

The Whispering Woods

and other tales

by Mircea Florea

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2020, Mircea Florea
This book or any portion of this book may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without express written permissions from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in reviews.

The stories and characters included in this book are a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or any similarity to real life events is purely coincidental.

Therefore, if you find yourself alone in the wood, chased by supernatural beings, I cannot help you in any way.

Cover art by Mircea Florea

For any other concerns you can contact me at:

aleandtale@gmail.comj
Table of contents

1.The Potion Shop

2.The Whispering Woods

3.Regarding Magic

4.Long Live the King

5.The Chosen One

6.The Seventh Night

7.The Terrible Mahala
The Potion Shop

Lorianus was sitting on his small oak chair behind the counter, diligently wiping the dust from a potion bottle with a ripped piece of cloth. He was so absorbed by the way the wide silvery cap was reflecting in the bottle's green glass that he hardly noticed the ironclad knight marching in through the shop's door.

"Are you Lorianus?" asked the knight in a loud voice.

The small bearded man jumped from its oaken chair and greeted the knight with the slightest bow and the widest smile, while his wrinkly hands were still busy cleaning the green bottle.

"Indeed. And how may I be of service, my lord?"

"I am sir Agandir of the house of Paltrinon, and I seek your aid in performing my quest."

"What quest will that be, my lord, sir Agandir?"

"Slaying the cursed beast that roams the skies of Wellos."

"I would gladly assist you sir, but I am afraid slaying dragons was one of my weakest talents and it has decreased with age."

"Don't play with me, old man!"

The knight leaned over the counter and grinned through his thick scruffy black beard.

"I NEED POTIONS!"

Lorianus took a step back and laid the green glass on the counter while still fidgeting with the cloth.

"Ah, yes, potions... I am afraid we don't really sell a lot of those here."

"Nonsense! It says right there, on the sign above your door: Lorianus' Magic Potions Emporium. Now, the dragon of Wellos it feared for its ability to breathe fire, so I need a potion that will make me immune to flames."

"A fire resistance potion? Yes, I do believe I have it right here!"

Lorianus disappeared under the counter and spring back up victoriously with a greasy yellow roll of paper sealed with a medallion of red wax.

"There you go! It will be two gold coins."

"What is this?" said the knight, grabbing the roll and holding it in front of him like it was the first time he laid his eyes on such an object.

"I don't really have the potion itself, but I can provide you something even better."

"A spell?"

"No, the potion's recipe!"

"The potion's recipe? How is that supposed to help me, old man? I am not an alchemist!"

"No, no, no, it's pretty simple, you see. You just need to combine the ingredients written here by following the instructions, and you'll have the elixir in no time. And the best thing is that once you've finished the potion, you can prepare yourself another one. It's really a bargain."

"I suppose you're right. Even though, in my opinion, it's a wonder how you can keep your shop open if you're selling your clients the secrets to your mixtures. Fine! Let's see what we have here..."

The knight broke the wax seal and unrolled the piece of paper to reveal a set of calligraphically written letters that he began to recite.

"... acquire these ingredients: Five drops of goat's milk, a lump of burning coal, two large leaves of plantain, a bunch of chamomiles and... a recently killed dragon's heart."

He starred down at the old man, crumpling the paper in his fist.

"Is this a joke? How am I going to acquire that?"

"Well, actually, you can skip the chamomile. I just added it there for flavor."

"Not the bloody chamomile, you senile old man! I'm talking about the dragon heart! The RECENTLY KILLED DRAGON'S HEART! Are you saying that in order to kill a dragon I first need to kill another dragon and prepare a potion out of his heart?"

"The potion is not really for killing a dragon. It just makes you impervious to fire."

"It's of no use to me! Unless you are also selling hearts from a freshly killed dragon."

"I am afraid no, sir. We are a magic potion shop, we only provide the potions, not the ingredients."

Agandir threw the roll of paper on the counter furiously.

"What else you have? Maybe something that will make my skin as tough as stone?"

"Sure, as soon as you pay for the Fire Resistance Recipe? Only two gold coins."

"But I have no use for your Fire Resistance Recipe!"

"But you acquired the knowledge of preparing it."

"The knowledge doesn't serve me at all since I lack the main ingredient which is a bloody dragon heart!"

"Yes, but you might find yourself in possession of said ingredient somewhat in the future, especially since you mentioned you were on your way to slay a dragon. If I provide you with the means that will help you acquire the fire resistance potion without you paying for it, I am merely robbing myself."

"Fine!" said the knight and handed Lorianus two gold coins from his pouch. "Now hand me the potion that will make my skin as tough as stone!"

Lorianus produced another roll of paper from under the counter.

"Are you truly mocking me, old man?"

"No, no, no, I assure you, this one is even easier to prepare."

Agandir snatched the scroll from the counter and tear up the seal.

"... nettles... sheep loins... feather of a goose... Ah, yes, hooves of a unicorn. A really common item indeed. And I suppose the sheep loins are there for flavor?"

"Well you need not kill the unicorn. Any hooves from an unicorn, regardless their age and condition will do."

"And while I wander around searching for unicorn hooves, the dragon is free to scorch the lands of Wellos."

"I also have..."

"Enough with this! Just give me a dozen health potions."

"As soon as you pay for the Potion of Stone Skin Recipe."

Agandir grabbed the hilt of his sword and drew an inch of his blade from the scabbard.

"Don't test your luck, you old fool! I have no intention in chasing unicorns, nor do I need a fire resistance potion AFTER I defeated a fire-breathing monster. I already gave you two gold coins; I will give you one more and you will bring me a dozen health potions. That is a fair deal. And I want the potions this time, not the instructions on how to prepare them."

"Fine, fine, as long as it is for a good cause, I suppose I could allow myself to be cheated like this..."

Lorianus opened a dusty cupboard mounted on the wall and produced a medium size wooden chest with delicate engravings that he presented to the knight. To reassure Agandir of his intentions, he lifted the lid of the chest and revealed a dozen small bottles carefully lined up, separated by dried grass.

"A dozen health potions as you requested."

Agandir threw a gold coin on the counter and took out one of the small bottles. He lifted it and held it against the sunlight.

"These are green. Usually health potions are red or pink in color."

"Yes, well that is because I use a special brewing method. I first take the..."

"I don't care what color they are. I want to know if they work."

"Off course they do. These right here are the very best and fastest working health potions you will find in this kingdom."

"How long does it take to produce their effects?"

"Well, as long as you use them twice a day, maintain a healthy balanced diet and get plenty of sleep and exercise you will notice the first changes in just four weeks."
The Whispering Woods

Omar squinted to see through the blinding light of the sun glaring above the hills, but he still could not tell if there was anyone coming down the road. He grabbed the reins of his horse with his right hand and lifted his left palm to shade his eyes from the sun.

"Two! Two riders!"

"Are they armed?" said Hashid, reaching for his scimitar.

"They're just two." said Omar, still struggling to make out the two moving dots.

"They might be scouts, checking our wares while their friends are waiting nearby, ready to strike," said Hashid

"Even without friends, there's two of them and four of us. Good enough odds for them to draw blood and maybe run off with one of our horses. We should have hired men in Balatov. Damn you, Hashid and your greediness," said Dummar.

"We have arms and weapons. We can fight. I trust my steel better than those sellswords in Balatov." said Hashid, gripping the hilt of his blade.

Karan began to lead the packed mules between the pine trees, covering them from prying eyes.

"We can't hope to outrun them through the woods. Not without risking losing our baggage. If they attack, we fight here," said Karan as he was tying down the animals.

"One of them is waving us," said Omar.

"Do not draw steel. Let's not provoke them without reason."

One of the strangers was now clearly visible to Omar. A short skinny rider, making the horse underneath him appear uncomfortably large. He was not clad in leather and iron like a warrior, nor did he wear the fine clothes of a merchant. His apparel included a tattered yellow shirt that might have once been white and a pair of coarse green pants tucked in boots barely fit for riding, nevertheless walking.

"State your intentions!" shouted Omar.

But the man kept riding and waving his hands. Behind him rode his companion, a giant that looked like someone tied a tree trunk to a saddle.

"State your intentions! shouted Omar again.

Hashid and Dummar gripped the reins of their horses with their left hands and the hilts of their blades with their right hands, ready to draw.

The rider stopped in front of the four merchants at a distance that he measured far enough for them to keep their blades in sheaths, but close enough to be heard. He waited until his companion joined and then with gentle movements, he slowly placed his right hand on his heart and took a respectful bow.

"My name is Ytir and I am the voice of Han."

He pointed with both hands towards the giant on the other horse.

The giant stood silently in his saddle, measuring the four merchants but allowing no expression to form on his face.

His clothes were no richer that those of his companion, apart from maybe a fur collar, poorly sewn together from what appeared to be several rabbit skins. A large curved blade hanging from his saddle proved however that the giant was no simpleton or beggar.

"We saw you riding across the hills and we assumed you are heading towards Melkapur?" said Ytir.

He observed the mules tied behind the pine trees and smiled.

"Perhaps merchants?"

"Perhaps. And what manner of men are you?" said Hashid.

"You are not soldiers, yet you carry weapons. You are dressed as beggars, yet you ride good horses. Are you runaways or perhaps thieves?"

"We are none of that, good man. We crave none of your riches, nor do we seek bloodshed. But we are heading the same way and Han offers to join your caravan as far as Melkapur."

"We don't need your company, nor do we want it," said Dummar.

"We don't trust you, so you be on your way and we'll be on our way," added Hashid.

"But our ways are the same. If you don't trust us, do you trust us travelling on the same road with you, but out of your sight, where our actions are hidden?" smiled Ytir.

Hashid open his mouth to reply but could not find a good answer.

Dummar inspected their saddles - a large scimitar on the giant man's saddle, a short bow and a quiver on the skinny man saddle and a couple of water pouches and furs.

"You don't look like you have food on you."

"You look like you have. You will share your bread and wine with us, and we will share meat with you."

"You have no meat."

Ytir raised his bow proudly.

"Ooo, but we do. We have plenty."

The six men sat in a circle around the fire, gazing satisfied at the improvised spit roast. Earlier, three fat rabbits sizzled above the flames. Now there were only greasy marks smeared on a stick and little piles of bones scattered through the grass. A flask of bitter dark wine was being passed from hand to hand in a ceremonial manner.

"Are you men from the mountains of Eretan?" asked Omar.

"Do you think boots like that could climb mountains?" laughed Karan snatching the wine flask from Omar's hand.

Ytir looked down on his boots and raised his shoulders.

"We are from here and there. We have traveled from the plains of Gon to the shores of Lekti. We have seen many cities and villages. We've met many people."

"What is your business in Melkapur?" said Hashid.

"Same as everywhere. A city like Melkapur has many people, and people pay good coin for a sword and an arm that wields it,"

"So, you're sellswords, mercenaries." said Dummar.

"Men kill men all the time, but men with gold don't like blood on their hands. Is it a bad thing to take the gold and perform the deed cleaner and faster?" said Ytir.

Hashid laid on his side and pulled the wine flask to his mouth.

"You don't look like a warrior to me."

"Han fights with the strength of ten men and I serve him."

"As his voice?"

"As his voice." said Ytir and spread his hand to receive the wine flask.

"Your master doesn't talk then? Is he mute?" said Omar.

The giant turned his face to Omar and chewed the words between his jaws.

"Talk... is... Cheap!"

"Han does not put any value on idle conversations. A word from him comes only when necessary. It is a virtue many would not understand or mistake it for an offense. That is why I, Ytir, talk for Han."

Karan laughed loudly and let himself fall on his back in the cool grass holding his protruding belly.

"I don't know if your friend fights like ten men, but you sure babble like ten men."

"You are traders. Have you ever made the road to Melkapur?"

"Not to Melkapur but we made good business in Gulla last spring," said Omar.

"There were many beautiful women in Gulla," said Karan, letting his heavy eyelids cover his eyes.

"Beautiful women make good business for silk traders," said Omar.

"Do you trade only silk?" asked Ytir.

Omar opened his mouth, but Hashid answered briefly.

"We trade in what's profitable!"

Hashid cleared his throat and in a softer tone he added:

"I don't know the custom in these parts, but it's generally seen as bad luck to discuss openly the content of one's purse on the road."

Ytir raised his hands up, surrendering to the argument. He then smiled, revealing a rough set of teeth.

"The purse, the purse, the jiggle jiggle of the purse."

"What's that? Said Omar.

"The jiggle jiggle of the purse."

Dummar began rubbing his beard as he would do when confused, while Hashid frowned and fixated the weird singing man with his gaze. Even Karan opened his eyes and stood up on his side to make sense of what happened.

Han mouth dragged to the sides of his face, spreading his lips over his wide teeth.

Ytir shook his palms like he was trying to scatter the cloud of confusion he created.

"I'm sorry. What you said about the purse made me remember a song I heard in a tavern once. Do you know the song about the nobleman and the nurse?"

"A song?" said Karan. "Let's hear it,".

Ytir cleared his throat and took a straight up position. He raised an arm to his listeners and one to his chest like he saw the bards do and began:

"The nobleman wife shouted loud

She shouted once and shouted twice

Do you not hear your child cry?

He cries for milk, and he will starve

Go fetch your purse and get the nurse

The child goes hungry and I go angry

Go jiggle jiggle your fat purse!

A wave of laughter erupted from the traders and they started tapping their boots on the ground to the rhythm as the song continued.

And so, the noble got his horse

He rode and rode to get the nurse

The plump and young big titted nurse

That he would pay with his fat purse

The purse, the purse, the jiggle jiggle of the purse

He rode his horse and found the nurse

And jiggle jiggled his fat purse

He rode his horse and then the nurse

He rode her for a night or two

And when the cock sang cock-a-doo

She turned around and rode him too

The laughs turned into roars that filled the whole forest. Karan's shoulders were shaking as he held his belly.

She rode him hard; she rode him fine

She rode him till his purse was dry

And when the jiggle was no more

She shoved him right out the door

The nobleman remembered then

He had a wife waiting for him.

You foul devil, where's your purse?

You spent it all with the wet nurse

I waited here year after year

And now your child is all grown up

He sits around and cries for beer.

The traders rubbed the tears of laughter from their eyes and awarded the bard with what was left of the wine. Ytir took the flask, drained it down his throat and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Still grinning, Hashid pointed to the fire.

"We should smolder the fire. It's late and we have a long road ahead tomorrow if we are to leave this forest. Dummar, you're first on watch. Wake Karan up in a couple of hours."

Dummar bowed his head and stood up. He went and checked the horses and the mules, then he opened a bottle of water from his saddle and poured some in his palm. He rubbed his face and neck, a well-known method to sober up.

Omar, Hashid and Karan spread their blankets on the grass and were soon asleep in front of the fire pit. Han and Ytir followed their example, spreading the tattered furs they carried.

Dummar gazed at the moonlight penetrating the roof of branches and leaves and grinned.

"The jiggle jiggle of the purse."

He took out his knife and began carving in a piece of wood, humming the song. He could remember most of it and imagined what laughter it might bring in the taverns of Melkapur.

"The purse, the purse."

"Karan!"

Karan moaned and turned over from his right side to his left side, all curled up in his blanket.

"Karan! Wake up!"

The kick of a boot was more convincing than the shout, but still could not get Karan up. He just opened one of his eyes and began mumbling, annoyed at the man ruining his sleep.

"Karan! You dog!

Hashid kicked him harder and Karan rose up, instinctively reaching for his dagger.

"You fell asleep on your watch. Why didn't you at least wake me or Omar up?"

Karan looked at Hashid with blood-red eyes and then looked around as if searching for an answer.

"Dummar was supposed to wake me up. He didn't wake me up."

Hashid inspected their little camp. The horses were in their place, so were the mules and the baggage. The fire pit was there, and the rabbit bones they threw last night. Omar was still getting up. Han and Ytir were tending to their horses.

"Dummar! Dummar!"

"Maybe he went pissing," said Karan, rubbing his eyes.

Hashid put his hand on the hilt of his scimitar and ran away, searching for Dummar behind the trees and bushes.

"Dummar!"

Han tapped Ytir on the shoulder and pointed towards the traders, raising his brows. Ytir wiped his hands on his shirt and approached Karan.

"Did something happen?"

"Dummar is gone. He didn't wake me up last night for my watch."

"His horse is here." said Omar. "His mule, too. He can't be far. Did you see anything?"

"No." said Ytir. "We slept"

"Neither of you kept watch?"

"For what? There's nothing one could steal from us."

"Dummar!" shouted Karan

No answer came from Dummar. Only the far away call of Hashid who was lost through the pine trees came back in the camp like an echo.

"Dummar!"

Hashid's voice faded in the soft wind blowing through the pines and the birch trees, and then there was silence. The four travelers looked at each other. Karan and Omar pulled their scimitars close, Han grabbed the scabbard of his sword, ready to unsheathe. Ytir's bow climbed down from his shoulder. The blades felt heavy and restless.

A terrible guttural noise scattered a flock of birds from the direction where Hashid disappeared, and the sound of heavy boots stomping and crushing dried leaves grew louder and louder.

"Murderers! Highwaymen!"

Hashid's eyes were popping out of their sockets. His muscles were tensed like a bow string and his steel drawn. The sight of their companion made the four men draw their weapons and divided them in two sides, each pointing metal at each other.

"They killed Dummar!"

Ytir pointed his bow at Hashid, then at Omar and Karan. One of them would fall, and the other two would undoubtedly attack and face Han's giant blade. He'd seen Han strike down more than two men in a single swing, and he knew the advantage was theirs. The terror was drawn on the faces of their adversaries, their swords were hanging heavy in their hands, their feet were too close or too far apart to keep proper balance, their heart beats could be heard from where he stood. These were not warriors. These were men accustomed to soft beds and full bellies. The arrow began to struggle between his fingers like a dog pulling its leash. Spread your fingers and three men will fall, whispered a thought in his head.

Ytir lowered his bow slowly.

"We did no harm to your friend!"

"You lie! His body lies in the woods, torn to pieces! You killed him and tried to hide your deed."

Ytir stepped forward and touched Han's blade with his fingers.

"This blade cuts. It does not tear. If we wished harm to you, then why didn't we kill you all last night while you were sleeping?"

Omar and Karan looked at Hashid, waiting for his command to strike or yield.

"If we killed Dummar and then hid his body, why is there no blood here?"

Hashid's eyes scouted the surrounding ground in a quick move, while his arm was still holding the sword directed at the two suspects.

"This is a forest, my friend. A wild animal might have killed your companion. Let us see the body."

Omar and Karan lowered their blades, seeing the truth in Ytir's arguments, but Hashid was unmovable.

"Let us see the body or let us strike swords and see who will follow Dummar in death."

Hashid measured his companions. He measured Han's immovable stance and the reach of his curved blade. He measured Ytir from head to toes. He could cut him down in one swing, and then three of them would face the giant. Would there be three standing once the giant is down?

"Fine! Ask the silent one to sheathe his blade and I'll lead you to what's left of Dummar."

Not far from where they camped lay a small patch of land uncovered by bushes and trunks from where one could look up and see a round opening in the foliage revealing the blue sky. It was a similar sight one would have if he looked up from the bottom of a well. At the bottom of this well, tainting the grass with thick black blood was a pile of meat, bones and guts intertwined and mangled. By counting the limbs and observing what was left of the clothes one could tell there was once a man, but for now it was no more than a fleshy prize claimed by flies and worms.

"This was no blade, Hashid," said Omar.

"A bear? Could a bear do this?" asked Karan

"His head is missing. What type of bear steals the head of its prey? What type of creature does that? You tell me what type of creature does that?" said Hashid, pointing his finger at Han and Ytir.

"Whatever creature did this, it could do it again to any of us," said Ytir.

"How can I trust you? We all travelled safely all the way from Harazan. We met you and now one of us is dead."

"This was no blade Hashid. This was done by claw and fang," said Omar, inspecting the carcass.

Hashid turned to Omar and then back to Ytir. He rubbed his fingers and scouted the area with his gaze. The smell of his dead companion was seeping into the fabric of his clothes. He noticed a half-dried blood stain on his pants. He must have acquired it when he found the body, but he could not remember how.

"Gather the horses, we leave now. We must cross this forest as fast as we can. I will stand guard tonight."

The way to Malkapur was known for all five travelers. The way to Malkapur lay in the sun and the stars that could still be seen through the tall trees. Four or five days riding towards the sunrise. Ride towards the sunrise and don't stray from your path. That's what any man would say in Drabovitz when asked what's the shortest way to Malkapur, and that's what the traders were told two days ago. Hashid wondered how many men from Drabovitz made this journey and how many crossed this forest. If a beast lurked in these woods, wouldn't they know? Wouldn't they warn travelers about it?

That evening there were no songs and the wine flasks stood unopened. Ytir caught two squirrels, skinned them and lay them over the fire.

Omar broke the bread and shared it equally to everyone. Karan secured the horses and made sure there was a large enough pile of firewood.

"What is the silent one doing?" said Hashid pointing to Han who was busy tying ropes and carving wood stakes.

"If something comes near us tonight, we will hear it. Han is making sure we have plenty of time to draw our blades," said Ytir.

They spent the rest of night gnawing the squirrel meat in silence and after the moon was up, one by one they laid on their side clinging to their blades and fell asleep.

All except Hashid, who sat on his rock gazing into the fire. Omar and Karan were sleeping. Han and Ytir were sleeping as well. Were they really sleeping or just pretending and waiting for him to fell asleep as well? Could they have really killed Dummar? The giant could have easily broke Dummar's neck and then carry him away and tear his body apart to make it look like a wild animal did it. But why would he do that? If they wanted to rob us, why not kill us all while we were sleeping? Did they like to play with their victims like animals do with their prey?

Hashid slowly pulled his sword out of the scabbard and admired the way the fire shined on the blade. If they're asleep, he could easily walk to them and kill them both.

A warm light was shining on Ytir's his face. He opened his eyes and saw the silvery blade dropped in the grass, reflecting the fire. He saw Hashid a few steps away, standing, gazing in the darkness surrounding their camp.

Ytir quickly got up and shook Han's shoulder, then he reached for his bow and quiver.

"Hashid! Is something there?"

Hashid turned his head around and smiled innocently at Ytir. He then faced the bushes again and stepped forward, disappearing in the darkness.

"Hashid!"

Ytir and Han got up quickly and alerted the two traders who were sleeping next to the fire. Omar searched in his bag for a linen rag and wrapped it around a wooden stick, improvising a torch. Following Ytir's sign, he lit the way in the direction where Hashid disappeared.

"Hashid! Hashid come back!"

The forest was silent. Not even the usual rustling of the wind through the branches could be heard. Only the cracking sound of the fire eating its way through the torch.

Han stepped through the bushes followed by Omar who lighted the path from behind. Ytir and Karan kept close with bow and sword in hand. The flame from the makeshift torch summoned an army of dancing shadows around them, but no sign of man or creature. Hashid was a large man, built like a soldier. Such a man stumbling in the dark through thick bushes should have made a loud noise and yet all they could hear was the sound of their own breath, their own feet crushing sticks and leaves with every step, and the thick wood crackling under the flame.

Suddenly, Han stopped. He breathed deep and fast through his nose as a hound sniffing his prey and turned left, slightly raising his sword. The others followed him to the murmur of a water stream. The sound grew louder, but there was no sign of a stream. Above them the moonlight barely penetrated the crown of branches and with only a torch to light their way they would sooner wet their feet before spotting the water. The murmur grew louder, clearer, and then stopped.

The travelers look at each other, checking if they all heard the same thing.

A piercing shriek cut through their veins as if they were shot with a thousand frozen arrows, and then they heard the gargling sound of a man choking. The steel grew unbearably heavy in sweaty, cold hands.

"Hashid! Tell us where you are!"

But there was no Hashid to answer, only the dark bushes around them rustling all at once. A strange childlike laugh to their right. Another one behind them. Another one above, up in the trees. A swish behind them.

Omar, Karan and Ytir twitched nervously from one side to the other. Whatever was stalking them, the thought of it creeping behind, striking them before they even had the chance to raise their hands in defense scared them even more.

In front of them, Han displayed an unflinching concentration. Only his eyes moved from side to side as the rustling intensified to his left or to his right. He opened his arms, pushed his chest forward and answered this tumult with an inhuman roar shaking the trees around them.

The rustling stopped.

They stood in completed silence for a minute, listening to their hearts pumping loudly.

A swish from above startled them and a round, heavy object hit Karan's shoulder and fell at his boots. Omar took the torch to the thing and revealed among the leaves the severed head of Hashid with his eyes and lips cut out.

"We must go back! We must go back!"

"No Karan!"

But Karan snatched the torch from Omar's hand and leaped through the bushes back in the direction from which they came, breathing heavily through his mouth.

The three men ran after him, following the torch that was trying to disappear through the trees. The torch stopped, and they approached carefully with their weapons raised.

"Karan! Turn around!"

Karan could not hear them. He was standing with his shoulders down and his arms hanging loosely around him. The burning wood was almost dropping from his hand, but still shed some light between the two tree trunks in front of him, revealing the silhouette of a woman. Her face looked unnaturally smooth, as if it was carved in marble, but the skin had a greenish tint and look slippery and wet like that of a frog. She wore no clothes, but a mane of disheveled black hair tangled with sticks and leaves covered her, reaching almost to her navel. Her hands hanged below her hips, ending in long sharp claws. Two burning yellow eyes fixated Karan as her lips were tirelessly opening and closing, whispering something.

At the sight of the three travelers she hissed, revealing a set of small sharp teeth. Han dashed forward to strike the creature, but the green woman leaped backward in the bushes, kicking Karan in the chest and knocking him to the ground.

"What was that?" said Ytir.

Han looked at him with eyes wide open and shook his head.

Omar rushed to help Karan who was lying on his back starring into the dark sky. He raised the torch and handed it to Ytir, then he tore Karan's shirt to check for the cut, but there were none. He felt his ribs - nothing was broken.

Karan grabbed onto Omar's collar and starred at him, confused, as if it was the first time seeing him. He opened his mouth to speak but could not mutter a word, so instead he pulled himself up and began stepping towards the two trees.

"Karan! Stop"

Karan pushed Omar back violently with both his arms, making him trip and fall on his back. He then reached for his sword, but fortunately for Omar, he could not find it anymore. Karan looked down on his companion for a second, then at Ytir, and then dashed towards the trees, only to get knocked down by Han's fist.

The first thing Karan felt as he woke up was a hum. He did not hear it but felt it as if it came from inside his head, growing louder and louder, pulsating in his skull. His instinct was to press his palms on his foreheads as he would do after a night drinking, when the headache was strong enough to wake him up, but he could not lift his arms.

He opened his eyelids little by little, allowing himself to accommodate with the cold morning glare that bounced off of every leaf and dew drop.

As he was trying to make sense why there was a rope binding him to a sturdy birch trunk, images from a night before came flooding in and panic took over him.

"Heeey, Hey!"

Three men were sitting around the firepit and turned around to watch him struggle. It was his fellow travelers, but they did not jump to his help as he would expect. In truth, there was now only one man among them that he knew for more than two days, and after realizing there was no chance of breaking free on his own, Karan appealed to that man.

"Omar! Untie me now, Omar! What is this madness?"

"If I untie you, where are you going to go?"

"Are you mad? It's me, Karan, your friend. Untie me now, dammit!"

"You wanted to kill your friend, last night. If you still had your sword, you would have slashed Omar in two right there in the woods," said Ytir, pointing to the trees.

Karan turned to Ytir with a thousand curses on the tip of his tongue, but then the images rolled in his head until he saw himself in the dark reaching for his weapon, wanting to strike his companion.

"What did the creature say to you?" said Omar.

"What?"

"The green woman. We saw her whispering something to you. It made you mad."

The images rolled again before his eyes. Hashid and his torch running through the woods. The pain in his thighs, the bushes whipping his legs as he was running through the dark, the rustling trees, the scream, the woman... the woman... a woman. A woman's fingers running through his hair as he watched the sun go down, the smell of milk and cinnamon and the sound of bread crust breaking...

"It made you mad, Karan."

"It made me... happy. Untie me, Omar. I'm begging you, my friend, untie me."

"There he goes again. Your friend must have really specific tastes in women." said Ytir, standing up.

He walked over with a piece of burned squirrel meat and dangled it in front of his nose.

"Maybe you want to eat something? Regain your strength and mind?"

Karan looked at Ytir and spat him in the face, making him drop the piece of meat from his fingers. He then began twisting and pulling himself from the ropes like a wild dog tied on a leash.

"Let me go, Omar! Don't listen to them. They killed Dummar and Hashid. They want to kill us all. They brought us here to kill and rob us. Untie me, Omar!"

Ytir wiped his face with his sleeve and picked up the meat from the grass.

"It's all you're going to get, friend. I'm afraid our animals are gone. Took the luggage with them. Even your precious silk bales. Gods could only tell what use they have for it here in the forest."

"Karan, you need to come to your senses. We need to get out of this forest." said Omar.

Karan was sobbing and pleading, begging to be untied, then twisting himself violently, tearing his clothes against the tree bark and then sobbing again.

"On the other hand, if they stole our animals and food, maybe now they will stop eating us. I would say there's no good reason in starving your prey before eating it, right?" said Ytir, munching on a piece of meat refused by the bound trader.

Han who up until now watched the whole scene, sitting by the smothered firepit, sharpening his blade on a stone a little smaller than his hand, got up and tapped Ytir on his shoulder pointing to the trees as if they were both overstaying guests.

"What about him?" said Ytir, pointing to Karan.

"Mad!" said Han and started walking.

Omar stood up and grabbed Ytir's sleeve.

"We can't leave him here for the beasts! We're not savages."

"If we untie him, he'll sprint towards those things he grew so attached to. He's as good as dead. We can find the way out and then come back for Karan."

"If he's still here. You want to leave a man tied to a tree in this place and expect to find him in one piece when you return?"

"What can we do? He would fight us all to get back to his green lady. That creature must have put a spell on him. We'll find the way out and then come back. The creatures didn't attack us during the day."

Ytir lifted his bow on his shoulder and followed Han, who was almost out of sight.

Omar looked down at his friend, who was still sobbing and begging to no one in particular. A spell of some sort. He heard tales about witches and curses, about ghosts and evil spirits. Was the green woman a witch? In the stories, the witch was always old and frail. Her power lied in her spell. Men would collapse and die on their doorsteps before getting the chance of facing her. But these creatures did not kill by spell, they kill by claws and fangs. They only lured by spell. The woman last night ran off into the woods when they found Karan. They scared her away.

Omar ran after Ytir and Han until he caught Ytir and grabbed him by his shirt.

"Ytir, is your friend as good with the sword as he looks?"

"Han fears no one."

"Can he also run fast?"

"Fast enough to lose us if we stand here and talk. Why?"

"The creatures didn't attack at day. Only at night. Whatever it is, it hunts at night. If we find it during the day, we catch it by surprise and fight it on our terms."

"But how can we find it?"

"We release Karan. If he's under a spell, he'll take us right to the creature's lair. We just have to keep up with him."

The three men approached the one tied to a tree slowly, as if they were about to release a wild horse. Karan could release his fury on any of them after spending the whole morning tied up to a tree, but Omar counted on the fact that his friend was more concerned with getting back to the whispering creature. In fact, he might ignore them all and try to leap in the thicket as soon as his bindings were loosened up. They had to make sure he would not get caught in the rope and break his legs and once he was released, they had to make sure the creature did not get him before they have a chance to fight it. Whatever spell it was, Omar could only hope his friends' mortal limitations were still applied.

They began cutting through the ropes from three different places and as expected as soon as Karan felt the bindings loosen around his arms he stood up and sprinted like a startled rabbit.

The three men ran after him, Han first with his blade strapped on his back as not to hinder his movement, followed by Ytir and Omar. They dashed among the trees, barely keeping up with Karan who was making his way through the woods so easily as if he was running around his hometown streets. They turned left, and right to huge moss-covered boulder climbing up on a slope, grabbing the muddy roots and then when the ground was again fairly flat to keep their balance they stood up and kept running forward, jumping over fallen trunks.

Omar felt his heart beating against his ribs. His mouth was dry, and he could taste his blood raising in the back of his throat. He stopped for a second to catch his breath, tracing Ytir's steps so he can catch up. Through the sound of his panting, he suddenly made out something out of place. Like cats' claws scratching on a wooden post.

He slowly turned around and bit on his sleeve to cover a shout. On the tree behind him, the naked green body of a woman crawled downwards like a lizard across the white bark. She lifted her head and gaze at him with two yellow cat eyes.

Omar lowered his right hand reaching for the hilt of his scimitar, but another set of claws scratched the birch tree behind him. He turned his head while his right hand clutched the sword and saw a second creature slithering down, graciously through the branches.

Omar fought to retain his calm and began pulling the steel from its scabbard as casually as he could. He figured he could afford one sudden movement until the creature's attack, maybe two if he was fast enough. He planned on making those movements count.

The first creature scratched again on the bark and as Omar turned his eyes to her, she opened her lips and released three short sounds like three rings of a silver bell:

"Come..."

"... To..."

"... Me..."

Omar lifted his sword and side-stepped through the leaves towards the tree, but the creature opened her mouth again and began whispering, caressing the air with her lips.

An instinctive curiosity drew the trader's attention towards her whispers and made him try to make out the words coming out of the dark green lips. They were words in a strange unknown tongue, a language that a human could not possibly reproduce but somehow, they carried so much meaning to him. The most renowned poets from his country appeared to Omar like stuttering imbeciles compared to the green maiden hanging in front of him. Their sonnets were squeaks and howls compared to the clear warm whispers. His eyes became watery, and he saw himself out of the forest. He saw himself in front of a house, his wife sitting on the oak bench he made last summer. He saw her rocking his daughter on her knees while his two older boys were chasing through the field. He saw his boys grow taller and larger as they were playing. He looked back at his wife and saw her walking through the garden with their daughter picking flowers. The little one could walk on her own now and her hair almost reached her ankles. The boys were making such a ruckus, but they were not playing anymore. They were dragging a mule they bought from the market to the stable while cracking jokes and laughing at each other. They were so tall.

"Swosh"

A shrieking noise made the images freeze and shatter like broken glass.

"Omar! To the ground!"

The green woman was screaming and contorting her body on tree trunk as a long arrow shaft protruded from her right shoulder.

"To the ground, man!"

She managed to grab the arrow shaft and pull on it until it broke. She hissed with a mouthful of sharp teeth at a squatting Omar, but another arrow silenced her and pinned her by the neck to the birch tree.

The second creature screamed and started leaping from tree trunk to tree trunk faster than Ytir's bow could follow.

She landed near Omar, but he stood up swiftly, rotating his scimitar through the air and cutting the creature's arm clean from her elbow. The creature released another piercing scream and leaped in the grass. Omar came after her with his sword raised, but she stretched her remaining arm and grabbed him by his left ankle before he could strike. The creature jumped on Omar's chest as he was trying to get up again and slashed with her claw cutting his left cheek. Omar was fighting and kicking, but the creature was pinning him to the ground, cracking his ribs between her thighs and pushing his face to the side, in the mud, trying to get a clear shot to his neck.

"Hey! Jiggle jiggle!"

The creature raised her head and received a direct shot to her right eye.

Before the trader could check how much of the blood smeared on his clothes was his and how much was from the green woman, Ytir grabbed his hand and lifted him to his feet.

"Quick! We have to find Karan."

They dashed through the forest following the deep footprints left by Han until they stumbled upon a glade. Ytir grabbed Omar's shirt and threw him to the ground. Sheltered by leaves and rocks they watched.

The sun struggled to pierce through the dome of yellow leaves and white branches and a golden curtain of light fell over the opening. In the middle of the glade sat on a throne of wood the figure of a man with bone white stag horns over his head. His sinewy body was painted white with red stripes. An animal pelt adorned with beads covered his manhood and at his feet laid a small mound of skulls and bones. His eyes were hidden behind black paint smeared across his face.

On the tall birch pillars around him and in the grass at his feet crawled and squirmed the bodies of a dozen green women.

Karan was kneeling before him, crying and laughing at the same time. He let himself fall on his back with his arms spread and two green maidens crawled to him at once. They grabbed his sleeves and pulled tearing up his shirt.

Ytir reached to his quiver for an arrow.

The creatures were circling Karan's naked body.

Ytir fixated the nook on the bowstring.

Karan was breathing heavily and panting as the green maidens were rubbing against his body.

Ytir pulled the string.

Suddenly a movement in the bushes, followed by heavy stomps revealed Han.

Ytir gently released the string but kept the arrow between his fingers.

Han stepped inside the glade and released a savage roar scattering the green creatures. He grabbed Karan by the hair and pulled him up. He then threw Karan back towards the bushes like a rag doll. He lifted his giant curved blade and fixated his gaze on the horned figure provoking him to fight.

The horned man stood up and raised his arms. The green maidens crawled to Han's feet. Their hands began caressing his calves, his thighs, his chest. They stood up encircling him and their yellow eyes met his green stare. Their lips began moving fast all around him, whispering in his ears, whispering in his face, whispering unknown words in a sweet strange chorus.

"We must help him." said Omar but Ytir signaled him to be silent and stay hidden.

Han began lowering his sword as the whispering intensified around him. He lowered the blade to his left side, close to his hip and then in one swift cut he severed the head of the green creature facing him. Before her sisters could react, his arms rotated the blade and dropped it upon another creature standing on his left, cutting her from shoulder to hip.

For a short moment, Ytir and Omar could see the white in the horned man's eyes as he looked in horror.

A cacophony of screams and shrieks exploded as the green creatures scattered again like birds in the tall trees around the glade. They ran and leaped from branch to branch, hissing and screaming as Han stepped calmly towards the horned man, steel raised above his head.

The creatures jumped at Han with their claws out and one by one they fell to the ground growling missing a limb or two. Ytir stood up from the bushes and shot arrow after arrow at the wounded creatures, ending their misery and preventing them from seeking revenge. Omar joined in with his sword drawn out hacking and slashing.

The horned man got down from his throne and produced two swords fashioned out of sharpened bone. He started swinging them, twisting and jerking his whole body in a hypnotic dance.

He took a swing at Han with his right sword and rotating on one foot followed with a second swing. The giant could barely follow his arms and duck his slashes. Han leaped backwards to gain some distance and waved his giant blade in the air letting it fall upon the horned man but his adversary span again and responded with a swift cut on Han's leg. The bite of the ragged bone on his thigh made the giant fall on his knee for a second, but he lifted his sword and parried another strike with such a force that it made the horned man fall out of balance. Han got up and continued with a second swing that severed the left horn. His adversary rolled on the ground and thrusted the point of his right sword between the giant's ribs. He rolled again and deflected an arrow coming from Ytir's bow with his left blade.

Han hollered, holding his sword with one hand and pressing against the stab wound with the other.

The horned man performed another twist and hit Han behind his knee, forcing him on the ground again. Standing behind the kneeling giant, the horned man raised both his blades to perform the finishing move but Han threw his elbow back, breaking several ribs on his adversary's body. As the horned man struggled to regain breath, Han stood up and grabbed him by his wrists, forcing him to drop the bone swords. He then broke the remaining stag horn, grabbed him by the back of his head and pushed his skull hard against a birch, pressing until it crushed like a melon.

He turned around to his companions. The glade was a swamp of blood and guts.

As the travelers found their way out of the forest fewer in number, poorer and covered in blood, there was something that Omar could not understand. He approached Ytir who was walking behind Han and Karan.

"Tell me, is your friend immune to spells?"

"What do you mean?" said Ytir gnawing on some berries he found in a bush.

"When I was behind one of those creatures whispered to me. She whispered unknown things, but I could see my whole life woven in front of me like a colorful tapestry. There was so much peace in me at that time that I was ready to embrace death. The same must have happened to Dummar, Hashid and Karan. It was a spell. We both saw your Han stand amongst the creatures as they all whispered to him, yet, he did not yield. This means your friend was immune to their spells."

"Nah."

"But then how could he..."

"Han's deaf."

"Deaf?"

Omar looked confused at the giant walking in front of him.

"He can understand you if you talk in front of him and if you don't move your lips too fast, but apart from that he can't hear a thing. It's why he hasn't learned to speak much. It's why he needs me as his voice."
Regarding Magic

Let me tell you a thing about magic. People get all excited seeing a man levitate or shoot sparkles out of his fingers and say it's an unearthly power coming from the gods above or below. As if the gods who created the world have nothing better to do than make old pointy hat guy fly or cure farmer John's inability to raise his dingle-dong for the butcher's wife.

Some would say it's all about understanding the laws of nature and bending them to your will. Folks haven't as much as boiled and egg in their lives, but wrote entire volumes about the stages of water. Blind leading the blind, that's my opinion. Like those healers making you eat all the weeds and roots they can find until you either get better or die. And if you die, they find a way to blame it on some unyielding spirit or ancestral curse. Everything to make you spill your purse.

If you ask my opinion, magic is all in the perception. Boy sees a pretty skirt walking by - he's under a spell. Gambler goes home with his pockets, full - kisses his ring and calls it a lucky charm. Lad comes home in one piece after the war- they call it a miracle. There's a bit of magic all around you if you're willing to see it. No need to waste your time with dusty old tomes written by dusty old men.

A little kid eating a cake watches the man on the stage shooting flames out of his palms. He calls it magic. He doesn't care why the man does that or how the flames got there. It's just magic. Now if you excuse me, I believe my audience is waiting for me.

A blond young man, dressed in a yellow tunic and wearing yellow pants, was gesticulating on the stage under the large painted letters that spelled "Roland the Magnificent, Master of Fire".

"When he met the mighty griffin, its beak as large as an ox, did he run for cover?"

The young man turned his ear to the people gathered in front of the wooden stage as if he expected them to continue the story.

"No, he did not run! No, he did not cry! He waved his hands and there it laid the griffin fried!"

The audience erupted in laughter and shouted for Roland the Magnificent.

"You want to see Roland the Magnificent?"

"Yes! Bring the wizard! Shouted the people in unison.

"You want to see the Master of Fire?"

"Bring on the wizard! Let's see some tricks!"

"Well, if you don't want it, we'll just gather our stuff and be on our way."

The young man raised his shoulders and turned his back to the public as if he wanted to cancel the show before it began.

"Booo! Bring on the wizard!"

He turned around and smiled devilishly and after a deep breath he announced loudly:

"Roland the Magnificent! Master of Fire!"

A thundering noise made everybody silent,, and they saw a human sized cloud of smoke rise in the middle of the stage. Through the smoke stepped forwards a tall man with dark hair and a thin dark beard, carefully trimmed. He wore a black shirt and black tight pants and around his neck hanged a golden chain ending in a medallion in the shape of a flame.

He spread his arms and let the scarlet red cloak around his shoulders fall to the floor.

The man smiled at the audience, revealing a set of long white teeth. He rolled up his sleeves like a laborer would and then bowed slightly to the public as if making a confession.

"They say... Roland, if you're a wizard, why don't you wear a pointy hat?"

The crowd erupted in laughter again and joined in.

"Why don't you?"

"They say.... Roland, if you're a wizard, why don't you wear a robe?"

He paused, allowing the audience to wonder.

"I say... I would wear a robe, but every time I do THIS.."

Roland turned his palms up and two fireballs lighted up inches above his hands.

"... it catches fire!"

The crowd was laughing and cheering, shouting his name and begging for more.

Roland brought his hands together and united the two fireballs into a big one that he launched up into the air, and the crowd followed it burn for a couple more seconds before exploding into nothing.

Roland bowed for the applause and then continued.

"I heard about wizards who make pigeons come out of their sleeves. I only do that when I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

"Yes, we're hungry! Show us the pigeons"

Roland called for his assistant. The blonde young man came back to the scene carrying a big basket of apples that he displayed proudly.

"I said pigeons."

"I didn't felt like plucking feathers today." said the assistant

Roland smiled again to the audience and conjured a fireball in his right hand that he threw angrily at the young man. The fireball dissolved into the air before reaching the assistant, but the young man turned around scared and tried to run only to trip and fall face first in the apple basket for the public's delight.

"I guess, we're eating baked apples today." said Roland displaying an embarassed smile to the audience.

The assistant began picking up apples and throwing them high in the air while Roland hit them one by one with fireballs shooting from his hands. The burned apples were caught by the people cheering at every shot.

Roland bowed again and received his applause. He then stood up and raised his right hand. With his left hand he drew a series of strange signs while chanting unknown words.

The crowd grew silent in amazement as a blue-green flame emerged from Roland's right palm.

"All creatures are afraid of fire and they are right to do so, but this flame is special. It's a magic type of fire that burns only the wicked. The righteous can put their hand in this flame and feel no burn. Is there anyone amongst you brave enough to stand against the Flame of Virtue? Anyone pure of heart?

Roland scouted the audience and pointed with his left hand towards a young girl with chestnut braids.

"Maybe that fair maiden, over there."

Everyone turned to the young girl who blushed and tried to hide behind an elder woman standing next to her.

Roland turned to the elder woman with the blue-green flame still burning in his palm.

"Are you that girl's mother?"

"I am!" said the woman proudly.

"Is your girl still a maiden?"

"My girl is as innocent as any." replied the woman, placing her hands on her hips.

"Would you wager her innocence against... FIRE?"

The woman turned the young girl, grabbed her arm and pushed her to the stage.

"Well, come now, don't embarrass me in front of all these people now."

The young girl stepped forward timidly and climbed up on the stage with the help of the assistant. She looked into the burning flame and then back at her mother who was waving her to do the test.

"What's your name, young lady?"

"M-Mary"

"I knew a fair duchess by the name Mary. She was as fair as morning dew on a lily flower, but still not as fair as you. Dare you take the test, Mary?"

The girl turned again to the public who waited impatiently, but all she saw was her mother waving her exasperated. She spread her hand to the flame, closing her eyes in fear. She could hear the crowd gasping in terror.

"Open your eyes, Mary!"

The girl opened her eyes and gasped, watching her hand in flames. She drew it quickly and looked at the back and front of her hand for burns, but there were none. Gaining courage, she pushed her hand again into the fire. Roland made a slight gesture, and the flames spread over Mary's arm. She gasped again, frightened, but seeing no burn and feeling no pain, she began chuckling and showed her arm to the public.

"It feels cold."

Roland bowed again.

"The sacred fire has spoken. This girl is as pure as a dove."

The girl's mother displayed a smug look on her face as the villagers applauded.

"I know how I raised my daughter."

Roland clapped and the flame from the girls arm extinguished. The assistant helped her down the stage and lead her to her mother. He then began to walk among the audience, with his bag opened to receive coins of every sort. Roland spread his arms again and bowed, almost touching the floor with his forehead.

"Remember folks, fear the fire but don't fear the Fire Master. If you enjoyed the magician, show your recognition! Throw away your silver and copper and remember - We'll be here for another show right after supper!"

Then another boom and another smoke cloud covered Roland, making him disappear.

For those who skipped a heartbeat, fearing for little Mary, let me assure you, she was never in any danger. I could take the dirtiest wench from the dirtiest brothel and engulf her in the Flame of Virtue, and she wouldn't feel a thing.

What good is a fire that doesn't burn you might ask?

For one thing, it helps people take pride in their virtue, and people do like to take pride in how righteous they are.

They like that sense of superiority.

Roland put his hand in the bag and counted the coins collected by his assistant. He drew two large silver ones and handed them back to the young man.

"Go buy some food and ale and get enough to last us for two days. I think the next village it's a day from here, but I don't want to take any chances."

"How about my share?"

"You'll have your share after tonight's show. I don't want you to spend it all at the first country-side tavern you see."

The assistant puffed and rolled up his eyes.

"I mean it. We finish tonight's show, we pack up what we can and at dawn we load it in the wagon. There's no point in wasting time around these parts. We need to get to Optan before the fair. You can spend your money on whores there."

"Yeah, if you're not going to work me to death until we get there."

"Don't give me that look, Sam. What? are you afraid the city wenches won't like you? Think you might have better luck with these country girls?"

"Screw you, Roland!"

The young man turned to exit the tent, but almost hit a man who was standing at the entrance. The man had no visible hair on his head, face or even eyebrows and wore a long light blue robe. The robe was a linen robe, quite plain apart from a small intricate embroidery on one of the sleeves.

"The show's over but we have another representation tonight." said the assistant trying to point the man away from the tent. The stranger ignored the young man and stepped into the tent, measuring Roland from head to toes. Roland closed the bag of money, tied it shut, and turned around to see this uninvited guest.

"I have never seen such display."

"Thank you, sir, and yes, we also do weddings, funerals or other special events. For a reasonable price, of course."

"I mean such squander of talent, such a mockery of the School of Fire."

"Look, I must tell you from the start, if you are looking for bodyguards or if you want us to embark with you on some journey for some wild treasure hunt, we're not interested."

The stranger pushed his chin to his chest and frowned.

"I am not here to hire you. I am here to end this grotesque display. I don't know what villain trained you in the arts of magic and then allowed you to sell yourself on the side of the road like a whore. You bring shame to yourself and the gods, dancing and parading like that to the common folk. You conjure the fire spirits to amuse dirty peasants, and then you beg for their money."

Roland nodded his head at Sam.

"Sam, go get those supplies."

The stranger took another step forward.

"I am Master Nemitor of Gardia, conjurer of the water spirits, manipulator of the elements, keeper of the five arts and I challenge you to face me and the gods you insulted in a duel."

"Nemitor, I'm not looking for a fight. I have nothing against your school or the gods, and I respect your skills in the arts of magic."

"Then you will die!"

Nemitor reached into his sleeve and pulled out his wand, an exquisite magical weapon carved from one piece of oak, decorated with silver threads and ending in a blue crystal.

"You won't use that. I know you Gardia water mages. You couldn't care less about how I use my skills. You want to take pride, you defeated a fire wizard in a duel. There's nothing to boast about slaying an unarmed wizard in his tent."

"Pick up your wand!"

"Don't think I will."

"Fine!" said Nemitor lowering his weapon.

"Then I will slaughter this whole village. I will summon rain and hail on them, I will bring their houses on their heads. I will conjure the most terrible blizzard and watch their blood freeze in their veins. Are you going to be responsible for their deaths, Roland the Magnificent?"

Now, the thing about wizards is that despite all their talk about rules and codes of secrecy, they are as proud as can be and they will take every chance to show off their superior skill to other wizards. My school better than your school, my knowledge higher than your knowledge, my spells more powerful than your spells. I knew that water mage with a fancy wand wouldn't try anything where there's no one to witness his sparkles.

A man who learns how to control the elements before his ego seldom challenges his enemies behind closed doors. And the more power he has, the more enemies he finds.

Roland stormed out of the tent, leaped on the stage and began shouting at the few people still passing by, urging them to gather one more time.

"Farmers and bakers, blacksmith and tailors, men, women and children, gather around for a cataclysmic event. The elements of nature have chosen your small village as their battleground. The Master of Fire, Roland the Magnificent and the Master of Water, Nemitor of Gardia, the two most powerful wizards in the world will fight to the death in the most epic battle the world has ever seen. He who dares to witness, He who wants a tale to tell their children and grandchildren gather around at sunset in the meadow outside the village and find out who will be victorious."

Nemitor was standing outside Roland's tent, grinding his teeth.

"A fool who tries to sell tickets to his own death. Fine, it will be your last show and it will be a short one."

The meadow was freshly cut around this time of year and the land was even enough to make a fair ground for a duel, be it with weapon or magic, even though it's unlikely the villagers have ever used it for such a purpose. Most of the people gathered around the two wizards considered the battle as another part of the travelling show. "He probably does this trick in every village he goes to. Pretends he's being challenged by another wizard and then they fight with spells." would whisper some young men to get the attention of easily susceptible girls.

Nemitor of Gardia was already chanting a strange hymn and throwing blueish sand on the grass around him when his adversary arrived.

Roland took his time, almost as if he wanted to make sure all the villagers had had time to gather before the battle began. When he arrived, he stepped proudly as a general parading through the streets of a conquered city. Two steps behind him, his assistant Sam was carrying his weapon, a short bulky wand, made of iron and wood, hollowed in the middle and with strange protuberances at one end. Behind Sam, marched about two dozens men, women, boys and girls, cheering and shouting the fire wizard's name.

Roland stopped at fifteen paces away from the water mage and spread his arms, signaling the villagers to take a few steps back. A battle between wizards was not a safe spectacle. He unfastened his scarlet red cloak and let it fall from his shoulders as he did on stage before beginning his representation. He rolled up his black sleeves. Sam handed him the wand and then fell back, joining the audience.

"A fool to the end." said Nemitor

"I sense no enchantment, no amulet on your person or counter spell prepared. What arrogance to face a wizard of Gardia with nothing more than your old broken wand."

Th water mage raised up his wand and began drawing symbols in the air as if he was painting on an invisible canvas. He shouted his incantations louder and louder.

The freshly cut grass stubs began rising from the ground, and from their end tiny water droplets started raining upwards to the clouds gathering above the meadow. A whirlwind started forming in front of Nemitor, first as small as an egg, but growing larger and larger, sucking the rain drops towards it, murmuring like a stream of water and then howling like a storm.

A thundering noise made all the people watching duck to the ground. Suddenly the whirlwind scattered in the air and the grass fell flat again.

Nemitor was standing with his arms spread, his body was shaking, his jaw dropped towards his chest, trembling, struggling to spell out a word.

Fifteen paces in front of him, Roland the Magnificent stood like a granite sculpture with his arm stretched, wand pointing to the adversary. Thick white smoke was coming out of the tip of his wand, smelling like sulphur and saltpeter.

Nemitor collapsed to the ground, still grasping his beautifully oaken wand, decorated with silver threads. As the life was draining out of his body through the red stain that spread slowly over his chest, he muttered his last words.

"I could not... stop... it."

The show was over.

Roland picked up his cloak and walked to the water mage's body. He nodded his head with an expression of sorrow on his face and then kneeled and closed Nemitor's eyes with his palm. He covered the dead mage with his cloak and then turned to the audience and took a solemn bow.

Sam was already running around the villagers with his hat in his hands, gathering contributions from the ecstatic crowd.

They returned to the village, and Sam began setting the table inside the tent. Roland took off his flint rings from his fingers and stashed them along with his wand in a locked wooden chest.

He joined Sam at the table and poured a large cup of wine.

Regarding magic, I must confess I never got the grasp of all those spells, counter spells, enchantments and curses. Some folks say it either comes naturally or doesn't come at all as in, it's something you cannot learn if you're not born with it. The same folks would probably say that what I do is not magic at all, it's just tricks and games. I guess technically they're right, but then again, considering how today ended, is there really any difference?
Long Live the King

The king struggled to lift his head from the pillow and pointed his finger towards the pearwood desk resting in the further corner of the bedroom.

"I wan... I wan...."

A black cat sprung from the shadows, hissed and leaped down, knocking a water pitcher over the pile of papers forgotten on the desk.

The King's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed in the sweat-drenched sheets. These were the last moments in the life of King Edmure the Kind, ruler of Hartsmoth, Orlan, and that one small village of Garz, the one remembered not by its name which was seldom known even among the villagers, but by the fact it had a very funny looking windmill.

In the royal bedchamber, around the royal bed stood in complete solemnity four very powerful figures of the royal court: Lord Chancellor Walter Blois, Lord Marshall William Dupree, Lord Steward Henry Hall and Father Antoine, the Archbishop of Leodale. They were the King's most trustworthy advisors in time of need, his ears, his eyes, his arms and sometimes that nagging voice in the back of one's head that disapproves of one's habit of drinking before noon. They were here to witness their ruler's last breath, witness his last words and hold sacred his last will.

"I think he's dead," said Lord Steward.

"He's been going in and out of death for an hour now. Let's give him a moment," said Lord Chancellor.

"No, I think he's proper dead this time. Father Antoine, you're more experienced with this kind of things. Can you check if the king is proper dead?"

"What do you mean I am more experienced with kind of things?"

"Well, you're here to give the man his last rites. You should be able to tell when a man is ready for his last rites, don't you? Or do you just recite from that book until the poor fellow dies of boredom?" said Lord Steward.

The Archbishop shut the heavy tome from which he was murmuring in the last hour and got up from his chair with his right index finger waving at the Lord Steward like he was about to grab the lord by his ears and give him a good trashing.

"Out of the way, lads! I've been in battles, I know when a man is proper dead," said Lord Marshall pushing back the Lord Steward and the Archbishop and marching to the bed with heavy loud stomps.

The Marshall grabbed the King's limp arm. It felt cold and chalky. He lifted it up and shook it lightly. No response.

He put his ear by the King's wide-open mouth. He put his other ear. Nothing. He carefully put his hands under the King's shoulders, pulled his body slightly up and then began shaking it vigorously until the King's head wobbled from side to side like the head of a ragdoll.

"Good God, man! Is that necessary?" intervened the Lord Chancellor.

Lord Marshall Dupree dropped the King on the bed and stood up to give his verdict.

"This man is dead. Proper dead. Ready for the Big Road. No doubt about it!"

"May God have mercy on his soul and receive him into His kingdom," said the Archbishop, opening his book again and gazing at the skies.

"The King is dead. Long live the King," said Lord Chancellor, bowing his head in respect and placing his hand on his heart.

"Wait! Who is to be the new king?" said the Lord Steward.

"The one who the king named as his successor," said the Lord Chancellor.

"He didn't name any successor. I asked him, but he said nothing. Or at least didn't name anyone."

"I can confirm. Lord Henry asked: 'Who should be your successor?' but King Edmure just stood up, pointed to the door and died. I think in the heat of the moment he might have missed Lord Henry's question," said Lord Marshall.

"If the King did not name a successor prior to his death, then the closest in kin will succeed him." said the Archbishop.

"Closest in kin? He has no kin. They're all dead. I think he has a distant cousin in The Principalities of Frohndeer but we can't crown a Frohndian prince King of Hartsmoth, Orlan, and that one village of Garz, the one with the funny windmill." said Lord Chancellor.

"I never understood that. What's so funny about the windmill in Garz?" said Lord Steward.

"It looks like a giant mushroom," said Lord Marshall

"Probably because of the way it's painted. It's half red and half white. If you saw it from behind, you'd swear..."

"Forget about the bloody funny windmill in Garz. We've been fighting with the Principalities of Frohndeer for hundreds of years. How is it going to look like if we crown a Frohndian prince, not even an important one, might I add, as the King and ruler of Hartsmoth, Orlan and that one village of Garz, funny windmill or not? It will look like we lost. Thousands of men who died on the battlefield, thousands of mourning wives and daughters, a lineage of warrior kings, fighting generation after generation only so we end it all by offering the crown to our historical enemy. Is that how you gentlemen want to go down in history? As the ones who surrendered to the enemy?"

Marshall William Dupree began clapping loudly, trying to hold back the tears from flooding his eyes.

The Archbishop cleared his voice, interrupting the Marshall's energetic clapping that promised to last well past noon.

"Admirable feelings, Lord Walter, but I hardly think we need to go that far. King Edmure has a son, a healthy adult son born and raised in Hartsmoth," said Father Antoine.

"Surely you don't mean prince Filip?" said the Lord Chancellor.

"I thought we banished prince Filip." said the Lord Steward.

"King Edmure did banished him years ago. He exiled the boy when raped and killed his own sister. If I remember correctly," said Lord Chancellor.

"He raped and killed plenty of girls, sometimes boys, but I think the sister deed was the final straw for His Majesty." said Lord Steward.

"I know the lad. He roams around the border villages with his band of thugs, robbing and looting whatever he can. I know him since he was a little boy. He was a vicious creature ever since his mother birthed him. Once, he kicked by dear grandma in her shin as she was visiting the palace. No reason whatsoever. He just spotted her in the hall, ran to her, kicked her leg and away he went," said the Lord Marshall.

"You're lucky he didn't rape and kill her," said Lord Steward.

"We cannot allow Prince Fillip to take seat on the throne. He's a madman. There must be someone else. Someone better, nobler... Didn't King Edmure had any bastards?" said Lord Chancellor.

"He had. Plenty. But he didn't legitimize either, so it's no use. My Lords, we have to accept the truth, and the truth is that King Edmure died in this chamber leaving no dispositions regarding succession, making Prince Filip the only eligible heir to the throne," said the Archbishop.

"No! I will not accept that madman on the throne. If Prince Filip gets on the throne, we're as good as dead. We were the King closest advisers. The closest men to the King who exiled him, and I don't think he got over that part. If the brat gets on the throne, he'll have our heads cut off and propped high on the main gate," said Lord Chancellor.

"But we can't go against the law. If not Prince Filip, then who?" said Lord Marshall.

"Let me think. What was the last thing King Edmure said? The very last words?"

"He pointed to the pitcher and said: 'I want some water' Then he collapsed and died. We all saw that," said the Lord Marshall.

"No, he said: 'I wan... I wan... ' I heard him. I wan, I wan, do we know anybody named Iwan or Ewan or Awan?" said Lord Chancellor.

"The poor man just asked for some water. You are twisting a dead man's last words. You are twisting our King's last words to suit your vile purposes," said the Archbishop.

"The King didn't have the courtesy to leave his affairs in order before leaving us to the hands of his rapist murderous son so maybe some actions could be excused. It doesn't suit anybody if Prince Filip ends up King. That I can assure you. Now do we know someone named Iwan?"

"No, unless we count Ivan, the king's cat," said Lord Steward.

"The king's cat? Yes, the bloody cat. It was on the desk at that time. King Edmure might have pointed to his cat. After all, he was carrying that ugly black cat everywhere before he was bedridden. He fed that cat with his own hands, talked with it, played with it. That cat's been prancing around this room ever since the king got ill,"

"You cannot possibly suggest..." said the Archbishop.

"I do suggest it. King Edmure named his cat as successor." said Lord Chancellor triumphantly.

A moment of silence fell in the room, as the three lords looked at each other confused, while the Lord Chancellor smiled maniacally. The silence was even heavier than the silence brought by the beloved monarch's demise.

"You want us to put a cat on the throne of Hartsmoth, Orlan, and that one village of Garz..." said Lord Steward.

"The one with the funny windmill, yes. Hey. You've all heard the last words of King Edmure. He said: 'I wan, I wan'. Was he referring to the water pitcher? Maybe. Was he referring to his cat? How can we tell? We all know how attached the king was to his black cat. Lord Henry asked King Edmure who is to be his successor right before King Edmure said 'I wan' and let's be fair, how many times have you heard the king ask for water?" said the Lord Chancellor.

"This is clearly madness." said Lord Marshall.

"No, this is our salvation. We name Ivan the cat as king until we find a better successor. We go around, find out which of King Edmure's bastards is a decent lad, then we claim Ivan legitimized and named him as successor. We pull out the cat from the throne and there we go; we have a king who is neither a madman nor a Frohndian."

"But a cat cannot rule." said Lord Marshall.

"King Edmure wasn't able to rule in the last two months. He wasn't able to talk properly, eat or shit without help. We handled all the affairs of the kingdom in his name. We can do it a couple of weeks more," said Lord Chancellor.

"This is blasphemy. A beast on the holy throne where only men anointed by God sat," said the Archbishop, rising his eyes towards the sky.

"King Ogra the Strong was more beast than man. He claimed he was born from a she-bear. He was an avid follower of the old ways and refused to convert until his death. Yet the church considers him a rightful king in the Haddar dynasty. We even have a holiday in his name,"

"King Ogra fought bravely for his kingdom. A cat cannot fight wars,"

"Neither could our late beloved king, God rest his soul. I don't think King Edmure ever held a sword in his hands. He had men to do that. And there were no wars or threats in King Edmure's reign. There are no wars or threats now, except for his mad son lurking at the borders, but his band of dirty cutthroats is no match for our army," said the Chancellor.

"Our army you're speaking of is made up of the forces of the lords of Hartsmoth. Do you think the lords will rally up to fight for a glorified house pet? They would sooner join forces with Prince Filip and have our heads in a pike. Even if King Edmure himself would rise up from his bed and march from the streets of Northen Quarter all the way to the last outpost at the border with Frohndeer shouting that it's his last dying wish to have Ivan the black cat on the throne, the lords would not stand for it. They would just call it madness and join Prince Filip," said the Steward.

"The lords would stand for whoever or whatever keeps their lordly privileges. We could place a wooden log on the throne, and they would bow their knee and swear fealty if it made their coffers full. On the other side, if Prince Filip climbs on the throne no one knows who gets to keep what, and more importantly, who's head falls and why. Uncertainty. The lords fear uncertainty.

If we give them an alternative, they will join forces and kick that sadistic maniac out of the kingdom for good," said Lord Chancellor.

"Winning a battle is the best way to start a reign," said Lord Marshal.

"You really think you can pull this?" said lord Steward.

"I don't think we have much choice. Now, where is that cat?"

On a late summer's day, three hundred and forty years after King Ogra Haddar "the Strong" established the Haddar dynasty by proclaiming himself king of Hartsmoth in front of all his tribesmen on a hill in Southwest Kaney the crowds gathered again from all corners of the realm, this time in front of Gilhester Cathedral to witness the crowning of another ruler, Ivan Haddar, first of his name, also called Ivan the Black, mostly because of his black fur coat that he wore everywhere.

The future king received a filling breakfast comprising fish and poultry and had his famous coat carefully groomed and searched for fleas. They carried him up the cathedral steps in a basket held by two guardsmen.

At the entrance they lowered the basket and allowed the ruler to walk on his own - as custom demanded it- to the holy altar where the Archbishop of Leodale awaited.

In the cathedral nave, on one side and the other of the white carpet leading to the altar stood the many lords, ladies and knights of the great Kingdom of Hartsmoth, Orlan, and that one village of Garz, the one with the funny windmill. They stood in their most solemn posture and wearing their most extravagant outfits, waiting for their future king to step forward and receive his crown.

And waiting.

And waiting.

"Step forward, Ivan the Black." shouted the archbishop spreading his arms forward like he was holding a sermon.

Unimpressed by the ceremonial act, Ivan sat on his hind legs and began licking his left paw and then using it to clean his ears, despite the meticulous job the servants did earlier of grooming him.

"Step forward, Ivan the Black, king of Hartsmoth!" shouted the priest louder.

The hall began murmuring as the lords and ladies looked puzzled at each other while the king refused to step forward and receive his crown. Some started snickering and amusing themselves, while others grew more and more concerned of the prospect of bending the knee to a King who had no restraint in licking the unmentionable parts of his own body in the hall of the Gilhester Cathedral right on his coronation day.

One of the young knights cleared his throat and advanced respectfully towards Sir Ivan, offering to assist him in reaching the altar.

"Perhaps... I mean... maybe I can bring him..."

"No!" shouted the Archbishop.

"The king must make his own way towards the altar and receive the crown."

The golden crown of Hartsmoth waited in vain on the velvet cushion carried by one of the Archbishop's assistants. King Ivan was not done grooming himself.

The Archbishop's assistant, a young altar boy named Till, had never taken part to a coronation ceremony, but was well trained, and knew his part.

He would hand the Archbishop the crown and the Archbishop would place it on the king's head saying "Arise, King of Hartsmoth, Orlan and the village of Garz." Then he, the assistant, would withdraw from the altar and join his friends in the choir where they would sing "Long live the king". The crown was not the same one worn by King Edmure and his ancestors, but a smaller copy made to fit the head of the new ruler. However, it was fashioned out of pure gold and the young skinny arms of the assistant grew weary waiting for the future ruler to do his part in the ceremony.

While still holding the cushion up with his right hand, the boy began dangling the end of the cordon on his robe.

"Here kitty, kitty."

It was Till's first coronation ceremony, but not the first time he had to deal with a cat.

"This is highly unappropriated!" erupted the Archbishop in shock, but Ivan stopped from his business, spotted the dangling cord, and began trotting towards it straight to the altar.

To Ivan's disappointment, the Archbishop grabbed him, before he had the chance of playing with the promised cordon and placed him on the exquisite oak carved chair set up near the altar.

The same annoying priest who grabbed him with such impertinence placed a golden little circle on his head and tied it with a silk red ribbon so he couldn't shake it off.

"Arise, King Ivan Haddar the Black, ruler of Hartsmoth, Orlan and Garz!"

"Garz?" said a voice from the hall.

"Are you talking about the little village of Garz with the funny windmill?"

"Yes!" declared the Archbishop and the whole cathedral erupted in cheering and sound of hands clapping, spreading the joy beyond the great doors to the citizens who waited in the courtyard.

The altar boys began singing "Long live the king" and thus began the reign of King Ivan the Black.

Lord Marshall Dupree marched up and down the council room, holding his hands behind his back. Most of his life, he was the one bearing the important news, or causing the news themselves, but now he was in the position of having to wait patiently and it made him even more nervous than being in the middle of the battlefield.

"Would you sit down, my lord? It's quite disrupting seeing you strut up and down like that and it's giving me a headache," said the Chancellor who was sitting alone at the council table.

"Aren't you the lucky one to still have a head? Prince Filip has most certainly crossed the river by now, and he is heading towards the capital. And here I am waiting behind the walls like an old woman hiding," said the Marshall.

"You want to go fight the Prince by yourself?"

"My scouts said he has merely two thousand riders and at most a thousand footmen and archers." said Lord Marshall almost in a pleading voice.

"Merely? Merely? That word 'merely' holds its value when we compare Prince Filip's forces with the entire army of Hartsmoth, not with the 'merely' six hundred guards we have now in the city," said the Lord Chancellor.

"They are good men!"

"They will be dead men! If the lords of Hartsmoth don't rally to our call, our only chance is to stand our ground here in the capital where the walls give us an advantage," said the lord Chancellor.

"You fancy yourself a military man now?" said the Lord Marshall.

"I don't have to be a bloody general to know that you leading all of our men to slaughter in an open field is a terrible idea. Now will you please SIT DOWN?"

The lord Marshall complied, but not before he mumbled a long swear word under his moustache.

Suddenly, the door slammed to the wall, and a page came in holding a large scroll.

"My lords, I bring news!"

"Good news or bad news?"

"Lord Gerandale of Yalik has decided to join the King against Prince Filip and his men are marching to defend the capital."

"Great news. His brave warriors will surely protect our city from those scums." cheered Lord Marshall.

"Lord Falstan of Redbone has decided to fulfil his oath towards the King and his men are marching to attack Prince Fillip from the west."

"That's excellent news. They will catch the madman by surprise," said Lord Chancellor.

"Lord Warren of the Marsh has decided that you are all crazy for placing a stupid cat on the throne and will join forces immediately with Prince Fillip.

I'm sorry, my lords, I'm just saying what Lord Warren said."

"Well, we never liked Lord Warren anyway. What about the others?" said Lord Chancellor.

"No words from the other lords yet, my lords," said the page rolling the huge scroll.

"I must say, I was expecting for a longer list judging by the size of that," said the Lord Chancellor, pointing to the paper roll.

"It's written in large font, my lord," said the page.

"I see. Well, Lord Marshall, it seems the forces are evenly matched."

"I say I take half our men and lure Prince Filip to the Sothesberry Vale so Lord Falstan can hit them hard from the rear," said Lord Marshall Dupree pounding his fist in the table.

"But what if Lord Gerandale fails to arrive? You'd leave the city barely guarded."

"If we strike now and win even a small victory, we might draw more lords to our cause but if we wait, we'd just be giving Prince Filip more time to find allies. Lord Falstan is already on his way. I say we strike now and strike fast."

"Fine, but don't engage until you are sure Lord Falstan is ready to attack."

The Lord Steward barged into the room holding a bunch of old yellow sheets of papers.

"My lords! I have great news."

"Have more nobles decided to join us?"

"I don't know about the lords, but I found something else that might concern us."

Hours later in the Sothesberry Vale, the army of thugs, robbers and mercenaries under Prince Filip watched as the brave three hundred Hartsmoth guards rode in from the capital city with Lord Marshall Dupree as their lead.

The Prince turned to his men from the back of his black steed and pointed at the incoming band of riders.

"Those men coming here to face us are fighting under the banner of a ruler who at this moment is chasing mice. They have crowned a bloody cat as their king. Those men are more stupid than the horses they ride on. How hard can it be, I wonder, to defeat a man who bends his knee to a bloody cat?"

A choir of laughter and cheers arose from the almost three thousand men gathered in the vale.

"Are you men?"

"Yes!"

"Are you warriors?"

"Yes!"

"Are you afraid of a bloody cat?"

"No!"

"What type of cat is it?"

Prince Filip turned his head to the place where the last voice was heard.

"Who said that?"

One of the riders raised his arm.

"I'm just saying, my brother used to own a cat. It was an ugly, mean looking thing. He once tried to pick it up, and the bloody monster scratched my brother's face from ear to ear. We called the healer that very night, when he started burning, but he couldn't do nothing for my poor brother. It got infected, that's what the healer said. We buried the lad three days later."

"What's your name?" said Prince Filip in a calm tone but bringing his horse closer to the rider.

"It's Tim, my lord."

"Go to hell, Tim!"

With one long circular move, Prince Filip unsheathed his sword and slashed Tim's head clean, sending it rolling down the hill while his body remained propped up in the saddle.

"Does anyone else has anything to add? Any other questions? Any other funny stories? No? Good! By this time tomorrow I will be sitting on the throne of Hartsmoth. None of the lords have joined Lord Chancellor and the mockery he made of my father's crown, so that pack of idiots in the vale are our only foes.

I don't care if all your families were killed by cats, chickens or bloody mongooses, we outnumber them, and we will crush them. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my lord!" shouted all the men in unison.

"Now, charge!"

The riders looked at each other confused for a few moments before one of them gathered the courage to half raise his hand.

"My... my lord?"

"I said charge! What, what, what?" shouted Prince Filip, raising his sword and making his way towards the man ready to separate him from his head.

"I'm sorry, my lord, but we just wanted to know if you want us to attack the small battalion set in the valley or the large company of riders charging us from the rear?"

Prince Filip looked in the direction pointed by the rider's arm and saw an unmeasurable swarm of horses galloping towards them through clouds of dust. As they drew closer and closer, he could spot the blue and white banners flapping in the wind, the banners of Falstan Redbone.

"Shit!"

Back in the capital, the Lord Chancellor was staring at the papers brought in by the Lord Steward, trying to make sense of the array of names and numbers. Seeing his confusion, the Lord Steward pulled his chair closer and pointed his finger at a scribbled line on one of the sheets.

"Here. This payment was made to one of the girls working at the kitchen when she left employment."

"Evelyn. I remember Evelyn. She had a kid who helped her. A young, dark-haired boy. Prince Filip used to always find ways to torture that poor boy. I think they moved to a farm with one of the guards here."

"They did move to a farm, but the farm was bought with money from the royal treasury. You see here, the name appears again. And the guard that left with Evelyn also appeared here with a nice sum next to his name. He was paid to leave with the kitchen maid."

"You think..."

"Yes! We found King's Edmure's bastard. Now all we need to do is bring him here, claim King Ivan legitimized him and surrendered the crown to him and we have a proper king," said the lord Steward.

"Let's just hope this bastard is a better man than Filip."

The door slammed open and in came the page, unwinding his large scroll.

"I bring good news, my lord!"

"Let us hear it!"

"Prince Filip's army has been defeated by the forces of Lord Marshall Dupree and Lord Falstan Redbone."

"What about Lord Warren of the Marsh? He was marching to join Prince Filip."

"When he arrived and saw the odds were against Prince Filip, he changed his mind and joined forces with Lord Redbone and Marshall Dupree."

"Well, I always said you could never trust Lord Warren," said Lord Chancellor.

All the Hartsmoth lords were gathered again, this time in the great hall of the Bartdale Palace cheering the victory of the young king, Ivan the Black, against the Usurper Filip.

Amongst the lords and ladies stood a young man dressed as a commoner, more modest than the servant boys running around with platters of food and little barrels of wine and beer.

The Lord Chancellor stepped up near the throne where King Ivan the Black sat overlooking and judging the chattering crowd below.

"Silence, please!" said the Lord Chancellor.

"We are all gathered here to celebrate our victory against Filip the Banished and to hear the decision of King Ivan the Black. In these moments of peace and prosperity, our victorious King Ivan the Black, considering matters of succession and in respect for the late King Edmure has decided to pass the responsibility of the crown to one of Edmure's offspring. Step forward Jacob, bastard son of King Edmure."

"Wait!" said Lord Warren from the back of the hall. "How do we know you speak the truth? You seem to be the only one to whom his majesty expressed this rather odd decision."

"How dare you? Do you believe I would be able to simply stand here in front of his Majesty and lie about his will?" said the Lord Chancellor.

"Now, Sir Warren here has a point. Given the inability for his Majesty to express his opinion more directly, one might want to be sure his wise decisions are not misunderstood." intervened another lord.

"Why should the king justify to you? Hasn't the king already communicated his wish to the Lord Chancellor? If he had a different opinion, surely his Majesty would intervene.

It took only a few moments for all the lords to forget all about the protocol and manners demanded the Hartsmoth throne, especially with the Hartsmoth king sitting on it. The great hall turned in to a small battlefield where two armies, the one demanding a proof from the chancellor and the ones believing the king's lack of intervention made enough proof, began fighting with insults and shouts.

In other circumstances, the King of Hartsmoth would stand up, order his guards to silence the chamber, point his finger to the lack of respect of the nobles in these days and then threaten to remove a few heads. King Ivan however did not find it worthwhile to stand on his rear paws, nor to gesticulate to the guards. His attention was caught by a familiar figure in the room, one he hadn't seen in a very long time. A friendly figure who once, when the feasts of King Edmure roared in the great hall, protected him from the hounds gnawing all the leftovers from the table. A friendly figure who always had a piece of fish, sausage or a chicken wing for him.

He leaped down from the high wooden chair where these strange loud men placed him and skittered down the steps with his small crown still hanging around one of his ears.

He moved fast and swift through the nobles busy with shouting and waving their arms, pounding their chests and pulling on their beards. He ran on his four legs until he reached a silent young boy standing alone in a corner and raised his front legs on the boy's breeches, demanding to be lifted.

"Ivan? Is it really you?" said the boy smiling, as if he wasn't lifting in his arms the King of Hartsmoth but a mere cat that strayed in the kitchen.

King Ivan lifted his nose and smelled the young dark-haired boy face. It smelled of garlic sausages as it did a long time ago when they would share meals late at night in the royal kitchen. King Ivan snuggled in the boy's arms, trying to ignore the ruckus of the awful room that had no sausages or fishtails.

"There's your proof!" shouted the Lord Chancellor pointing to the dark-haired boy and all the hall went silent again.

This was the end of the reign of King Ivan the Black, ruler of Hartsmoth, Orlon and that one small village of Garz and the beginning of King Jacob the Wise. As for the former ruler, little is known apart from the fact that he went back to his fearless campaigns against the royal mice.
The Chosen One

"No, I don't want to do it."

Lord Cashmere covered the window slit, drawing the heavy purple curtain beautifully decorated with gold embroideries. He threw himself on the sofa and extended his arm, holding a silver cup between his thumb and index finger.

The squire grabbed the fat pitcher from the table and proceeded to pour its ruby red drink into his master's cup.

"But M`lord, what would your subjects say?"

"I don't give a rat's ass. If they're so preoccupied of this matter, they are more than welcomed to try their luck with that bastard."

"But M'lord, it's just a peasant boy. You'd crush him in a heartbeat."

"I don't want to hear about this, Cedric. Just send one of the men to whip him in the town square and be done with it."

"But M'lord he requested a trial by combat. It is in his rights by law to be granted a trial by combat. Only if he loses, can he be considered guilty, otherwise, he is innocent and we cannot punish an innocent man, my liege."

"We cannot punish an innocent man, my liege... nonsense! We punish innocent men every day!" said lord Cashmere with visible indignation.

"Yes, M'lord, but we do it, following the law."

"The law! Stupid gibberish from old men, from old times, and we must live our lives according to it. What good does that brings to me? Wait, Cedric, doesn't the law say I can choose a champion to fight for me?"

"Yes, my liege, but..."

"Fine, I choose Brunan. The tall bald guy, big and fat as an ox? You know him, right, Cedric? Go and tell Brunan to take care of that kid."

"M'lord, the boy challenged your lordship to a fair fight. He specifically called out your name in front of everyone. If you send someone else to fight, people will..."

"Yes? Finish your sentence, Cedric!"

Cedric leaned closer to lord Cashmere and covered his mouth with his palm as he whispered, afraid not to be heard by anyone, somehow including the lord himself.

"... they might think you are a... they might think you are not..."

"They'll think I'm a coward! Is that what you're trying to say? They will laugh at me and call me a lily-livered mouse of a man, hiding behind closed doors!"

"But m'lord, I don't understand. You are the best swordsman in the land. You won the tournament two times in a row and served three times under his Highness, King Rudolf in war, and you returned unharmed every time. Why do you refuse to duel with a scrawny little lad who never held a sword in his hand?"

"Because, Cedric, because... well, look at him!"

Lord Cashmere draw the curtains violently making the golden tassels rattle and pointed at a skinny blond figure standing silently in the castle yard.

"Look how small he is. Look how underfed he appears. This lad probably hadn't eaten in days. "

"Is m'lord taking pity on the boy?"

"Of course, I'm not taking pity on the bastard. He didn't take any pity on my deer when he hunted in my forest, did he? I'm just saying that something is very wrong here. Usually I would just have him flogged for an hour or so and then make him spend a couple of nights in the stocks before he can start working to repay the deer he killed. I am merciful lord, after all. A normal man would know that and thank me for allowing him to keep his head over his shoulders, but this lad doesn't want to get off easily. He comes to my castle and demands a trial by combat. Imagine that! This lad has something on his sleeve."

"I very much doubt it, m'lord. I heard he is just a poor orphan."

"Precisely! Oh, don't you read anything, Cedric? Poor orphan, born in unusual circumstances, spends all his life in the forest, or at a small farm or something, until some magical creature sends him on a mystic quest. "

"A mystic quest, m'lord?"

"Oh, yes! To kill a dragon or stop an army of orcs or to save the whole world from obliteration after an ancient evil thing wakes up from the bowels of the earth."

"An ancient evil thing?" Said Cedric peeking out the window as if to make sure the world is still there safe and unharmed. "I don't see anything, m'lord!"

"Of course, you don't you miniscule minded moron!"

"It is a little clouded..." added Cedric, trying to save some face.

"Bah, what do you know? I'm just a stepping stone for this puppy-eyed brat. Look at that sword!"

Lord Cashmere drew the curtains wider, making the tassels rattle again and extended his whole arm through the window as his veins were bulging on his neck.

"Where does an orphan acquire such a sword?"

Cedric leaned over his lord's shoulder and gazed at the figure swinging his blade in the yard, warming up for the duel deciding his life. It was a boy, no more than sixteen judging by his face, with a ruffled mane of blond hair and dressed in a set of linen clothes so dirty and patched up that you couldn't quite make up their color. His long arms ended with hands wide as shovels that gripped the hilt of a long sword. The boy's weapon was plain, lacking any encrusted gems or other such ornaments, but it had beautiful straight lines, and its metal cast strange emerald like reflections in the morning light. Despite his slim, bony arms his moves were flowing gracefully, cutting the air from left to right and then right to left, as if his weapon carried no weight.

"It's just an old thing m'lord, he probably just found it somewhere."

"Found it somewhere? Where in the name of all the gods do you find something like that just lying there for the taking? And what's that weird looking symbol hanging at his neck? The sigil of some lost house?"

Squinting his eyes, Cedric noticed that indeed hanging from the boy's neck on a piece of leather strip was a large medallion composed by three large circles joined in a triangular shape. Cedric could not tell the meaning of that symbol but missing the sarcasm in his lord's question and not wanting to look like a fool again he tried to put his mind to work.

"Well, let's see... It's not the Bergam House sigil... no, they have a swan. The Larish House have three roses... but they're usually in a line..."

"Oh, shut up, you fool! Fetch my long sword and let's get going!"

"Shall I prepare your breastplate as well, m'lord?"

"Let's see, an unknown orphan, wearing a mysterious sign wields what appears to be a magical blade that can probably cut through iron like a piss through snow. Sure, Cedric, fit me with my heaviest possible armor. If the metal won't protect me from that ghastly blade, at least it could hinder my moves and slow me down."

"So... yes?"

A heavy palm hit Cedric loudly over the back of his head, sending him spinning out of the room.

"No, imbecile!"

Lord Cashmere untied the laces from his cuffs and then carefully rolled up the sleeves from his exquisite silk crimson shirt.

"His sword might be magic, or it might not, but it still has to touch me in order to defeat me. If I move fast and avoid his blows, I can still take him out."

Cedric returned carrying a long thin weapon covered by a black scabbard lavishly decorated with silvery patterns. The guard and the pommel of the sword were also enriched with sparkling red and orange gemstones.

A small crowd of townsmen were gathered around in the yard, getting more and more loud and restless as their lord delayed his presence yet they managed to contain themselves, fearing they might provoke the intervention of the guards and their sharp spears. When finally, Lord Cashmere and his squire appeared from beyond the great wooden door, the crowd burst in cheers, excited as they were about to get the spectacle they waited for. The lord stepped in the yard casually, dusting off an invisible leaf from his shoulder and looked at the scrawny kid through half-opened eyes, as if he just got up from bed to relief himself and was planning to climb back in the sheets afterwards. Cedric stepped timidly behind him, carrying his sword.

"What is your name, peasant?"

"I am Johnathan, son of the forest."

"Your mother got stuck in a tree stump?"

The crowd laughed and snickered at the lord's rude jest, but the blond boy kept his unyielding posture, fixating his opponent with his sapphire eyes.

"You killed a deer in my forest, boy. Are you not familiar with the laws of this land?"

"The forest is not yours! Nor the animals that dwell in it, nor the land under our feet. A man cannot own these things. A man can only be the master of his own deeds."

Lord Cashmere turned to Cedric and threw him a dirty look for making him come down from his chamber to face the boy.

"But I do own them, boy! These lands and the souls living on these lands have been awarded to my late father by King Hamstad for great deeds of valor on the battlefield. Do you know what the penalty is for hunting in your lord's forest? "

The boy stood silently.

"One hundred lashes!"

The boy stood silently.

"Cedric! Go get Brunan and tell him to bring his whip. Let's get this over with, I haven't even had my breakfast."

"No! I demand a trial by combat!" said the boy, finally breaking the silence.

"Are you mad or just plain stupid? I'll be merciful and pretend I didn't hear you. Cedric!"

"No! I choose a trial by combat, as it is the custom." Insisted Johnathan.

The crowd began murmuring and chattering, astonished by the boy's audacity. Johnathan could hear their whisperings, "he is mad, he wants to die" but stood unmoved, with his sword plunged into the ground and his soiled hands resting on its hilt.

"Boy! I warn you! If I draw my sword from its sheath, it will taste blood. Take the hundred lashes and walk away with your head still on your shoulders before I lose my temper." bellowed Lord Cashmere, trying to make him change his mind.

The boy assumed his solemn posture again, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword.

"Fine! You hunt in my forest and I offer you the chance to walk away freely, with just a few scratches on your back and still, you choose to face me in mortal combat. It's your death."

Lord Cashmere pulled his sword from the scabbard still resting in Cedric's arms and turned to the crowd.

"Let everyone know that I, Sir Gerome Cashmere, allowed this boy to walk away freely, but he, on his own accord insisted on his imminent death.

He turned his head both sides, cracking loudly the joints in his neck, and then he swung his blade left and right to warm up.

Johnathan lifted his blade as well and took a step forward with his left leg, assuming a defensive stance. His tensed muscles were ready to release a strike with the sharp, long sword. Lord Cashmere noticed how the blade was again shining an emerald glow. He lowered his blade and turned again to the crowd:

"Let everyone here know that I, Sir Gerome Cashmere, am doing a great honor to this orphan peasant boy by allowing him to duel with me. I could have just chosen a champion to fight in my place and deal with this rat. I have a lot of work, you know! A lot of business to attend to."

He lifted his sword again, his hands tight on the guard, his eyes squinted at his opponent, sweat dripping on his forehead. Lord Cashmere took a step forward, slowly, like a feline, and then he lowered his sword again.

"It's not like he has a chance, you know! I fought side by side with His Majesty, the King, in two battles. Two battles against the Gharalins armies and I came out without one scratch. I also defeated countless knights in the Royal tournament. Experimented, fierce knights. This boy killed a deer."

The two combatants began circling each other with their swords lifted to their shoulders, ready to strike, like two scorpions ready to sting. Lord Cashmere took a step back and retreated to a safe distance, only to lower his guard again.

"Allegedly killed a deer! We don't know if he even managed to kill that deer."

"He did. Pierced it right through his heart with an arrow." Yelled a voice from the crowd.

"Now, how would you even know that? Were you there when he was chasing the deer?" Protested Lord Cashmere, almost taking sides for the young boy.

"When I found him, m'lord, he was crouched over the dead deer trying to pull the arrow out." Added the voice of a patrolman.

"Just because he had a lucky shot with his bow doesn't mean he's also good with a sword. It takes skill and practice to wield a blade." Said lord Cashmere walking slowly around the boy with his sword raised in defense.

The boy advanced and thrust his weapon forward, but his opponent took a step back.

"Why won't you fight me?" said Johnathan, but lord Cashmere ignored him and took another step back until he felt at a safe distance from the emerald blade.

"This is cruelty! A mere peasant fighting a battle-hardened warrior. Look at him! Just a boy! How can he stand any chance? I should let one of my lesser men fight, maybe then the gods will show some mercy on this lad. Cedric! Get over here!"

"Me, m'lord?" Asked Cedric startled.

"No! I want to fight with you! " Protested the boy, swinging his sword at Lord Cashmere, trying to provoke his opponent to retaliate.

Lord Cashmere, with his sword still lowered, leaped back a few steps and then ran over to where Cedric was standing puzzled, still holding the sheath of his lord's weapon in his hand.

"Of course, as one of noble birth, I cannot let myself be provoked by the common folk, especially the likes of this defenseless feeble-minded boy."

He ducked from another swing of the blade that would have slashed his chest from collarbone to bellybutton.

"This is not a fair trial! This is slaughter. CEDRIC! GET IN HERE!"

Lord Cashmere grabbed Cedric by his shoulders and pushed him in the middle of the yard. Cedric reached for Lord Cashmere's blade so he can defend himself but received a sharp slap over the cheek.

"Not my sword, you fool! This is a lord's weapon!"

One of the guards unfastened his weapon from his hip and threw it to Cedric, who caught it by its hilt midair. With his other hand he pulled the scabbard from the blade and then pointed the sharp tip of the weapon to the incoming opponent.

Johnathan angered that Lord Cashmere denied him the chance to prove his superiority in combat, assaulted Cedric with his emerald sword raised high above his head. He released a powerful roar as his blade prepared to strike down the squire, so loud that Cedric covered his eyes with one hand while holding the sword pointed forward with the other.

The raging cacophony of voices surrounding the two opponents, cheering and yelling, went silent.

Lord Cashmere raised his palm to shade his eyes from the sunlight so he could get a better view of the scene.

Johnathan's arms were halfway above Cedric's head, his emerald blade paralyzed in mid-strike. The boy's sapphire eyes turned red and cloudy. Johnathan coughed and felt a warm salty liquid flooding his mouth and dripping on his chin. He looked at Cedric and saw him still holding his weapon and covering his eyes. He looked down and saw the blade going right through his belly, releasing a spring of crimson blood. The blue sky above him was the last thing he saw as he rolled his eyes and fell stiffly in the grass.

The crowd began its murmur again

"He killed him! He killed that boy".

A man from the back of the crowd grew bold enough to shout:

"He slaughtered a poor boy for a deer."

Cedric took his palm from his face to see what had happened, only to get splattered in the face by a mushy tomato. Other similar projectiles followed from all directions to the confusion of the winning duelist.

Lord Cashmere, taking note of the size of the crowd and the fire with which they accused the murdering squire, took a stance immediately:

"You heartless bastard of a man! You, Cedric, who I personally raised from the gutters and allowed to serve me as a squire, only to perform such a hideous act. You killed that defenseless boy in cold blood."

"But I only did what you asked me to, m'lord." defended Cedric, trying to duck the rotting vegetables thrown at him.

"To have the audacity to blame your lord for your own sins! Truly, you are a man with no shame or honor. I will not stand this brute in my presence!"

The crowd began cheering lord Cashmere. Fueled by their approval, he carried on fervently.

"I shall avenge the innocent blood by striking down this dog with the blade of our brother Johnathan."

Lord Cashmere grabbed the emerald sword from the boy's stiff fingers and raised it above Cedric.

"M'lord have mercy!" was the last thing the squire manage to shout before the sharp edge of the blade plunged between his neck and shoulder.

A loud thunder echoed through the sky and a bright flash blinded all the people gathered in the castle's yard as the sword broke into thousands of flickering shards. Lord Cashmere was thrown to the ground and as he struggled to get up, rubbing his eyes, he heard a low voice booming from above:

"The one slain with the Bane of Death is cursed to live one thousand eons. "

Lord Cashmere's sight began to recover, and he saw the crowd scattering across the plain like ants, screaming and running in fear for their lives. In front of him, he saw Cedric standing and breathing, with his usual dumbfounded expression painted on his face.

"Cedric?"

"Yes, m'lord?"

"Have you by any chance turned immortal?"

"I think so m'lord but I swear I didn't mean it. I was just doing what you said."

Lord Cashmere dropped to his knees and sigh.

"For god sakes! And I haven't even had breakfast yet."
The Seventh Night

Lem entered the tavern and went straight to the bar. He climbed on one of the three sturdy wooden stools and taped his hand on the table.

"Pour a mug for me, Bran."

The bartender poured a mug of brown ale to a farmer sitting next to Lem. He then called for his waiter, a small boy who was floating from table to table, and gestured him to attend the table by the entrance where four well-dressed men were just seated.

Lem looked at their clothing and then began fixing his shirt, trying to hide a tear below his chest and a dark stain on his sleeve. It was a tattered old shirt, but it was the newest thing he had, having barely received it the other day as alms from an old widow.

He looked with envy at the farmer slurping his drink and taped on the wooden board again.

"I said pour me a mug, Bran."

The bartender, a man large enough to block the whole entrance with his back if he so desired scratched his moustache and began wiping the shelves with a greasy rag he kept hanged by his belt.

"I heard you the first time."

"Where's my mug, then?" said Lem.

"Where's your coin, then?" said the bartender with his back turned at Lem.

"Just pour me some ale now, I'm thirsty. I'll pay you later. You know I will."

The bartender turned around and pointed his thick arm towards the door.

"If you're thirsty go and drink from the animal trough. You put coin on the table or get out."

"I said I'll pay. On my heart."

The bartender's arm was still raised pointing to the door.

"Look, I'll pay."

Lem bent down and took off his left shoe. He turned it upside down on the floor and picked up a small iron coin that he pushed on the table.

"Not enough."

"Maybe something left on the bottom..." mumbled Lem.

The bartender puffed and threw a wooden mug on the table. He grabbed a jug of ale and filled half the mug before pushing it towards Lem.

"Drink it fast and get out."

"Bran! Is that how you treat your patrons?" said one of the three men sitting at a nearby table.

"C'mon Lem, joins us for a drink, will you? That is, if you do not have something more important to do."

Lem grabbed his mug carefully with both his hands and joined the three men. His eyes fell on the platter of steaming baked potatoes in front of him and the fat jug of ale next to it. He ate a potato found in a ditch the other day, but it was raw and half rotten. These were golden and had gravy poured on them. Lem took a small sip from his mug, enough to water his lips and clear his throat.

"Ale, potatoes, I see you're doing well, Sacky boy. Did you murder that old miller and robbed his house last night?"

The man grinned and took a large gulp from his own mug. His name was Will, but people called him Sack because he was short and wide like a sack of flour and also because he spent his apprentice years at the mill until the miller caught him stealing and kicked him out.

"I've got business going on, Lemy dear. I don't think I can say the same about you seeing how you stare at those potatoes. Badger, pull that tray away from Lemy, he's gonna drool all over our potatoes."

The kid sitting to the right of Sack pulled the tray towards him and picked a large one. He took a big bite and began chewing loudly with his mouth open, as gravy poured on his long narrow chin.

"You remember Badger, don't you Lem? Now this old bloke sitting at my left is Martin. Martin, say hello to our friend Lem."

The old man measured Lem from head to toes huffing from a crudely carved pipe and then turned his head away.

Lem took another sip from his mug.

"Do you have something for me, Sack?"

"It depends if you have the stomach for it, Lem."

"You know me, Sack."

"I know you, Lem,always looking for a handout. Aren't you lucky to have friends like good old Sack here? I've got something and we need a fourth man."

"What's the pay?"

"A lot more than you have now. There's twelve coppers for each man, but you'll pay me ten coppers for being such a good lad and taking you in."

"I'll pay you four. Whatever's the job, I'm doing my share."

"Eight, or you'll end up starving in a ditch."

"Six. I'll starve in a ditch and you can find another bloke to be your fourth man. If you're making me an offer, it means it's a rotten job and you haven't found anyone yet."

"Fine, six it is. Be at the east gate tomorrow before dawn."

Sack snatched the half-eaten potato from Badger's hand and threw it in Lem's lap.

"Here! So, you don't starve tonight, and Lem, if you're not there tomorrow, I'll find you and break both your legs."

Lem picked up the potato and shoved it all in his mouth.

"Who knows, you might get more money as a crippled beggar than a drunken one." laughed Sack.

It was still summer, but the nights were starting to feel colder. Lem rubbed his arms as he walked towards the eastern gate. His stomach growled loudly keeping him company in the dark. It didn't matter. He endured longer periods without as much as a moldy piece of bread and after today's work he would have enough for his own plate of baked potatoes. He did wish he had something to drink though. A sip of ale or better yet spirits to steady his hands and warm him up. He would buy that tonight. A great big jug of ale all for himself to drown those potatoes and maybe some cheese? Six coppers could buy him that and even a chicken leg.

His stomach growled again in protest. He shouldn't think of food anymore or it will growl all day, gnawing him from the inside. He began counting the steps. Lem knew how to count past twenty which was more than expected for a man of his statute as he never had more than twenty things, he could call his own.

He went past the gate, over the small bridge and spotted two torches floating by the crossroad signpost. The moon shone bright enough for any man to make out his steps, but it seems some men always wanted to be above the others.

The alderman was there in his fur coat and two of the city guards, holding the torches and so were Sack and his associates, lurking in the darkness.

The alderman grabbed a torch from one of the guards and pushed it in Lem's face to see him better.

"I reckon this is your fourth man."

He waved him to join the other three and handed the torch back to the guard.

"Alright, let's not waste any more time. The job is simple enough, but you need strong hands and tough stomach. As you know, Lord Gilean and Lord Otto fought about a week ago on the Hawker's field. Why they did is none of your concern or mine, nor does it matter who won. What matters is that Hawker's field is about less than an hour from here and is currently covered with about two hundred dead lads.

Tonight, those dead lads will be spending their seventh night in the field and I want the night to be uneventful in our beloved town. Not that I'm superstitious, but it would help some old ladies sleep better tonight and stop them from bothering me in the morning. "

The alderman turned to one of the guards and took a large bag.

"You have here four axes. You will go there and separate each dead lad from his head. And I want a full cut. You cut the head, pull it up by its hair and toss it away. Understood?"

The morning air grew chiller for Lem and he felt a pinch on the back of his neck but he nodded his head like the others did. A copper is a copper after all.

"Now, the way I see it, both sides had plenty of time to gather their husbands, brothers, sons and fathers and whatnot, so don't let any weeping widow stop you. You do your job."

The alderman waved to the other guard who stepped forward and handed each man a small package.

"You each have there a water flask, some bread and cheese. Each man eats his own ration. I don't want you fighting each other for food. I want you to do your job and be back by sunset. Do not let the night catch you in the field. You finish the task and there's twelve coppers for each of you lads. I would say that's a fair price for a day's work, ain't it?"

"Yes sir!" answered the four men in unison.

"Off you go then" said the alderman and handed Sack one of the torches as a last gift to aid them in their task.

The alderman waited at the signpost to make sure the four men headed in the right direction and then watched them until they were out of sight. He then arranged his fur coat and headed back in town with the two guards following him.

Lem opened the package and reached inside to grab the loaf of bread. He took a big bite filling his mouth until he could barely move his jaws. He forgot all about the gruesome details of his work. This was good white bread. He felt the blood pumping in his veins again.

"Don't eat it all, lad." said Martin, the silent old man that he met at Sack's table earlier.

"You'll finish it now and then what are you going to eat later?"

Lem smiled and shook his head, mumbling something with his mouth full. The old man's words somehow implied he was used with more than one meal per day and that amused him terribly. Sack and his friend were walking ahead with the torch like a beacon guiding their path. Their pace was quick so that Lem and Martin had to speed up to make sure not to lose them. It was as if Sack wanted to get there first. Maybe he knew something. It was the seventh day since the battle but maybe there were still some trinkets to be found among the dead, things that other scavengers have not yet claimed. A good pair of boots, belts and straps and pieces of armor that could be traded to a blacksmith. That is, a blacksmith that would take things from a dead man.

Lem was never superstitious but he couldn't see himself stripping a dead man of his belongings. He felt like it would bring closer to his own death.

"You believe the stuff about the seventh night?" said Lem taking another bite of his bread.

"It doesn't make much difference whether I believe it or not, does it? We do as the alderman said and at the end of the day won't need to ask ourselves whether is true or not," said Martin.

Lem took a drink from his flask, and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He looked at Martin walking next to him. His face was wrinkled and his hair and beard grey as the ash, but there was something odd in the way this old man walked, something that reminded Lem of the city guards, but not the ones patrolling the markets and getting drunk at the inn every night. No, he resembled the tall city guards that guarded the upper district where the rich folks lived. Martin didn't walk, he marched.

"Where you a guard?"

"A guard?" laughed Martin.

"You walk like a guard."

"I was a soldier, lad."

Martin stopped and lifted his sleeve revealing the outline of an eagle marked with black in on his forearm.

"A proper one, lad. I didn't have no wooden spear. I fought with a proper sword and wore colors too. I fought for Lord Greystone when he was alive and for his son when he was dead. I fought for Terril the Red and against Terril the Red for Duke Lawrence. I've been in battles, lad."

"Proper soldier, huh? What good did that serve you if you're still here with us? You must have been a darn lousy fighter."

"I was a darn good one to still be here with you."

Martin rolled down his sleeve and hasten his step, leaving Lem behind chewing on his loaf of bread.

When they arrived at the valley, the sun was beginning to rise slowly behind the clouds, but there was still an eerie fog making the battlefield appear one with the grey sky. It was going to be a cloudy morning. Dark mounds of rotting flesh were floating in the fog swarmed by crows, and the putrid smell made Lem wished he hadn't stuffed his belly so full.

Sack and Badger were the first one to descend in the valley, covering their noses with their sleeves and carefully stepping as not to sink their feet too deep in what was now a blood drenched ground.

They began turning the bodies around and pushing away their stiff limbs insensitive to the grotesque faces starring at them from the grass.

"We need to get on with our work if we're to finish till sundown." shouted Martin following them.

"Get on with it, then." said Sack.

The old man looked around. The alderman lied. There were a lot more than two hundred bodies lying in this field.

"You're not going to find much. Those that matter were picked up. These are just common folks with wooden spears. You reckon they carried valuables with them in battle?"

"I reckon you need to shut up old man." said Sack picking up an iron buckle from one of the bodies.

Martin turned to Lem.

"What about you, lad? You think there's a nice pair of boots for you down here?"

"I don't rob the dead."

"Then you mind coming down and giving me a hand or do you have something better to do?"

"You should listen to him, Lem. If the alderman sends his people to check on us, they should see at least some heads chopped,"said Sack.

"And why should I work if you don't?"

Sack stopped and turned around to look at Lem who was still standing at the top of a hill.

"Because we wouldn't mind swinging an axe at you and then share your part of the money."

Lem mumbled a curse between his teeth, and then descended into the valley. Sack was shorter than him, but he was tougher, and he had Badger by his side. Lem doubted the old man would have joined him in a fight and even so, what chances could a decrepit old man and a hungry beggar have against two ruffians accustomed to violence and robbery?

He took his frustration on the dead soldiers, separating, as instructed, the head from the body.

By noon Lem and Martin were yet to reach the middle of the valley. The sun was still peeking between the clouds, but it was warmer, and the smell grew stronger, soaking into their skin as they carved their way through the muddy field.

Sack and Badger on the other hand sought shelter from the smell under a tree, sharing a flask of wine, they brought along and counting their small pile of pocketknives, leather straps, buckles and trinkets of all sort.

Lem had only a quarter of a water flask that he was painfully saving.

"What's it like?" said Lem to the old man who was bent over, doing his job meticulously like a farmer, harvesting his crop.

"What's what like?"

"Being in the battle, old man. What's it like?"

"The first time I marched to battle I was younger than you. I felt like a cow driven to the butcher's block. Every step was agony. In my mind there were thousands of voices shouting. I hated the enemy, I hated those who made me go to war, I hated the whole world because it kept ongoing as I was marching to my death, but then the battle started, and everything went silent. There was just me, my weapon and my will to live. And I lived. When the fight was over, I was still standing, and life had never been sweeter. You live day after day at the mercy of other people and if food doesn't come, what do you do? You curl up and die. That day I won my right to live. I worked harder than any man for it."

"You enjoyed killing?"

"I enjoyed living, lad. I went back after that again and again. I didn't even care for whom I was fighting. At the end of the day food, wine, women - they all tasted better."

"If you were such a good fighter, how did you end up on the streets?"

"What do you know boy? They throw you on the battlefield, let you taste blood, they turn you into a warrior and then when their squabbles are done, they expect you to put your sword down and go farming. Peace did not suit me. I yearned to feel alive again. I got into fights, I started drinking, I pissed away all my money on women. It wasn't the same. Nothing was the same as the feeling of looking death in the eye and snatching the victory in the heat of battle. And when the lords started squabbling again and needed fighters, I was too old, too drunk and too weak to fight."

"You should have joined them, old man," said Lem pointing to the twisted bodies sprouting from the ground.

"I doubt another one would matter."

The sun was going down over the hills from which the four men arrived, but Lem and Martin were still in the middle of the valley. Their arms were weary, and the axes grew dull, but they were still hacking and chopping. Sack and Badger had finished their job and gathered everything that could be used or traded and managed to divide it among themselves, even though they counted on their friends in the valley to help them carry it back in town.

Lem raised his head and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He gave in to his thirst and consumed the last gulp of water from his flask.

"We should go, old man! The sun's going down."

"The job's not done, boy."

"Listen, old man. As much as I like standing here, knees up in blood and guts, if Sack get to town first, he'll lie to the alderman and run off with our share of the money."

Martin didn't answer, but he stood up, stretched his back and looked up. He pointed at three strangers coming down in the valley. Two of them had their swords in their hands while the third was carrying a bow and arrow next to his hip, ready to raise it up and pull.

"Hey. You there! What's in those bags?"

Lem turned around to see Sack and Badger carrying two large bags to the tree where another two bags were stashed.

"Get down," shouted Martin, as an arrow flew over Lem's left ear and right into Badger's bag. The arrow didn't get to Badger but made him drop his loot and spew a storm of curses. Sack dropped his loot as well and together with Badger they grabbed their axes and descended into the valley shouting insults at the three strangers. Lem and Martin also tightened their grip on their tools and prepared to fight.

The man with the bow pulled the string back, ready to shoot again, but screamed and sent the arrow towards the sky. Sack could see the archer lying on his back, squirming in the mud and broke down in laughter.

"Did someone trip you, boy?"

The sun was setting down and shadows began dancing over the field, but Sack could clearly see the two swordsmen thrusting their swords into their companion who was still squirming on the ground.

"What are those idiots doing?" said Sack.

Martin shoved Lem and Badger out of his way and began climbing the hill heading fast towards the road.

"Hey, old man, what's the hurry?" said Sack.

"Badger, Lem, grab those bags! It looks like those fools are busy killing themselves. Martin, get the hell over here and grab one of these bags!"

Martin turned around and gazed over the valley, his eyes as wide as he could open them. The last beams of light were playing in the trees as the red sun descended completely over the crest. On the other side of the valley, the purple sky was fading making way for a flaxen moon. Shadows danced over the valley and the wind whispered softly like a moan.

"Forget the fucking bags and get out of there!"

Martin hastened his step, almost dropping on all four to get to the top of the crest.

The swordsmen were screaming, waving and slashing their swords to the man at their feet. The archer must have been cut to pieces by now, but it seemed the swordsmen were growing more and more desperate, as if they were struggling to stand on their feet. One of them fell on his knee, then on his side as if something dragged him to the ground. The second began running towards Sack and the others.

"What the hell? They're coming at us." said Sack, spinning the axe in his hand.

The man was running towards them, screaming, but he wasn't charging. He kept looking back as if something was following him and squinting hard through the dim light, Sack could see something rising and moving behind him like small dark mounds. The man tripped, screamed again desperately and was swallowed by a sea of corpses lying in the valley.

"Look!" screamed Badger.

That was all he could say as he was pointing towards a two-legged figure dragging its limbs towards them, dangling its head and rattling its jaws.

"There!" said Lem pointing towards a whole band of creatures rising up from the ground on their boney arms.

"It's the seven night! The dead have been lying in this field for seven nights. That's why the alderman sent us to cut their heads."

Lem grabbed Sack by his shirt and shook him shouting with madness in his eyes.

"We didn't cut all the heads, you fool! It's the seventh night."

Sack pushed him to the ground and looked around. Small groups of dead soldiers were rising from the ground in the part of the field that Lem and Martin didn't finish. As they dragged their feet their blackened flesh was tearing from their bones in chunks, falling through their rags. Their jaws were hanging open and their lips and gums receded revealing long white teeth that shined in the moonlight like pearls. Their eye sockets were either empty dark holes or sealed by dried eyes, but somehow, they all marched in the same direction, towards the four men who insulted the valley with their pink skin and beating hearts.

Sack grabbed his loot bag and tossed it over the right shoulder. He pointed at Badgers' bag that lied abandoned several feet away and shouted towards the boy.

"Grab it! Move!"

Badger hesitated for a second, watching the dead creatures coming towards him, but fearing Sack's anger and not wanting to appear like a coward especially with Lem and Martin present, he gripped tightly on his axe, took a deep breath as he was about to plunge in a deep water and ran to get the bag.

Lem looked at Sack who was halfway towards the crest, moving quickly with his bag on his shoulder and then at Badger who recovered his own loot and was struggling to run through the mucky ground, bag over the left shoulder and axe in the right hand. Behind Badger two soldiers were closing in, spreading their arms towards the boy.

Lem sprinted through the mud, passed Badger and flung his axe towards the neck of one of the soldiers, chopping off his head. Badger turned around and waved his heavy bag into the other soldier's chest, sending him to the ground. Lem followed through and came down with a terrible swing, decapitating this one as well.

"Drop the bag, Badger! We need to get out of here!"

"Fuck off, Lem. I can handle them."

More soldiers were coming, slowly encircling them. Lem slashed at another one, cutting deep through its shoulder blade, but as he struggled to pull out his axe, a second one grabbed him from the back. He tried to shake him off still holding onto the axe but the soldier's fingers stuck deep in Lem's back, piercing his skin.

"Badger!"

Badger looked up at Sack who was steps from reaching the road.

"Sack! Wait up!"

He hastened his pace, but the bag was dragging him down. "Don't fill'er up with all the iron you find" said Sack, but Badger knew he would get a good price in town. Sack was only saying that because he filled up two other bags for Lem and Martin to carry. This was Badger's bag and he would fill it up good. Why should only Sack profit?

"Badger!"

The dead soldier was now trying to bite on Lem's shoulder, but his jaw was so loose it could not clasp his flesh. Lem struck his elbow in the soldier's ribs, cracking a few, but the creature did not react in any way. The boy pushed its foot up the chest of the soldier in front of him, trying to pull out his axe, but the dead hanging from his back made him lose balance and fall to the ground, trapped between the two animated corpses. He struggled to get out hitting and kicking left and right, but the corpses were impervious to pain. He was trapped like a rabbit between the fangs of a fox.

"Badger!!!"

Suddenly he heard bones cracking and felt the weight from his back being lifted. He tried to get up, but the soldier beneath him had his cold arms around his neck. Another sound of bones cracking and then he felt a hand pulling him up by the hair. Before he could fight it, Lem was on his back-watching Martin chopping at the creature's neck.

He stood up and removed two severed hands that were still clutching at his neck. He raised his axe and came down on another soldier sneaking behind Martin.

"Let's make our way to the hill."

Badger was almost at the slope, but the bag seemed to grow heavier and heavier. Felling his knees weak he stopped and turned around to find a corpse hanging from the bag, dragging it to the ground. Badger lifted his axe and began chopping the corpse's arms with fast desperate swings, but another creature crawling on the ground grabbed him by the leg. He dropped the bag and turned his attention to the soldier on the ground and began hacking at him furiously. After he released his leg, Badger reached for his bag, but saw four more soldiers spreading their fleshless hands towards him. He decided to abandon the loot and turned back to the hill. He began climbing, but the corpses followed him and one of the hands hooked his foot. Badger fell to the ground, slamming his chin on a rock. The deaf noise of his teeth breaking against each other mixed with the noise of the soldiers rattling their bones as they dragged his body down.

Lem and Martin came hacking and slashing with their axes through the piles of dead meat and bones and managed to pull Badger out before the soldiers tore him up in pieces. His shirt was drenched in blood from the scratches on these arms and back and his left thigh had a deep gash. Lem put his hand around Badger's shoulders and helped him stand up while Martin guarded their backs from incoming soldiers.

A loud scream startled them and made them look up. Rolling down the hill was Sack. He rolled down slamming his body from rock to rock into a group of dead soldiers that dragged his body between them and began scratching and tearing up his flesh with their hands. They could hear Sack cursing and screaming until his voice was drowned by the corpses pilling on top of him.

Behind him, stuck in a large rock was the loot bag he carried and, in the darkness, Lem thought he saw a swarm of hands crawling out of the bag like spiders from a nest.

"He couldn't get the rings out so he cut off their hands," said Badger watching the scene.

Lem and Martin flung their axes at another group of dead soldiers, severing their heads and then tried to lift Badger up and carry him up the hill, but the army of corpses gained up on them with each step they made, coming in groups of three or four soldiers. At every other step they had to lay Badger down and fight off the corpses and as they looked over the valley, more and more dead rose up from the field and marched towards the hill.

"We can't outrun them, and we can't fight all of them. They're going to wear us out and kill us, " said Lem.

"The town is not far." said Martin.

"It's too far from here." said Lem swinging at another soldier.

"The town is not far."

"I said it's too far, old man. We can't outrun them! Badger can't even stand on his feet."

"The town is not far, you fool. If we make it there, we're just going to draw them in. They're going to slaughter everybody."

Martin's heart was pounding, his legs felt weightless, his knuckles cracked gripping the axe handle, his eyes were popping out of their sockets as blood rushed to his head. He looked again at the valley. It wasn't fear overcoming him, it was something else. It was a feeling he missed in years of wandering. It was the thrill he sought at the end of every bottle, in the arms of every wench he bedded, in every brawl he started in dark alleys.

He spotted the torn blue banner flapping in the wind at the end of a half-fallen spear stuck in the muddy ground. He remembered following a banner like that, charging the enemy at its command. He remembered the blue banner, the red banner, the yellow stripped banner and so many other colors urging him to push forward, to slay, urging him to victory.

"Take the boy to town!" said Martin and releasing a thundering roar he charged again through the walking corpses, slashing his way to the blue banner.

"Martin, get back!" shouted Lem but the old man had already reached the flag. He threw his axe and raised the banner over his head. He felt the wooden spear light as a feather in his arms and began moving it left and right, waving the flag frantically.

"Re-group! Re-group, warriors!"

It was the same command he heard numerous times on the battlefield as a young man, the sound that made him and thousands other armed men rally.

With the flag on his shoulder he raced through the lines of the dead, as if he was one of their one pushing forward towards the rising moon, away from his living comrades.

One by one, the dead soldiers turned away from Lem and Badger and started marching slowly behind the old man shouting from the top of his lungs. They marched across the valley over their brothers' decapitated bodies, to the east, over the hills, following the blue banner and the cries of the old soldier.

"Rally here, men! Rally here!"

Lem slammed the tavern door to the wall with his foot. He carried Badger inside and let him collapse on a chair.

"Hey, you! I told you beggars to stay the fuck out!" Yelled Bran banging his fist on the counter.

"Did the scavengers return, heh?" laughed one of guards laying in his chair, across from the alderman.

"What? Did you lads had a fight over the loot and forgot to get back?"

The alderman showed no smile at the jokes thrown by his guards. Without lifting his eyes from the smoke pipe he was preparing, he added in a sour tone:

"It's morning. I told you boys to be back by evening. Did you fell asleep in the valley?"

Lem couldn't find the energy, mental or physical to give an answer. He left his axe drop loudly on the wooden floor.

The alderman lifted his eyes from the smoke pipe with an angry look on his face, prepared to reprimand this bad-mannered behavior but released a gasp of shock at the sight of the young man. Blood and mud covered him from head to toes, drying up in his hair and on his pale skin, hiding a body full of bruises and scratches. His already ragged clothes were now just reddish strips of fiber hanging around his body.

The alderman got up from his table, waving his guards to stand down. He walked to the young man and took another look at his condition. He saw the blood smeared axe on the floor, he saw Badger lying in his chair with his eyes starring in the distance, he saw the improvised bandage tied around his leg.

He untied his leather pouch and began running his fingers through it.

"We agreed on twelve copper coins, each, for four men. That's forty-eight coppers. I only see two men here but if the job is done, I don't care how you settle your accounts. However, I also see only two axes so I'm taking eight coppers back for the two missing. Here's forty coppers."

Lem spread both his hands to receive the small collection of coins. He looked down at the brown cold metal weighing heavy in his weary hands and holding the pile of coins carefully like it might spill between his fingers, he sat down next to Badger.

The alderman turned to Bran.

"Send your boy for the healer and get these lads some meat and ale. They've earned their share."
The Terrible Mahala

The heavy steel of the two-blade axe shot down from Hogar's hands on the ebony altar and crushed the Amulet of Mahala into four equal pieces. Hogar threw his weapon on the marble floor and turned around to look with defiance at the ghastly, murmuring strips of shadow haunting the temple. They were now scattering to dark corners, wailing after their fallen master. He watched as the golden light cast through the broken windows by the rising sun burned away the shadows completely.

Hogar filled his lungs with fresh morning air and declared:

"It's done!"

The terrible god Mahala, The Devourer of Worlds, was defeated and thrown back into oblivion. His amulet lied broken on the altar - the only bridge between his realm and the mortal world sealed by Hogar's battered axe.

Four silhouettes dressed in simple lavender colored robes entered and rushed to the middle of the hall, where the hero stood triumphantly. The tallest of the figures approached Hogar with his arms stretched.

"Quickly! We must hide the pieces. The Amulet of Mahala must never be put back again."

Hogar placed himself in front of the man dressed in robes, stopping him from reaching the altar. The man let his hood drop on his back, revealing a bald, wrinkled head with an offended expression carved on his face.

"What are you doing?"

"Not so fast, priest! Let's take some time and think this through!"

The priest turned around and looked at his companions, as if he was inquiring about the mental sanity of the man standing in front of him. His companions, lacking an answer, looked at each other with equal bafflement.

Hogar was staring down at the priest from at least three heads above him. Even by the standards of his fellow tribesmen, the barbaric Shuns, renowned for their custom of wrestling with bears on the feast of Lagart, Hogar was a huge, terrifying man. The priest leaned to the side, trying to catch a glimpse at the broken pieces of amulet cooling down on the altar just a few steps away.

"Are you mad? Step aside! There is no time for jests. We must perform this deed before the evil god regains his powers!"

"It will take some time until the evil god shows its ugly face again after the thrashing, I gave him. Until then, I want to know exactly what you are going to do with the amulet!"

"I am Vildigan, the archbishop of Theonulis. My brothers and I rode all night to find the cursed temple of the Devourer. We need to scatter the pieces of the amulet to the four corners of the world so that no man could find them and summon the terrible Mahala again."

The priest raised his arms to the sky as he enunciated in a deep voice the name "Ma-ha-la!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know how this goes. You guys go and do a half-assed job in hiding these trinkets, some crazy bastard finds them and summons the terrible 'Ma-ha-la' and then I need to do all the dirty work, AGAIN. Four corners of the world, my battle axe! This time you didn't even bothered to hide them at least a couple of villages apart from each other."

"No one from our monastery revealed the secret of the amulet. It was only by means of magic and deceit that the dark forces have managed to find the pieces."

"Means of magic. They were all hidden in well-known landmarks, only days walking from each other. Not to mention that each piece came with a note attached to it with a small riddle revealing where the next piece was."

"Just methods of ensuring that we still have a way of keeping track of the pieces, centuries from now. Of course, only scholars from our ranks could decipher the hidden meaning of the riddles."

"The treasure you seek, is not for the meek.

In the crypt you descend, and you'll find it at the end

Of an unknown tomb.

In the cemetery of Gleawood Village, marked with the name Lars von Rumb."

Vildigan looked back in disappointment at one of his companions who raised his hands in defense:

"I couldn't find anything rhyming with tomb."

"Fine, I admit, we might have hidden the pieces a little too much in plain sight this time," admitted Vildigan, rubbing his wide forehead. "Still, this is not the concern of a fellow such of yourself. "

"Well maybe next time the entire known world is in danger of being scorched to ashes by a ten-foot horned beast from another realm I might also find it as not being the concern of a fellow such of myself."

"I assure you the four pieces will be well hidden. I and my brothers will ride away to the four corners of the world as soon as you step aside so we can have the amulet."

Hogar hesitated for a moment, thinking if he should let the priests carry away the amulet, when he heard the sound of footsteps just outside of the hall. He raised his view to see a funny looking man joining them in the hall. He was short in stature, dressed in a red and green tunic and carrying what appeared to be a nicely lacquered lute.

"Who in the fires of hell might you be?"

Hogar bowed down and picked up his axe from the floor, preparing to split the man in two.

"Oh, I'm just Gibret the Honey-Tongue. I was hired by the brothers here to write a song... I'm a bard."

The man began playing a few notes from a rhythmic song on his instrument but almost dropped his lute, intimidated by the sight of Hogar's axe shimmering in the sun.

"We hired a bard to sing of your brave deeds!" said the bald priest proudly.

"And probably let everyone know that there is an amulet that can summon Mahala when you put its pieces together. Will the bard also like to compose a verse or two about the secret locations of the four pieces?"

"Well, I was paid for a hundred-verse song so we can include whichever parts of the story you like."

"How about none? How about we don't pay a bard to go from town to town and village to village and sing to everyone about how you can invoke the Devourer of Worlds? How about we just place the four pieces into four bags full of rocks and throw them in the middle of the ocean and forget all about this?"

"But that is scandalous. We have already commissioned architects to build four great temples where the pieces will be hidden," argued Vildigan, waving his hands.

"That's it."

Hogar walked back to the altar and grabbed the four pieces in his hand.

"What are you doing?" said the priest, grabbing desperately on his arm.

Hogar waved him away as he was fiddling with the small black crystal shapes.

"You deal with your own problems from now on!" Hogar barked furiously and threw the reassembled amulet back on the ebony altar.

A great roar shook the walls of the hall, making the priests fall on their knees in terror with their palms pressing against their ears. Hogar was calmly walking away from the hall, holding his axe on his shoulders. A red beam of light erupted from the amulet and pierced the ceiling. Black smoke was pouring down on the altar. From the burning red light, a shape began materializing–a horned head like that of a giant bull, a torso as wide as a castle gate and two arms thick as oak trunks stretching to the sky. The priests threw themselves to the floor whimpering, Hogar was already stepping out of the temple, and the bard gazed upon the terrifying image in complete stillness except for one of his fingers that was moving on the lacquered lute, playing a tune one would commonly hear at a funeral.

The creature gazed upon the sobbing creatures on the temple's floor. He spread his hand towards the altar, broke a piece of the amulet and hold it between his thumb and his index.

Another deafening noise shook the hall and the red light, the black smoke and the towering horned entity started being sucked back into the center of the broken amulet. Before disappearing again, Mahala flicked the piece from his hand through a broken window up into the blue sky.

A grating voice echoed through the hall and then faded into the small incomplete trinket on the altar:

"MAYBE NOW I CAN FINALLY GET SOME REST!!!"

