lay waste. Legends spoke of mountains being leveled, rivers being drained, and forests turned to ash with their silent augury.


    Whatever chance stood the Herald against that?

 Fire, Thunder, Broken Stone

    Proof of the creature¡¯s dominion became more evident as the pair continued through the reaching tunnels, sloping up more and more. Keter felt a lifting in his guts when he realized his imprisonment, this detainment to the suffocating depths, would soon come to an end. He¡¯d be free once again.


    But the many scratches and marks left by the monstrous beast left him feeling awry. Whatever roamed these crypts and hollows had left a lasting impression on him, for the countless pale bones it left behind.


    They were all smooth, almost polished. Perfectly cleaned of even the faintest trace of meat. Some small and flimsy, belonging to animals who scuttled in the dark. Others large and thick, lasting remains of creatures that once proudly dwelled the forests and valleys. Both equally powerless before this tomb¡¯s sovereign.


    The scraps of bandage wrapped around his feet greatly improved Keter¡¯s comfort. The sharp pieces of flint, laying scattered and scraped off the walls had been cutting into his soles for a time. This adventure would need to end soon. Even if whatever Virrah dressed his wounds with was effective, it would not prevent infection of setting in forever. At a point, one of those wounds would start looking suspiciously red, then oozing puss, then blackening and¡­


    Keter was ripped from his thoughts when he heard a distant voice, echoing through the crumbling tunnels. It was soft and cooing and bright like a thousand tinkling bells. Almost singing, it spoke in a language Keter did not know of, and wisped itself, as if weaving, down the desolate crypt.


    But however beautiful it might be, Keter would not be moved. He glanced right, at Virrah, and saw she was looking expectantly at him; as if he would know what to do. She had an odd confidence in his abilities at the strangest of times.


    ¡°What was that?¡± He whispered, and she looked bewildered for a spell, eying him up and down before frowning slightly. A minor show of emotion on her usual blank mask.


    ¡°Griefva.¡± She said lowly, now looking less sure. Keter pointed at the deep-etched wall, horribly abused and torn.


    ¡°That?¡± She nodded, confirming his unsettling prediction. He cursed under his breath, then tried his best to explain to her he wished to circumvent any contact with the creature, using a wide array of gestures and noises. She shook her head, stubbornly, looking him straight in his eyes. Something no one had ever dared before. They were too deep. Too dark. You could lose yourself in his eyes.


    ¡°Grievoh!¡± she hissed at him, then raising her balled fist. ¡°Grievfa.¡± She opened her other hand to a palm. ¡°Rogh!¡± and slamming her fist into her palm. Seemed like either the only option was to fight, or she wanted them to. Whatever the truth was, the result stayed the same. If it was her desire, Keter could not refuse her. She could simply abstain from leading him out of the catacomb. Simple as that.


    Keter involuntary snarled, brandishing his lined teeth, prompting Virrah to take a small step back. He did not like being under someone¡¯s control, be it in the past or present. Never would they catch him, restrain his will, stop him. Not the tomb. Not Virrah. Not this Grievoh. Nothing and no one.


    *


    From high gaps in the tunnel¡¯s roof, dim light spilled down together with a hammering of rain. The Prowl¡¯s black feathers, donning the head and wings, were covered by beads of wet, slipping down and tapping on the seeping floor.


    Even if the sun was clouded, and its light only reached the crypt through fissures, it was the clearest image Keter had seen in days. The Prowl was talking softly in an eerily human voice to nothing but the rain and the crooked bone it was lapping the marrow from with its long, slithering purple tongue.


    Its nest, if that was where it was standing, showed impeccably clean. Every inch was spotless of filth or dirt. The Prowl was a most hygienic beast. Even then, as it was sucking the bone dry, it payed immaculate attention that its beige hide stayed spotless.


    Keter saw invisible ripples of magic steam off its skin, forming a mirage of coiling mantra around the monster¡¯s frame. Everything held magic, from the dirt littering the earth, to the trees sprouting from it, to the creatures feeding from them, and the beasts feasting of those.


    Some things or creatures had a denser cloud of magic around them, making it difficult to influence the space close to their bodies. Setting a wick aflame was easy, the hairs of a greenskin were harder and other conditions such as air and water made it easier or not.


    Keter could tell at a glance that forcing any magic on the Prowl was impossible for him. He was not strong enough. But a beast was still just that; nothing more than an animal, and those could be killed just like anything. All he needed was an opening. All he needed was time.


    Shadows swarmed around Keter, more as if they were drawn to the him than anything else. They belonged there, just as he. Still as a stone, Keter allowed the Rain to lash him, slowly washing away the dirt and grime he had covered himself with as improvised camouflage.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Time waded past, calm and steady as always. And Keter made himself part of the rocks around. Like he had in the old days. Wasn¡¯t really that hard at all. It all came back to him as if he had been roaming these tunnels every day for years.


    Rain kept pelting, drenching his hair, seeping into his poncho, sodding his dressings then spattered to the earth, drip, drip, drip. Keter sat there, still and silent as the stone from which this crypt was carved.


    It could be a terrifying weapon, patience. One of those things only a few men really learn to use. It was a hard thing, to keep your mind on a deadly task while your blood is cold, and danger can still be avoided. Keter found he¡¯d always had the knack for it. Like no other.


    So, he crouched there, and let the slow time crawl by. Until the rain was no more than a spit and drizzle, and the moon¡¯s pale sheen peeked between the ceiling¡¯s crevices. Pale enough for Keter to see his work by. The beast¡¯s chest rose and fell at a serene rhythm. Near-silent breathing coming from its vicious beak.


    He uncurled his limbs, muscles taught and sore from the time spent idle. He started moving but hesitated. From the folds of his pelt he retrieved two small beads of flatbread and pushed them into his ears. Having one plan sounds nice and dandy, but plans are prone to failure. More so whenever your life dangles from their structure. One plan is the same as having none. A knowing that comes from harsh experience.


    The rain was a friend like no other, masking the soft noises his feet made as he sneaked around the Prowl¡¯s giant slumbering frame. The world was muffled for the stuffing in his ears, but it was a thing he had grown most accustomed to in his previous life; stalking the modern battlefield tended to be cruel to the hearing unless properly protected. Even if it did limit his senses.


    The Prowl¡¯s head was even bigger once Keter had gotten close. He weighed his shattered blade, musing that the monster could probably swallow him whole if given the chance. Good thing no such thing would happen.


    He held the knife point down above the closed eye, gripping the ragged hilt with two hands; white from the cold. His breathing slowly synced with the beast¡¯s, up and down, in and out, until they almost became one.


    His sodden body was shivering, but he forced his fist still. Pain was a thing consigned to the mind, nothing more. It would not restrain him. Nothing would.


    Keter stabbed the blade into the Prowl¡¯s eye like an icepick and twisted it around. The monster lurched up, backed by a sharp scream that would¡¯ve really put a hurt on the ears if it weren¡¯t for the filling. Before Keter could lash at the creature¡¯s other eye he was swung away by its massive arm.


    He bounced and skidded along the tiles. He hacked and coughed, all breath punched from his lungs. His vision swam and it took a moment before he noticed his glinting blade. He sucked in another breath then rolled and sprang up, dashing towards his dropped blade.


    But the monster was there first, staring right at him with its one eye and barking wrathfully in vague resembles of human tongue. One of its razor talons swiped at his head, less than a blur in the dark. He ducked to the floor, hearing the air whizz above him, then snatched up his weapon. Rolling aside just in time as another claw grated the floor, sent sparks flying. Brightly glittering in the dim lair.


    Seeing an opening, Keter dashed between the Prowl¡¯s legs, jabbing the blade into its crotch. Black ichor sprayed out and doused Keter in pitch. The monster¡¯s enormous wings fanned out, beating against the walls and ceiling, raining down dust and sand.


    It quickly turned around, eyes filled with flame. Keter blinked the powder away, staring surprised to find both eyes gazing back. It had healed in moments. The only trace of injurie was the odd grey scar tissue, looking years old. So much for plan Alfa. Just his luck.


    The Prowl crouched low, tucking its wings close to itself, nails digging in the stone. Its head followed Keter¡¯s gleaming knife as he held it before him, knowing of the danger it posed. It would be prepared this time. The cut in its skin had already stopped bleeding.


    Muscles bulged, tendons coiled, and the Prowl reached Keter in one great spring. He hopped aside, discarding the blade to the floor and swinging the palms of both hands together. The creature¡¯s head was right before him, watching Keter with its huge, beady black eye. Amplified by his magic, the clap of his hands was thunder, shaking the crypt¡¯s very foundations and blasting debris from the savage struggle into the air.


    The Prowl recoiled, screaming in dismay as blood shot out its earhole, ruined by the overwhelming noise. It floundered back, stumbling as it lost every sense of balance. Keter had only remembered at the last moment to unclench his teeth, for they would have shattered otherwise. But the Prowl would not remain stunned forever.


    Keter turned on his heels and made a mad dash into the tomb¡¯s darkness, trusting solely on his senses to keep him from faltering in the obscure shadows. Barely had he taken two dozen strides, and already he heard the monster¡¯s frenzied hunt, roaring and stomping its way down the tunnels.


    Even here, be it the battle or the Prowl, the dust had stirred from its bedding and was floating through the hollows, stinging Keter¡¯s eyes to tears. Perhaps only through luck did he see the large blot of bleached yellow, brimming in the dark.


    Keter threw himself into the small, marked crevice, crashing right onto the hidden Virrah. His heart was beating so fast, thumping in his throat and had blood surging through his ears. His hairs stood on end and his fingers were twitching. He was alive. He felt alive. This¡­ This was what he was meant to do.


    Keter blew out his breath, and every trace of dust or oxygen fled their small hole. The monster raged outside, almost having reached their hide. There was warmth in him, swelling his muscles, coursing his veins. He needed only take a sliver of it. The spark, he threw into the tunnel filled with bellowing dust.


    There was a booming explosion as a cloud of flame obliterated everything like hell¡¯s unrighteous fury. It took everything Keter had to hold back the bellowing heat. He was so close to death, standing mere inches from her longing embrace. It would take but a slip to see them disintegrate into dust.


    If Virrah looked at him then, in the fire¡¯s horrible glow, she¡¯d see his face split in half for the mad grin that cleaved his face.

 The Sum Of Ones Parts

    Only once the howling flames of the dust-explosion had burned themselves out did Keter allow oxygen entry to their small alcove. Not a moment too soon, either. Immediately, he sucked in a great lungful of air the moment it blew inside, almost hyperventilating. Keter already felt lightheaded and wonky from holding his breath as long as he had. Whenever they reached their destination, Keter would make certain to properly cultivate his new body to prevent further shortcomings.


    With his breathing calming, he reached into the hole¡¯s far side and retrieved his trusted lantern, stuffed away in a fissure for safe-keeping. Exhaustion had thoroughly rooted inside his body; his magic drained from its strenuous use. The amount Keter could hold of the ethereal energy was a great limiter to his options.


    He took a lick of heat from his blood and felt himself growing colder before the wick finally caught flame. Accuracy of magic went down if he lost focus. Like then, being tired as he was.


    The lantern glowed, flooding the small space in an almost healing light. Keter saw Virrah huddled in the corner, almost passed-out for the previous lack of oxygen. It came to no surprise that her young and small body couldn¡¯t handle the suffocation well. After pressing his hand to the side of her neck, Keter confirmed her pulse and breathing. She still had her uses, and would not be allowed to die, yet.


    He realized, though, that the plan had been more of a gamble than would be ideal. Even if he had tested whether he could rid a small space of oxygen, he had not been certain whether he could¡¯ve kept the stray flames out of their hide. No matter the fire¡¯s furry, without air it could not find purchase. For the same reason had it now died, before fresh winds reclaimed the earthen crypt.


    Keter took his time to regain his senses, relaxing against the rough wall while waiting on Virrah to awaken. When the faint stench of burned flesh reached his nose, Virrah shuddered, coughed and squirmed upright. Fighting for her lungs to work. A few firm thumps on her back had her breathing normally after a spell. Her eyes were still hazy, and her movement stiff. But Keter judged her fit to walk the last stretch to wherever they were headed.


    His lantern¡¯s beam scared the shadows off to a comfortable distance, showing the battle¡¯s spoils clear. The walls were cracked and burned black where the fire had burned the brightest. Even now, some stubborn flames still lingered, dotting the cave¡¯s bowels like glowing fingers.


    The smell¡¯s origin was easily found. Giant and charred and still smoldering, the Prowl¡¯s abused carcass sprawled lifelessly on the singed tiles. Most skin and feather had been burned away, even a large part of flesh had been ripped apart by the explosion. Its thick skull was yet whole, though. Just as the intimidating talons, forever desperately clawing at nothing.


    Keter snorted and spat on the beast¡¯s corpse and growled, ¡°Heal your way out of that.¡±


    His blade should be somewhere under the dust and rubble too, and he was about to go looking for it before Virrah stopped him, eagerly pointing at the Prowl¡¯s skull.


    ¡°Griefva! Griefvoh rehm Griefva ghedel! Vor Dorgha!¡± Her eyes had again caught their intelligent gleam, blue like the summer sky and almost brimming in the dull cave. Keter looked at her crossly while she kept repeating herself, tapping the monster¡¯s beak. His best guess was that she wanted him to take the cursed weight along for the ride. Whenever would this woman stop with her ridiculous demands?


    But he still did not have any other option but to comply. That, and he hoped there was some sense in all the things she made him do. Keter left the fascinated Virrah with the smoking corpse and went to fetch his blade.


    He found the thing lying in the dirt quite a way¡¯s back. The explosion had reached here too, and it was evident as the blade was caked in soot and slightly chipped for being tossed around by the coursing flames. The ragged leather that had at one point wrapped the grip was dust, and only bare metal remained. Seemed like every day he was left with less than before.


    He tentatively touched the weapon, uncertain if it were still hot and would burn at his fingers. Burns were some of the most awful wounds one could be inflicted with. At worse, nerves would be damaged to the point you lost all sense in them. Good luck firing accurately when you can¡¯t feel the trigger-pull.


    Luckily, the hilt was cool to the touch. Keter arrived back at the Prowl¡¯s scarred skull and after gesturing Virrah aside, started wriggling the blade into its spine; severing it. After which he cut off the bottom jaw. If he was going to lumber this thing around, he¡¯d take as little of it as possible.


    To his surprise, though, it was Virrah who hauled the thing onto her shoulder, albeit with a great deal of effort. The girl¡¯s small frame was trembling under the great bulk, and Keter was certain that if he waited long enough she¡¯d be crushed by the remains.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    She still had her uses, and Keter would be damned if he were going to let her slow him down. Grudgingly, Keter took the largest part of the bulk and had it rest on his shoulder, dividing the weigh somewhat. Virrah made some appreciative sound in return.


    When they reached the Prowl¡¯s lair, Keter noticed a side tunnel the beast had been sleeping in front of. Almost as if guarding it. They say curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction brought it back. But Keter doubted he¡¯d be saved for the joy of discovering something interesting. But even from the entrance did he notice chunks of raw metal gleam in the cave¡¯s wall. Seemed much like a crow, the Prowl enjoyed collecting shiny things.


    Not one, but two moons shone overhead; One purple, high and small, the other a deep blue, low yet huge. Virrah greeted them with a smile and some gurgling words Keter did not understand. He did not remember the second blue one. Perhaps it only showed at specific dates?


    Walking outside was perhaps less pleasant than Keter had expected. He had imagined himself smiling and frolicking under the clear, star-clustered sky after his days devoid of fresh air. Like much in life, it was disappointing, and even the peculiar lower moon could not cheer him. After all, he was laboring most of the skull¡¯s weight with him, sweating and cursing under his rasping breath.


    Long had been his marches in training, and harder where the ones after. Days of climbing hills and mountains followed by nights of descending them, only to repeat the process for weeks on end. Sleeping only the barest minimum or not at all, and attacking outposts, antennas, patrols or logistic convoys as much as possible on the way. Going through it all like a machine, no mind for the body. Made him think now wasn¡¯t so bad. Still, he coveted a good night¡¯s rest and a decent meal plan none the less. The hurt of the past does not lessen the aches of the present.


    *


    Slickleaf felt like she was dying, her body a hollowed mess. The traditional garb of the Virrah, pelts and cord, were ragged and rank with sweat and filth. She smelled much like the boys-become-men after their quarter-turn in the wild, spent hunting beasts and the like. Seemed like ages since all that had reached her nose were strong herbs and spicy salves.


    Every step had her knees almost buckle, feet ridden with blisters she couldn¡¯t heal or care for. The last of her bandages and salves had been used to aid the God¡¯s wounds that had reopened after his battle with the Herald.


    She suppressed a groan as a sharp rock dug in the sole of her soft, leather boot. Once the Godling arrived at Hollow¡¯s Maw, things would change significantly, and Slickleaf wanted to be a part of it. She had no choice, if she wished to survive and grow. If she held herself as a dependable aid, the godling would certainly see her worth. Though, Slickleaf admitted, she wasn¡¯t doing the best of jobs at that, since he had helped her the moment she¡¯d lifted the ripping thing.


    She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, seeing his skin ¨C countless scars and wounds hidden by a patchwork of Band-Aids. Slickleaf doubted even Grog-Je¡¯cher, the Chief Hunter, had as much proof of battle as the Black-haired God.


    Still, she couldn¡¯t help but worry. Even if they showed the Herald¡¯s charred skull as evidence of the God¡¯s might, just as his silent mantra, Slickleaf wasn¡¯t certain if they would accept him. For too long has man been abandoned by the divine, left to scuttle in obscurity and grasp at nothing more than legend and folklore, preached by the Elder Shaman.


    The God halted, and the blackened head fell to the earth, pulling Slickleaf from her ponder. He grabbed her by the shoulder, dragging her down as he pressed his finger to his lips, hissing. Slickleaf hadn¡¯t hunted a day in her life, but still had enough wit about her to grasp his intent.


    The forest was quiet, other than the usual wind¡¯s howling and animal¡¯s chittering that broke through. But it wasn¡¯t long before the God pointed out a shape past some shrubs. First, it was a blurry spot in Slickleaf¡¯s eyes. But after some squinting at it, her eyes adapted, and she saw a hunter prowl the forest, spear in hand. His two companions shouldn¡¯t be far off, all on the early morning hunt.


    The god dragged his thumb across his throat, showing a questioning expression. Slickleaf shook her head quickly. Wouldn¡¯t want him to decimate them, after all, and the forest along with it.


    ¡°Wait here.¡± Slickleaf told him as she rose. But he didn¡¯t understand, and instead hauled the skull back on his shoulder with a grunt, nodding to her. She cursed her own shortcomings. If only she was able to actually talk to him. People of her Clan, any Clan, were most distrusting of outsiders. Never mind that some people of Hollow¡¯s Maw hated her guts and wouldn¡¯t be shy of disposing of her in the woods, after taking their time.


    She stuffed her left hand in the pelt¡¯s hidden pocket, sewn along the folds and invisible to all those who didn¡¯t know it to be there. To everyone but her and Silva. The warm sensation of the fire wreath salts tinkling her fingertips reassured her. If they¡¯d try anything, the God¡¯s awesome mantra wouldn¡¯t be their only concern.


    As Slickleaf left the confines of the thicket, she contemplated whether she should smile to greet them. She ended up deciding against it; she¡¯d never done much smiling in the past and starting now would probably only make these hunters distrustful. Slickleaf neared them just as she would¡¯ve before, when she was still the Owl¡¯s assistant; eyes cold and chin high.


    The first hunter to spot them instantly turned and lowered his spear at them. She felt the God tense next to her. To whom do you pray when it¡¯s the Gods that needed calming? Slickleaf wouldn¡¯t know. She never cared much for the divine. Something she regretted now. She whispered a silent prayer to Silva, instead.


    ¡°What are you doing back, Slickleaf?¡± The man barked, loud enough to wake the earth from its eternal slumber. The other hunters matched his posture, spears angled at her.


    ¡°I¡¯ve returned, for the prophesy had been fulfilled.¡± She said level. The hunter opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out once he saw the bone head. They all gawked at it before regarding the one who carried it. Hair, black as the Herald¡¯s plumes. Eyes, eternal as the Hollow¡¯s pitch. They knew, then, that men stood amongst a God, and dropped to their knees.

 Amongst The Embers

    To see men grovel before him wasn¡¯t a thing of novelty to Keter. Usually, though, they were trembling with primordial fright, begging for him to spare their puny lives. This was the first time they regarded him with reverence, their heads pressed to the morning-damp soil while they muttered prayers in their gurgling language.


    Keter shot a sidelong glance at Virrah, who was talking to the men with what sounded like an air of iron authority, belying of her young age. After another sharp hand gesture, one of the men fled off into the bush to do whatever Virrah had commanded him.


    Watching her demeanor change from exhausted girl to cold monarch was quite a sight to behold. It told much about a person, how quick they could mask their emotions. Showed they were adept to it, and more than willing to use these skills often. There was more to Virrah than you¡¯d think, and Keter was getting inquisitive about her story.


    Why were these men obeying her without question? Was it him? The Prowl¡¯s singed skull? Her authority alone? Why had she been in the crypt? Why help him? What did she gain by all this? Guessed he¡¯d find out soon enough.


    Keter tossed the skull to the ground, shrugging his sore shoulders loose. If they liked him enough to grovel in the dirt, they might as well carry the blasted thing to wherever they were going.


    The closest man looked up at him from his kneeled position, eyes wide with awe. Keter stared down and showed his leering grin, then spoke in Virrah¡¯s ugly language.


    ¡°Rhem Griefva ghedel!¡± The words that had echoed in his mind ever since he¡¯d started lumbering the thing around.


    *


    Slickleaf was surprised to hear the God speak her tongue. She¡¯d actually prefer it if he didn¡¯t learn too quickly, lest Slickleaf would lose some of her value. The man she had sent back disappeared in the woods, off to announce her return and the coming of a new God. She could hardly wait to see old Grog¡¯s furious face as his little plan falls into shambles. The Elder Shaman, too. A warmth spread through her stomach at the thought of Silva¡¯s praising.


    As the hunter, Yeht, she recalled his name, hauled the skull on his shoulder, stumbling slightly as he¡¯d underestimated the weight, Slickleaf started walking towards her Clan, gesturing the God along while nodding low. She had to be careful to exert enough command to appear to him as competent, yet not too much so he didn¡¯t think of her as a threat. Felt much to her like walking on thin ice; silent cracks spreading like a mad web beneath her feet. The God gave her a hard look with his dark eyes, but then complied when she didn¡¯t look away.


    The trek back was strange. Slickleaf had never imagined returning before she¡¯d met the young Godling. She faintly recognized the wild trail they followed, reminding her of a time when she¡¯d scourged the forest, together with a pair of hunters, to find any obscure plant or herp or shroom Silva had demanded found in her early apprentice days. Now, she had others to go fetch these things, like Halfbloom. Slickleaf suppressed a sneer at the idea of that stupid girl as the eldest pupil of Silva. Then almost chuckled, imagining her face on her return.


    The white sun climbed the distant sky, reaching above the mountain peaks which Cradled their native land. As they neared the clan, and tracks became more prevalent, the one hunter who carried the Herald¡¯s remains was sweating and puffing something fierce. Yet he didn¡¯t ask his companion for help, his honor would not allow it. Still, seeing him suffer much like Slickleaf had before brought a strange sort of satisfaction with it.


    She heard the hustle and bustle of the Clan before ever seeing them. The last line of trees opened up and Slickleaf was presented with a view she¡¯d never seen before. Everyone, from the youngest girl, to the eldest man and all in-between were gathered in the Cattle Valley before the village. She knew about two hundred people to live in Hollow¡¯s Maw but had never expected the gathered crowd to appear so overwhelming. Perhaps now she could imagine the grand scope of the ancient wars men had waged, told around the evening fire by the Elder Shaman.


    And before the grand mob stood the leaders of Hollow¡¯s Maw. Grog-je¡¯cher, the chief hunter was an imposing man. Perhaps not the tallest or broadest, but his muscles were hard like stone, and wound around his limbs like hardy Greywood and riddled with a hundred old scars. His eyes always had a sharp gleam to them, like a predator judging its prey.


    In the middle, Hawk, The Elder Shaman, grasped his bone staff, carved with intrinsic runes and symbols which lend him the power of the divine. He was a small, scrawny man, but no less dangerous. All he needed doing was speak some words to snuff a man¡¯s life like a struggling ember. He wore the most pristine garb in the whole village; painted cloth that had been painstakingly weaved by the Clan¡¯s women.


    Slickleaf¡¯s mood lifted once she¡¯d spotted Silva, the Elder Owl, standing where once the Elder Chief had stood. Even though she was bent over her cane, Silva looked the tallest of the whole crowd, holding herself with a grace that told everyone she decided who lived and died once the wounded arrived at her cottage. She was the oldest, and no doubt the wisest person in the whole of Hollow¡¯s Maw. Slickleaf would dare say the Owl was the most knowing in the whole Cradle.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    The mob gazed at the God with the same glittering eyes the hunters had. Not a few were even drawing religious wards or runes in the air as they muttered a prayer. Slickleaf saw their stares pulled to the Herald¡¯s skull too. Looking at it with both awe and fear.


    The whole gathering was silent, and Slickleaf realized with a jolt that they all expected the God to start addressing them, not knowing he could not speak their tongue but for a few words. The mass of men and woman all looked expectantly at him; all except for Silva, who regarded Slickleaf with an eager smile.


    She took a calming breath, then raised her voice as much as she dared, and spoke to the whole of Hollow¡¯s Maw.


    ¡°As the Elder Shaman has foretold in his tales of old, the prophecy of God¡¯s return has been fulfilled! And as proof of this He, the mighty Godling, has defeated the Herald and brought its lifeless skull with him on his arduous journey back to the people, you!¡±  The crowd stirred at her words, whispering that turned into talking, then warped to calling and eventually they were shouting their devotion to their new God, loud enough to tip the mountains. Slickleaf glanced at the Godling and was surprised to not find him overwhelmed by the mob¡¯s vigor. As if seeing such a gathering was normal to him. He was a God, after all.


    The Elders neared when they saw their chance, though still somewhat careful as they didn¡¯t know how the God would react to their presence. He simply regarded them with the same empty gaze as he gave everything else. Silva was the first to speak.


    ¡°Slickleaf, my child!¡± She grated in her papery voice. ¡°Once again, you triumph over the challenges fate throws you! No doubt, you are my best pupil.¡± Slickleaf warmed at Silva¡¯s words. Even if the other two frowned at them, they held their silence on the subject for now.


    Hawk, the Elder Shaman, bowed as low as his warded staff allowed him before the Godling, who watched the old man with cold indifference.


    ¡°Oh, divine Master, it is an honor to be able to show my devotion before you!¡± He kept his head down for a while, until he realized the God would not answer him. Confused, he dared look up, then sideways at Slickleaf.


    ¡°The God has yet to learn our language, Elder Shaman.¡± Slickleaf answered calmly. Oddly enough, Hawk shook his head in disagreement; ready to start an argument, it seemed.


    ¡°He, blessed be his name, is not a God, but a Master.¡± He said knowingly. They all stared at him in disbelief.


    ¡°What¡¯s the ripping difference?¡± Silva demanded. Hawk gave her a look, and Slickleaf groaned internally. She recognized that face. The senile Shaman was ready to blather on about the ancient writing until his tongue would flee him. Fortunately, Silva¡¯s pointed stare snuffed his words in their bud. He cleared his throat and gave a simple explanation.


    ¡°Gods, mighty they may be, can only influence the world indirectly, within their own dominion. Storms, disease, beasts and plague are the limits they can exercise.¡± He dared steal a glance at the Godling before continuing.


    ¡°He is a Master; a God¡¯s influence manifested among us mortals. Which Master, we do not know yet.¡± Grog¡¯s eyes panned across the God¡¯s, or Master¡¯s, patchwork of bandages, then viewed the Herald¡¯s skull.


    ¡°How¡­¡± He worked his jaws, thinking hard to find the right words with that soggy brain of his. ¡°How do we know which Master he is? What does it matter?¡± The Shaman looked almost disappointed with Grog¡¯s lack of finesse. No doubt pleased, then, that the Master did not understand them. No doubt, he would¡¯ve been greatly offended otherwise.


    ¡°It matters because depending on his nature will he bring us change and prosperity.¡± His eyes lit up, probably imagining his own rise in power as a Shaman with the Master¡¯s coming. ¡°and we learn this through observing his actions. Say, Pupil Slickleaf, how did he defeat the Herald?¡±


    Damn, all eyes were on her again. Well, she supposed she¡¯d better get used to it, if she wanted to rise in influence herself. Slickleaf thought back of the fight and its horrible fury.


    ¡°He called down searing flame and roaring thunder to rip the Herald apart. So mighty was his mantra that the very core of the Hollows shook with awe.¡± They all took a moment to digest such an image.


    ¡°And he had cast his wrath in silence.¡± Slickleaf finished. A collective gasp. Even the Shaman, strong as he was in magics, seemed put-off by the revelation. A thought came to her and she regarded the Master.


    ¡°Make fire?¡± She asked carefully not to upset the Shaman with her boldness to ask of the Master. Slickleaf moved her fingers like licking flame, and the young Master understood. He raised a single hand, and before the gathering¡¯s eyes, a clap of fire bellowed from his open palm, up into the morning air without a word uttered.


    They all recoiled at the sight, and the disturbed look on Hawk and Grog¡¯s face pleased Slickleaf greatly. When the blast of heat had finally dissipated, did Grog speak again.


    ¡°So, he be the Master of Flame, then?¡± Again, Hawk shook his head. Again, disappointed in the hunter.


    ¡°No,¡± he said, looking at the young Master. At his clothing, the cage that held flame, the sharp stone that gleamed in the sun¡¯s light, held in his other hand. Then, the Elder Shaman smiled.


    ¡°He has made his body a weapon, he has made nature his protection, he has made the Hollows his domain, and he has unmade the Herald.¡± His eyes were glazing over with wonder.


    ¡°He is the Master Maker, the binder of lands, the builder of holds, the uniter of men.¡± His voice was loud, booming. It reached all the way across the great crowd. All could hear. ¡°He will lead us to triumph over all others! He is the mightiest of Masters! The shaper, the Maker of worlds!¡± He almost screamed the last part at the people of Hollow¡¯s Maw as they cheered and called out the Master¡¯s name. The Grand Master Maker, who looked upon it all with the same black, calculated eyes.


    Slickleaf mouthed the words silently, ¡®Master Maker¡¯. The terrible battle between Master and Herald came back to her; flashes of scorching fire and crashing thunder, blasting the Winged Speaker to dust. She recalled the dreadful grin he had shown, the first sign of joy reflected in his abysmal eyes. Slickleaf doubted the Master Maker could make anything but a mountain of corpses and ash.

 Devices And Desires

    The man¡¯s pastel garbs fanned in the low winds, almost seeming aroused by the crowd¡¯s hollering. Keter did not quite know what was happening, other than he seemed to be revered by this place¡¯s populace. Why? Because he could use magic? Was he the only one with such an ability? There was no way of knowing, for now of course.


    The old man angled himself at him, gesturing at his clothes then at his own, and beckoning him over, seeming eager to leave and taking Keter with him. There was a fanatic glitter in the man¡¯s eye and Keter didn¡¯t know whether he could be trusted.


    Should he come with him? He did not speak the language nor understand their customs. A slight mistake in behavior could have drastic outcomes. They seemed to accept him now, but human patterns could change quickly. Keter had found most human interactions involving him generally did so for the worst for either of them.


    Virrah was eyeing him expectantly, the old crone close at her shoulder. Her wrinkled lips formed a kind smile, but Keter would¡¯ve been quicker to trust a singing shark. She might look old as time, but there was a tell to her posture that told otherwise.


    Crooked yet tall and wrapped from neck to toe in a long apron with pockets sewn on every inch. Her large frame loomed over Virrah as she looked down inquisitively at Keter. No, he did not trust her. But Virrah? She had helped him, but why? For her own goals, no doubt. Keter did not believe humans to be selfless. Such a thing was unnatural for all living things.


    His gaze moved to the wiry man, clad in pelts and leather; a myriad of scars and old wounds spread over his body. Eyes sharp but in a single-minded way. A man who knows his business, but little else beyond that. Was he capable of manipulation while Keter was vulnerable?


    Everyone, everything has their own purpose, their own desires. If Keter were to choose between any of these choices, he¡¯d choose the one who¡¯s goals mirrored his own. He wanted to stay alive. That was his aim for now.


    The low wind coiled around the group of men and women as the crowd slowly calmed with the stretching silence and building tension. They were all focused on their new Master, on his hand as he raised it towards his chosen patron.


    When confronted with the unknown, man will prefer the familiar, and Keter was man after all.


    *


    The knot tying down her gut was about to tear, then clenched as the Master Maker offered his hand to her. She looked up, confused, into his dark eyes, peering above a wry smile. Slickleaf was torn from the spell that had her frozen by a firm pat on the shoulder.


    She jolted, looking about her in bewilderment. Grog¡¯s unfeeling gaze. Hawk¡¯s insulted stare. Silva¡¯s proud grin.


    ¡°Are you going to make the Master wait any longer? He¡¯s going to be needing medical attention now! Perhaps a good scrub, to get rid of all that blood and grime.¡± The Owl smacked Slickleaf on her back, starting her forward.


    The moment she grasped his hand, his hardened, scarred hand, she felt him grip hard. And that calculated shudder in his dark, dark eyes told her he would not be fooled by anything. They nodded at each other in silent agreement, accepting one another for what they were. At least for now.


    The gathering quickly split in half, allowing them passage. Some seemed eager to touch the Master Maker, but none dared; fearing his ire. Others kept their distance, and others yet even looked with contempt. At her or the Master; Slickleaf could not tell.


    The walk to Silva¡¯s cottage was far from the Village proper, and even further from the Cattle Valley. Once, Slickleaf had asked the Elder why her hospit was so far from where anyone lived. If someone became injured, wouldn¡¯t it be easier for Silva to arrive there quickly? She¡¯d laughed, the Owl had, and told her with a knowing smile; ¡®If they die before I can get there, there was little I could¡¯ve done anyway. And the walk is good for my joints!¡¯ That said, Slickleaf had long realized that Silva hated any kind of physical strain.


    The trek stretched longer, and Silva was stringing curses, long forgotten through the passing of ages, thinking her hissing too quiet for Slickleaf to hear. Her great, stoic figure trembling as she fought for balance on her warped cane.


    The sun had climbed high by the time they reached the hill upon which her cottage rested. The old wood had been replaced countless times, for the building had sat there for as long as Slickleaf had remembered. longer still.


    Perhaps it would remain even far after the last Hollower had perished. Standing proud upon the grassy hill as a token to a forgotten Clan. Slickleaf wanted something to remind the world of her life; no matter how small.


    The smell hit her like a solid wall. Strong spices mingling with mellow herbs or pungent potions, all swimming about them. The Master Maker staggered slightly when the overwhelming aromas latched at his nose. To him, a concoction of unfamiliar, unknown sensations. To Slickleaf, a lifetime of memories waded through her brain in a dazzling array of images. This was no sensation she¡¯d dared hope to feel again.


    When the Elders deemed her as Sacrifice, these were things she had put behind her. All those times, some happy, some sad; others arduous or calm. They all had a part of Slickleaf to them; she had lived them all. It was enough to get her eyes to sting, and her lip to tremble.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    She blinked the wet away while guiding the Master through Silva¡¯s small herb garden, teeming with all sorts of plants, patiently waiting to be brewed into medicine or other. The solid lockwood door opened before they ever reached it, and a face, all too familiar, popped out from within. Halfbloom - Grog¡¯s daughter - Silva¡¯s second pupil.


    Slickleaf quickly rubbed the stray tears away with her forearm. She could not show weakness. Not ever. Halfbloom was two winters older, and a deal more matured in body. Only in body. For the rest, as how it goes, the girl was still very much a child. You could see it in her eyes, mired with contempt. She would never have dared look at Slickleaf like that before. Seemed like she¡¯d gotten the notion of being superior during her absence. A thing that needed correcting.


    ¡°Prepare a bath for the Master Maker.¡± Slickleaf spoke coldly, no hurry to it. Every word was slow and precise, demanding command. ¡°He needs to be clean before we care for his wounds.¡±


    Halfbloom¡¯s eyes narrowed, grasping the door¡¯s frame. She was weighing her chances carefully, eyeballing the Master, then Slickleaf to judge how much authority she still had, or could win.


    ¡°Are ya deaf?¡± Silva¡¯s grating voice ripped through Halfbloom¡¯s thinking. ¡°Make yer¡¯self useful, or I¡¯ll have you pullin¡¯ taintfin for a week!¡±


    Halfbloom jumped at the Owl¡¯s barked orders, bowed, and quickly ran to the well downhill. Gathering all that water and then heating it for a warm bath would be a chore, and not really necessary. The Master could also wash himself with a single bucket. But Slickleaf found Halfbloom could use the exercise, if only as punishment. She¡¯d gotten too close at replacing Slickleaf already. She would make sure such an opportunity would not show itself again to the lesser pupil.


    They entered a room lit by the midday sun, throwing its rays through a large open window. On the table, standing in the middle, an array of foods had been prepared by Halfbloom for whenever Silva would¡¯ve returned from the gathering. Easily enough for two people. Too bad Halfbloom wouldn¡¯t be able to enjoy any of it. Slickleaf grinned. A pity.


    The Master Maker sat down on the chopped chunk of Needlewood and started chewing down on a great helping of chicken and flatbread. He almost chocked when he took a swig from the jug of milk, then swallowed it down with a piece of meat. Slickleaf traced the scar on her wrist with a finger. Would food be enough to sate his hunger? Perhaps blood would need to be spilled again. She bit her lip, still somewhat lightheaded from the last dose she¡¯d given him.


    There was a pull at her elbow and quickly she was led to another room by a gleeful Silva.


    ¡°You dun excellent work, Slickleaf! Did you see that walking corpse, Hawk? And then dumb Grog, staring like he saw the sun turn blue!¡± She gave a barking laugh. ¡°To imagine all these fools think the boy a Master!¡± She shook her head, amused. Slickleaf frowned slightly at that. Wasn¡¯t he a Master Maker? Silva noticed her doubtful eyes.


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t pretend you believe all that nonsense the Shaman spouts at every Turning!¡± Silva snickered, grabbing a bottle of liquid spitfire from a shelf and taking a full swallow. The drink was enough to down most hunters with a sip, yet it didn¡¯t seem to faze the Elder Owl.


    ¡°But he can call his magic in silence, so terrible it shies summer¡¯s thunder! And the prophet had predicted his coming in his prophesy!¡± Slickleaf objected, only to Silva¡¯s amusement.


    ¡°D¡¯ya now how many things the old prophet has predicted? You know how many prophesies he scribbled on the old walls, so many ages ago?¡±


    How many indeed? Slickleaf traced her memories, recalling the gloomy cut-stone Hollow; walls teaming with countless runes and writing.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± She admitted.


    ¡°Thousands!¡± Silva took another swig, smacking her lips pleasantly, before speaking again.


    ¡°So, if he predicted so many things, without specifying a time or place, how big is the chance that after the passing of hundreds of years, one of them would prove true?¡±


    It was like a smack in the face. All the tales, all the teachings that had decided the laws and rules of her Clan were now no more than, than ¨C


    ¡°Guesses?¡±


    Silva shrugged, tossing the leather-bound bottle to her. Slickleaf thought better of it though than drinking from it. She stuffed the stopper and placed it away.


    ¡°Or luck, coincidences, by accident. Truth is, he could be a Master, or perhaps not. But in the end, none of that matters. The people believe it, and that makes it fact as much as all the prophesies on those stuffy walls; more so even.¡±


    Was Silva right? Could she be wrong? The grandness of the idea that the revered prophet was probably no better at foretelling the future than the average goat was much to take in.


    ¡°So¡­ Where does this leave us?¡± She dared ask, and Silva smiled. That old smile, from way back to the roots of Slickleaf¡¯s memories, that told everything would be alright. Because the Elder Owl always knew better. It was something Slickleaf took great comfort in.


    ¡°We use him.¡± Silva¡¯s eyes were glowing. ¡°Stay close to the boy, my little flower, and help him stretch his wings as broad as possible. Because, together with him, we will rise and glide to the top; to the pinnacle of power.¡±


    Silva walked over to Slickleaf, grasping her shoulders firmly and looming over the girl with her great, crooked frame.


    ¡°Get his trust, Slickleaf, and do not lose it. The boy has something strange to his eyes. Something cold and cunning. So, you need to be smarter than him by half and two steps ahead at all times. And no matter what ¨C¡° The all-knowing Owl leaned in close, eyes round and burning bright. ¡°¨C Be he man or Master, even the Gods can be fooled, it just takes the right fox to outwit the wolf.¡± She released her clasp and started shuffling to her old chair, sitting down with a groan.


    ¡°Old Hawk tried using the old writings and his fainting staff as an excuse to send you, my best pupil, away as a sacrifice; hoping by trading you to the Herald that he¡¯d get powerful bones to carve in return. And Grog had taken that chance to estate his daughter here, the bastard. He¡¯d let her soak up all I know, or as much as that girl¡¯s tiny brain could hope to contain, and then rid of me; placing his own daughter as the Clan¡¯s owl.¡± A frustrated growl escaped her.


    ¡°My authority only stretches so far. They¡¯ve already gotten really close to dominance. Do not give them another chance, Slickleaf.¡± The Owl shuddered, wrapping her apron closer to ward against the low draft, seeping through the old walls, and closed her eyes, leaving Slickleaf alone with her coiling thoughts.


    Bright thoughts of her youth, guided by Silva at every turn. Dark thoughts, of a future where Halfbloom would don the Owl¡¯s apron and cast all proof of Slickleaf¡¯s life into the abys of time.


    She watched the girl trudge up the hill, labored by a bucket of water and sweating something fierce. No, she would not allow that. Not ever. Not for as long as the twin moons crossed the night sky and the sun was aflame. For as long as the Cradle held man, and the world held beast. Not ever.


    She would make the Master her own, no matter the cost.

 A Domein For Old Men

    Her slim finger moved along the table¡¯s grain, deep-brown and polished by years of elbow, until it rested before a strange flower. Keter frowned at the plant, observing the flamboyant display of vast purple and oranges, shifting between one-another by flaring degrees. The stalk was dark, black enough that it seemed to swallow the light.


    ¡°Silent Promise.¡± Keter mumbled, then paused until she gave him an affirmative nod, urging him to continue. ¡°Grows in dark, secluded places away from sunlight. Blooms from mid-autumn to late winter¡­ When mixed with venom, considering the right amounts, can be used as antidote. If digested raw, one ripe bud will result in a sudden, unnoticed death by next moon.¡±


    She gave a slow nod, then moved on to the next item. It was a bulbous wart-like growth with bumps and pits; hairs dotted its reddish flesh ¨C the color not unlike an infected wound. He stared at the disgusting plant displayed on the aged slab of wood, running through his mental library of herbology; but remained unsure.


    Keter leaned forward, inhaling carefully through his nose, and noticed a sweet aroma drifting from the wart. ¡°River-Scar.¡± He said, finally, ¡°Grows alongside streams of clear water. Can be used as a potent dye for reds, or, for the more adventurous, as a food; though unless thoroughly washed, it will leave your mouth scarlet.¡±


    She nodded again, the corners of her lip curling into a smile, and eagerly pointed at the last item. Keter frowned at it. Unlike the rest, at first glance it looked like a normal, green leaf. Perhaps thicker than others and sporting a fresh gleam, but nothing otherwise distinct. He pulled the knife from his belt, immediately feeling the heft of it. Even though it had been grinded down to a more usable size, it was still a great deal larger and bulkier than the average blade.


    Guided by Keter¡¯s practiced hand, the edge sliced through the leaf¡¯s center easily enough, covering the metal in a slimy mucus. Keter rubbed the sap between his rough fingers, quickly becoming very slick. He smiled. This one, he knew as well.


    ¡°Slickleaf.¡± He announced, seeing her eyes shine with delight. ¡°Grows onto larger, hardier plants that keep animals at bay, such as briars and thorn-bushes. The sap can be used as an antiseptic to treat infected wounds and keeps best in a smooth-stone pot at cool temperatures.¡± Keter raised a playful eyebrow. ¡°Can also, when mixed with animal fats, be used as a lubricant for certain purposes.¡±


    Virrah blushed, yet not hiding her proud grin. ¡°You did very well, Master Maker.¡± She said in her soft voice, barely more than a whisper. ¡°It shows that you are chosen to unite the Cradle into one.¡±


    He shrugged away the compliment. Keter had gotten more than accustomed to being showered by them over the past three weeks since he had arrived in the Hollow. He leaned back in his seat, stretching ¨C feeling his muscles squirm and wriggle beneath his skin. Under the knowledgeable hands of Virrah and Silva, his wounds had healed at a spectacular rate. Now, even the worst of them had recovered enough for him to move about without worry of reopening them again. They only ached dully.


    His vacant stare returned from the low rafters to regard a young girl who entered the room, carrying another selection of plants. But Virrah raised her hand. ¡°The Master has spent enough time on Owl matters today, Tinder. You can retrieve these plants and place them in my workbench.¡±


    The girl, Tinder, nodded obediently. Her hands became messy when she took the Slickleaf. There was a moment¡¯s hesitation when touching the River-Scar. And when she went to grab the Silent Promise she found it to have crumbled away under the sun¡¯s harsh rays. Virrah slapped her hand with a wooden spoon, had the girl yelp and quickly snatch her hand back.


    ¡°Never touch Silent Promise with your skin!¡± she hissed; quiet and gentle, yet still carrying an air of authority. ¡°Unless you wish to become barren!¡±


    Tinder paled, eyes widening with stricken horror. ¡°Understood mistress!¡± She squeaked.


    Virrah waved the her away. When the girl was gone, the pupil Owl casually brushed the dusted plant off the table top. Keter eyed her for a moment.


    ¡°Was it true what you said? About her becoming barren at the flower¡¯s touch?¡±


    ¡°No; it was a lie.¡± She sighed. ¡°But when properly applied to a seeded woman, the child will die inside. Many young girls come to this cottage to ask for a brew of Promise after a risky night. Doesn¡¯t hurt as long as it isn¡¯t used too often.¡±


    ¡°Then why the lie?¡± Keter asked curiously. Virrah shrunk down in her chair, wriggling her fingers and looking remorsefully at them.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°Sometimes,¡± She said after a moment¡¯s consideration, ¡°girls are too ashamed to come to us, and seek the flower on their own; not knowing the proper ways of handling the medicine. It can result in sickness and pain at best. But, depending on how much of the flower¡¯s poison she digests, a woman can become barren ¨C unable to produce children for the rest of her life. A short one, probably. Because a promise must be kept, and the Silent Promise always follows through when treated without its due respect.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Keter mused.


    In this village, everyone has their own set of tasks; generally, the children continue with the parent¡¯s profession. But, when it comes to religion, herb gathering, and hunting, the children must spend one day a weak on the skill of their choice, as to help with the duller tasks. In the hunter¡¯s case, this is gutting. For the Shaman, this is maintenance of the shrine. For the Owl, this is plant collecting.


    Tinder has always chosen to aid with the Owl and is treated with a lot more trust than the other girls that come to help. This also means the punishment is harsher when she betrays that trust.


    ¡°What will you have her do?¡± Keter asked aloofly, prompting a soft sigh from Virrah.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she said. ¡°Perhaps half a day pulling taintfin.¡±


    Keter wrinkled his nose at the memory of the horrible stench that the plant radiated. They had walked all the way to the riverbed where the thing grew underwater. Bringing it to the cottage would have it reek like death for a full moon. Pulling taintfin meant diving underwater, plucking it, and leaving it to dry in the sun to rid the plant of the smell. Quite unfortunate that it was very useful to cure hides as it absorbed a lot of moisture. Thus, highly sought after by the hunters.


    ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡­¡± Keter grumbled, ¡°what is the word again? When I want something that is hers?¡±


    ¡°Envy¡± Virrah said smartly. ¡°You can¡¯t say you envy her, nor can I.¡±


    ¡°Envy.¡± Keter let the word roll around his tongue, trying to remember it thoroughly.


    Language had been a big hurdle in the beginning, but once he¡¯d grasped the basics, the rest was rather simple, and learning it proved more than doable. He mostly had Virrah¡¯s extended vocabulary to thank for that, though. Villagers other than her, Silva and perhaps the Elder Shaman had a pitiful grasp of even their own tongue.


    ¡°The Elder Shaman will likely visit again, today.¡± Virrah said as if reading his mind. ¡°Turning him away has become harder every time¡­ I don¡¯t know how I¡¯ll do-¡±


    ¡°Let him come.¡± Keter interrupted her. Her face spoke before she knew, but she quickly covered it up by her mask of indifference she liked wearing so much. Keter, though, had caught that fleeting emotion tugging at her eyes; uncertainty.


    ¡°If that is your wish, Master¡­¡±


    ¡°It is.¡±


    The power of the village used to be divided into four ¨C the hunters, the shamans, the owls, and the people, each with their own Elder. Yet, some years back, the spokesman of the had people perished, and instead of another peasant donning his pelt, Silva took it for her own as she was his grandmother. This created a noticeable disparity in power, now Silva controlled the garb of two Elders. If she were to have the people believe that the Master Maker, too, was on her side, the chances of the rest retaliating were high.


    Keter had chosen Virrah at first because he didn¡¯t know any better and had yet to regret that decision. Even now, he still had much to learn from her and Silva. But this was double true for the Shaman; the only person in the Hollow who could, or knew how to, use magic. If Keter were to grow, he had to learn from him, too.


    The all-seeing sun had risen to its apex, punctuating Hawk¡¯s time of arrival. Keter watched coolly as the aged man struggled his way up the hill-path leading to the cottage¡¯s entrance. Saw him curl his nose when he passed through the small garden, brimming with a wide selection of herbs that were easier to breed than they are to forage.


    Some of the girls working outside bowed as the Elder hobbled past them, paying no mind to the disturbance he caused each day. Still, you had to recognize his drive to clamber up to Silva¡¯s hospit every day for the shear hope of converging the new Master to his side. After Hawk staggered out of view, there were a series of nocks on the door; again, a certain rhythm, like always. Still, Virrah waited patiently on her seat while the man waited outside, sipping at her thee.


    ¡°Get the door, Virrah.¡± Keter said while gesturing leisurely. ¡°Before he sags through his shriveled legs and has to be dragged off by the girls.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Master Maker.¡± She gave a curt bow before leaving the mixing room.


    When she was gone from sight, Keter gave a growl as he pressed his finger down on the boards, feeling both his magic and bodily warmth drain away; like dew to the soil. He removed his finger when smoke started curling, leaving a blackened scar in the wood. The following sigh that escaped his lips was heavy indeed.


    It seemed like just resting restored one¡¯s reserves but slowly. It was not like that night in the tomb at all, when he had recovered all his magic in but a few hours¡¯ worth of sleep. Well, that and a swallow of Virrah¡¯s blood. He had tasted the stuff often enough in his previous life; his own, foes¡¯, friends¡¯, all alike. Yet, the memory of the girl¡¯s bitter blood, spilling and slipping down his throat¡­ Had his mouth water with anticipation.


    There was a creak when the door was opened, and some distant mumbling. If anyone would have answers, it would be that old bat, Hawk. And if not, well¡­


    Keter¡¯s eyes showed nothing as the bald man entered the room, slowly shuffling his way over. Keter was not fooled. The villagers, Virrah, and even that hag Silva all both respected and feared him.


    He kneeled, groaning as his knees clicked, bowing as low as his grip on the impressive bone staff allowed. He¡¯d make no mistake; this man was a dangerous ¨C both in knowledge and in body.


    ¡°I¡¯ve come to offer my service again; oh, supreme Master Maker.¡± His scraping voice could not hide the fact that he was a sword, a shield, a spear. And a weapon discarded, could one day be pointed at you.

 Mud And Marble

    Human behavior. Like a book it could be studied. Like a puzzle it could be assembled. And like a puppet manipulated. For the study of literature, all you need is to understand the language spoken. To Keter, the Hawk¡¯s words rang clear indeed.


    ¡°I¡¯m am pleased by your visit, Elder Shaman of Hollow¡¯s Maw.¡± Keter spoke with a regal air, closely watching all the twitches and jerks that crossed the man¡¯s body. A strange thing, that people tell most of themselves through motion instead of voice.


    The Shaman¡¯s eyes lit up with an eager gleam. He licked his cracked lips and rose from the floor with a stutter. ¡°Your pleasure honors me immensely, oh divine Master Maker.¡±


    Keter gestured him to a chair opposite of him with a wave. The relieve was evident on the man¡¯s face. Still, Keter could not wholly trust his limp; his weakness. It was his first rule of combat ¨C always appear less competent than you are. This, unfortunately, went directly against the primal aspect of assuming an authorities position. In this, you should always appear in control.


    Hawk set himself down with a suppressed groan while still gripping his ivory staff, polished to a glowing smoothness. Keter pulled his eyes away from what was perhaps the cleanest object in the whole of Hollow¡¯s Maw, accept for perhaps the Hospit¡¯s operation table and tools.


    ¡°As you might have already guessed, Elder, my limited vocabulary and injuries I had been inflicted with in my battle against the Winged Speaker have prevented from accepting your proposal to convers up until now.¡± Hawk smile, showing blackened and crooked teeth, lining his gums in an almost crisscross pattern. His dislike towards Silva had clearly driven him away from seeking medical aid. A foolish move; it proved this man had an immovable ego. Something Keter could easily exploit.


    The Shaman fluffed up with happiness. ¡°Please, Master Maker, do not worry yourself with inconveniencing me. Your mere presence is the greatest honor I can ever achieve!¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Keter said with casual brutality.


    The ensuing silence was broken by a harsh wind blowing at the roof, raining down a spilling of dust from the creaking rafters. Keter knew he had to show he was in charge. Appearing weak or feeble may or may not be his own undoing. He¡¯d rather play it safe, then.


    ¡°I have heard, Elder Shaman,¡± Keter started flatly, ¡°that you are the only person in this village that can call upon the arcane. Does this ring true?¡± The man shifted in his chair, perking up slightly again.


    ¡°Yes, Master Maker. Although I have an acolyte under my guidance, I remain alone in the divine ability. That is, apart from you, of course.¡± He seemed keen on proving his use, just like Virrah. The man needed him, no doubt. And being indispensable was the best way to stay alive. Now it was only a question of figuring out what the Shaman needed him for.


    ¡°But you use magic differently, do you not?¡± There was hesitation in the Shaman¡¯s posture. A nervous shuffle in his chair.


    ¡°Yes, Master Maker.¡± He answered carefully. ¡°You can cast your mantra in silence; not relying on language or¡­ Other means.¡± Keter¡¯s nape tingled and shot a quick glance at the door¡¯s frame. Saw the afternoon sun cast a faint shadow, standing there. He had to suppress a smile then. For all of Virrah¡¯s knowing, she could not listen in for the life of her.


    ¡°What other means are those, then?¡± Keter asked while pulling his gaze from the curious little shadow. But, Hawk, too, knew he was being overheard.


    ¡°These matters are quite sensitive,¡± he said, his eyes flitted around the room, as if he could find someone hiding. Then, he hurriedly added, ¡°Of course, I would be overjoyed to share my knowledge with you, Master Maker. It¡¯s just that this knowing is not¡­ for everyone.¡± Another glance over his shoulder, twitching uncertainly. Knowledge means power, and the Elder Shaman was easily the most powerful individual person in the village, meaning that any slip of info on his part would see a decrease in his authoritative position. Especially if this was leaked to his nemesis, the Owl.


    ¡°I understand your concerns, Elder Shaman.¡± Keter said, smiling thinly. ¡°We can continue this conversation on another time. Perhaps, tomorrow morning in your tabernacle?¡±


    The man sighed quietly in relief, some tension in his knotted muscles lessening. He bowed his head low, touching the table¡¯s surface with a soft tap. ¡°I am most grateful for your understanding, honored Master Maker. I will prepare myself and God¡¯s abode for your gracious visit.¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    He straightened himself and Keter had to stifle a sudden laugh, building up in his gut and straining his cheeks. ¡°Yes, Elder shaman.¡± He said, trying to keep his voice even. ¡°I will see you then. Virrah will guide you out.¡±


    The man bowed again, although less deep this time, rose from his chair with a grimaced groan and left the room. Keter heard Virrah gasp slightly upon seeing the Shaman, then clear her throat with some difficulty and lead the old man out through the front door.


    While shuffling through the herb garden, Hawk attracted some odd looks and troubled gazes from the working girls; prompting muffled laughter from some. Virrah entered the room quietly, her white-blond hair swinging with her steps, and a mischievous grin on her face. She looked at the table, at the spot where Hawk¡¯s forehead had touched, and the river-scar had left a bright red stain, effectively blotching the man¡¯s pate a vibrant crimson.


    --The Frontier City Of Solace--


    Another turn and Rin was spinning inside her own billowing dress, crossing the dance floor round and around, her partner in ready pursuit, matching his footwork with hers. Not a day went by where a noble did not ask her hand in dance. Yet today she accepted, and for once not out of necessity.


    ¡°A whole section spell-burners?¡± She asked, her breathing quickening for the tempo Gourun send her in.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he breathed; sweat glistening his face as he caught her, ¡°and a two platoons filled with eager foot soldiers to support them.¡± Gourun¡¯s rank in the Frontal City¡¯s nobility was not of any great value. Making it so he had some difficulty courting girls. Even Rin, who was of the lower nobility herself, was above his station.


    ¡°All going to the Northern dominances of Barathon with the Regidana family. Or, at least, their three sons.¡± This made him tend to do anything in order for the dance to last longer, and his chances of courting her to increase.


    Around them, the gathering partook in their own chatter which in turn mingled with the music and the clatter of silverware from the dining tables. Loud enough to hurt her ears. The spilling faux-light bright enough to sting her eyes. The perfume pungent enough to prick her nose. Yet Guorun did not seem bothered. No one was but her.


    ¡°But why?¡± Rin asked as she was spun again, her white dress flowing playfully around her. Guorun grimaced, glancing sideways. Thinking.


    ¡°I¡¯m not certain about this, but,¡± the reason why she took his offer¡­ ¡°I¡¯ve heard it¡¯s a combined effort to scout beyond the newly aquired cities after the Battle Of Right, as well as the Regidana¡¯s desire in establishing themselves whithin this new territory. This all could improve their standing with both the church and the All-king.¡± The reason she took his offer was because she heard he had information. Things her father would undoubtedly wish to learn. And if he heard it from another before her¡­


    ¡°Is it not dangerous?¡± she asked innocently. ¡°to explore the unknown?¡±


    Guorun smiled as it was easy to answer this. ¡°It is, my lady. The quest at hand is fraught with peril.¡± This could be important. Yes, shed ask him now.


    ¡°Do you think they will send¡­¡± Rin had to swallow before uttering the name. ¡°Their Runeclad with this expedition?¡± She almost shuddered at the thought of those creatures. It took some effort from having it show on her face. Guaron, too, blanced as she spoke the name.


    Behind the dancing crowd, the song quieted, trailing towards its end. Guorun was unhappy to see it so. ¡°I don¡¯t think so¡­¡± He stammered uncertainly, searching for something to keep the conversation from sputtering to a halt. ¡°Losing that much military power is very dangerous, after all.¡± Yes. A single Runeclad could annihilate a company, a battalion, even an army for things such as limitations were unknown to them. Few things deserved as much fear as a Runeclad. Rin knew this well enough.


    The song wisped to its end, and the dancers left the hall¡¯s center to enjoy other noble frivolities. Guorun, too, had to let Rin go. Their hand separated, and he accidentally slipped off her ring. There was an immediate burn inside her skull, sundering all the way down her back. She almost cried out but was able to mask it with a strained gasp.


    ¡°Pardon me, my lady!¡± Guorun said, mistaking her pain for a woman¡¯s distress at losing her precious jewelry. ¡°Here let me¡­¡±


    Rin quickly snatched her ring back the moment her vision cleared, putting it right back onto her finger. In that moment, the hurt was smothered, the previous biting cold all but gone, and only a soft, pleasant burning remained, tingling her finger.


    ¡°Sorry, Sir Guorun. It seems that it is time for my departure.¡± She tried to level her voice again, but it was hard. So very difficult to keep her legs from giving in before that warm glow had once again spread through her body and replace the cold.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Guorun muttered sadly, cursing his own error, ¡°of course.¡±


    Rin left the floor, everything always too bright, too loud, too smelly. Always. It was her curse. Or, at least, what her family cursed her for. She could not blame them, however. Because of this, her worth went down to her looks and status.


    She fingered her ring, watching the force coil within the imbedded crystal, like blue smoke and lightning. Perhaps, if she had not been born, her family would fare higher. Perhaps, if her worth had been greater, she would not need to do what she does. But life is not perhaps, it simply is or isn¡¯t.


    She hurried to her servant, who would bring her home. One worth of her now was the information she could gather. She would need to tell her father of what she had learned quickly. Even if this meant her other worth would be put to use.

 Blessed Be The Lord

    His muscles were pulled taught, straining to keep their position. By now, Keter was covered in a sheen of sweat, spilling the odd drop onto the wooden floorboards with a dull tap, tap, tap. His arms were trembling, yet he kept on going; this was nothing new. He had trained his body many times over, every time after he had recovered from a serious injury, which were all but uncommon in his previous life. This was simply one of many.


    His shoulder had recovered nicely. Splendidly, in fact. Keter was surprised by the effectiveness of Virrah''s and Silva''s combined efforts and treatments. But, then again, his rapidly healing wounds might be a side effect of his new-found magical abilities, of which he had yet to explore their limits. This ignorance was something he wished to change. Life, he knew, rarely hands you any benefits, any tools, any help. But, when it does, you better make the most of it.


    Today, Keter would seek to erase this shortcoming. The Hawk would aid him, of this he was sure.


    Keter heard the door creak open, and then saw Virrah look down upon his half-naked, sweat-covered, head flushed for the strain of his exercise, and jumped slightly.


    "My apologies, Master Maker." She turned around. "I did not think you were..."


    She did not know the word, of course. What was he doing, indeed? To her, someone from a time where simply living was a challenge on its own, would not readily understand why someone wished to make their life even harder, willingly.


    "No, it''s quite alright, Virrah." Keter said, rolling onto his back. "I was just about finished anyway." He pulled his knees up to his chest, palms to the floor, and sprang up like an uncoiling viper, stretching every muscle to its fullest, arms high above. His past injuries had all but disappeared. The only ache he still felt was the gash in his shoulder. But soon even the stitches there could be pulled out.


    It seemed like Virrah wasn¡¯t going to question his odd behaviour, but then, before she left, her curiosity won out.


    "Sorry, Master Maker. Could I ask you the purpose of... that, just now?" She asked, fidgeting a little. Nervous.


    "I was testing the limitations of my body." He answered. "It could potentially prove fatal if I underestimated my body''s condition."


    Virrah nodded slowly. "Yes," She said, "I see. That is indeed very wise. As expected of the Master Maker."


    Keter waved her off, following the girl downstairs. She went to the communal room, where they generally ate, while Keter left the Hospit to fetch the bucket of cool water that waited outside for him. Last night he had fetched it from the well, down-hill. Some of the girls had seen him carrying it, and offer to help, but he had pointedly turned them away. This, too, had been training. Everything was.


    The blast of icy water, cooled by the frosty night, shook him from his pondering. The water, although cold, was very refreshing. Keter could live with filth but preferred to be clean none the less. If one thing was sure to mess you up in the field, it was a lack of proper hygiene.


    Virrah stood inside, holding a wooden bowl with wild bird eggs - boiled and peeled - and a generous helping of dark bread. All of which Keter ate before the crackling fire, slowly turning wet into steam.


    "You will be heading to the Elder Shaman''s Tabernacle, today." Not so much a question, she said it more like a statement. Perhaps still coming to terms that she couldn''t keep him cooped up in their Hospit forever. A testament to her innocence.


    Keter did not see any reason as to why he would react to that. So, he wiped another chunk of bread in the spilled yoke and shoved it down.


    "Can you trust him?" She then asked, daringly. Brave. Some people would call that blasphemy.


    "That is a bold question, Virrah," Keter pointed out, "do you distrust the Shaman so?"


    She flushed, then looked down and away, fumbling with her fingers. But after, she shot a mischievous glance his way, as if calling him out on his jab.


    "Rohm, the Lowest, rewards boldness." She said.


    Keter frowned.


    "Who''s Rohm?" He asked curiously, to which Virrah raised an eyebrow. As if surprised he didn''t know.


    "The lower, larger, blue moon. He is Sihn''s older sibling and is told to support her as she makes her way across the night sky. He is proud of his younger sister, who dares brave the higher reaches of heaven, and is told to reward such boldness in men also."


    Keter thought on that for a spell. It should come to no suprise that these people had their own legends and beliefs, especially concerning things such as moons and suns and stars.


    "then, what does Sihn reward?"


    Virrah looked up again, smiling slightly - as if trying to keep it from showing.


    "Sihn, The Highest, rewards cunning and wit. She tricked Rohm into carrying her, so she could cross the stars above him. She is told to appreciate the same intelligence in mortals." Keter finished the last of his breakfast. His body, mostly dried.


    "Then," he said, raising himself from his seat and throwing his cloak on, "Are you like Rohm, or Sihn?"


    She did not answer.


    The grassy path down Silva''s hill had been trudged to mud long ago by all those passing over the many years since the Hospit had been erected. Even the large rocks, imbedded into the soil in an pointless attempt to offer some foothold, had almost completely disappeared by all the muck. After a time, people had started walking next to the trail, where the grass still grew to keep the earth solid. But, now, even this was starting to waste away. Virrah wondered how many more years it would take for the entire hill to be walked and ploughed and hacked to sludge. The green, fertile mount - ruined to waste.


    It was the first time since the Master Maker''s coming that he left the Hospit''s hill, and certainly was reason for a lot of head-turning, then frantic mumbling, hurried shuffling. Before Virrah knew it, they both had a gathering of villagers following them through Hollow''s Maw.


    The Master Maker acted as if he were indifferent to the crowd¡¯s crushing presence. He walked - paraded rather - with his head held high, chest out, and straight stare. But in the past weeks Virrah had gotten more familiar with the Maker''s behaviour. She had started noticing things. Small things, even. Like how there was never really a bounce to his gate, always walking steadily as if stalking a nervous prey; ready to leap or dash at a moment''s notice.


    His hands, too. Always by his sides, hanging yet not dangling. Some tension always remained, rooted between his shoulders, branching down his arms and to his hands; They reminded Virrah of vines in the bellowing wind, ready to lash out like whips in an instant.


    But his eyes, like black pits of tar they were without bottom. They moved over everything with a steady movement, scanning, observing, judging. There had been a time, not long ago, where Virrah would wither under a gaze like that. Baring their scrutiny was like braving the raging storms come blowing from across the great mountains. It left you feeling hollow like, like...


    Virrah did not know. Perhaps, she thought, that was what death feels like.


    --


    Even by the time Keter arrived at the Shaman''s great tabernacle, the mob remained; staring at him eyes round and wide, full of reverence, respect, wonder. He was an oddity, true, but he was theirs. Or so they believed. He was a deity to these simple people, and they had a fair idea how to treat one of those. Prayers, wishes and hopes were muttered in his presence. Keter did not doubt that soon enough they would start expecting things from him.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    He stared at the huge gathering of what must have been close to four dozen men and woman, packed together between the wooden huts and hide tents. It was not hard to imagine what these people could do to him if unhappy. For all his skill and magic, he was still but one among many.


    He clenched his jaws tight and walked up to a boy who stood posted outside the tabernacle, staring expectantly at his god.


    He rushed over, the boy did - pelts flapping as he tottered across the damp earth. He was small, young. Perhaps no older than Keter''s own body. But he was smaller. For whatever reason everyone looked smaller compared to what Keter expected from the average man.


    ¡°Master Maker,¡± he piped, voice high and squeaky, ¡°The Elder Shaman is prepared to re-re-re¡­¡± He stuttered, eyes darting to find the word.


    ¡°Receive.¡± Virrah offered helpfully. The boy shot her an embarrassed, disdained glare.


    ¡°To receive you, Master Maker.¡± He finished, finally.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Keter said, flatly, ¡°Could you let me in, then?¡± He already started walking to the entrance, paying no heed to the boy who followed in haste.


    ¡°Master Maker, Sir, ehm, Lord!¡± Keter paused and turned.


    ¡°What is it, child?¡±


    The boy looked nervous, then peeked at Virrah. ¡°Master Maker, ehm, the sacrifice, ehm Slickleaf is not allowed entrance to God¡¯s Abode, Lord.¡±


    Keter turned fully, then, to regard the boy squarely. ¡°Says who?¡± He demanded coldly.


    The boy stammered, fumbled, and the Tabernacle opened. Keter heard Hawk shuffling out, his troubled gate easily recognized.


    ¡°My deepest apologies, mighty Master Maker.¡± He said. ¡°Alas, a girl, once she¡¯s become ¡®Virrah¡¯ is no longer considered one of man¡¯s own, one of God¡¯s own. Thus, she is no longer allowed entry.¡±


    The boy looked smugly at Virrah, who remained impassive ¨C her face serene and devoid of emotion. Keter sighed inwardly. It wasn¡¯t as if he wanted her to enter but¡­


    ¡°I am the Master Maker, correct?¡± He asked the Shaman. His wrinkled brow furrowed, then sprang up quickly.


    ¡°Of course! There is no doubt! Not a one in this village, in the whole of Hollow¡¯s Maw questions this, fierce Master Maker!¡± Keter pursed his lips, cocking his head to the side.


    ¡°Then is it not I who decides whom may enter God¡¯s Abode, Elder Shaman?¡± A drop of sweat, a panicked twitch ¨C a decision, quickly made.


    ¡°Yes, naturally, Master. It is you after all!¡± The man winced, a glimmer of rotting teeth.


    ¡°Good.¡± Keter said. ¡°Then let¡¯s enter and continue where we left off last time. Virrah, you can return to the Hospit. I will send to you when needed.¡± She looked confused for a moment. Only a moment, a testament to her wit.


    ¡°As you wish, Master.¡± She bowed, hairs falling down and brushing her delicate face, then left, ploughing her way through the parting crowd. The Shaman¡¯s confusion lasted longer though.


    ¡°Let us go.¡± Keter said, passing the Shaman and entering through the pastel cloth.


    ¡°Yes,¡± The Shaman muttered, incredulous and lost. ¡°Of course.¡±


    -


    Karja¡¯s blessing was the Fargrasp, and she revelled in demonstrating this to anyone who cared for her company. Considering she was of high nobility, and her family disgustingly wealthy, meant this was a considerable amount of people.


    Her finger circled lazily, almost carelessly in the air. Before her, a thin spoon gently stirred her drink, mixing sweet syrup with cooled water. Her brilliant gems glittered readily in the faux-light, glowing above in a prism of lights. The spell¡¯s time ran out, and her spoon dropped to the glass¡¯ edge with a tender tinkle.


    She frowned slightly, not enough to crease her skin, but Rin posed that if she did it more often she¡¯d get wrinkles none the less. Karja was fond of frowning. She watched the silverware, moved her hand, her left hand fitted with a bright gemstone, and spoke some words. The spoon lifted again and continued its circles, coiling the drink round and around.


    ¡°As I was saying,¡± she said airily, ¡°the Svirun garden is looking most poorly.¡± Svima, the first daughter of the Svirun house and hostess of this party, shrunk in her iron-spun chair. Rin thought the garden beautiful. It brimmed with exotic flowers and almost otherworldly fruits.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Hrind said, always ready to follow Karja like a bitch in heat does trail the hound. She said something, then - a spell. The words sounded familiar yet strange as always when someone casts their blessing. Like a language you know enough to recognize, yet not enough to really understand. Every time someone casts, the words sound different only to bystanders.


    ¡°The snake¡¯s paw looks wilted, dying through poor soil.¡± She said. Her blessing was the Longeye. Rin, nor the others, could see the plant. Most likely, it was somewhere out of sight. But Hrind could use her blessing to look far across a field, through a wall, on the other side of town. There¡¯s only, if you paid close attention, be a faint, cold foggy outline, but dry like smoke or incense. Then you knew she was watching you.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Svima whined softly. ¡°I¡¯ll tell father to invest more in the garden¡¯s upkeep.¡± Rin doubted they¡¯d do it though. The Svirun family was down on coin, the care for a garden like this was exponentially draining their resources. Of course, outwards appearance was most important to nobles. Like this drink party, which didn¡¯t exactly help the family¡¯s treasury either. But the bird hides its hurt to the flock, for it would be abandoned otherwise. Or worse. Rin had seen it.


    ¡°Anyway,¡± Karja continued, already ignoring Svima, ¡°there have been talks about the ¡®Tower Murder¡¯ again.¡± She said it offhandedly, but the others, Rin included, perked up. Karja waited patiently, idly stirring her drink with her Fargrasp. She obviously wanted someone to ask her to explain more. Rin would have, but it was not her place to speak up. She ranked far, far lower.


    ¡°Really?¡± Venja asked. ¡°Do you know more?¡±


    Karja snorted in an un-ladylike way. ¡°Obviously.¡± She said, then leaned closer as if she was broaching some great secret. The others came closer, too. ¡°I¡¯ve heard tell that Inquisitor Vindict found a scratch in the tower¡¯s parapet.¡± They were silent, waiting for her to speak further.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you see?¡± She gloated. ¡°The foolish man actually thinks the killer came through a balcony some sixty yards up a wall of smooth stone!¡± She snickered, and the others obliged.


    ¡°Foolish.¡± Hrind agreed.


    ¡°Idiotic.¡± Venja added.


    ¡°Dumb.¡± Svima whispered.


    Only Rin did not speak. It was not her place.


    Karja¡¯s eyes moved, her hand twitched, she spoke, and a peach floated to her hand. Rin imagined that long ago, her family had used this blessing for their hard labour, moving heavy things to build. Now, her family needn¡¯t work, for they owned.


    The fruit snapped from its course and plopped into her waiting hand. She looked at Rin, with eyes green as the first day of spring.


    ¡°You are awfully quiet.¡± She said. ¡°What are your thoughts? You think some man was blessed with flight?¡± She laughed, the sound clear and resonate in the veranda of collared glass.


    ¡°Unlikely, Mistress.¡± Rin said softly. ¡°Very much so.¡±


    ¡°What do you know?¡± Hrind sneered. ¡°You do not even have a blessing yourself.¡±


    ¡°Yet she still wears blessed gems.¡± Venja mocked.


    ¡°Dumb.¡± Svima added quickly, trying to side with the more powerful girls. Rin did not blame her. It was common knowledge Rin was born without a blessing.


    ¡°She only wears one, though.¡± Venja said, nodding at Rin¡¯s gem ring ¨C coiling blue and wrathful on her thin finger.


    ¡°No.¡± Karja said. ¡°There is one more in her broch.¡± She looked at the gem ¨C pulsing red and hurtful between her curls of gold.


    ¡°What need a girl without blessing so many gemstones for?¡± Venja cackled.


    Everyone can absorb power from their surroundings, but only so much, only so quickly. If one wears gemstones, they can store energy in those, saving it for a later time. Rin had no blessing. She could not absorb power. This was common knowledge.


    ¡°Maybe she wants to learn a mantra and become a Spellburner.¡± Hrind joked.


    Some were born with a chant from their lineage. Those without a blessing can learn a mantra to call upon the divine. But it could easily take years to learn the basics of just one, so they generally started them young, pumping great sums of coin in the child¡¯s studies. They could still not create their own power and must rely on gems. Thus, giving them the name: Spellburners.


    ¡°Please,¡± Venja said, ¡°As if her father could afford such an education for his daughter.¡± It was common knowledge her family was not as wealthy, even compared to other low nobles. They dismissed them easily because of this. Rin did not talk back, she only looked down. Young, little Rin, barely old enough for noble social life. Easily overlooked. Easily talked down. Easily crushed.


    ¡°Enough about that.¡± Karja interrupted, already having grown bored with watching her friends bully Rin. ¡°Svima, the reason why I accepted your offer to host this sweets party was because I heard you¡¯ve heard some interesting news.¡± Svima was caught eating a sugary marble, almost choked, coughed, then regained her wits.


    ¡°About the expedition, Mistress?¡± She asked, dabbing some tears away with her peach-coloured handkerchief.


    ¡°Yes, you dimwit. What else?¡± Karja snapped, pulling a sweet to her with Fargrasp, sapping away at her gems. It did not matter. She wore four of them ¨C deep orange and flashing with vigour, on her hands, round her neck, in her auburn curls.


    Svima jumped, wincing. ¡°I¡¯ve heard the Regidana family¡¯s gathered thirty Spellburners, and four platoons of infantry trained for the wild.¡± Rin had to hide a smile. She was the one who had added those numbers to the original rumour. It had taken two days since she¡¯d heard it first for it to spread to Karja. She might be higher born, true, but Rin still had a firmer grasp on information. Like a steel trap.


    ¡°That many?¡± Karja asked, surprised. Her eyes glazed over, thinking. ¡°This would certainly put a dent in their defences, huh?¡± She muttered. The others knew better than to respond when she talked to herself. She smiled, suddenly.


    ¡°Thank you, Svima, for bringing me this information.¡± The girl¡¯s eyes went bright with delight.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to be of help, Mistress!¡± She blushed. Karja ignored her and looked at Rin.


    ¡°Why can¡¯t you ever bring me any news? What exactly is your worth here, little girl?¡± She laughed, and the others joined. They did not know Rin¡¯s worth. Not her first and not her last. But if her father decided it, they would be taught of these. Rin would give them such a lesson that they never needed another. Whether they liked it or not. Whether Rin wanted to or not. To decide this was not her place. She was a tool, only defined by her worth.

 Might And Magic

    ¡°Bones?¡± Keter asked, eying not only the bone staff, but also the myriad of ivory parts, hung and mounted and sculpted around the Tabernacle¡¯s interior. ¡°Bones fuel your magic? Your divine power?¡±


    The Shaman¡¯s lips were drawn in a flat line. Still a little distracted by Keter¡¯s earlier show of authority, and now somewhat discontent for spilling all the secrets he¡¯d been hoarding for a lifetime.


    Something akin to candles were placed about, flickering dull and uncertainly. The great Tent¡¯s hide did a great job of repelling the sun¡¯s light, beating down from above. The three of them were cast in blurry shadows. Hawk, the Elder Shaman. Keter, the Master Maker. And Jeb, the First Acolyte.


    ¡°Not exactly.¡± The Shaman admitted. ¡°I can draw power from all around me, and the more skin is uncovered the easier this is ¨C these loose robes help too, but I can only absorb a limited amount. Perhaps just enough to light a campfire.¡± His gnarled thumb rubbed at the bone staff, along the grooves of the runes which were etched there.


    ¡°In these bones I can store power by focusing closely. It can take a while, to fill a complete piece, leaving myself rather vulnerable for a time. But ¨C¡± He smiled slyly, ¡°with enough bones, with enough power,¡± and he looked around himself, eyes glazed over and his face filling with glee, ¡°I can rage a forest to ash, shake the earth so it topples great stone houses, or blow the winds and cast birds or arrows from the skies.¡± That was impressive indeed. Almost frightening. Almost. Keter¡¯s act of superiority had worked up until then, fooling the Shaman into thinking Keter stronger. If Hawk would realize the truth, he could easily make Keter into his puppet. He¡¯d be limited, chained, caged.


    Keter¡¯s eyes narrowed. No, that would never happen. He would not allow it. Not now. Not ever. The Master Maker panned across the polished bones, displayed in ornate fashion.


    ¡°So, do all of these bones give you power?¡± He asked, prodding at the man¡¯s exact strength. If he needed this many bones to cause havoc, then perhaps separating him from them¡­


    ¡°Alas,¡± the aged Shaman said sadly, and he raised his intrinsic staff, ¡°only the bones of powerful creatures can hold enough magic to be of any effect.¡±


    Keter watched the staff warily. ¡°Do the hunters supply these bones?¡± He asked. But the Shaman shook his head.


    ¡°No, awesome Master Maker. These creatures are too strong for mere mortals to hunt. The bones too, need to be just that ¨C bone. Any fat, any flesh, any dirt that still stains it abducts from its ability to hold power.¡± Keter thought back of the Prowl ¨C the Herald ¨C and how it cleaned its prey so carefully, so delicately.


    ¡°The Herald.¡± Keter said in surprised wonder. ¡°You take the bones from the Herald¡¯s nest. The bones left after it has picked them clean.¡± Hawk shuffled on the hide carpet. They were all sitting on the floor, kneeling. The Hospit was one of the few homes to have something akin to chairs.


    ¡°Yes, you are correct about this, glorious Master Maker.¡± The Shaman said. But Keter was thinking, pondering, wondering.


    ¡°How did you get them?¡± He asked, remembering the enormous, raging beast as they had fought beneath the earth¡¯s crust. Hawk blinked guiltily.


    ¡°When the time comes for new bones to aid my power,¡± he said hesitantly, ¡°The divine Gods above bestow a vision upon me, a glimpse into the future or past, or maybe an idea of what could be. They help me choose a sacrifice ¨C who to title as ¡®Virrah¡¯.¡± He lowered his staff, so now it was laying on the ground next to him, and he clenched his hands together on the low wooden table between them.


    ¡°When the Virrah enters the Hollows, the Herald will be contented for a time, and allow us the chance, the honor, of taking some of the bones he has kept after his great hunts.¡± Little Virrah, barely twelve, and consigned to die. Ripped apart limb for limb, cleaned and washed in a stream and then gorged down by some strange creature.


    But Silva had known. She had aided Virrah, gifted her illuminating elixir, food and water, bandages and healing potions. Why Slickleaf though? Why her, of all girls? Was Hawk speaking the truth? Did he really get visions, foretelling him these things? Or¡­


    No, Keter thought, Silva was amassing too much power. If she continued like this, in due time she¡¯d rule all of Hollow¡¯s Maw and no doubt Hawk and Grog would be Cast from their thrones. But, if she¡¯d lose her pupil, her heir, the lineage of Owls would cease, and the power would tip back in Hawk¡¯s favor.


    ¡°Who is Halfbloom¡¯s father?¡± Keter asked. She was the second pupil. If Slickleaf died, then she¡¯d don the Owl¡¯s garb. Why leave the job half-done? The answer was simple, and Keter knew of it even before Hawk spoke.


    ¡°She¡¯s Grog¡¯s first daughter.¡± The man admitted, winching like a child caught in some rebellious act by their parent. Power is spun round and around. Such a fickle thing.


    ¡°So, if Slickleaf had been taken by the Herald, Grog would effectively hold three hierarchic positions after Silva¡¯s passing.¡± Keter stated. He did not accuse Hawk of setting up Slickleaf as Virrah, so he could twist the Village¡¯s power around.


    ¡°And Grog?¡± He asked, ever calm.


    ¡°He is my cousin, most cunning Master Maker,¡± he said, sweat gleaming though the air was cool, ¡°and follows me closely.¡± Keter nodded.


    ¡°I see.¡± He said, then glanced at the Acolyte. ¡°What about him?¡±


    The Elder Shaman jolted from his depression. ¡°Just a boy, really. Well, ¡®just¡¯ might not be right; he¡¯s the first child in this Village that is born with a mantra.¡± Keter frowned.


    ¡°Born? Do you not learn magic?¡± He asked, moving his legs a bit, working some feeling back into them.


    ¡°You can, but it is very difficult and arduous to learn even a single mantra, and you¡¯d need a teacher who excels in just that one ¨C they can also only cast by using pre-charged bones. Some are born knowing a spell, and the ability to absorb power. The only thing they need learn is how to use it skillfully.¡± Keter eyed the child, who shuffled nervously under his heavy gaze.


    ¡°What can he do?¡± He asked. Hawk hummed, looking his disciple over.


    ¡°He has the, hmm. Its hard to explain. Pardon me, Master Maker. Jeb, my Pupil, could you demonstrate your divine power? You are only allowed to use your innate magic, though.¡±


    The boy looked uncomfortable but complied none the less with two quick nods. His hands slipped in his scuff and he removed a neckless fitted with a bone ring Keter hadn¡¯t seen him wearing. He glanced at Hawk. No doubt he too wore a hidden bone, here and there.


    The boy looked at one of the candles, standing erect on the table. His hand moved involuntarily, a short spasm, a look, and some words. They sounded so familiar, making Keter believe he ought to know what they meant. But they were unknown to him.


    The flame flickered, once, twice and snuffed out in a thin curl of smoke. He turned to another candle, one who wasn¡¯t burning, and his hand followed. A twitch, a stare, some words and the candle sputtered to life, glowing dully. Keter watched closely, most keenly intrigued while Hawk waited patiently.


    ¡°He,¡± Keter started, ¡°Can transfer energy?¡±


    The Shaman smiled, stroking his bald pate with a hissing. ¡°Your eye is most keen, wise Master Maker, and puts mine to shame, indeed it does. It took me many months before I figured it out myself.¡±


    Keter scratched his chin in a habit he still retained from a time when he had a beard. ¡°But the exchange is not exact.¡± He noticed the new flame to be smaller than the others, and struggle to grow on its wick. Hawk nodded.


    ¡°Yes, Master. Though he has gotten better with time. When I first got to teaching him, he needed a bonfire to spark a single ember to light! Really, I thought his power useless at first; just wasting energy, really.¡± Keter remained silent, thinking all the uses and implications for such a power.


    The Shaman continued. ¡°The more magic he wears, like strong bones, the greater the power is he can hold. But, the longer he retains it, the more energy will slip from his grasp, like a lively eel eager for escape.¡± Through all this the boy was fidgeting anxiously. To bare the scrutiny of not only the Elder Shaman, but the Master Maker also, was too much for his young nerves to handle without a certain amount of angst.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°What about you, Elder Shaman,¡± Keter asked, ¡°what can you call upon the mortal realm?¡±


    The old man caressed the staff¡¯s smooth and etched surface, fingertips gently gliding across.


    ¡°I can call upon fire and set anything alight I can see. With this gift I was born.¡± He said, face going over with remembrance. ¡°I can call upon the wind, and sense both man and beast before they approach. This I was taught by my predecessor.¡± His eyes had a faraway look to them. ¡°I can store vigor within myself, but only myself. This gift is less potent then that of young Jeb here.¡±


    ¡°How would you go about using that last one?¡± Keter asked, curious for the unknown. The Shaman tough for a spell.


    ¡°I can let myself cool down when I¡¯m near a fire. So, later when I am out in the rain or snow, I can tap that stored warmth.¡± He gave a leering smile, showing two crude rows of blackened teeth. ¡°A gift that is rendered useless if I¡¯d just wear some furs.¡±


    _


    Keter trudged through the muddy earth, the Acolyte, Jeb, closely behind with a torch in his little fist to clear the setting darkness. At times he offered directions. ¡®Turn right here, Master Maker.¡¯ And ¡®Behind that hovel, a left, Master Maker.¡¯


    They were slowly making their way to Grog-Jecher¡¯s abode. Slowly, because for whatever reason, the boy had difficulty keeping up. Perhaps it was because of his garb, billowing round his legs with each step as the harsh wind made itself known.


    ¡°Say,¡± Keter spoke up, suddenly. He heard Jeb flinch behind him. ¡°Why do you dislike Virrah?¡±


    He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the boy was discomfited by the question. He had probably assumed Keter, or the Master Maker, had taken some liking to the girl. It did not hurt if people thought that. It would give her certain authority that might prove useful to Keter later. Still, he was apprehensive of bestowing power onto others.


    ¡°She is Virrah.¡± The boy finally answered. ¡°Her place is no longer in the mortal realm, Master Maker.¡±


    ¡°And what if I decide she does belong here?¡± Keter asked. Jeb thought on that, eyes to the ground, silently trudging through the slob.


    ¡°I do not know.¡± He admitted, torn between the old writing, and Keter¡¯s new ways.


    ¡°That is good.¡± Keter said. ¡°Better to admit your ignorance than to lie.¡± Silence.


    ¡°Then,¡± Keter went. ¡°What do you think of Virrah? What is your opinion of her beyond her title as Virrah?¡± A pause.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard her cures aid the aching, heal the wounded and set the crooked.¡± He admitted a bit apprehensively. ¡°I¡¯ve heard she is kind to the other girls and is not quick to anger. But, when her ire is struck, her fury is most frightening.¡± He gave an involuntary shudder. Maybe he hadn¡¯t so much ¡®heard¡¯ that as lived it himself.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Keter smiled. ¡°For your honesty.¡±


    The boy¡¯s face brightened like a homely fire at that. They continued on for a while in a comfortable quiet. Some people followed for a time, but a pointed stare of Jeb drove most away. Others figured after a while that they probably had better things to do than to follow a God and a priest about.


    ¡°We are almost there, Master Maker.¡± The boy announced, having grown a bit more used with talking to Keter.


    ¡°What do you think of Grog?¡± Keter asked, taking another winding turn, his boots squelching the mire, slop, slop, slop. Jeb frowned to himself.


    ¡°He¡¯s big.¡± He said.


    ¡°Not that big.¡± Keter remarked, recalling the man from their first and only meeting.


    ¡°Not like that.¡± Jeb countered. ¡°More like¡­ you just feel small when he¡¯s around. You always hear about his hunts, how he takes down even the most ferocious beasts, fighting them with everything he¡¯s got.¡±


    The boy continued talking, caught in his own excitement, respect, and wariness. ¡°They say he once killed a graffer with nothing but a flint knife. I¡¯ve heard he fears nothing, and that when he walks the night, the shadows part for him. They say he makes no sound, unless he screams his battle cry, fierce enough to stun the moons in their journey. I¡¯ve heard ¨C¡± They arrived at a group of tents, placed close together in some circling pattern, with a firepit in the middle. The hungry tongues of flame licked an animal¡¯s carcass, lapping at the dripping fat. They had arrived.


    Jeb stopped mid-sentence, looking around at the gathered folk, going about their tasks. Or, at least, standing frozen mid-motion at the things they were working with. Numerous stares pointed at Keter. He returned them idly. Most drew runes into the air if he let his gaze pass over them, others remained in still prayer.


    Jeb pointed at the nearest man who paused as he was tanning a beast¡¯s hide. ¡°You,¡± The boy called, working some iron into his shrill, childish voice, ¡°The Master Maker demands Grog¡¯s presence. Now.¡± The man¡¯s eyes flitted from the boy, to Keter. His face blanched.


    ¡°Yes!¡± he said in a strangled voice and bolted off. Seeing so many people uneasy at the visit of what looked like two children would be humorous, if not for the fact Keter was one of them. He still hadn¡¯t gotten used to this new body. Too often he misjudged some distance, finding himself coming short on reach. Too often did he need to look up to a person when conversing. Too often he missed his previous body¡¯s vigor and strength and dexterity.


    ¡°They seem restless, Master Maker.¡± Jeb noted.


    Keter snorted. ¡°About anyone who sees me tends to grow so.¡± But the child¡¯s words had worked on him. Yes, they indeed seemed more put-off than usual. They didn¡¯t look revered, but scared. Not nervous, but ashamed. They had continued their labor, now, but it looked to Keter as if they were distracted somehow. He blinked away, turning. Someone was drawing near.


    Not Grog, that much was certain as the twin moons. It was a woman, first and foremost. Perhaps wiry and angled enough to resemble the Elder Hunter, but not him by a long shot. Still, she walked with a particular certainty to her step. Enough so to warrant Keter¡¯s attention.


    Jeb looked at the woman, clad in hides and pelts. ¡°You forget your place.¡± The boy hissed at her. ¡°Bow.¡±


    But the woman didn¡¯t look like she was planning such a thing. In fact, she looked angry and hurried. ¡°Look, Maker, Grog¡¯s out on business in the woods with some men, and I don¡¯t have the time to amuse you with¡­ whatever it is you want.¡±


    She yelped suddenly, jumped and tripped, falling flat on her behind. She stared in bewilderment at her feet, a mean burn forming at their soles. Then she stared up at Jeb, holding a dead torch, smoke hissing away into the coming dusk.


    ¡°You will show your respect, Hesh. Even if Grog is your promised.¡± He paused. ¡°Especially if the Elder Hunter is your promised.¡± Whatever that meant. Keter figured it¡¯d become clear soon enough.


    The woman, Hesh, looked as if she would retaliate. But when Jeb moved his hand, when his fingers spasmed just a little, she swallowed heavily, taking her words with it. Keter was surprised. He had not heard the boy utter his mantra. Not once. Not the second time. He had been too focused on the woman¡¯s dismissive tone.


    She carefully touched the fresh wound, already forming a nasty blister. ¡°Why is Grog gone?¡± Keter asked. ¡°I know the hunters scourge at dawn, not dusk. So, answer.¡±


    Hesh bit her lip, suddenly realizing who she had antagonized. Regretting her decision.


    ¡°A hunter, Bale, has gone missing during the morning hunt.¡± She stammered. ¡°We¡¯ve been looking for him ever since.¡± Keter pursed his lips in a gesture vaguely human.


    ¡°Why? Is one missing hunter really that great a disturbance to merit an entire party¡¯s attention?¡± Her eyes widened with disbelieve.


    ¡°Because it never happens like that!¡± She blurted. ¡°They hunt in groups! At least one should have seen him taken by a beast, or tripping, or drowning, or, or.¡± She clutched his head. ¡°They said he was just gone! From one moment to the other! No sound, no tell!¡± She was breathing heavily, rapidly. Clearly frightened by the hunters¡¯ high tales. Keter, though, just snorted.


    Most likely, they hadn¡¯t payed close enough attention.


    ¡°Was he missing before they had caught prey? Or after?¡± She pulled her legs closer, hugging her knees.


    ¡°After.¡± She muttered. He sighed, Keter did. In his mind¡¯s eye he saw those hunters, content with their daily catch, marching back to camp. Sloppy, lazy men, not realizing one was missing. Maybe taking a shit behind a bush, maybe killed, could be anything, really. He¡¯d seen it happen often enough in his previous life; young soldiers without the proper respect for the wilds.


    ¡°Could be he just ran, too.¡± Keter shrugged. Hesh looked up.


    ¡°Ran? Away from his daughter, now motherless and fatherless?¡± She shook her head. ¡°Impossible.¡±


    ¡°Bale was a loving parent, then?¡± Keter asked, and she shuffled in the dirt.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± She admitted. ¡°I didn¡¯t really know him.¡± Keter sighed again, deeper this time.


    ¡°Was he taken because we haven¡¯t shown you proper respect, Master Maker?¡± Her voice had gone almost crazy with panic. ¡°Because Grog ignored your coming almost entirely?¡±


    Keter shrugged. ¡°If you believe just so, then better to start respecting me from now, huh?¡± He watched her shoulders droop as she bowed.


    ¡°Yes, Master Maker. ¡°she stuttered. ¡°As you say.¡±


    ¡°Well, send him to the Hospit when he gets back.¡± Keter turned away, smirking. ¡°If he comes back.¡±


    -


    As night claimed the land, casting the Hospit in shadow, Virrah found herself wondering. By now, she even referred to herself as Virrah, not Slickleaf ¨C the name given to her by Silva. For whatever reason, the Master Maker had taken to calling her that even after he learned her true name. What did it mean? Did he still require her sacrifice? Had he sided with the Shaman the moment they¡¯d met? Or was it just some habit, not easily rid? She did not know.


    She focused back on her work. Another girl had asked for a brew of Promise, though she was no stranger to the potion. In the past year, she¡¯d come some dozen times for the concoction. Always with new injuries, no doubt invisible to the untrained eye. But Virrah was everything but untrained. A bruise there, peeking behind her sleeve. A reddened patch there, covered by a careful hand. Virrah was no stranger to such things, they were bound to occur from time to time. If the girl did not talk of it, she would not ask. Only worry for her own safety.


    Under darkness, the silent promise did not wilt and crumble to dust as it would under the sun¡¯s bright rays. So, evening or night were the only times one could handle the plant, really. She was distracted, though. Whatever could the Master and Hawk be talking about? Magic, sure. She¡¯d heard this the day before. Whatever else?


    The brilliant peddles sunk beneath the brew¡¯s surface, agitated by the flame¡¯s flaring beneath. The other villages would soon start to act. It had already been too long since the Master¡¯s arrival for no messenger to come from another abode. However would they react to the Master Maker¡¯s arrival? She did not know.


    She heard the door creaking open, then the Master¡¯s familiar rhythm as he walked through the Hospit. Well, whatever they would do, Virrah doubted it beyond the Masters capabilities, even if she hadn¡¯t seen him cast his silent mantra in the last weeks. She brushed some stray locks of white from her eyes, so they dint obscure her work, already so blurry for the dim lights.


    She recalled his power in the mad battle within earth¡¯s bowels. It had all happened after he had drunk her blood. A great amount. She¡¯d been woozy after and walking on wobbly legs. She peeked at her room¡¯s door. Perhaps it was time for the Master Maker to be fed again.

 Threads In The Web

    The icy water dispelled the weight from his exhausted muscles. Men were creatures of habit, and training after waking had become a fierce one indeed. But it felt good, to once again make use of his body. The soreness in his arms and legs, tendons and ligaments were a sign ¨C a message from his body that he had improved.


    He watched the clear beads of water trail down his bare skin like rubber tires, giving him goosebumps. Keter narrowed his eyes, pulling his muscles taut, squeezing every fiber. The magic swelled up within himself, manifesting itself in form of imagery, sensation, motion. It felt like he was pulling a thousand bowstrings, drawing them back until they almost snapped. Ready to shoot out in any direction if he only released his control over them. He started trembling, as if the stress would tear him apart. The power kept building and coiling inside him like the white-hot blaze of the smith¡¯s furnace. ¡®Now!¡¯ he thought and with an involuntary spasm of his hand, he released his mantra and every drop of water instantly hissed and fled in a great steaming mist.


    He growled lowly, slowly pushing his smoking breath into the cool morning air. It had taken him many attempts, but he was starting to get the hang of using his magic. It would take many more if he wished to become truly efficient. Keter knew he had the upper hand in speed, and there were no limits to how he used his magic, unlike the others. But he lacked volume. The amount of power was equal to how much he could store in his body.


    ¡°Unless¡­¡± He whispered. Unless he drank Virrah¡¯s blood. For whatever reason, he could hold more magic then. Should he ask her? Would she comply? He blew out his cheeks and started his walk back to the Hospit.


    He was greeted inside by the thick smell of leftover broth, fresh bread and boiled eggs. Mouth watering, he almost choked it down, driven by a nearly insatiable hunger as was always the case after using his magic. There was a thirst, too. But not one for water.


    The day started leisurely, spending his time with Virrah as she lectured him on plants and herbs, potions and concoctions, history and politics, nature and wildlife. Her knowledge was like an ocean without bottom, blue and vast and seamlessly blending with the sprawling sky. There was more than Keter could ever take in.


    ¡°Silva has done well teaching you, Virrah.¡± Keter remarked. She smiled in the way she always did when the talk was about her mentor.


    ¡°She is the oldest and wisest in the whole of Hollow¡¯s Maw, Master Maker. Perhaps even in the whole Cradle.¡± She said, referring to the circling mountain range enclosing the multitude of villages. Not a day went by without Keter wondering what laid beyond those gargantuan piles of grey rock.


    ¡°The only person near her age is probably the Elder Shaman, is it not?¡± Keter said distractedly, fumbling with a flower¡¯s stalk. Virrah bit her lip, which meant she was thinking deeply, trying to recall some distant bit of knowledge.


    ¡°No,¡± She shook her head, a curtain of white hair gently swaying with the movement. ¡°As far as I¡¯m aware, the Elder Shaman is not very old. In fact ¨C¡± Her words were cut short by some commotion, rumbling in the distance and slowly loudening as it neared. There was a yelp, then Keter heard the front door swung open.


    Another person might have remained seated, might''ve awaited whatever would happen, they might try their luck. Not Keter; he knew lady luck to be a fearsome slut. He was behind the doorframe before his next breath of air, now flowing so serenely. His ready fingers were folded around the knife, hanging eagerly at his waist. Teasing like an impatient child. Daring like a bold friend. Urging, not unlike the addict¡¯s desire.


    The first person inside the room was a fur-clad man. Keter waited. The next was a woman quickly followed by a young girl, and the Maker drew from the corner''s gloom, the sharpened steel in his pale fist. He glanced at Virrah, to gouge whether he should retaliate against the newcomers. But her mannerism appeared calm, recognition lighting her eyes. He realized his face was straining. Keter stretched his jaw, then relaxed his jaw and eyes, showing now what he hoped was a more human expression.


    "Welcome, Elder Hunter." Virrah said, conveniently explaining to the Maker who this stoic man was.


    Grog choose to remain silent, scanning the room with practiced efficiency. His heels scuffing the floorboards, dragging some stubborn dirt around. He was ridden with filth. Mud on his pelts, twigs in his hair, leaves to his sleeves, and carried the stench of sour sweat.


    ¡°Where is the Master?¡± He asked, voice husky and grating as if he¡¯d just ran a great distance. ¡°The Master Maker.¡± He continued, breathing loudly through his flaring nose. ¡°We need him to hear this.¡±


    ¡°Hear what?¡± Keter¡¯s voice trailed from the darkness and had the gathering flinch ¨C even Grog who was said to know no surprise. Seemed he was just a man after all.


    ¡°Master Maker.¡± Grog said before bowing curtly. His companions followed the gesture, though deeper than him. They also stayed down for longer. One, he already knew though she now walked with a slight limp. It was Hesh ¨C Grog¡¯s promised. The other was a young girl Keter had some faint memory of seeing around at times, yet he could not recall a name. Just when he lost interest in her, his eyes caught a dissipating bruise on her collarbone. The next glance showed some scabbed scrapes along her forearm.


    ¡°There is news, urgent telling, from beyond Hollow¡¯s Maw.¡± Grog said, eyes hard and red and tired.


    Virrah stepped forward, her apron skidding the floor gently as it swayed. ¡°If it is urgent, best you tell of it soon, then.¡± She did not have the patience for drawn out pleasantries. Something Keter could appreciate.


    A pull at grog¡¯s eyebrows showed he wanted to object. ¡°Should we not wait for Hawk?¡±


    Keter shook his head. ¡°He can hear of this later, if need be.¡± Keter was already surprised the Elder Shaman was not the first to hear of this.


    The hunter pursed his lips and seemed to think it over, working his fingers in an involuntary habit. ¡°Yes.¡± He finally said. ¡°Let¡¯s talk now.¡±


    Keter gestured him to start as he walked back to his chair and seated himself. The leader sits. The subject stands. This was a simple thing.


    ¡°The messengers I had sent to our closest neighbours have not returned after two weeks, when the time to travel to there and back for either team is about nine days.¡± He blew it all out in one quick breath and jumble of words. Virrah looked put-off, yet not really shocked. Keter glanced at the hunter¡¯s two companions, at their expressions so he could gauge how he should respond. What face should he make? What emotions should he show? He did not know. He choose to remain indifferent.


    ¡°And? What does this mean?¡± Virrah asked so Keter did not have to.


    ¡°It means.¡± A gravely voice echoed from the hall. ¡°That they¡¯ve either died or decided to join the other villages rather then return to us.¡± A moment later Silva entered the room, arched over her cane. Grog¡¯s eyes narrowed, flaring hate and suspicion. Hesh and the girl made room for the Owl to enter undisturbed.


    ¡°Silva.¡± Keter smiled thinly. ¡°I have not seen you in some time. I was almost worried.¡± That was a lie, but if the Elder Owl realized, she did not say. Instead she returned the smile, although wider and showing a flash of teeth and gum. She smelled of strong herbs and potent oils. Much like Virrah, only more pungent. A heavy waft of it came breezing through the room with her entry.


    ¡°My apologies, Master Maker. Unfortunately, when one reaches my age, they require much rest.My room offers this in abundance, you undoubtedly see. I hope you had no need for my presence in this time, and that my pupil was sufficient in her aid.¡±


    ¡°Virrah¡¯s attention was without flaw.¡± Keter responded simply. It was true, and the pupil brightened upon hearing it.


    ¡°Still ¡®Virrah¡¯?¡± The owl muttered, thinking her voice too low for Keter¡¯s ears to pick up. He ignored it.


    ¡°Well, Elder Hunter?¡± Keter asked, turning back to the sturdy man and pulling him from his glaring, which took some apparent effort.


    ¡°I,¡± He fumbled, ¡°Cannot be certain what really happened, Master Maker.¡± He shot another wrathful eye at Silva. ¡°But I can say that they would never delay their return out of their own free will.¡±


    ¡°Then what do you suggest?¡± Keter asked.


    ¡°Either the other villages have denounced your existence, Master Maker, declaring open war on Hollow¡¯s Maw.¡± He paused. ¡°Or they have been attacked by some manner of beast on their travel, both on the direction of Rohm, as Sihn¡¯s domain.¡± Both North and South, thus. Keter had already known Hollow¡¯s Maw to be located on the left side of the Cradle ¨C this being a mountainous ring, encircling the area at large. Within this ring was another mountain circle, from which Keter had emerged.


    The Master Maker said nothing, and so silence claimed its dominion over the gathering. There were many things to consider, even whether he should care at all. If the others had challenged him, why should he react?


    Something heated inside him, then jittered across his waiting body, like a million ants beneath the skin. The warmth rose until it burned inside him like a hungry flame, begging to be fed, to be released, to destroy and do what it was meant to do.


    The answer was simple. ¡°Then we too shall attack.¡± Keter found himself hissing, venomous enough to make the ones closest recoil. The wind outside pressed upon the Hospit, causing it to growl like a tortured beast.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Grog swallowed heavily. ¡°How would we go about that, Master Maker?¡± He asked nervously. ¡°They have numbers equal to our own, and ¨C ¡°


    Virrah raised her hand, interrupting the hunter. ¡°Master Maker pardon my intrusion, but we don¡¯t even know for certain that the other clans are at fault. Perhaps our village members have been taken by whatever was the cause for the hunter named Bale¡¯s disappearance. Perhaps something else came up. I don¡¯t think that¡­¡± she caught herself, then. Any more would pose too much weight on her leash ¨C on her pillar of servitude. Too much and it will crumble. A thing she understood.


    But she was right. Keter checked himself, cooling the fury within. Ignoring that familiar desire he was so close with. Closer then friends.


    ¡°You¡¯re correct, Virrah. Information is what we need now, before anything else.¡± He noticed Silva nodding contently. Keter paused to ponder, a dozen roads and avenues of action sprawled and crawled before his mind¡¯s eye. But which one to travel by? ¡°I will organize a scout party, made from your elite hunters, Grog, and we will search for the origin of our issue.¡± He had decided.


    The Elder Hunter pursed his lips, eager yet uncertain. Keter spoke up before the man could say anything.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I will ask for the Shaman¡¯s advice before we partake in this excursion. But, for now, start rounding up and preparing the necessary men. We don¡¯t need many, no more then eight, really. Too many men, and the number will give away our presence. I plan to leave in some days.¡± Grog nodded slowly, taking in all of the Master Maker¡¯s orders and intel. ¡°Before that, though, I plan on introducing your men to some new techniques, as well as getting a feel for their current skill level and abilities.¡±


    He nodded again but frowned slightly. Not surprising since the skilful hunter would not assume the Master to have more experience then him or his men. Keter wouldn¡¯t be training them to hunt, though. Their training would be in the tact of warfare. Same outcome, similar ways, different mindset.


    ¡°As you wish, Master Maker.¡± Grog said, his doubts barely contained. Keter waved him off, then nodded at the women.


    ¡°And who are they?¡± He asked. ¡°Why did you bring them?¡±


    Hesh flinched slightly, but the other girl did not react. She stared at her feet ¨C eyes downcast.


    ¡°Oh, sorry.¡± The hunter mumbled. ¡°This is my promised, Hesh. She will become my fourth wife.¡± He said simply. ¡°And this is Pech, Bale¡¯s daughter. Well¡­¡± He scratched his head somewhat awkwardly. Keter noticed Virrah¡¯s intent stare on the girl.


    ¡°She¡¯s without succour, now. Her mother died past winter from the chills, and her father is probably dead too. If I can¡¯t find him, it can only mean that.¡± He explained matter-of-factly. No pride to it. ¡°The Tabernacle doesn¡¯t accept girls inside, and she¡¯ll only get in the way with the hunters the way she¡¯s now¡­¡± He looked down on her impassive frame, dead-eyed, empty-eyed, hollow-eyed.


    ¡°So, you want to leave her here, in my Hospit?¡± Silva groaned, shuffling forward slowly. Not any less threatening for her cumbersome steps with that fierce gaze. ¡°She¡¯ll only get in the way here too, Hunter. Don¡¯t you see?¡± And the rumbling began. They squabbled about responsibility, leadership, obligation. Keter ignored them.


    Virrah was plucking at the hem of her apron, deep in thought. It was rare for her to disagree with Silva for one. And to not support her was a true rarity. Intrigued, the Master leaned in closer and then asked in a low whisper. ¡°You want her to stay?¡±


    Her eyes flashed up guiltily, then down again, fumbling at the fabric. ¡°She could maybe help us around, or give some clue as to what had happened to her father, so we can prepare against a possible threat¡­¡± She could not lie for the life of her. Whatever her reason, she wanted the girl to stay. Why, would give some insight to who Virrah really was. Just a puppet, pulled around by Silva¡¯s whims and desires? An easy vessel for Keter to pour all his expectations and orders into? Or something else? Something autonomous? Know not only your enemy, but also your ally for your back is more vulnerable than your shield. If she even was one that is. Keter figured this was the first step into finding this out.


    ¡°She can stay.¡± Keter¡¯s voice cut through the boiling argument like a heated blade through the pig¡¯s fat. Silva stopped mid-sentence in her barrage of words too complicated for Grog to comprehend half of.


    ¡°Master Maker?¡± She asked, struck with confusion. He gestured at Virrah.


    ¡°While you were discussing among yourselves about a proper solution, Virrah here has explained to me the benefits in allowing Pech to stay.¡± He announced, coldly staring the others down.


    Grog stumbled, blinking and then looking away ashamedly. Hesh could not control a shiver from vibrating across her skin. Silva pressed her pale lips into a thin line, peering at Virrah. The silence seemed to have manifested with an almost physical weight of its own, pressing down on the Maker¡¯s underlings. Silva was the first to concede with a smile pointed at Virrah.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she then said, ¡°I understand, now. Good work Slickleaf.¡± Keter observed her behaviour and found that the acknowledgement was honest, for whatever reason. Why?


    --The Frontier City Of Solace--


    Rin walked through the long halls, a frantic display and array of light dancing around the group of young men and woman she was joining that day. The rays¡¯ bending was the work of Haliera, who¡¯s blessing was the Glowfix ¨C the ability to bend and form light as she wished. She had the habit of doing this to a subtle extend unconsciously. Today, however, the sparkle and wonder seemed more brilliant than ever.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you see?¡± She said excitedly. ¡°Vindict has found a connection to the ¡®tower murder¡¯ and ¡®Gon¡¯s eternal sleep¡¯!¡± Haliera was, very much like most noble girls, bored most of the time. Which meant she took particular interest in any distraction that presented itself at that moment in time. For now, this was the streak of murders occurring in the Frontier City. Even if the Tower murder¡¯s victim was related to her own family.


    ¡°And he even suggests another connection with the unsolved case of ¡®Mallah¡¯s disappearance.¡¯ All instances where no one survived to witness. Where there were no indicting clues left behind. Where the political, economical and social world has been shaken each time.¡± She was gushing out her words, the light now a purple fixed inside a deep pink, twirling, flashing brightly.


    ¡°Be careful,¡± Severan said, joy written in his bare eye. The other covered by a piece cloth only the wearer could see true. This was done with all men blessed with a mantra. ¡°You are really taxing your gems. Especially now the magic current runs thin.¡± He gestured at the air around him, as if the powers were a thing one could see. Haliera shrugged carelessly, her staple white dress lined with a swirling glow.


    ¡°I have enough of them,¡± Her hair swayed, and the gems accentuating her auburn locks tinkled jubilantly. ¡°And a Howling is soon to come anyway.¡±


    Jafier, a tag-along friend of Severan, raised his brow. ¡°Really? Is that what the scholars have surmised from their calculations?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s what I say.¡± Haliera responded airily. ¡°I can feel how the fresh magic will soon flood the city, filtered by the Wall¡¯s Great Wards. Right, Brother?¡± She turned to Severan. They were siblings of the house of Gough - an old, industrious one at that, focused on commerce and fair wares rather than military or political power.


    Severan shrugged. ¡°I can¡¯t really feel any of that. My breath just feels short, like I¡¯m breathing through cloth. Only, well, I¡¯m not really breathing it at all.¡± Absorbing magic was described differently by almost each person.


    ¡°I wonder how that expedition will be dealing with future Howlings.¡± Fina spoke out, her blue dress glittering with immaculate thin sheets of paper metal. ¡°I, for one, wouldn¡¯t want to be out when the Fog starts rolling in, swallowing everything.¡± She shuddered, and Jafier laughed.


    ¡°Have you ever even seen a Howling?¡± He snickered again, only louder. ¡°I bet you even believe in the Whispers, don¡¯t you? The monsters within the Mists?¡±


    ¡°I have seen it!¡± Fina objected stricken. ¡°I had been walking on the Higher Walls when they came up to the stone base, absorbed by the Wards written in the brick.¡±


    ¡°And did you see any monsters?¡± He asked, smirking.


    ¡°No,¡± She admitted, pouting.


    ¡°But!¡± and her eyes lit up. ¡°They say the monsters only appear when people are out in a Howling.¡±


    Severan scoffed. ¡°What fool would go out in a Howling to prove this to be true? Even farmers hide in their Warded homes when the Fog comes. Monsters or no, the mirage of magic messes with people, killing them or worse.¡± Fina looked at him, wide eyed and not holding a little fear in her beating heart.


    ¡°Worse?¡± She asked quietly.


    But Severan left it at that. To speak of these things was bad luck, for life and commerce. Rin did not know which one he found more important. Whichever it was, Severan would not be jeopardising it.


    ¡°Anyway,¡± Haliara said to fill the sudden silence. ¡°We were talking about the tower murderer. They gave him a name.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Jafier asked. ¡°What dare they name a one so undoubtedly skilled in his blessings?¡±


    Rin felt a tug at her dress, a light blue lined with silver. Instinctively, she slipped from the group and drew into the shadows of an adjacent room. The name did not matter to her; it held no value. She looked down, her eyes breaking through the gloomy dark, and noticed the servant child that had pulled her there.


    ¡°Hey, there.¡± She said, frowning when it wasn¡¯t who she was expecting. ¡°Who might you be?¡± She had to be fast and return to the others before they realized she was gone. Not something that would be happening incredibly fast, but still.


    ¡°Terris told me you¡¯d pay for information?¡± He said in a hushed tone.


    Again, she frowned. Terris was not supposed to tell other people this, especially not unknown children. Her network of information was based on servants and maids, lords and ladies, merchants and bums. But only people she trusted. Or those whose behaviour she could predict, at least. If word got out she was tugging the web of rumours and facts, soon the spider within would catch her.


    ¡°Why?¡± She asked.


    He shuffled nervously, dragging his feet along the stone tiles, scratching his neck, forming a rash from the habit. ¡°I worked for the Mons family before¡­ Before Revan Mons was killed in his high tower, and my brother - a servant there - too.¡± Rin blinked.


    ¡°Oh,¡± She stammered. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ Sorry.¡±


    The boy shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t be.¡± He mumbled, clutching his shirt into his little fists.


    Rin¡¯s hearing easily picked out the distant footsteps as her entourage wandered further away. She fetched a pig coin- the second piece in value ¨C and held it before the child.


    ¡°Alright, if you tell me something good, I¡¯ll give you this.¡± The boy perked up upon seeing the shining piece of metal, stamped with the Great Iron River¡¯s likeliness.


    ¡°I saw the killer!¡± He blurted out. Rin paused, mouth agape.


    ¡°Wha-¡±


    ¡°In the pale moonlight!¡± He continued, his near silent tone gone. ¡°Not his face, but I saw gems glowing all over his body, hidden with a mantle that drifted like mist in the night!¡± She coughed, blew out her cheeks and then sighed.


    ¡°So, you didn¡¯t really see him? His face? Something else? Something I can use?¡±


    The boy pouted. ¡°No,¡± he admitted. ¡°But, he flew! Right up the wall! Didn¡¯t think any of it, thought it was me seeing things, or maybe a moon spirit. But, when I heard about the murders¡­¡± He trailed off. Rin sighed again, then pressed the coin into his hands anyway.


    ¡°Here,¡± She said. ¡°Now when you see Terris, give him a good beating for me, will you?¡±


    The boy frowned, quickly stuffing the pig away in some hidden pocket as if someone would come by right then and snatch it.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    Rin smiled. ¡°Just do it, but explain it was my saying after you¡¯ve done it, Okay?¡± The boy thought on it, but then nodded.


    ¡°Okay, Mistress Rin.¡±


    She curtsied at him, and he awkwardly tried responding, before she ran back to the others. They hadn¡¯t drifted far off. She slid back into the group, still so deep in discussion about the killer.


    ¡°Hey, Rin.¡± Severan said, smiling at her and drawing closer. A bit too close for her comfort. But she had started expecting this from the handsome heir. Terris had already told of the young lord¡¯s many ventures with maids and ladies.


    ¡°Did you know they named him The Whisper¡¯s Wisp?¡± He asked, his voice like honey.


    ¡°No.¡± She said politely, suddenly realizing she hadn¡¯t asked the boy¡¯s name, then.

 After Rain

    --The Frontier City Of Solace--


    Vah looked at the gathering of young nobles through her right eye, the other obscured by the white band that covered it. Unlike with men, a blessed woman¡¯s eye-cloth was worn over her left eye. And unlike nobles, those who were under the church¡¯s grace wore one they couldn¡¯t see through.


    It had been there for as long as Vah could remember. Born in the church, raised in the monastery, tutored in the grand cathedral of the Frontier city, the cloth had stayed with her even if those around her had left. For all sixty and seven times the seasons had rolled past, each leaving a mark on the band to be remembered by; the markings colored in her ranking. Even if her age was nothing to scoff at, it was only red on white. Not low, yet not high either.


    ¡°Is the nectar to your liking, Lady Vah?¡± Haliera asked sweetly.


    She looked down in her cup, the syrup of sugary red swirling formlessly in the water. Perhaps not really without form, though. It reminded Vah very much of the Howling. But then again, did the Howling even have a structure to it? She supposed not.


    ¡°Lady Vah?¡± Haliera asked again, no impatience in her words. Quite unusual for nobles - quickly agitated when one did not give them undivided attention.


    Vah took another sip. Although anything overly sweet was popular with the noble womenfolk, Vah did not much care for it. She much preferred the bitter brew from the church¡¯s own making. Quite unfeminine for her to think so. But, as a woman under the church, her gender was of no real importance.


    ¡°It¡¯s very toothsome, dear.¡± She answered, her crackled voice a constant reminder of her age.


    Haliera gave her a weird look, no doubt trying to grasp what she had meant by it. But then, like any good noble woman, she shrugged it off, pretending as if she hadn¡¯t said anything. Time and practice had taught Vah how to keep herself from laughing at the nobles¡¯ antics. With age came skill, after all.


    Haliera¡¯s eyes were drawn up and right, to where a display of light filtered through a glass-stained window, cutting one tone into many. ¡°I¡¯ve heard Radiance has returned from the Battle of Right,¡± She said, eyes glazed and staring hard at the glass, warping the light with her own blessing. ¡°Has he been by, by any chance?¡±


    Vah allowed herself a mischievous chuckle. Haliera¡¯s eyes shot back to her, cheeks flushed.


    ¡°What is it?¡± She asked, brushing some stray hairs away. ¡°Lady Vah?¡±


    ¡°It should come to no real surprise,¡± the old Priestess said, ¡°I suppose every noble girl has had a fancy on Lord Radiance at least at one point in her life.¡±


    Haliera¡¯s cheeks deepened in their hue, as did her ears and nose. ¡°Lady Vah!¡± she objected, but the priestess waved it away.


    ¡°You needn¡¯t hide it from me, girl, or from anyone here.¡± It were just some friends after all. Other than her brother, tall and handsome, there was another girl, full in shape and pretty, and yet another, very young and fragile looking. Vah had been surprised upon meeting the little one, Rin she was called. She was constantly fumbling at her dress, as if mightily irritated by the fabric¡¯s touch.


    The girl didn¡¯t wear an eye-band, meaning she was without blessing ¨C a rarity for nobles, really. Even if the blessing of most was next to useless. The vicar had yet to learn why someone of Haliera¡¯s stature had a girl like Rin follow her around. What could be her worth?


    ¡°But no.¡± She finally said. ¡°Lord Radiance has yet to grace us with his visit.¡±


    Vah refrained from looking behind her ¨C at the stained-glass artwork.


    ¡°But he will, probably. Soon, rather than later. I suppose he is still exhausted from the war and travel. I¡¯ve heard the enemy was most fierce. Once he has rested, no doubt he¡¯ll come by.¡± Vah winked. ¡°I¡¯ll send for you when he does.¡±


    ¡°Would be nice if he came. Much prefer to see the chosen child, son to our Goddess Sol, than the Runeclad that wandered in yesterday.¡± Vih said ¨C Vah¡¯s acolyte, who she had forgotten to be present.


    The party froze, petrified. Taken by a fear stemming from their childhood, deep rooted into their mind. Whenever Vah heard the name of those creatures, she felt a chill, still ¨C starting at the root of her gut and clawing its way up her spine. A shiver that set her knees to buckle and hands to shake. The years had not taken that fear from her. She doubted they ever would.


    ¡°A Runeclad?¡± Severan asked, his likable face contorted into a grimace, eyes darting around as if the monster was still lurking somewhere in the cathedral. ¡°What did it want?¡±


    Vah swallowed the lump in her throat, showing the rigid stature one of her position was expected to carry. ¡°What does any Runeclad want?¡± She shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve yet to find a one who¡¯s figured that one out, Severan. It simply scourged the halls and passages until it finally left, not saying a word.


    She saw Haliera shudder. ¡°Which one was it?¡± She asked, trying to keep the fright from her voice and failing. The creatures did not have names, really. But their masters¡¯ ancestors generally named them something.


    ¡°Vrox,¡± Vih said in Vah¡¯s stead, ¡°The silver one. You know, the one that doesn¡¯t have the upper half of its head. The top perfectly flat and level except for three silver spikes that sprout from it.¡± With each piece of information describing the inhuman monster, the gathering shrank as if a great weight pressed on them. Well, everyone but Vih. For some reason she wasn¡¯t bothered by these things.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like those things¡± Fina muttered. ¡°Nothing should be that dangerous.¡±


    Perhaps nothing should; nothing but Sol herself, blessed be Her name.


    ¡°You think Radiance could defeat one of those creatures?¡± Haliera asked quietly. Severan frowned.


    ¡°They can¡¯t be hurt, Hal, let alone killed.¡± He sneered, annoyed. ¡°Nothing can defeat a Runeclad but another one. And we¡¯ve yet to see them challenge each other.¡±


    They were silent, the topic having strangled the light aired tone from before.


    ¡°Speaking of challenges.¡± Vah started, skillfully diverting the conversation. ¡°I¡¯ve no doubt that people will start to duel Radiance again now he¡¯s returned; calling him out into the Square before Tijd¡¯s tower¡±


    Vih snickered, her attitude starting to grate on Vah¡¯s patience. She will correct her pupil¡¯s behavior later, once the guests have gone.


    ¡°What¡¯s funny?¡± Haliera asked, to which Vih laughter louder.


    ¡°Can¡¯t really call it a challenge, though? Can you? Radiance is Son of the Flame; no mortal can beat him. Especially with his blade of legend, passed down by every generation of Vail since Vail the vanquisher himself.¡±


    Haliera smiled at that. ¡°He is very strong.¡±


    ¡°That he is certainly.¡± Vah admitted. ¡°But he has been to war now and seen the brutality of man. I don¡¯t know how that will reflect on his dueling. When he fights for real he can be¡­ scary.¡±


    ¡°Radiance?¡± Haliera asked, incredulous. ¡°Scary?¡±


    Vah smiled as the elders do. It was easy to understand why a young noble woman could not see harm or threat in such a handsome and¡­ Kind looking man. But Vah was old ¨C older than time, almost, and she had seen kind-looking men do some damn horrible things before.


    ¡°You ever seen him fight, dear?¡±


    ¡°I have observed him dueling.¡± She answered smartly.


    ¡°Not the same.¡± Vah said, thinking back at that time, years ago in the Far Slums. ¡°Everyone should be a little scared of Radiance.¡± Haliera frowned and it seemed like she was going to retort.


    In the distance, the great bell-tower of Werk bellowed the time of day.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Haliera said. ¡°It seems the time of my departure has come.¡±


    Vah nodded, slowly raising herself. Vih helped her with that, now. Here, in the First Empire, the old were revered for their knowledge and skill and cunning. Aging came with many benefits as compared to the heretics of the east, the savages of the south, or the barbarians of the North. But even still, not a day went by where Vah did not wish for her youthful vigor to return. Perhaps, if she stayed devote to the Almighty, she¡¯d get another chance.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Then, Lady Vah, I hope to see you again soon.¡± Haliera said. Severan and Fina nodded their own courtesies before departing as well.


    It was just when Vah waved them off through the great door that she noticed a young servant child waving at the group from around the corner.


    ¡°Goodbye Rin.¡± The child called quietly. The young noble girl returned the gesture, then left.


    Vah had never, in her sixty and seven passing¡¯s of the seasons seen the girl named Rin here, and yet¡­


    ¡°How does she know the child?¡± Vah shook her head. With age came knowledge, yes, but she felt like more became lost in the passing of years; slipping from her finger like smoke.


    She turned, regarding the room in which she was stood. It was extravagant as anything the church owned, with high rafters, beaming faux-lights, exquisitely crafted furniture. But there was one piece of particular finery. The sun¡¯s rays passed through a glass stained window with flaring colors just soft enough to be stared at, but bright enough to catch one¡¯s breath.


    In the art, Radiance was depicted as a child, rising from the smoldering flames of his false parent¡¯s home. He was Son of The Flame, child to Sol ¨C the Almighty. The clarity and brilliance of his birth was almost blinding.


    But each light had its shadow. Vah turned to look at the window¡¯s polar opposite. This one dark and obscure. Reds were used in abundance as well, but not the red of flame. It was blood. Enough to fill an ocean. And in the middle of this grand pool stood a Runeclad, glooming and glowing, its surface copper and covered in wards and runes and untouched by the blood.


    Something in her gut churned like a dying snake, memories came flooding from when she was just a child. Dozens of men came flooding through the streets. Peasants displeased with the nobles¡¯ doings. She¡¯d been there, with another priestess. There had been a Runeclad, too.


    It didn¡¯t do much. Didn¡¯t have to do much. Not even raise its hand, like a blessed would. Or call upon a long string of words for his magic, like a spell-burner would. It looked. Head turning as if on a swivel. slowly, until it had locked on the many men and women, armed with crude tools and torches of flame. It looked.


    Then there was only blood. Enough to fill an ocean.


    --Northen Cradle, Hollow''s Maw--


    Keter¡¯s boots squelched through the mud, ankle deep and left after a great downpour of rain from past night. The road led to pretty much everywhere, as long as you knew which path to follow. For a population this pitiful, they sure made a mess of the ground with their drudging.


    Jeb, the Elder Shaman¡¯s acolyte, lead the way; staying close to Keter¡¯s side, attempting to offer a handhold in case the Master Maker would slip in the muck. But Keter reckoned the one to slip and fall on his ass would sooner be Jeb than him.


    ¡°So.¡± Jeb started carefully. ¡°It¡¯s war, then.¡± He sounded nervous as he said it. No real surprise, since the boy had probably seen no real conflict in his entire life, spent passively at the Shaman¡¯s side. Also, contrary to the primitive ways of these people, they appeared rather peaceful. Leaving the other Clans and villages be to keep to themselves.


    ¡°Not per say¡± Keter answered. ¡°It all depends on what we will find when scouting.¡±


    In the bleak light of the early morning, covered with a slick coating of rain stood the wooden archway that was the entrance to the Hunter¡¯s side of Hollow¡¯s Maw. The people here looked ragged and rugged, worn pelts and frayed rope made up most of their clothing. Skin hardened by mean weather and meaner work showed where the coats did not reach.


    Keter¡¯s eyes were pulled to a woman, stood beneath the gate and bowing at the pair of children.


    ¡°That must be the guide Grog spoke of.¡± Jeb commented observantly, gripping his wooden staff so he wouldn¡¯t trip in the sludge. It looked very similar to the Shaman¡¯s staff; only not made from the bones of beasts but from the limbs of trees, felled by the village¡¯s cutters.


    ¡°You are Kesh?¡± Keter asked casually.


    The woman bowed again, deeper. ¡°Yes, most esteemed Master Maker. Grog Jecher has send me to guide you to the gathering ground for his men.¡± Keter nodded.


    ¡°Lead the way then.¡±


    Within the camp, too, there was mud everywhere. It painted the tents brown, dotted the garbs black, and splattered the hides sodden. People were working on various things, from tanning to cooking, cleaning to gutting, crafting to repairing. But, as always, whenever the Master drew near, they paused their labor to pray to their Master in reverence, drawing obscure symbols in the air before them while muttering prayers in a language Keter did not yet know.


    ¡°Your people are most devoted, Master Maker.¡± The woman commented softly. Her hair too was caked with dirt and braided in dreads. Even so, she radiated a calm and confident aura befitting to one who was probably one of the more attractive women in the hunter¡¯s abode.


    ¡°I see so indeed, Kesh.¡± Keter said. ¡°No doubt they would even go to war, under my command.¡±


    She only nodded.


    ¡°Say, Kesh of the Hunter¡¯s abode, how is war waged between tribes?¡± It was one subject that laid outside Virrah¡¯s area of expertise. Keter was obviously most curious about it. Modern warfare, he knew like no other. But how would these savages go about killing one another? Sure, they appeared mellow and passive towards other tribes, but it wouldn¡¯t fool Keter. Always, whether in their homes of stone, their huts of mud, or their cities of trees, one thing remained the same; With man comes massacre.


    ¡°There are no exact rules for fighting, Master, if that is what you ask. We can raid each other, kill, kidnap, burn their homes.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Whatever the Elders command us.¡± She paused. ¡°Whatever you command us, Master Maker.¡±


    Keter thought on that for a spell. ¡°But you don¡¯t fight often, I hear?¡±


    ¡°It is so, Master. Only the older ones of Hollow¡¯s maw remember the battles clearly. Even I, twenty-five winters of age have only vague memories of raids and plundering when I was still a child. We are but few. Wasting many men too often would leave us with nothing but mud.¡±


    ¡°But then where do you get the training and,¡± More importantly, ¡°The courage to fight?¡±


    Civilians, no matter how fierce they think themselves to be, more often than not choke up when confronted with mortal combat. Even soldiers, trained and hardened by the crush of the military can find themselves petrified before the enemy. How would these people find the will within themselves to commit such savageries?


    Kesh smiled faintly, her hand lingering on a small satchel, barely bigger than a pebble, hung by her hemp belt. Now Keter looked around, he noticed that most men wore one of those, and even some women.


    ¡°We manage, Master Maker.¡± She said. ¡°We always find the courage to do what needs doing.¡±


    Before Keter could ask more, he spotted something huge from the corner of his eye. It stood on four legs, its shoulders as high as Keter was tall. The body covered in some kind of moss or fungi. A huge, elongated nose sprouted from its head with large flaring nostrils, and beneath it were two fearsome sets of molars to grind whatever found itself between them. But there were no lips, so it had a perpetual grin showing and wide, deep yellow eyes.


    Keter stared at the beast for a long silent moment as it was sniffing and plowing the mud with its oversized nose.


    ¡°That is, I suppose, the slopnek?¡± He asked Kesh.


    ¡°Yes, Master Maker,¡± she answered, walking up to the beast. The creature appeared uncaring for her presence, docilly digging in the soil for old roots and soaked scraps of food.


    ¡°They are great trackers and have decent endurance. On top of that, they don¡¯t really eat much food. And what they eat can be both plant and meat, making it easy to feed them.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Keter said, ¡°Virrah has taught me about them.¡±


    The woman smiled like a mask hiding too much. ¡°She might have, Master Maker. But you will find that there is much she hasn¡¯t told you yet. There is plenty to learn in the Hunter¡¯s abode. This you will see in the following days.¡±


    The other hunters started rounding up, spilling into the clearing from between the circling tents; Grog at the head of them. He looked fierce as ever, his bare forearms knotted with wiry muscle and scarred all over. Missing the tip of his left pinky, Keter now noticed.


    The hardened man frowned with his notched eyebrow, an uncanny blond, and scratched some dirt out of his cluttered beard. An axe hooked on his belt; one of the few metal tools they owned. The ore was scarce, so only those who had labor desperately in need of iron had them. Being an Elder had its benefits. The man drew closer, and Keter fingered his own blade, tucked neatly in the folds of his clothes and away from prying eyes. A blade ought to only be seen when its use is required.


    ¡°Master Maker,¡± His voice was like the iron of his axe. ¡°We are ready to embark, whenever you wish it so.¡±


    Keter allowed his gaze to glide across the many men, the beasts, the equipment, the faces. Hard folk, born in a harsh land. Not like the whimpering recruits, brought to him from their wealthy cities with a false hope for purpose. Unlike the savage people with their homes unmade to dust with a false sense of righteousness. No. With this lot, he had quite the idea in mind.


    _


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you are not yet panicked, Virrah.¡± Lowroot spat her name as if it were a curse. But it was no longer an insult to her. Not chained to her by the Elders but bestowed upon her by the Master Maker. She would wear it with her head held high.


    ¡°I¡¯d have expected you to grow weak in the legs after half a mile hike.¡± He continued on.


    Lowroot was perhaps the most bothersome person in Hollow¡¯s Maw, and that was with some fierce competition. He was a young Hunter and the fact that he was not chosen for the Master¡¯s expedition had severely grated him. A wound so deep in his brittle ego that perhaps even Silva, who was told to be able to cure any ailment, would not be able to heal him from his misery.


    Still, he was partially right. The steep climb uphill as she slipped and slid in the mud had her sweating and reeking sour in little time. Already she felt blisters pushing at her feet and burning whenever her boot hampered the wrong way on some rock or puddle.


    They were not the only ones. This was perhaps the largest party Virrah had ever lead into the Green since, well, ever. But she had a purpose in mind. A task bestowed upon her. Much like her name ¨C it meant she was trusted by the Master. A trust she would not disappoint.


    ¡°Just say it already,¡± Lowroot heaved as he lumbered up the hill after Virrah, ¡°You¡¯re lost. You couldn¡¯t find it anymore.¡± Then he grinned. ¡°Just tell the Master Maker you¡¯ve failed.¡±


    His smile grew wider, but then his eyes flashed round as he tripped and ate a mouthful of the dark sludge that was the ground. He looked up, face growing crazy with anger, seething and pure.


    ¡°You BITCH!¡± he snarled. She¡¯d tripped him, true. Childish, true. And yet Virrah felt better.


    ¡°Be silent, hunter.¡± Virrah did not have to raise her voice. She had authority over him, and anyone else following. Much like her task, it had been bestowed upon her. He could not touch her without reaping severe consequences. ¡°We have arrived.¡±


    Lowroot gave her a final look before scampering up. He wiped some mud from his face before flicking it away into the underbrush. Then he looked up, and his mouth dropped.


    Lowroot closed his eyes and quickly made the symbols of submission, prayer, and protection in the humid midday air before him. The others followed suit. Everyone but Virrah. She looked ahead, a poor attempt to peer into the abysmal depths that were the Hollow¡¯s bowels. The Moons were not out. And even if they were, they could not aid them beneath the seclusion of the earth.


    ¡°There¡¯s no time to waste,¡± Virrah warned the others, all men used to carry heavy loads. ¡°The Master Maker has told me he saw ore in these caves, and I plan on proving his words true.¡±


    The men dug in their leather bags, thick and rugged. Some muttered their fears, words close to blasphemy because who would dare enter the Hollow? Who was allowed other than the Virrah chosen by the Gods themselves? Well, for all that mattered, the Master Maker was their God now. And she the chosen Virrah. Who had ever claimed she could not bring others along?


    Torches were lit in a haste before they plunged into the jagged maw. An insufferable darkness hammered on the flickering light of their dull torches. She felt cold sweat clawing at her back, prickling the base of her skull. It brought back memories to Virrah of fire, thunder and broken stone.

 Ohm and omen

    His feet were boot-scuffed and rock-bruised. Fingers water-cut and dirt-worn. His cheeks mud-dulled, lips cold-cracked. But still he plowed on, unfaltering, unwavering. Pain was a old sensation, one of those primordial emotions rooted deep within man and creature alike. And its hardiness was lesser than Keter''s peculiar liking for it. This sharp, dull, webbed aching, so close to all the other human emotions; the next no less a stranger to Keter than the last.


    Iron clouds swam overhead, the gray expanse broken into shards by clawing canopy. And in the distance, the cradling mountains loomed, ever massive, ever present. A permanent reminder to Keter of his limitations. He could only wonder what hid past them. Empty desert planes, a sprawling ocean, booming civilization, deep jungle. But he wanted to know. Ever deeply.


    Behind him, the company of hunters followed, their pace slowing with each passing day; faces hollowing, eyes dulling, steps staggering. How long could they continue on? These were people not used to long treks, after all. None had died yet, but Keter reckoned it wouldn''t take much longer. After the first sorry bastard kicked it, the next one would follow quickly, then despair would set its jagged teeth into the others, and then...


    The Slopnek paused, its great snout dragging along the deep sludge that had emerged from the forest''s pitted earth ever since the rains came - seven days back. Now there was not a dry spot on Keter, his company, or anything else in the forest. Still it came down. Sometimes in a miserable pelting of droplets, other times it hammered onto them like hail. At this time it was little more than a misting, making the air thick and humid, clothes sticky and unpleasant. Keter had stripped some days ago, and was now marching in just his leathern poncho and a pair of boots ¨C the rain trailing down the oiled hide in streaks and lines.


    ¡°It''s picked up the trail again.¡± Grog breathed through his cluttered beard, the relief evident on his dirt-patched face.


    Keter stared at the creature that seemed not to notice much of anything besides the hunt for scent. It had trudged on for the entire span of the journey, not a flinch to its step. Something Keter could respect, if its intelligence had been greater than that of tree-bark. Which it was not. The thing looked much like tree-bark too; appearing more like a plant or fungus rather than an animal.


    ¡°Good.¡± Keter said. He didn''t feel good, though. None of this did. He felt blind, following this creature while seeing no trails for himself, all long washed away and drained to the soil. ¡°We must be getting close, then.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Master Maker. We should be near the village of Ohm, where my group of hunters had been sent.¡±


    ¡°And presumably arrived.¡± Keter finished, pushing down on his hair ¨C feeling the water seep out.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Grog said slowly, squinting those little eyes of his as he thought hard. Long words strained his mind something fierce. You could almost wonder if perhaps the Slopnek and him were somewhow related.


    The thing squealed suddenly behind them, high in pitch and long held before stepping back. Fear. Another thing that bound all creatures. The slopnek was no different in that regard. Which was why it was far beneath Keter.


    ¡°What was that?¡± He asked the Elder hunter while stepping closer to where the creature had been sniffing. He looked down between the soaked ferns, the mud-slick rocks. A footprint.


    ¡°A child''s?¡± One of Grog''s hunters proposed, leaning in. ¡°there shouldn''t have been any children with the team of hunters though...¡± The mark was small, indeed child-sized - about his size. But Keter knew better. He''d seen these too often to mistake them for anything else. He felt his lips pull back into an animal snarl, but regained his composure quick enough. The hunters looked at him.


    ¡°Greenskins.¡± He growled into the wet air.


    The Elder Hunter frowned, his eyes flitting from the Master Maker to the worn-down print, almost erased by the steady rain. ¡°We call them Kah.¡± He said, his voice hard.


    ¡°You know of these things?¡± The Maker asked.


    ¡°Yes, most deeply.¡± In his voice was a bitterness the entire company understood, and shared. ¡°But it shouldn''t be possible. Not now.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± Grog turned to the Maker, and suddenly fell under the God''s icy gaze. Cold like a steel blade, and just as sharp, just as hard. He''d looked a child, first time he saw him. But there was no longer a shred of doubt to Grog that the Master wasn''t anything akin to human. Not a single complaint, never a falter, a moment of weakness during their arduous trek. He''d treated his own, horrible blisters, so large and bloody even Grog himself had winced when the Maker had popped them open and treated with Slickleaf sap. The Maker hadn''t even as much as blinked. Grog wondered if the Gods were even made of flesh at all. Seemed more like oaken-wood and bedrock.


    ¡°They,¡± Grog grated, ¡°should only come after the frost, when the mountain peaks that enclose them, have thawed.¡±


    The Maker seemed to think on that for a bit, his dark eyes staring at the muddy print. The rain was worsening again.


    ¡°Why haven''t I been told of these things yet? Not by Virrah, not by Silva, not by Hawk... Not by you?¡± And then those hollow eyes set themselves onto Grog ¨C nailing him into place. By the Gods, the Maker gave him the chills like no other. Even if he looked like a child. Perhaps because he looked like a child. But Grog wondered for how long. Even in the short time the Maker had stayed in the Hollow''s Maw, the Elder Hunter had already noticed him to have grown. Now he almost reached Grog''s chest. And he was not a small man himself.


    ¡°It is said,¡± The Elder started, ¡°in the stories told ''round Hawk''s fire, that the Kah, like all monsters, are drawn to their name. With each mentioning, they linger closer, until they inevitably enter the Village''s ground.¡± He bit on his lip. ¡°Doing what they do best. Doing all they know to do.¡±


    The Master simply stared. ¡°And what''s that, Elder Hunter?¡±


    ¡°Destroy, Master Maker. All they do is destroy."


    --Northern Cradle, Hollow''s Maw--


    ¡°But I can make a dozen axes with this amount of ore!¡± Crag, the Village''s only smith sputtered. ¡°And a dozen knives more!


    The Hospit creaked as the low wind pressed against the wooden frame something fierce, the dull patter of rain a constant companion. Silence had become a thing of the past.


    ¡°Knives like the Master Maker''s?¡± Virrah''s voice was sharp and tired. Exhausted from all this endless arguing. ¡°Iron like The Maker''s steel? Sharp like his edge? Hard as his blade?¡±


    The smith looked away, disgruntled. Virrah saw frustration swim behind the glare in his eyes. He was not the only one she had angered in the past days; ever since the Maker had embarked on his journey. Not a night went past without another complaint angled at Virrah.


    ¡°So then what?¡± and the smith''s scornful eyes were set on Virrah again. Staring hard from across the pelt they were all sat on. ¡°Wait until he returns? Who knows how long that will take? Another week? By next moon?¡± He shook his head. ¡°No. We need the Axes now. Else we wont get enough wood to burn by winter, never mind the homes that need mending and building to keep the folks protected against the cold, the snow, the frost. I say we make the axes now.¡±


    ¡°You say?¡± It was Jeb, The Shaman''s acolyte, that spoke then. ¡°And who are you to make decisions like that? Did you don the Village Elders garb since last we met? I am hard-pressed to imagine Silva to have given op on that position.¡±


    Crag scowled, his sooth caked face darkening even more. ¡°And who is she?¡± He demanded, blackened finger pointing at Virrah. ¡°No one! She should''ve died in that cave! She -Argh!?¡±


    Suddenly he pulled back his finger, pressing it against his chest; pain stinging at his eyes. The room had grown darker. Three candles died with a hiss.


    ¡°Careful of your words, smith.¡± Jeb made his voice as deep and threatening as he could, backed with a low growl. ¡°She''s been appointed by The Master Maker himself to make these decisions in his stead during his leave. Any disrespect to her, is disrespect to the Master.¡± His eyes shone with a dangerous gleam. ¡°Any disrespect to the Master, is disrespect to the Shaman, too. And I will tolerate none.¡±


    Another candle flickered and some smoke curled from the fur hide, between Crag''s legs. ¡°Are we clear?¡±This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    The room was cold, and still Virrah saw sweat beading the smiths forehead, trailing down his cheeks in black streaks as he watched the smog sway.


    ¡°Yes.¡± He croaked, rubbing at his blistering finger. ¡°I understand.¡±


    Virrah sighed in silence. She had so many other things that still needed doing. And now the smith''s hand was injured to boot. Should she give him a salve to quicken his burn''s healing?


    ¡°I''ll let you make five axes, and no more. Knives can wait, too. I expect these to be the best axes you''ve ever crafted as well. Any less will be unforgivable.¡± She stared hard at the man, and he nodded.


    ¡°Yes, Mistress Virrah.¡±


    She gave him another look, then dug for a little vial within one of the many pockets of her apron. All filled with potions and cures, herbs and plants. Some for healing, others for hurting, and some even for ending.


    ¡°Here,¡± she said, handing him a wooden vial containing the burn aid. ¡°This is to treat your blister. Apply twice daily until it''s gone. If you run out, head to the Hospit and ask for either me or Halfbloom.¡± A little carrot and stick. Something she had quickly picked up from the Maker.


    ¡°Thank you, Mistress.¡± He carefully accepted the vial. ¡°i''ll start forging immediately.


    ¡°Yes.¡± She said with an air of authority while waving him away. ¡°You may leave.¡±


    He stood, bowed, and then left the Hospit through the door. In the brief moment where it swayed open, Jeb saw the rains lash the earth. The Hospit girls working outside looked miserable enough. He could only wonder how the Master''s company was doing.


    ¡°Never imagined you''d stand up for me like that.¡± Virrah noted, leaning over to grab a cup of her own brew.


    ¡°I take my given tasks seriously,¡± Jeb said as he stared her down. ¡°And it was the Master Maker that told me to aid you in your newly appointed position.


    Virrah looked back at him, and he suddenly found it hard to maintain eye contact. She''d always looked fierce, Virrah did, but ever since the Master had left, her skin had grown twice as thick, her gaze trice as hard, her wit knowing no equal. Jeb looked away.


    ¡°But to go to the extend to use your power... It is more than I''d expected.¡±


    True, he''d used his magic to help. But he also wanted her to know he wasn''t defenseless, even if it drained his source of power in the form of a polished bone fragment, hung from his neck and hidden underneath his garb. The Elder Shaman had told him it was fine, but still... If he were to use it too recklessly now, he might find his strength coming short when he most needed it.


    ¡°You did burn my pelt, though.¡± Virrah said, frowning slightly. Which, for someone who had barely any facial expressions at the best of times, didn''t look too bad on her. Jeb blinked at that, then shook his head.


    ¡°I''m sorry for that.¡± The Master Maker hadn''t told Virrah, or the owl about the Shaman powers. Not their strengths, nor their weaknesses. Which meant he hadn''t chosen a side; not yet at least. Jeb could still, perhaps, pull him to the Shamans ¨C away from the grasp of that witch Silva.


    Jeb took a sip from his own hot brew. It did good to ward against the setting chill that came wafting through the creaks and crevices of the Hospit. He again realized how old the structure was. Abundant evidence was scattered everywhere in the form of old varnish and fresh repairs. Virrah cocked her head and peeked over his shoulder.


    ¡°Pech? What are you doing there?¡± Jeb turned to see the frail girl exit the kitchen. She looked a lot better since the first time he saw her, a couple weeks back. She''d looked miserable. Now, well, she still looked much the same; her eyes a dull reflection of the world around her. But there was at least some color to her cheeks and some flesh on her bones.


    ¡°I...¡± She stuttered. ¡°was hungry, Mistress.¡±


    Virrah looked the girl over with a slow, studying gaze before abruptly dismissing her with a wave of her thin hand. ¡°If you are hungry, then eat more when the food is served. I can''t have people run around the Hospit unsupervised. You hear?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Mistress.¡± She nodded meekly.


    Pech bowed, her frayed skirt swaying, then quickly fled through the side exit. Virrah stood up and opened the door to a crack, peering outside, following the girl with a careful eye. This was not the first time she had caught Pech in the Hospit. Always suspiciously close to Virrah''s working room; where she stored all her potions.


    ''And poisons.'' She thought warily.


    ¡°Is something the matter?¡± Jeb, that meddlesome boy of the Tabernacle asked. Always asking. Always prying. Was it really to aid her? Was he just filled with innocent curiosity? Or was he looking do kick the legs from under her and Silva? Whichever one it was; Virrah was not taking any chances.


    ¡°No,¡± Virrah answered as she lost Pech in the garden growth, ¡°nothing''s wrong.¡±


    She turned with a snap, and was pleased to see Jeb, for all his magical might, flinch at the sudden movement.


    ¡°Now that''s been dealt with, I can start brewing some medicine. A thing which I have unfortunately been neglecting for a lack of time.¡± She started walking in the direction of the front door to lead Jeb out. ¡°So your presence is, for the time being, no longer required...¡±


    There was a commotion outside. Some yelling. Probably the Hospit girls, but... Virrah turned to listen closer. There was a deeper voice, also. A more than one. Men.


    And she recognized Lowroot''s voice, now they were drawing closer. Virrah clenched her teeth. Were they here to make trouble? She knew none of them, Lowroot especially, were happy to be under her command. Even if it had gotten them a pile of ores and other resources. Perhaps because of that.


    Virrah gripped inside one of the many hidden pouches sewed within her apron. Felt the firespit-salts''s warm glow against her gloved fingertips. She glanced behind her, at Jeb, but his confused expression showed he didn''t know this was going to happen.


    ¡°There might be trouble.¡± She whispered, fingers prying at the door''s latch.


    Jeb rose from the hide, eyes looking uncertain. Virrah didn''t expect too much help from him, being honest. She bit her lip. But that was fine. She was used to fighting the world one her own, anyway.


    She flung the door open, every muscle along her body pulled taught and prepared to cause deep hurt. The first one she saw was Highbriar, with Lowroot behind his shoulder. Her eyes flickered to their hands. No weapons. She looked at their faces. Worry and panic, rather than rage and anger. She felt her skin prickle. For some reason this was more off-putting than the alternative.


    ¡°Another hunter has disappeared!¡± Highbriar breathed, red-faced. He reeked of sour sweat and looked as if he ran the entire way at full speed.


    ¡°What?¡± Virrah asked.


    ¡°Another hunter, Mistress. Gone during the hunt. The deep green took him, just like Bale!¡±


    Virrah tought on that, realization dawning. She bit her lip in what was becoming a habit. It seemed like the sick would have to wait a little longer on their potions.


    ¡­


    Keter felt the sodden earth sap all the heat from his body as he laid low beneath the bushes. The wind was a razer, cutting at his exposed flesh as it weaved through the naked shrubs and bare trees. His boots were filled with water. All sensation in his toes had left him, stolen by the cold and its unrivaled patience.


    ¡°There''s another person. There.¡± Quiver''s voice came to him in a low whisper, pointing his finger at an angle to the West; at an overhanging tree-limb. Keter looked, and indeed saw another with a spear in hand. So there were people living here, still.


    They had found more greenskin footprints as they neared the village of Ohm. Enough of them that Keter thought the settlement overrun. Luckily the people living here proved more resilient than that. But still. As Keter observed longer, he saw clear signs of conflict and battle. Wood ¨C blackened by fire. Fences broken and sunken in the mire. Freshly overturned earth; fresh graves, already hammered to mud by the ceaseless rain.


    ¡°What should we do, Master Maker?¡± Quiver asked quietly, shivering hard.


    ¡°We''ll meet up with the others, and see from there.¡± Keter wriggled in his prone position, fingers clawing at the dirt. ¡°In silence.¡± He added, though he knew Quiver understood that well enough.


    The boy nodded, once, then started inching back through the undergrowth. On the way they paid mind to their presence, staying down low in what was almost a prowl. The movements came to Keter like old repetition, endlessly practiced in what now seemed a time long ago. A life almost forgotten, but never unlearned.


    The group was waiting for them beneath an slab of rock, overhanging above an earthen crevice where the hunters had hoped to find refuge against the rain. Keter emerged from the clawing briars and into the warm glow of a smoldering fire. The first to spot him jumped.


    ¡°The Moons,¡± Hardeye gasped, ¡°Never knew the Gods walked without sound.¡±


    Keter shrugged, stepping closer to the licking flame. Quiver followed quickly after, eagerly extending his blued hands to the fire''s warmth, releasing a pleased sigh.


    ¡°Already fatigued, boy?¡± Came Grog''s low rumble of a voice.


    Quiver flinched, looking up sheepishly. ¡°No, Elder. Just cold is all.¡±


    Grog furrowed his dark brow. ¡°I knew I should''ve joined the Master on his scouting. You dont have the experience...¡±


    ¡°But you''re horrible company.¡± Keter said flatly, eyes focused on the dancing flame ¨C deep in thought. How should he do this.


    If Grog took the remark personal then he didn''t show it. ¡°So,¡± he started, ¡°What did you see.¡±


    Keter glanced up at the man. Though the trek had taken its toll an him, his gaze was hard as stone. A warrior''s resolve written on his face inside the white old wounds and older scars.


    ¡°There''s people alright, but probably less than before. A lot less.¡± Keter grabbed a spear and started drawing in the drying dirt. ¡°Most of the fighting seemed to have happened on the Western and Southern side of the place.¡± He started pinpointing the buildings and fences.


    ¡°And we''ve spotted guards along these places, and up on that hill over there was a pair of them. They all had bows and spears at the ready.¡±


    ¡°Did you see any women?¡± Grog asked abruptly.


    Keter frowned at his sudden question. ¡°No, actually.¡± Now that he mentioned it. ¡°I did not.¡±


    He looked at Quiver, but the boy shook his head. Grog took a deep breath.


    ¡°Then they''re keeping them hidden. As they should.¡±


    Keter shrugged. The safety of those who couldn''t fight were not of his concern. It were the fighting ones that had his attention in full. He briefly imagined marching up there, quickly greeted by an arrow thudding in his chest. Even if the Kah were an explanation for the scout party''s disappearance, didn''t mean the people of Ohm didn''t have a helping hand in that.


    ¡°Do they know you?¡±Keter asked, staring down at the village''s sketch he''d scratched in the earth.


    ¡°They should.¡± Grog said firmly. ¡°I''d sold them a number of pelts a couple Winter''s back. When we had plenty of ''em and they few.¡±


    Keter nodded slowly, thinking. ¡°Then you and two others will approach them at mid-day. Make your presence clear, so you don''t get taken for an enemy.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn''t go down easy, Master Maker.¡± He growled, clenching the grip of his spear hard until his knuckles turned white.


    ¡°I know.¡± Keter shot back. ¡°But I rather have a village of allies than one filled with corpses.¡±


    Keter sighed. Would this even work? Things could easily go awry; faster than you ever saw coming. But that''s where laying careful plans made the difference. He started pointing at the crude map.


    ¡°This is how we''ll do it.¡± He could only hope his brief retraining had stuck with the group of hunters. He could only hope Ohm would listen. And if they didn''t... He could hope, that perhaps, they would give him a reason. An excuse to meet them with fire and lightning.

 The Slow Poison

    Through the early morning murk Keter noticed the guard battle against exhaustion, this ceasless war he was raging together with his fellow villagers. It told Keter the guards were pulling long hours, which meant they were short on hands. Seemed the greenskins had been an issue for some time here.


    By the way he held his spear, loosely in his right hand, Keter had decided to aproach him from his left, where his weaker eye was less likely to spot him through the rain. And for all the hours he''d stood there, he had yet to lean on his right leg once. Moved around it like a fowl that''d just found his footing and yet had to learn how to walk a trot. Likely a fresh wound, recently stitched, prevented him from moving freely.


    Deduction was key, as was preperation. Grog jecher would greet the man with two others, and if Ohm''s guard was going to try anything funny, Keter''d lunge from the thicket and end him. Real quick like. The village would be considered compromised, and the group would return to Hollow''s to replan their next course of action.


    Keter sqeezed his eyes into slits, peering through the endless downpour. The water was gliding down ferns and branches in big fat drops, hitting Keter''s nose with a steady tap, tap, tap as he laid flat against the mud and roots of the forest''s drenched floor.


    There was movement beyond the underbrush, a faint rustling before Grog appeared from the green shadows, the dark patches. He was looking as fierce as he could, which was mean enough considering he''d spent the past week marching, and hard at that.


    Two hunters flanked him, spears in hand but held just this side of casually. Not at the ready, but not quite unprepared either. Their steady gaze blurred through the dirty fog - humid and clinging. Keter pulled himself to his haunches, his muscles warming with the movement.


    It took another moment for the guard to pick the intruders apart from the sodden trees and droopy shrubs, then he flinched as if burning his hand on a hot pan. Staggering, he leveled his spear at the group of three, his lips pulled into a growl; teeth bared.


    Grog raised his bare hands, his shoulders drooping in what could almost be considered a friendly silhouette, somewhat ruined by his grizzly visage. His mouth opened to speak, no doubt words of peace as Keter had ordered him, but the guard didn''t leave him the chance. His head whipped back, jaws wide and a warning scream building in his throat. Keter was on him before the first note left his cracked lips.


    He sprang from the thicket like a viper, leg hooking behind the man''s knee, then rolled and dragged him into the mud; chin crunching into the grit. The Maker''s arms wrapped around his neck before he could recover from the surprise and all that left him was a squeaking whimper - cut short as Keter worked his obliques and pivoted.


    There was some spit and drizzle as the guard struggled for breath. But Keter''s grip was like a steel trap and left him no mercy.


    ¡°Listen here, little man,¡± The Maker''s voice rang like a blade on rock, ¡°you won''t die yet, so leave the cries for a more deserving time. We want to talk. If you do not, well...,¡± Keter tasted the guard''s sweat as he hugged him tight. Close as family. Close as a lover, ¡°Then you will never cry again. Stop kicking if you understand.¡±


    A moment''s hesitation, then he felt the man relaxing and the fight left his eyes, though desperation lingered yet. That was fine with Keter. He''d learned that even a little fear was a great motivator in man. Slowly he let his hold slack, but only when Grog was before them, his fellow hunters ready to lurch into action at the first sign of conflict. They knew the Master wanted to keep this quiet. If the guard had called alarm, explaining ¨C talk at all ¨C would become real strenuous, and too annoying for Keter by far. The grasp of his patience tended not to reach to talk.


    ¡°Now,¡± Keter raised from the ground, his clothing caked in mud, ¡°I have some questions. Naturally, you will answer them promptly. Yes?¡± The guard nodded uncertainly. His eyes flitted left and right like a cornered animal''s. He rubbed at his throat, swallowing.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he answered, voice hoarse and sounding strained. Understandable since he just had his windpipe squeezed shut.


    ¡°Good,¡± Keter looked over his shoulder, at the village in the distance, ¡°did people from another tribe arrive in Ohm some days past?¡± The more he understood the situation, the greater the accuracy of his decisions would be later. Knowledge was a weapon, and a weapon cast aside could be used against you easily. The guard blinked, just then noticing Keter''s peculiar appearance. It only upset him more.


    ¡°Yes. Two men. Wounded. Twelve days ago.¡± His words came in hurried clusters.


    ¡°Just two!? He lies! I''ve sent seven men!¡± Grog snarled at the man, kneeling in the dirt.


    ¡°Then they died.¡± Keter responded monotone. The Elder hunter spun to him, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. A silent scream of hurt. But all he could do was hiss into the rain; spit flying and fists bunching.


    Hollow''s people were few, and the Hunter''s bode only fewer. The loss of those men was a gut punch even for a hardened man like Grog. He''d known them like friends, like family. To Keter their death was just an another complication. Just a number to be crunched; a piece to be added in his vision.


    The Maker left Grog to his silent outcry. ¡°How long have you been attacked by those things?¡±


    The man glanced uncertainly at the Elder hunter, but answered the instant Keter''s eyes narrowed ¡°The Kah first showed a Moon past, at the rising of Sihn,¡± he paused, looking down guiltily. ¡°No. Some children spotted a stray one even before that. But we thought they were seeing shadows. After all... They never came this early.¡± His voice broke at the end. ¡°They took two hunters then, and my daughter quickly after.¡±


    They were fools. It was the first thing Keter realized. Ohm had let these things roam free for over a month, allowing them to entrench themselves and taking away the main advantage these people had: their knowledge of the terrain. Keter swallowed his distaste at the tactical waste.


    ¡°You will lead us to your little village, and introduce us to your Elders. I don''t want secret gestures or signs that will send the hounds on us, you hear?¡± He let some magic spill from his gut and the rain started vaporizing on his skin, tapping down with menacing hisses.


    The man turned round-eyed, mouth scrunching up in animal fear. ¡°Who are you?¡± His voice a whimper.


    Grog looked down at the guard, feeling some pity for him, and understanding. ¡°He''s the Master Maker.¡± Hardeye and Quickshot lifted the guard from his knees. He didn''t seem to understand. ¡°What''s your name?¡± Grog asked.


    ¡°I''m named Wicker, sir.¡±


    ¡°Well, Wicker, He''s a God, a force. For your people he will be salvation. For the Kah...¡± The Elder hunter''s face was overtaken by shadow. ¡°He will be death.¡±


    ¡­


    Virrah''s boots quickly became capped in filth. The ceaseless downpour and passing of men had made the mire almost calf deep at some parts of the snaking roads. She heard the Shaman''s acolyte behind her; panting, struggling. Seemed he wasn''t getting enough exercise while being cooped up in his musky tabernacle. Still, she had to admit being out of breath, too. Following Lowroot and Highbriar''s hurried pace. Haste was seldom a thing to be desired. She wanted to get her thoughts in order before being confronted with another dilemma. Thrown before judging eyes. Accusing words. She''d have to make do, and work the iron in her voice. The steel in her eyes. Or the fire in her hands.


    ¡­


    The village of Ohm was settled within the hall of mountains, the crags packed with shacks, the rock pocketed with weeds. The rain-lashed stone shone bleakly in the gray light, water streaming down water-cut roads and dragging at the mud.


    Eyes looked at them with suspicion and distrust. Abundant worry wrapping these people in stone-cold steel shackles, consigning them to depression and empty fear. How often had Keter observed gazes like these? For every of his raids, each brawl, any petty squabble he''d reveled in. Ignoring it all. it was only the mission that mattered. All their was in the world was Keter and his Task.


    They passed another guard who looked set on stopping them, but checked himself once Wicker threw him a look. Instead he followed five paces back. There was a climb, the steps stitched with crumbling mortar and sharp gravel. Keter saw a large building rise from the rock beyond the hill. Chiseled from the gray slabs and black flint, white marble darkened by grime come seeping from the wall of rock reaching high just behind before swooping down at the flanks; cradling Ohm in arms of old stone.


    The entrance was crudely hacked, old scars running in the slabs of rock like rusted wounds, lined with moss. The man sitting there looked to Keter like the result of trauma. An echo of the mountain''s violent past. He reminded the Master of Grog, in a way. But where Hollow''s Elder looked brawny, this one showed lean. Where Jecher was stoic, he was fluid. And as Grog was hardy, the Elder of ohm looked wicked.


    A long smooth-rubbed spear with a sword-like edge was balanced along the thin pelt strewn on his pale shoulders; muscles running like steel wire. His bare chest and face was painted with both mud and dyes, dull blues splattered and blotched in a seemingly random tantrum. He sat on the cut steps in a way that made the raw stone look like a rightful throne.


    Wicker stopped walking so Keter passed him, slowly nearing the delineated man. He paused seven paces away. Well out of reach of that nasty looking spear. Keter regarded him and their gaze met. The rain fell around him like a mantle.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°I''m Longfingers.¡± His voice bounced off the stone in an echo. ¡°I''m this Village''s Elder.¡± He nodded at Grog, ¡°And you are Grog jecher, I believe.¡±


    The hunter frowned. ¡°I haven''t met ya the last time I came here.¡± He remarked. ¡°Where''s Redhare?¡±


    ¡°Dead¡±


    ¡°Kah?¡±


    ¡°Me," his voice was unwavering, "a winter back. I came to Ohm, challenged him,¡± he stroked the shaft of his spear, dripping with wet, ¡°won.¡±


    ¡°And that wakes you an Elder?¡± Grog shifted his weight, hand dangling near his axe''s haft.


    ¡°As sure as anything,¡± Longfingers responded coolly. Though he was talking to Grog, his stare was bound to Keter. The gleam in his eyes like the points of daggers.


    ¡°But I care little for you,¡± he threw sideways at Grog, ¡°I want to know about the strange one.¡±


    Keter noticed a pair of eyes beyond the seclusions of the stone home''s entrance. He carefully stepped to his right, away from the door''s black maw.


    ¡°I am the Master Maker. I came as the proficies had foretold, from the earth''s bowels, dark as my skin. I made magics beyond your understanding my own, and unmade the Herald with fire and lightning. Now I came here, so you, too, can bind your will to my guidance.¡±


    Longfingers looked back at him wide-eyed, wet-eyed, mad-eyed. His lips stretched in a thin line before peeling off his teeth as he burst out in a fit of crow-like laughter. His abs were rolling with his flare of sudden joy. For whatever that was, Keter couldn''t tell. He rose from the steps, stretching to his full height. He was unusually long-limbed, his ragged pants barely covering his calfs. He was tall. Huge. A head and a half taller than even Grog. Keter suddenly worried that those seven paces weren''t far enough.


    ¡°You!¡± He cackled, ¡°You aren''t human at all, are you?¡±


    Keter looked up at the man, at the wide grin that almost split his flat face in half. ¡°I just told you, I''m not.¡±


    ¡°And I believe you!¡± He breathed, ¡°I can smell it!¡± His flat nose flared like a hound''s. ¡°There''s something about you! I know, like no other!¡± he rubbed at his wiry forearms, uncovered and webbed with white scars. ¡°It makes my hairs stand on end. Not a thing that''s happened since, well, that splitjaw destroyed my home and ate my people.¡± The low wind pulled at his cloak.


    Keter was silent, and unsure. This man, Longfingers, wasn''t right in the head. Trying to predict his next move would amount to nothing. The Maker drew forth a spark of magic from deep within him, watching the man''s frame with caution. Reach didn''t matter if your skull''s cracked and cooked by a cloud of searing flame.


    ¡°I accept!¡± He hissed, suddenly ¨C his eratic movement stopping. Keter blinked at that. Really, there was no tell to his plans, if he''d plans at all. ¡°I was getting annoyed with these Kah anyway, might be better to get some help killing them. Right, Master Unmaker?¡± He planted the but of his spear on the stone with a dull clang, then turned unceremoniously before ducking under the building''s entrance. ¡°Come within, oh Master and humble guests from Hollow''s Maw, into this abode of mine.¡± He disappeared, shadows swallowing him eagerly. His feet didn''t make noise as he went beyond the light.


    Grog shot the Master a glance. He was uncertain. Of many things. He no longer really knew where to put himself in the Maker''s puzzle. Where his place was at all or what he should do; was expected to do. He''d been leading for so long...


    He shrugged. Following was easier, Grog supposed. ¡°Suppose he wants us to follow him inside.¡±


    ¡°I suppose,¡± the Maker responded calmly. That icy, unnatural calm. Yes, sometimes it''s best to think no more, and simply follow.


    The Master Maker entered the rock-carved house, and Grog pursued.


    ¡­


    ¡°What''s this?¡± Arrived at the Hunter''s abode, there was little sign of worry. No, the people even seemed to be celebrating. There were smiles. Awkward hugs. Virrah posed that perhaps the missing person wasn''t much liked. Or no one was missing, and they just wanted to lure her there. Virrah slipped her hand within one of her pockets.


    ¡°What''s going on here?¡± Jeb asked at her back.


    ¡°I don''t know.¡± She whispered back.


    A woman drew near, her gate smooth, a knife dangling at her waist. Virrah easily recognized Kesh, one of the few female hunters. The woman showed a small smile, a scar one her cheek stretching.


    ¡°There''s no need for worry.¡± She said. The crowd behind her started dispersing, going back to their daily tasks and quests. ¡°No need for suspicion, either. Even if that leer does suit you.¡± Kesh laughed.


    Virrah flushed, the woman''s friendly tone taking her off-guard. She cleared her throat awkwardly. ¡°What''s this about,¡± she demanded, but she failed to sound authoritative.


    ¡°He''s returned, surprisingly.¡±


    Virrah frowned. ¡°Who? Who''s returned?¡±


    Kesh laughed, and Virrah didn''t know she could''ve looked so beautiful; this hardened woman.


    ¡°Who you ask? Well, Beghard, of course. The hunter they thought missing.¡±


    ¡­


    Inside, the dusty walls were lit by a sparse collection of candles, jammed in holes that seemed punched in the stone walls. The only warmth was a sorry tongue of flame, squirming meekly in a hearth blackened way past rescue.


    Ohm''s guards had either left or remained outside, Keter didn''t know. Apart from the Maker and his gathering of three, only Longfingers and a young woman were inside. She was holding a bow in hand. Keter imagined it trained on him during his previous talk. It was an unwelcome thought.


    ¡°I''m sorry for the lack of commodities and snacks, but these Kah have been bleeding us dry, you see.¡± Now the situation had calmed some, and they were outside the reach of the infernal rains, Keter had time to notice that man''s voice was strangely hollow sounding.


    ¡°That''s alright. We can wait on that,¡± Keter tapped on the hide they were sat on. It was crudely stitched, half covered with patches of hair. And green. ¡°I want to know about the Kah situation.¡±


    Longfingers sighed, leaning back on the cold floor. His spear rolling away as he bumped against it. ¡°Not much to tell that you haven''t seen, no doubt. I bet those black eyes of yours are keen.¡±


    ¡°Amuse me.¡± That made Longfingers smile.


    ¡°Well, about a third of our people are dead. These things, these Kah, are a ferocious, driven lot. You can stab them, crush their bones, set them aflame... If they''re breathing, you can be sure they''ll be fighting.¡± His smile grew a little wider. ¡°I quite like that about them.¡±


    Really? Keter felt sick just by sitting on one''s skin, his head swimming in untamed anger. His vision swarming with it. Flashes before his mind''s eye of dying greenskins ¨C that was something he liked. Keter frowned. Why though? That was perhaps the question that needed answering. His anger felt strange to him. He shook himself, and focused.


    ¡°How did it start?¡± Causation. If he could figure at least that out ¨C he''d come a long way.


    ¡°The Kah? Perhaps just before Sihn rose to her throne...¡± There was that name again. Keter felt something stab in his brain. He was forgetting something. Or remembering something. He suddenly wished he''d asked Virrah more about the old legends. When he came back to Hollow''s, it be the first thing he''d asked her. If she was even alive anymore, that is.


    ¡°And before that?¡± Keter pressed, ¡°There must have been something. An irregularity doesn''t happen for no reason.¡±


    ¡°There was a sighting, too. Children saw the Kah before the attacks begun. Wicker said they took two hunters.¡± Grog added from Keter''s right.


    ¡°Ah, but I don''t believe Kah took those men.¡± longfingers retorted.


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    A pause as Ohm''s Elder looked up at the ceiling that an army of spiders had laid claim to, a labyrinth of webs cast throughout. ¡°It was too clean.¡±


    ¡°You mean?¡±


    ¡°It was too sudden, too quick. One moment they were gone. First one, then after a week another disappeared.¡±


    Grog leaned forward. Keter, too, was intrigued. The pattern was perhaps a foretelling of Hollow''s future. ¡°During a hunt?¡± The Master asked curiously. There was a call beyond the home''s seclusion, and the woman left to answer.


    ¡°The first one, yes. But not Grom. He came back after the kill, joined the village though he was sick for a time. Before healing, he was gone. Wiped from the mortal realm, not a trace left. That''s when the Kah came, and the killing started.¡±


    ¡°You think something else is stalking these woods?¡± Keter heard some people enter. Grog''s fingers lingered on his axe.


    ¡°Think?¡± Longfingers asked, his head cocked sideways the way a bird would. ¡°I knew of it! I could smell it as sure as I can smell you! Something real mean-like. Though it didn''t kill Gromyet, I smelled it on him, too.¡± The woman stood in the doorway, a hunched silhouette behind her.


    ¡°Ah, you''re finally here.¡± Longfingers waved at the newcomer. ¡°This is Ohm''s owl, Master Unmaker. She''s all that''s left of the Elders.¡±


    That caught Grog by suprise. ¡°The others?¡±


    The Owl smiled tiredly. ¡°Kah,¡± she said it without ceremony. ¡°The Village Elder and Shaman both died in the second week, when a swarm of Kah snaked their way inside Ohm,¡± Her eyes went hazy as she recalled the memory, ¡°There was fire, and screaming, blood running down the cobbles,¡± She looked at Keter levelly. ¡°Many died that night.¡±


    Keter nodded. ¡°First,¡± he looked at the bow wielding woman. ¡°What''s your name?¡±


    ¡°I have none.¡±


    ¡°You used to.¡± Longfingers remarked.


    ¡°That was before you killed my father,¡± she hissed, eyes red-shot.


    ¡°Ah, true enough,¡± Longfingers leered.


    ¡°Then I''ll call you Bow,¡± Keter said simply, uncaring. ¡°Bow, I want you to go with Wicker to where he was stationed and yell the words ''Happy Happy''. Men will come from the woods; my men. You''ll do them no harm and lead them here.¡±


    She scowled and looked at Longfingers.


    ¡°You heard the Master,¡± he smirked. Bow hissed again, turned with a curt spin and left with wide strides.


    ¡°She''ll kill me one day,¡± Longfingers said dreamily. ¡°Or she''ll try, at least.¡± A breeze swept through them as Bow left the building.


    ¡°So, you''re the Owl,¡± Keter said.


    ¡°Yes, though you mustn''t compare me with Elder Silva. I am by far her lesser.¡±


    Keter shrugged, ¡°You know what made Grom sick? Was it some kind of venom? A poison?¡± An unknown creature skulking about, one that perhaps worked in tandem with the Kah was a wild-card Keter hadn''t counted on.


    ¡°I don''t think so,¡± she said, ¡°though there was no real telling. I mean, no wounds, no laceration, no discoloration. He just seemed... timid, quiet. Confused, perhaps. Like he didn''t really know what to do. He felt... Off. Not quite himself."


    ¡­


    Virrah had set the man''s leg now. It had been easy enough as far as broken bones went. Beghard was a tough one, even for a hunter. Virrah doubted that he''d even needed the local sedative. The shack''s roof rattled with the sound of rain, the harsh wind coiling within.


    ¡°He should be fine now.¡± The Owl pupil announced, trying to keep the exhaustion from her voice. Kesh was treating his smaller wounds with a balm based off slickleaf, carefully dotting the surface.


    ¡°You sure scared us, there.¡± She said, setting the clay pot aside. ¡°almost though you were gone like Bale.¡±


    Beghard smiled at her. ¡°No worries.¡±


    ¡°Still.¡± Kesh frowned. ¡°You can never be sure of what lurks in the Green.¡±


    ¡°In that you''re right.¡± Beghard agreed. His voice was a bit awkward, but that was most likely either the sedation, or the pain.


    "Are you sure you''re alright?" Kesh asked worridly, pressing the back of her hand to his head.


    ¡°Well, That''s enough of that.¡± Virrah said, feeling tired just by looking at those two interacting. ¡°If you notice any swelling, reddening, or other complications, limp on over to the Hospit or send someone else to get me. I''ll come over the moment I can. If not, it''ll be another one of the girls there.¡±


    Kesh smiled at her. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    Beghard gave her a lopsided smile too. Perhaps she was a bit too generous with the sedation. The man seemed a bit off.