***
Light clouds scudded across a pale morning sky chasing the tails of the night beyond the gaze of a watery sun. Oumtuk was waking up. Tiny red crickets chirped among the soft grassy stems hoping to avoid the sharp-sighted pied flycatchers as they hopped from stem to stem. The aroma of fish roasting over the campfire stirred with the light dew creating a breakfast soup to whet the most delicate of palates. Icthus waited eagerly by the fire, shuffling impatiently from one foot to the other as he stood watching the fish's scales blister and darken.
"They are ready when you are."
Buurn stepped away from the fire as Icthus speared two fish from the magical flames with an arrow. Dashing over to Dekor he waved a fish under his nose, startling him. Dekor cried aloud as a piece of the hot fish flew onto his face. Try as he might he could not be angry with the diminutive amphibian as Icthus remained resolute, staring down at him, carefully juggling the hot fish in his webbed hands, resisting the urge to eat it.
"We will leave soon and make our way to the ford. Have you ever been here before Dekor?" Buurn stood by his side watching him as he ate his breakfast.
"No. I have hardly set foot outside of Mor, and even then it was for military service." Dekor stuffed the last of his fish breakfast into his mouth, stifling a belch. "Where did you get the fish? For which I am most grateful," he hastily added.
"There is a river a way off that flows over the edge of the cliffs into the Wetlands." Buurn waved a hand toward the east. "But we will be heading northward keeping close to the edge to avoid contact with the centaurs. There is nothing much for them along the cliff path, especially now that I am here."
"We can go now if you wish. We have nothing to carry." Dekor turned toward the campfire and holding out his hand he intoned, "Nofuma." Both the campfire and the ball of light zipped toward him, shrinking away to nothing as he caught them in his palm. "We are ready."
Icthus stood blinking, his head darting from the campsite to Dekor and back again.
"That is very old magic. Not seen this side of the Churning Seas. Where did you learn it?" Buurn enquired with a casual tone as she led them away to the north.
"Not warlock magic," Icthus agreed, prising Dekor's hand open mystified by the disappearance of the fire.
"My aunt, Endor, taught me before..." Dekor's thoughts trailed back to the day of his exile.
Buurn glanced back over her shoulder. Seeing his downcast face she slowed until they were walking side by side. Dekor looked up at Buurn with her long dark hair tied neatly behind her head hanging almost motionless. The darkling walked with a subtle step; her body did not sway with the rise and fall of feet as human female would. Her long, slender hands were held together in front of her, her fingertips tips touched together as if she were deep in prayer. Icthus scampered around ahead of them chasing butterflies, and snatching them out of the air with his long, sticky tongue.
"Your aunt was the witch?" Buurn spoke softly, giving voice to her thoughts.
"You caught her then?" Dekor sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly.
"She got away – vanished. Poor Regis was quite frightened by it all. I sensed much power in your aunt, Dekor, more than a great many in this land." Stopping, Buurn closed her eyes, drawing in the world around her. "A bultar lies in great pain. Come we must release it from its torment."
Taking two long strides she launched herself into the air. Spreading her arms to slow her fall, she drifted across the sea of whispering grass. The low, rattling breath of the bultar carried over the soft hissing of the grass, a desperate cry for mercy. Landing gently beside the animal Buurn placed her hands either side of its head, then pressing her forehead to the bultar's she looked deep into the mind of the animal.
Pushing his way through the thigh-deep grasses, Dekor ran after Buurn with Icthus close on his heels. The bultar lay on its side in the grass, its purpling flesh drying in the morning sun. Blood spattered the grass all around the huge beast. Even though it lay on its side, its breath slowing, it was still as tall as Dekor. Its pain-wracked eyes bulged from their sockets, its head a mass of bloodied sinews.
Dekor retched at the sight. "Who would do this?"
"Centaurs," Buurn hissed, "possibly the one that was with us last night. They have no respect for life and kill for pleasure."
Flies buzzed around the bultar's exposed eyes. Raising its head no more than an inch or two from the blood-soaked grass, the bultar lowed, a hollow, pitiful cry its head dropping back to the ground exhausted.
"You may not wish to see what I must do."
Leaning over the bultar's neck Buurn sank her teeth into the exposed flesh. Her own skin began to darken as she drew the remaining life from the bultar. Her hair shimmered from deep purple to black, even the leather wraps of her clothing darkened as the bultar breathed its last. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Buurn rose to her full height her body filling out, satiated by the bultar's blood. Buurn's body rippled with muscles, her hollowed cheeks formed elegant lines as did her neck and shoulders. Her waist was rounded. She clenched and unclenched her fingers, breathing rapidly and deeply.
Stepping back, his mouth agape, eyes wide, Dekor slipped on the spilled blood of the bultar and sprawled awkwardly over the dead animal. The soft carcass burst with a wet pop. Dekor flapped his arms floundering hopelessly on the sagging body. Icthus pointed at Dekor, laughing raucously.
Buurn restrained her mirth and offered Dekor her hand. He lay there staring at it. A moment ago the same hand was upon a living creature capable of carrying all three of them.
"I assure you Dekor, I have not come to harm you." Grasping his hand firmly Buurn lifted him to his feet.
"How can I know for sure that you are truly here to help?" Dekor would not meet Buurn's eye.
"I could have killed you many times."
"Even now." Icthus, poking the deflated carcass of the bultar with an arrow, glanced up at Dekor. "She can kill whatever, whenever, but chooses not to." He nodded, satisfied he had answered well enough. "If we hurry we can make the ford by the afternoon."
"Are you up for a run, master Dekor? I could carry you now that I am well fed," Buurn smiled ruefully.
"I can run," he said, holding out his hands in an open gesture.
"After you," Buurn chuckled to herself. Grabbing Icthus by the hand she swung him onto her back and ran with a long, gentle stride, scything through the tall grass. Dekor took one last look at the deflated bultar and ran after Buurn. The feathery purple ears of the yellow stemmed grass rubbed their pollen-laden heads gently across his bloody clothes, marking him like cattle passing through a crush. Buurn kept her pace easy, her step light, so Dekor would not lag behind. She was surprised by the young man's fitness as he ran in silence beside her. Icthus scanned the horizon through narrowed eyes, shutting out much of bright sun. How he longed to be in the embrace of cool shade or, better still, the cold embodiment of Everstill.
They ran on for the remainder of the morning and into the early afternoon until Dekor, with a great sigh, called for a rest.
"We are less than a quarter day from the ford of Everstill. Can you not continue?" Buurn said, holding on to Icthus' hands so he would not slide from her back and wander off.
"I need water at least."
Tilting his head back, Dekor raised his hand and summoned a tiny rain of ice crystals into his mouth.
Buurn watched him, fascinated by his fine control of the elements. "You did not learn your skills at the University. No mage I have ever seen can do what you do."
"I saw Vargor do many things, but he had not your control." Icthus peered over Buurn’s head staring in wide-eyed amazement.
"Icthus, do you need some?" He offered out his hand still raining its delicate ice shower. "We are still five leagues from the ford. Why don't we walk a while, we are in no rush?"
"That is true." Buurn let Icthus slip from her back. The little amphibian stretched out his arms, yawning heavily. "I think a walk might do you some goo
d Icthus."
Icthus blew out his cheeks, shaking himself awake. They turned north toward the direction of the ford and began the last part of their journey to the Thorn. Icthus walked over to the edge of the great cliffs and looked down at the vista below. He could make out the tiny forms of the trolls weaving their way through the dense thorns as though they did not exist.
Dekor, too, paused a while to take in the sun-baked scene.
"What is that?" he asked, pointing to an area covered with dark patches taller than any of the surrounding vegetation.
"That is the chief's village," Icthus sighed, turning once more in the direction of the ford. "They have good stews there." Muttering to himself, Icthus snagged another butterfly with his long, sticky tongue.
"That dark region in the distance must be Nitewold." Dekor waved loosely toward the west.
"And the glistening area to the north is the Mire where Icthus heralds from." Buurn closed her eyes for a brief moment. Opening them suddenly, she cried, "Away from the edge, quickly."
Yanking Dekor by the arm she sprang to the lip of the cliffs, staring down the sheer walls to the bright placid waters of Everstill River. There was a horrible, piercing, warbling screech rising up from the abyss.
Bright red wings rose up before them; cruel, curved spines sprang up along their top edges. Buurn cautiously backed away, spreading out her arms, her fingernails extending into claws.
"Darkling spawn," the winged creature cawed, beating its wings at Buurn. "You trespass on our lands."
"These are the ancestral lands of the anghoos, not your lands. We have rights of passage. It is you that trespasses here, harpy," Buurn replied in a cold, calm tone.
Three more harpies rose from the cliffs. Each of them had the lithe figure of a young woman, two human arms separate from their wings, each hand a raptors claw. They were covered in fine iridescent feathers sparkling in the sunlight. The feathers flowed over every curve of their bodies forming a perfectly fit tunic and skirt from where their thick, scaly legs emerged, ready to tear at their prey.
"These cliffs are ours. Anghoos and centaur do not trespass on our lands," the lead harpy squawked, her beady eyes sparkling as her sisters encircled the travelers. "You will die like the animals that you are, blood drinker."
The harpy swooped at Buurn who dodged the attack with ease. The harpy continued its attacking run. Folding her wings back she lashed out at Dekor with her wickedly curved claws. Icthus knocked an arrow into his bow and shot it straight into the throat of next harpy. She fell coughing to the ground where she yanked at the arrow, breaking off its barbed tip. Throwing the broken arrow to the ground she ran at Icthus who lowered his gaze, waiting for his moment. Springing forward into a run, Icthus pulled a quill from his back. Leaping at the harpy he drove the quill deep into her chest. Dark wings enveloped him as he fought to drive the makeshift stake into the harpy's heart. Over and over they rolled in a squawking bloody flurry of feathers. The deep red wings unfurled onto the dusty earth.
The first harpy closed in on Dekor. She raised her feet, a hawk about to snatch its prey from the Great Plains. Dekor's fingers sprang apart, the space between them filling with raging red flames. Leaning backward Dekor launched the fireball at the harpy with all his might, the flames forming into a fiery javelin. Feathers crackled, melting as the fire spread across the harpy's chest and right wing. She tumbled awkwardly at Dekor's feet. Dekor stood over the stricken creature blasting her with fists of fire until the harpy lay motionless at his feet.
The last two of the winged sisters swirled around Buurn, clawing at her thick leather wrappings in a desperate bid to get to her flesh. Blood ran down one harpy’s side where Buurn had slashed at her with her claws. Buurn leapt into the air, a hovering panther about to strike. The two harpies continued to swoop in and out, kicking and clawing at the darkling. Buurn closed her eyes, sensing her enemies. Their hearts beat frantically in their chests, their breath uneven and deep, their bodies wearying. One of them, the injured one, thinking the time had come for her to strike threw her wings back and thrust herself forward in a frenzied rush. Buurn flashed her face toward the harpy, meeting her head on and throwing herself full force into the creature. Stunned, the harpy flapped her wings and beat at the air with her fists in a desperate attempt to escape. For a brief moment, a solitary heartbeat of time, she was defenseless, exposed. Buurn struck again. Flattening her hand as a gladius she thrust it between the harpy's ribs. Her fingers, a coiling python around the pounding heart, snatched it from the harpy’s chest. Buurn let the dead harpy fall to the ground where it landed with a hollow thud.
The surviving harpy beat her wings frantically, lifting herself high above Oumtuk where she could survey the damage done to her sisters. Her elder sister lay face up, her flesh burned from her smoldering corpse. Another was being torn apart by a toad while the third lay dead at the feet of the darkling. The last of the sisters clenched her fists, her knuckles white with rage. Glancing from one enemy to another, crying out in fury at the toad disemboweling her sister, she hurled herself down at the darkling. Her anger boiled over at the one she held responsible for the death of her siblings. Icthus glanced up at the diving harpy, shrugged his shoulders and returned to the business of looting his kill.
Dekor raised a fist full of fire but held back from throwing it as he doubted he could strike the harpy hard enough to knock her off course or kill her outright. Then he looked at Buurn, standing there as though she was just admiring the vista beneath the afternoon sun. The harpy plummeted toward her in a high-pitched scream of molten fury. At the last instant, the harpy reared up to bring her talons to bear on Buurn, who remained unmoved. The harpy crashed into Buurn, raking its claws down her. Buurn rolled backward and, using the force of the impact, she grabbed hold of the harpy's outstretched hands, pulling the creature downward. Buurn caught the harpy in the groin with an upraised foot. Rolling the harpy over onto its back, she landed herself, kneeling upon the harpy's chest. Dekor heard the snapping of the harpy's arms as Buurn yanked them from their sockets. He watched, stunned, as Buurn swept one hand across the harpy's throat sending a spray of hot blood into the air as her other fist flashed in and out of the harpy's chest, ripping her heart to shreds.
"Icthus?" Dekor laughed at the sight of the tattlejack with his face buried deep in the abdomen of his kill.
Icthus looked up at Dekor. Shrugging his shoulders he kicked the carcass of the harpy. "No eggs." He stalked off to rifle through the other corpses.
"Why did they attack us?" Dekor stared at Buurn's two kills, unable to take his eyes from the gaping wounds in the chests.
"They are harpies. That is what they do. They will always attack strangers. Mercy is not found among them." Buurn lifted one of the dead harpies, went to the edge of the cliffs and threw it over. "They can do what they will with the bodies, but I will not let them make any claims upon the land. This is the ancestral land of the anghoos. Even the centaurs are sojourners here though they would have to be forced to admit it."
"Many people are not where they belong." Icthus tore open the scorched harpy. Squawking excitedly he held out a clutch of eggs in his hands.
"It looks as though it might be time to stop and eat." Dekor conjured a campfire around the burnt harpy. "I guess some of it is edible."
"Wings are good, taste like chicken; the rest is too human." Icthus sat himself down beside the fire, cracked open an egg and swallowed it raw from the shell. Blinking heavily, Icthus waved one hand in front of his face trying to waft the acrid smoke of the burning feathers from his face. Dekor lifted the harpy's wings, twisting them over to turn the meat to the fire while Buurn threw the last of the dead over the cliff. She watched it tumble against the rock wall as it fell.
Dekor dragged the roasted harpy from the fire and began to hack the cooked flesh from the wings while trying not to look at the creature's more human torso. The face had been charred beyond recognition; the beady eyes had burned away in the heat leaving the bl
ackened sockets staring blindly at the sky. As they turned the body over, the beak sloughed away taking most of the remaining flesh with it. Now that the harpy looked more human Dekor found that he had to quell rising nausea.
Buurn stood with her arms folded watching Dekor's increasing inner struggle. Stepping forward she took the knife from his hand and finished slicing the meat so that it looked more like a carved roast than a human. Silently Buurn dragged the carcass from the campsite and threw it over the cliff before returning to the fireside. Dekor, picking at his meal, looked at Buurn as she sat beside him. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she closed her eyes and drew upon the peace of Oumtuk. Dekor sighed deeply, feeling the peace flow through her hand and drive all anxiety from his soul. Buurn turned her attention inward probing Dekor's senses. Recoiling she stared at Dekor, her black pupilless eyes suddenly wide.
"Trouble?" Icthus smiled knowingly. "Boy is touched of the One."
Dekor remained silent, eyes firmly closed, slowly chewing the harpy meat.
"I was not expecting to find that," Buurn replied.
Moving onto her knees she rose and went to the other side of the fire where she sat watching Dekor feed himself until all the meat in his hands had been eaten.
"Should we remain here for the day or press on to the ford, as I would quite like to bathe." Dekor wrinkled his nose as he began picking dried viscera from his clothes.
Icthus leapt to his feet. "River is good for fishing." He was suddenly eager for the water.
"Do you never think of anything but your stomach?" Buurn chided Icthus as he scuttled along in the afternoon sun.
Small clouds scudded along the open sky, evaporating before they could cross the border into Meregith. Dekor looked down at the maze of Gamran Thorn where trolls roamed freely among the dark thorns. The susurrus grass shook its pollen-laden heads into the wind, creating a saffron haze over the plains of Oumtuk. League after league of long swaying grass rolled out across the vanishing horizon. Vast beasts could be seen in small herds ambling knee deep through the tall stems.
"Mammasaurs," Buurn said in answer to Dekor's unspoken question. "They roam the plains in spring searching for the tender buds in among the grasses. They are friendly, unless you are foolhardy enough to challenge one. Then you may find yourself at the wrath of the whole herd. They have no real enemies. The anghoos will only kill them if they are weak or sick so that the herd may prosper. But the centaurs will gather in numbers and kill them for sport. Perhaps their only true mortal foe is the dragon of the Iron Hills." To Dekor's surprise, Buurn spoke of the dragon with deep reverence.
"Such a beast is a dangerous foe," Icthus said over his shoulder, "but also a loyal ally."
"You speak as though you both know this dragon?" Dekor's question went unanswered upon the rising wind.
The afternoon was beginning to wane by the time they reached the ravine which cut across their path. Turning eastward they walked inland until they found the narrow opening, barely wide enough to fit them all, which led down to the ford. The narrow entrance quickly opened into a long widening funnel, running for half a league to Everstill River where it spread in a wide, rocky shore. Above, nested in the crags, harpies gazed hungrily upon them.
The grasses thinned beneath their feet giving way to the exposed gray stone that held Oumtuk upon its broad shoulders. Shallow rooted flowers clung desperately to pockets of soil holding it balled in their fibrous roots. Funneled by the walls of the ravine the wind tugged at their clothes and hair, tossing dust and grit into their eyes. Dekor pointed toward the northern corner of the ford where a young woman crouched by the water's edge idly swirling the waters with her hand. To the north the river frothed, foamed and broiled over and about the exposed rocks that jutted out of the water pointing accusing fingers at the gods above. To the south the water was still, not a ripple stirred its mirror finish.
"Stay away from the still water as there is a fearful enchantment upon it," Buurn warned, stepping into the cold water where it passed over boulders worn smooth by countless bare feet.
Crouching, she raised her hand signaling Dekor to wait on the shore. With her other hand, she enquired of the river. Dekor, turning on his heel, jumped back at the presence of a young woman who had appeared at his side. He stared into her deep, dark eyes that sparkled like the sun upon the dancing rapids. Her lips parted and issued a shrill cry. Her dark eyes turned mean and beady, her finger formed into wicked talons clawing feebly at the air. The delicate line of her mouth drew tighter and tighter until it jutted from her face reforming itself into a hooked beak. Suddenly she clasped at the purple spear that stuck out of her belly. She screamed again and again in shrill agony, stirring the stones of the cliffs. Bodies toppled from the cliff face, wings opened, their glittering plumes a dazzling treasure in the late sun. Harpies swooped down in answer to the dying cries of their mortally wounded sister.
As Icthus dragged the speared harpy into the river, her wings thrashed in the surging waters in a desperate attempt to escape and rise to safety. Icthus yanked the spear aside, breaking off the end and raking it across her back. This opened up a deep wound, severing her flight muscles and rendering her helpless. Blood poured from the harpy's wounds, turning the river red. Her screams were garbled by the rushing water tumbling her over and over and finally up against a huge boulder. Icthus leapt from the river to Dekor's side, staring up at the incoming horde. Grabbing Dekor's hand Icthus ran across the shallow waters of the ford onto the banks of Gamran Thorn where Buurn was waiting.
Long dark lines cut through the surface of the river heading toward the stranded harpy who, having turned her back to the torrent, was desperately trying to haul herself to safety. The spear in her stomach caught on the rock and tore her wound even wider open. With a fearful scream she vanished beneath the surface. One of her sisters landing on the rock thrust a hand beneath the surface, searching for her sister. She did not see the dark lines angling toward them. A thick coil of muscular flesh wrapped itself around the ailing harpy's body, squeezing the last remaining breath from her lungs. Hundreds of razor sharp teeth ripped into her flesh. The sister swept her hand frantically through the water catching only a loose handful of her sister’s hair. As she lifted her hand from the river a huge, cavernous mouth burst from the water and swallowed her arm up to her shoulder. She saw the jaw snap shut, felt the teeth grating on her bones. A moment later she too was gone.
"Quickly, away from the river." Buurn pushed Icthus and Dekor toward the narrow path through the thorns. More harpies swooped over the river, some landing in the ford, others on the shore in Oumtuk. Not one would set foot in Gamran Thorn.
"We are safe now," Icthus said coming to a sudden halt before two large blue feet.
Gamran – thorn and mire
Looking up at the cobalt blue face of the troll, Icthus' smile broadened until it consumed his entire face. The troll looked quizzically at him then, patting him lightly on the head, asked in a gruff guttural tone, "Passage to the Mire?"
Icthus, nodding enthusiastically, replied, "And friends." Stretching up to his full height Icthus came face to face with the leather skirt hanging loosely about the troll's muscular waist. The troll's deep-set emerald eyes peered out from beneath its heavy, furrowed, brow, making it look as though it was in deep concentration.
"Granted." The troll stepped aside. It bowed politely to Buurn, then stooped over Dekor to sniff his hair. The troll towered above him by almost two feet and was easily twice his girth. Around his neck, he wore a necklace of harpy feathers, beaks, and claws. "There is great magic in you."
Dekor stepping cautiously aside and bowed reverently to the troll.
"We are honored." Buurn ushered Icthus forward.
The troll smiled at them, revealing rows of sharp teeth set between short outwardly curving tusks. The troll scratched thoughtfully at his strong, squared chin, before resuming his duty. He turned his attention to the harpies across the river.
"Do not watch the troll," I
cthus chirped, picking berries from a crimson bush whose gnarly thorns could rival the claws of a falcon. Icthus tossed the berries into his mouth, patting his ever empty stomach with his hand. Dekor reached into the bush for some berries but snatching his hand back out as the thorns raked across his flesh.
"Do not fear the thorn." The troll reappeared dragging a dead harpy with one hand while grabbing a handful of the plentiful fruit with the other. "They strike that which fears them." Grinning, the troll strolled off with a long loping stride. The head of the harpy bobbled over the dark loam, its neck clearly broken.
Dekor watched Icthus snatching berries from the thorns as they walked along the pathways between the bushes. The soft soil beneath his feet was a welcome change from the hardened plains of Oumtuk. It had the feel of freshly raked soil and the aroma of a well-composted garden. Finally, plucking up courage, he swept his hand through the bush, this time grasping a handful of the red berries without receiving any injury.
"A strange land indeed," Dekor mused.
"Dekor." Buurn halted, a look of sadness upon her face. "I must leave you now. I have done all that was asked of me, and have seen you safely to the Thorn. Icthus will take you from here to Mire where you will be among his people."
"I understand, thank you. Without your help, I doubt we would have made it here. I am in your debt." Dekor, kicking at the dirt, drew a short breath. "Will you be reporting my whereabouts to the Mage Guild?"
"I have no allegiance to the people of Mor. I do not hold any judgment upon you. I was sent by Arrborn, to whom I shall now return." Placing one hand upon Dekor's shoulder, Buurn imparted to him a gift of peace. Smiling she turned south toward Everstill where the waters met with Delving Sands.
Icthus snatched up a handful of berries and offered them to Buurn who took them and ate one, shuddering as the sweetness prickled her tongue. Icthus sniggered, his shoulders rippling with mirth. Buurn patted him lightly on the head then departed.
Dekor watched Buurn as she leapt as gracefully as a gazelle over the thorn bushes, gliding gently back to earth until she became indistinguishable from the dark shadows of the Thorn.
"Lead the way Icthus."
Dekor nudged the little amphibian with his foot to draw his attention away from the berries. They wandered into the fading light of the day passing among the thorns with their different flowers and fruits as though the two of them had become a part of the land itself. Stars began to shine in the clear night sky and yet the travelers did not weary.
"Keep eating berries," Icthus said, tossing another handful of the sweet, fleshy fruits into his mouth. "They will keep you awake and well fed."
"That would explain why my mind has been so busy," Dekor said, flicking the berries into the air. Intending to catch them in his mouth, instead he caught the scent of something vile. "What is that smell?"
"Cistern. Troll mess." Icthus coughed at the cloying smell, blinking his eyes repeatedly.
"Can we hurry along?" Dekor, gagging at the rancid smell, pushed passed Icthus, keen to find some cleaner air. "That is the first sign of trolls that I have seen since the one that welcomed us," Dekor sighed releasing his breath, "or smelt, since we set foot in the land."
"We have passed many but you have just not seen them. You have been granted passage, not friendship. Me, they already know."
The moon rose into the ebony. Icthus and Dekor maintained a steady pace beneath the watchful eye of the night as it slipped silently across the twinkling blanket of the night. The sky began to purple as the sun streaked across Oumtuk and out over the Thorn, laying a hazy shadow over the land. The thorn flowers unfurled, turning their faces to the sun in worship of their life-giving god. Birds twittered and sang, hopping among the thorns in search of fleeting nocturnal treats. Buzzing insects rose with the sun to sip at the fresh nectar alongside the tiny humming birds flitting about on blurred wings. Scurrying lizards darted around their feet up among the thorn bushes where their chameleonic camouflage hid them from predators.
As the sun climbed higher, Dekor caught glimpses of young trolls, juveniles, chasing among the thorns. He would catch the soft thudding of their huge feet for a moment or two as they flashed across the path ahead, disappearing as suddenly as they had come. The afternoon came and went bringing a refreshing breeze from the north carrying upon it the soft peaty smell of marshes.
As they drew nearer the marshlands, Icthus grew noticeably more excited, continually flicking out his tongue to taste the air every few steps. The sharp thorns gave way to marsh grasses, rushes and thick stemmed reeds whose broken shafts whistled their hollow tune on the softly sighing wind. Dekor now understood why Icthus had been hiding out in the wetlands of Meregith. It was not the solitude he desired or the veil of secrecy the mists afforded; it was a home from home, with the exception of the lagartos, though there were plenty of other dangers in Gamran Mire.
Dekor sensed the presence of the tattlejacks, small gatherings of five or six. There were never too many living together in their stilted homes. Each family group lived together with the next a stone's throw away, just out of thinking range. Gamran Mire was many times larger than the wetlands, an entire country of marsh and grassland that ran the length of the Thorn along its northern border.
After nearly two days of heading generally north, the horizon began to fill with trees that looked like rows of cotton candy through the mist.
"The land of the Halflings," Icthus clucked, "but they give us no trouble, never have. Keep themselves to themselves. Best left that way."
They followed the border east until they came to a small island village of around a dozen or so huts, similar to the one Icthus had made for himself in the wetlands.
"Is this your home?" Dekor asked, hoping for a rest. Since their supplies of the red berries had run out, weariness was taking its toll on his legs.
"Yes, all family. Elders and leaders." He looked up at Dekor as he took hold of his hand. "Come." Dekor had grown fond Icthus; the little fellow's honesty was highly laudable. "Family," Icthus called. Slowly the members of Icthus' family emerged from their huts, some with infants clinging to them.
"Icthus?" A purple-skinned tattlejack plodded out of his hut squinting at them both through eyes framed with wrinkles. Dark blotches marked his skin, the stamps of old age. Jinpo, Icthus' father, straightened his back and gestured them to approach. "What have we here, a guest?" The old tattlejack held his hands out before him.
Icthus took Dekor's hand and dabbed it in his father's palms.
"Hmm, interesting."
"I..." Dekor began.
"No need," Jinpo replied, raising his palm to Dekor. "Much turmoil inside. Warlock it is, but also… interesting." He ushered them towards his hut.
"It has been a long journey, father." Icthus hugged the old tattlejack. "Found this one in the wetlands." He thumbed at Dekor as they all sat around a steaming cauldron of fish stew.
"It has been a long time since a warlock was among us," Jinpo smiled. "They usually try to kill us." The whole family laughed at the idea. "Magic not always hurt tattlejacks. Blades are better for that; you can always rely on a blade."
Dekor listened to the old tattlejack as he recounted the stories of prior warlocks, conjurers and mages who had tried to coerce them onto their side, but they would have none of it.
"But you are not like them. As yet undecided on your future, I think," Jinpo looked quizzically at Dekor.
"Yes, that would be about right," Dekor replied, taking a large spoonful of fish stew. The herbs and spices danced around on his tongue, swirling like fireflies in the moonlight, uniting briefly before dissolving into the night.
"Mages," Jinpo shook his head in dismay. "They think they are superior because they do magic. Have no time for people. Their days as kings are at an end."
ancestors
"You know the lore of our ancestors, Thunderborn. You know the penalty for denying them. Why struggle?" Great Tusk sneered, staring up into the eyes of Thunderborn. <
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The green wood crackled and spat on the fire behind Great Tusk, casting fleeting shadows over his features, though the malice in his eyes would shine in the deepest dark. Great Tusk turned his face aside. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he growled, "No god can save you from me."
Stars peered down upon the grassy plains where the bultars lowed softly. Crickets chirped their night song as they searched for a mate among the gently swaying stalks. Great Tusk drew a long, deep breath, then turning to face the gathered tribe he said, "Thunderborn, a once trusted elder, one of us, has brought a curse from the ancestors upon you all. He has put all our lives at risk from the scourging demon that is even now being held at bay by the spirits of our ancestors."
A sudden gust of wind stirred the flames swirling sparks and smoke into a writhing dance. Great Tusk gave a knowing smile; the spirits had spoken.
"He stands accused of heresy against the ancestors. Speaking brazenly of other gods, denying the rites of passage to his own son. Thus he has brought shame upon you all by bringing the knowledge of human gods amongst us." A hushed gasped swept through the tribe as Great Tusk whirled around to face Thunderborn, his robes raising whorls of dust into the fire. Sparks crackled and flared in the hungry flames. "See how the ancestors rage against this evil."
Great Tusk gestured to his henchmen to tighten the bonds holding Thunderborn captive. The heavy grass ropes drew across his arms, legs and waist, scraping the flesh from his body.
Thunderborn spat bloodied saliva at his feet, his swollen tongue slurring his speech. "Killing me will not absolve your crimes." Thunderborn's breath rattled through his chest. "Great Tusk. My son is my own." His brow furrowed as he concentrated his gaze on the shaman.
"Nobody will ever know. The story will die this night." Great Tusk snarled, his broad nose glistening in the light of the fire. For a moment, Great Tusk grasped the ends of his horns, his thick three-fingered hands folded around the gold capped tips. "A sacrifice for the people must be made of his blood. The tribe must be atoned for," Great Tusk bellowed, flinging his arms wide open.
"No!" Thunderborn struggled against the coarse ropes, his blood softening the stiff fibers.
"It is required of the lore of the ancestors. Blood must be spilt to keep the ravagers at bay."
Great Tusk stomped across the clearing snatching up a young male of four years. His mother fought to hold onto him but she was beaten to the ground by the staff of Great Tusk. "Your time will come,” he hissed vehemently kicking her across the jaw.
A deep, guttural cry raged across the campsite, torn from Thunderborn's throat as his son was dangled over the raging flames. Thunderborn yanked and pulled upon the ropes holding him fast. Another was quickly lashed around his neck to pull him tight against the tree.
"You have brought this disgrace upon your family, and this tribe," Great Tusk bellowed. "The ancestors will accept the peace offering." He thrust the boy into the flames. The child screamed as his clothes ignited. He screamed again and again as the hair covering his body burned to a crisp. The child beat at the flames, licking at his skin as the flesh sloughed from his body. "The fires have accepted the sacrifice. The ravagers have been stayed. The hands of the ancestors have saved us all from the disgrace this heretic has brought among us.”
Great Tusk slipped a hand inside his robes. Tugging a small pouch of stitched leaves from under his arm, he quickly cast them into the flames where Thunderborn's son lay dead. The pouch erupted into a cloud of green smoke momentarily snuffing out the flames. With a fiery blast the flames reignited consuming the remains of Thunderborn's child in their unquenchable hunger.
"The ancestors require more," Great Tusk declared. "Behold the spirits rise!"
The entire tribe threw itself face down in the dirt, throwing dust in the air over their heads to keep themselves from catching the gaze of the ancestral spirits, and groaning repeatedly to prevent the voices of the dead from entering their minds. Great Tusk began chanting and wailing, stomping around the tree where Thunderborn was tied. The tribe began bellowing and wailing as a soft breeze rippled across their backs. The air became thick with dust and ashes as the whole tribe was gripped by the terror of the ancestors; all except the mother of the dead child, Merrydew, who could see nothing through her tears.
"Heretic." Great Tusk waved his arms over Thunderborn as he spoke, sprinkling him with incense from a small censer strapped to the top of his staff. "Prepare for your departure from this world. No more shall you spread the poison of your heresy among the people of Rammar Bluff."
"Look up all of you. There is nothing to fear. It is just the wind stirring the ashes," Thunderborn hollered, but no one could hear him above Great Tusk's vociferous wailing; no-one would risk the displeasing the ancestors.
Merrydew stared across the raging pyre where her child's body lay burning, with its tiny, outstretched arms, to where her mate of many years stood pleading for the people to come to their senses. She, too, could see the fallacy of the ancestors; see beyond the smokescreen to what it was. It was because of this her son was burned alive and her husband would be cast out into the mountains. Tears streamed down her face, her thick set mouth quivering, her whole body wracked with sobs as she rocked gently on her knees pawing at the dust for answers. All this because Great Tusk would not be exposed for the fraud he was. It was not for heresy Thunderborn stood accused, there were other ways to dealt with such things, but because Merrydew had refused the advances of Great Tusk. When his lust could not be fulfilled in the manner to which he was accustomed, he would cover his tracks by using the ancient rights as a means of silencing his victims. Virgins could always be sacrificed, but mated women needed something more radical. Thunderborn's heresy was all the excuse Great Tusk needed to silence their whole clan and remove them from the annals of tribal history. Enough was enough. Great Tusk had concocted a plan to end it all.
"The ancestors have spoken," Great Tusk announced loudly, leaping to his feet in triumph. "Tie her, she is to be tried by fire." Among the ululations, the screams of Merrydew could barely be heard. Blood lust was reaching its peak. Great Tusk stood before Thunderborn, grinning maniacally as he pulled a pouch from his tunic and cast it into the fire. "Victory is mine," he said softly drawing close to Thunderborn.
"This is not the end, Great Tusk. Your secret will not die with us."
"It already has." Great Tusk smiled, turning to face the tribe. "Prepare the cow." Two bulls rushed forward, one carrying coils of rope, the other a branch as thick as a bull's thigh. "Bind her arms as tight as you can. All evil must be driven from this settlement." Great Tusk stood at Merrydew's feet, his face lit by the hungry flames of the fire, and leered down at her as he shoved his staff into the earth. Throwing his arms out wide he thrust out his broad chest. "We shall all be cleansed of the evil this family has wrought upon us."
Standing with his feet apart, hands on his hips, he gestured for Merrydew to be raised from the ground. "May the ancestors forgive us as we prepare the scapegoat." A young child was pushed through the gathered crowd trembling as he offered the axe to Great Tusk. Taking it, Great Tusk waved the child aside. Raising the twin bladed axe above his head he swung it down toward Merrydew. Her head dipped as the blunted axe collided with her horn, hacking it off with a heavy crack. Great Tusk reveled in Merrydew's screams, swinging the axe over and down again snapping her other horn halfway along its length.
Merrydew hollered defiantly at Great Tusk, "I refused you before and do so now." She spat. Gathering up the severed horns, Great Tusk thrust them into Merrydew's stomach.
"Cleanse her." Great Tusk pushed a finger into Merrydew's wounds then held it up for all to see. The Grasping Merrydew by her arms the two guards bound her to the beam and dragged her over to the fire. Lowering her slowly into the flames the guards dragged her, screaming, through the pyre. Great Tusk pulled another pouch from his robes which he tossed into the flames. Hoisting Merrydew from the ground the two bulls turned her face down and retraced their
steps; this time Merrydew made no sound. The small pouch in the fire erupted into a ball of flames and dancing sparks. "Let the ancestors be appeased."
Merrydew's smoldering body was hauled up before Thunderborn. "See what your heresy has done. A thing of such beauty," Great Tusk mocked, wiping Merrydew's blood across Thunderborn's brow.
"Your lust is the cause of her death, not my belief. Merrydew spurned you. Even though, she was my mate, you still tried to force yourself upon her." Thunderborn glowered. "If my hands were free I would expose you for the fraud that you are." Grinding his molars, Thunderborn erupted, his cheeks flushed with rage. "Where is White Mane? How is it that he is sick whenever you have a cow to cleanse? What poison have you fed him this time, Great Tusk?" Thunderborn wanted nothing more than to embrace his mate but he could not free his hands, no matter how much he twisted and turned his wrists. Despite the pain in his chest, he fought out his words. Looking into the fire-seared flesh of his mate, he whispered, "I will always love you." Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, his breath coming slow and heavy gulps. "Know that I am sorry for all this. I never meant to cause any hurt, my love."
"Touching," Great Tusk cut Thunderborn's bonds. The mighty anghoos caught Merrydew as the guards cut the smoldering ropes. Reaching one hand around her head to clasp her snout firmly, Thunderborn twisted her head sharply aside. Gently lowering her to the ground he closed her eyes then pulled the horns from her belly and tossed them into the fire. Mercifully she would suffer no more.
With his remaining strength Thunderborn rose to his feet. Lifting the body of Merrydew in his arms, he strode over to the fire and placed her among the flames with their son.
"You will never defile her, Great Tusk, never." Thunderborn watched the fire consume all he cared for in this world. "I have passed the rite of heresy, therefore, by the lore of the ancestors, I choose the way of the mountains and the spirits of those who have gone before me." He spat a mouthful of bloody saliva at Great Tusk's feet. "You have won nothing." Thunderborn turned to leave, pressing a hand over the wounds in his chest.
"Thunderborn, a moment." Great Tusk slipped a blade from his robes as he approached, "The ancients have forgiven you," he declared, embracing Thunderborn. "But here's a parting gift from me." He brought the small blade up toward Thunderborn's belly.
"Not this time.” Thunderborn reached for the veiled blade. “I expected you to try something underhand, Great Tusk.” The knife cut deep into his palm as he wrenched it from Great Tusk's grasp. "Thanks for the gift."
Thunderborn, bowing his head low, walked slowly through the silent assembly unmolested as he took his path into the wild mountains. With the dark of the night closing around him, enveloping him in a veil of secrecy, Thunderborn bade a silent farewell to his home and to his people. No one ever came back from the mountains, ever.
Great Tusk stood by the burning embers watching the body of Merrydew burn, the whole object of his lust now nothing more than a heap of charred flesh and ash. There would be no celebration in the camp tonight, no victory had been won. Only White Mane remained, nested in the shadows watching Great Tusk poke at the burning bodies with his staff. The chief slipped silently away into the night; this would wait for another day, another time. What had come to pass he knew now to be wrong. The tribe had lost a valued elder and a loving family who had, it seemed, found peace. Alas it was not so.
a leap of faith
"Father," Dorn implored, tugging on the innkeeper's sleeve, "look at me."
It was something Eliazer did not want to do. It was not through a lack of love for his own child that he chose to look away, but because of it. Recent events had shattered Eliazer's world; this would tear it apart. His inn was once the place where everyone came to meet and mull over the day, but not anymore, not since the warlock had come and brought shame upon his household.
"Father," she tugged again.
Eliazer took the last plate from the pile and began to wash it, slowly, silently scraping away at the dried-on stew. He lifted the plate from the water and, without looking at it, stood it in the drainer, grease spots defiantly repelling the water. He closed his eyes wishing the months could be taken back. He did not hear Martha enter the room.
"Are you going to answer your child?" Martha stood holding Dorn by her shoulders. "We are waiting."
Throwing the cloth into the battered tin sink with a hollow thump, Eliazer turned around slowly, fighting the pain in his heart. His eyes red with tears, lips trembling, Eliazer fell to his knees, falling heavily upon Dorn's shoulder he sobbed bitterly. "It's not right. It's not right," he repeated over and over, nuzzling his face against Dorn's cheek.
A crowd had gathered outside the inn.
"Eliazer," a gruff voice called out, "Eliazer."
The door to the inn swung open. Eliazer stood with his head bowed, wiping the tears from his eyes with one hand while holding Dorn close with the other. All eyes were upon the child, and her swollen belly.
"Why must it be so? She did nothing wrong." Trembling, Eliazer stepped in front of Dorn.
"You can't let them do it, Eliazer!" Martha pleaded.
"Father, what do they want?" Dorn looked up at Eliazer, tears running freely from his face to hers.
"After all the years of trying for a child, burying the stillborn, this one is to be taken from us. What is her crime?" Eliazer demanded, in one last attempt to avert the inevitable.
"We cannot allow the seed of evil to grow amongst us," replied Judge Bilhorn, his ragged, weather-beaten face flushing with anger. Thrusting out his hand, he snapped, "The child," his mouth drawn to a thin line.
"There has to be another way. It's not a dog yer putting out of its misery." Martha stepped forward batting the outstretched hand aside.
"Mummy, I'm scared." Dorn pressed herself against her father seeking shelter in his strong arms.
"The child, Eliazer. We do not want to shed any blood today." Judge Bilhorn brushed Martha aside with his sword and pulled Dorn away from her father, raising his blade between them. "You know the law of Bethraim. Now choose."
Throwing three large rings on the ground between them, one gold, one silver, and the third bronze, he shoved Dorn toward them.
"I cannot do this, Judge," Eliazer stammered, unable to take his eyes from his terrified daughter. "She is still a child, not yet thirteen."
"She is woman enough to carry the seed of a warlock," Judge Bilhorn growled. "Now choose."
"Daddy!" Searching her father's eyes for hope, she saw nothing but regret.
Behind a tree, out of sight, stood a figure in a dark robe. "Jump child, jump, do the choosing," the dwarf willed the child to act.
"I love you, Daddy." Leaping forward into the bronze ring. Dorn vanished, leaving behind the fading image of a rocky cliff before it shimmered and collapsed.
"Baby!" Martha threw herself at the ring, but it was too late, the magic had gone.
Behind the tree the figure smiled knowingly, jumped onto its Talloran ram and disappeared.
unto us
A shimmering eye opened for the briefest of moments and from it stepped a frightened child clutching her cloak against the chill wind of the Black Iron Hills.
Griklag Rockthaw rose from his seat by the campfire without a word to his companions. Picking up his axe he headed toward the mountains. For a dwarf, he was still a youngster and swift on his feet. His armor was made from the finest dark iron plate which he had crafted in the fires of the Great Cauldron, a volcano said to be the belly of The Sleeper. On his back, he carried the shield of honor, not something awarded lightly. Around his waist were various knives and hatchets together with a dwarven short sword. His favorite weapon was his axe, a well-balanced piece of craftsmanship which he always kept close at hand.
Griklag was a man of honor who had been entrusted by a friend and relative to watch the mountain for the portal to open. This would be the sign of the prophecy's fulfillment, and so he did. Griklag had lived at the foot of the Black Iron Mount
ains between the pathway to the Walk of Faith and the edge of Learmont Forest for more years than he cared to count, and though his comrades had come and gone he had remained true and faithful. This day for sure, the sign had been given. Griklag had much to do.
High up on the face of the mountains was a cleft in the rock; not a large rent, but a small niche offering protection from the howling winds which scourged the mountains of life, but still below the snow line. This was a path he had walked a thousand times to tend to the tiny cave, ensuring no wild animal had made its home there. As soon as he set foot on the mountain path he knew this was the day. Pulling the straps of his knapsack tight over his shoulders he tugged his hat down over his ears and began the climb one last time. He knew others were being brought together to protect the child of the prophecy. It would take him several hours to reach the cleft but he would not rest until he was within its shelter.