Simon's Apprentice
Author: Leora Morris Trevor
Date: 2023-01-27 00:00:00+00:00
Description: In these challenging times we are facing now, it is important we teach our younger people good moral principles, honesty, and love for their fellow beings. Simon's Apprentice attempts to do just that.
Publisher: Covenant Books

The Jharro Grove Saga: Part Three

The Ogre Apprentice

A Bowl of Souls Novel

By Trevor H. Cooley

Trevor H. Cooley

Copyright 2015 by Trevor H. Cooley

Cover art © Renu Sharma | www.thedarkrayne.com

Map by: Michael Patty on www.trevorhcooley.com

The Bowl of Souls Series:

The Moonrat Saga

Book One: EYE of the MOONRAT

Book 1.5:  HILT’S PRIDE

Book Two: MESSENGER of the DARK PROPHET

Book Three: HUNT of the BANDHAM

Book Four: THE WAR of STARDEON

Book Five: MOTHER of the MOONRAT

The Jharro Grove Saga

Book One:  TARAH WOODBLADE

Book Two: PROTECTOR of the GROVE

Book Three: THE OGRE APPRENTICE

Book Four: Upcoming 2015

Dedication

To my Grandma Seay. You were the one who taught me to sing. One of the greatest thrills of my writing career was to hear that you had been reading my books. I miss you.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Prologue

The demon army spread out over the wide valley that emptied into the desert plains of Alberri. It was a thousand strong and split into two distinct sections. To the east were camped the imps, enemies of the gnomes, their odd spiky tents set in neat rows. To the west were the kobalds, enemies of the dwarves. Instead of tents, the squat lizard-like creatures raised up mounds of earth to sleep in, each kobald with their own personal cave.

Tarah had stood and watched for nearly an hour as the camps were set up just south of Scholar Aloysius’ tents. A stiff cold wind whipped her hair about and chilled her face, causing her nose to drip as she watched the army with trepidation. She had left the rest of her party at their camp atop the mesa to tend their wounds and had come back down intending to watch the gnome scholar and his dwarf cronies get slaughtered. For some reason she didn’t understand, the demons hadn’t attacked.

Blayne and the rest of the dwarf smugglers had gathered their things and slinked away on foot, all of their horses having been killed during Cletus’ rampage the night before. The kobalds watched them go, not trying to give chase. While Tarah had looked on in amazement, Aloysius had stood there calmly talking with some woman while his stewards received members of the army. The white-robed humans had even served the demons tea while they waited for him.

To make matters worse, Tarah saw that the steward taking charge of the situation was none other than Shade. Tarah had known that her blow hadn’t killed the man. She had held back just enough so that it wasn’t fatal. But he should have been gravely wounded. It seemed unfair that, after all he had done, Shade walked around as if nothing had happened, sparkly clean. Not even bloodied. Tarah had arrived at her perch on the slope just in time to see the odd woman revive him.

Tarah shifted her gaze back to the woman. The woman was acting strangely as she spoke to Scholar Aloysius. She wagged her hips in a parody of suggestiveness and often reached out to touch the gnome. With the awkward way the woman swayed as she moved, Tarah wondered if her legs were crippled in some way.

Who was she? Tarah hadn’t noticed her in the camp the night before. The woman had curly black hair with a single blond lock. She wore a robe in the style of Aloysius’ other stewards, but her robe was a brilliant green and the sash that hung across her ample chest was golden. Had the woman come with the army somehow? That would be strange because, though it was hard to be certain from this distance, she looked to be human.

Tarah’s papa chose that moment to speak up in her mind, The closer a scout can get to the enemy unseen, the better his advantage.

He was right. There was only so much she could learn looking down on the scene from the slope. If she really wanted to learn what was going on, she needed to get in there. And she could do it. Tarah could walk right up to Scholar Aloysius and he would never see her coming. At least she was pretty sure she could.

Tarah’s hands tightened on her staff and her eyes moved down to look at the weapon. Her staff was different from the way it used to be. It had the same weight to it and it was the same length. All of the runes were even in the same places, but the wood wasn’t blood red anymore. It had turned a plain gray. It also pulsed in her fingers as if it were alive which, she supposed in a way, it was now that it housed the soul of a rogue horse.

The weapon that had been carved so many hundreds of years ago by imp craftsmen had finally fulfilled its purpose. Scholar Aloysius had killed Esmine, but Tarah had thwarted him, pulling the rogue horse’s soul from his grasp. Esmine was bound to her staff now.

The rogue horse had brought her own powers into the weapon with her. Tarah didn’t understand how they worked, but Esmine had been able to turn Tarah and the rest of her friends invisible so that they could escape from the gnome’s camp. The staff was still hiding them. Tarah was standing out in the open and, though to her own eyes she was completely visible, the demon army’s scouts hadn’t spotted her. And though her friends were huddled just out of sight on the mesa above, she could feel that Esmine’s magic was concealing them too.

So why was she so hesitant to walk into the camp? Her papa’s memories continued to prod her forward, but she wasn’t moving. Was it fear? Wasn’t she past that?

A good tracker knows fear real well, reminded her papa’s voice. And that’s good. Because fear’s your enemy. You’ve got to tackle that fear, Tarah. You’ve got to beat it into submission.

Hold on, now, Grampa Rolf’s memories argued. Tarah Woodblade ain’t afraid of nothing, but she ain’t reckless neither. You have a tendency to do too much. That was your papa’s problem too, always getting in too close and making trouble. You know your nose wouldn’t be crooked if not for him. Use your brains, girl!

Tarah frowned. Rolf had a point. Heading into the enemy camp was risky. There was too much she didn’t understand about the extent of the staff’s powers. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more questions came into her mind.

From the way Aloysius had coveted the soul of the rogue horse she knew the staff was powerful, but did the powers have a time limit? Esmine had been keeping her hidden for a long while now, after all. And what about smell? Imps had sensitive noses and Tarah had been on the road for weeks without a chance to bathe. Could Esmine protect her from that?  Her frown deepened as a more important thought crossed her mind. What about the staff’s range?

She reached out to the staff with her thoughts and asked, Esmine, if I walked down into the enemy camp, could you still hide my friends?

Friends? Esmine asked, sounding confused.

Now that Tarah thought about it, the rogue horse had been alone all her life. Perhaps she wasn’t aware of the concept of friends. Unfortunately, Tarah didn’t have the time to teach her what that meant. The others I asked you to hide, Tarah explained. The people that were with me when I tried to save you.

Oh . . . Maybe, Esmine replied. The rogue horse’s spirit sounded warm and feminine in Tarah’s mind, eager to please, though she wasn’t helpful. Don’t know.

“Hello, Pretty Tarah,” said a loud voice from behind her suddenly.

Startled, Tarah jumped and whirled to face the speaker, leading with her staff. She recognized who it was just in time to hold back from striking him. The tip of the staff halted inches from his head.

“Shh!” she said, placing a finger to her lips.

“You look fuzzy,” Cletus said, cocking his head in confusion as he peered up at her. The gnome’s tall and lanky frame was crouched to make him as small as possible among the scrub brush. He would have been invisible to the enemy anyway but he didn’t seem to understand that. “Also your nose is funny.”

“Quiet!” she whispered, ignoring his commentary on her nose for the moment. “There is a whole blasted army below. Do you want them to hear you?”

She knew that the gnome could be as stealthy as he wanted to be. After all, he had snuck up behind her without her knowing. At the same time, he was notorious for making unnecessarily loud movements when he became distracted. His antics had gotten them discovered once before.

“They can’t hear me,” the gnome said. “The wind is too loud.”

Tarah pursed her lips. What he said was true. The wind whipping across the slope would suck the sound away. They could practically yell without fear of discovery. “Still, I told you to wait back with the others.”

“I was bored. And the others are mad. They’re arguing,” Cletus complained with a frown. “And I don’t like it.”

“Is Helmet Jan awake, then?” she asked hopefully. Helmet Jan was the rowdiest member of the party and the most quick to anger, but she had been shot with a paralyzing crossbow bolt the night before and still hadn’t woken by the time Tarah had left.

“No. She is real bad sick and Pretty Djeri worries,” the gnome warrior replied, his face growing tight with concern. Despite the fact that he was the deadliest fighter Tarah had ever seen, the gnome sure was a sensitive sort.

“What is everyone arguing about?” Tarah asked, though she was pretty sure she knew the answer. They didn’t have as good of a vantage point as she did, but Swen and Benjo had keen eyes. Surely they had seen that the demon army hadn’t killed the gnome and his retinue. If she had to be truthful to herself, she would have admitted that one of the reasons she had stayed down here so long was to avoid the discussion that would come.

Cletus winced at her as if she were emitting a glare. He reached out and poked her. “Do you have to be so fuzzy? It’s hard to talk to you when you’re fuzzy.”

She smacked his hand away, in no mood for his eccentricity. “What are they arguing about?”

“They want to go somewhere, but they can’t decide where,” he replied. “And you been gone a long time. And also they can’t see you. Only Pretty Djeri and me can and I can only see you all fuzzy.”

“They can’t see me . . ?” Tarah blinked. “What do you mean, I’m ‘fuzzy’, Cletus?”

“Like you’re almost see-through,” Cletus said, squinting again. He rubbed at his eyes. “It hurts to look at you.”

Tarah figured it must have been Esmine’s work, but how? It seemed terribly complicated to be able to keep all of them invisible to the enemy and yet keep Tarah hidden from the rest of them at the same time. Also why could Djeri and Cletus see her when the others couldn’t?

She shook her head. Evidently there was a lot she needed to learn about the powers of her staff. Esmine, are you doing this?

I hide you, the rogue horse’s spirit replied.

That’s good, but you don’t need to hide me from my friends, Tarah said. Just everyone else.

Esmine thought for a moment, then finally replied, Okay.

Tarah hoped the rogue horse understood. She eyed the gnome. “Can you see me better now, Cletus?”

Cletus smiled and nodded. “Your nose is still funny, though. What happened to your nose?”

Her hands clenched into fists, but she forced out one of her standard responses to that question. “I bent it myself so that I wouldn’t look too pretty.”

“I don’t like it,” the gnome grumbled.

“Look, just shut up about my nose,” she warned.

His smile slid. “Sorry.”

Tarah sighed. The gnome was so straight forward and open that it was hard to stay mad at him. It was like holding a grudge against a two-year-old. “I guess we should go back up to the camp then.”

“Okay!” Cletus said, smiling again. “Come on!” The gnome started picking his way up the slope towards the camp. The lanky warrior moved quickly from bush to bush along the way, his darting form a blur.

Tarah began to follow after him, but glanced back towards the encampment just in time to note that Aloysius was no longer speaking to that strange woman. The gnome scholar had rejoined Shade and was speaking with the representatives from the demon army. She watched as the scholar shook the hand of an imp wearing garishly decorated spiky armor. They looked awfully friendly.

Tarah chewed her lip as she scanned the camp to see where Aloysius’ woman had gone. Tarah finally caught a glimpse of green robes flapping in the breeze at the edge of the tents. She watched as the woman headed purposefully to the southeast, her awkward strides carrying her away from the demon army. Where was she going?

“Come on, Pretty Tarah!” Cletus called from up ahead.

Tarah shushed him again and looked to make sure that no one among the army below had reacted to his yell. Luckily there was no visible response. Grumbling, she continued up the slope after the gnome warrior.

Tarah wasn’t sure what it was, but something about that strange woman nagged at her. She had a sudden urge to track the woman down and question her. Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time. She took note of the strange woman’s departing direction and looked to the top of the mesa. First, she needed to deal with her friends.

Tarah felt a twinge of apprehension as she neared the top. This was the first time in her life that she’d had a group of people around her that she had considered friends. Now she feared that she was about to lose them. After all, what reason did they have to stay together now that Esmine was dead? She crested the slope to find Djeri and Swen waiting for her.

Djeri’s cloak and surcoat had been destroyed in the battle the night before. No longer hidden, the dwarf’s polished armor gleamed brightly in the sunlight. He stood there gleaming like a shining beacon. He stood just far enough back from the mesa’s edge that his mirror-like armor wouldn’t alert the army below. Though Esmine’s magic should have been keeping him hidden, it was a wise precaution. Tarah had no idea if the rogue horse was able to hide the reflections from his armor.

As she approached, Djeri removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. He was handsome and quite un-dwarf-like with his closely trimmed beard and his green eyes. He gave her a slight smile, but his gaze was reproachful as he said, “It took you long enough, Tarah.”

“I was getting a closer look,” she replied.

“Is that all?” His eyes bored into hers and Tarah got the distinct impression that he knew exactly what she was thinking. They called him Djeri the Looker for a reason. He had a knack for observing things about people. “Well everyone here has been . . . restless while you were gone.”

“Cletus told me that you were arguing because you couldn’t see me,” she said. “But I talked to Esmine about it. That shouldn’t happen again.”

“Your invisibility isn’t what we were worried about,” Swen replied in his standard monotone. Tarah tried to determine his meaning, but the tall archer stood with arms folded, his stiff face expressionless. His right arm was bandaged where Shade’s knife had pierced him the night before. For Tarah, it was another reminder of her failure the night before. His eyebrows raised slightly as he focused in on her face. “What happened to your nose?”

“What are you talking about?” Tarah reached up to her face. Had she been wounded in the night and not noticed it or something? But her fingers touched unbroken skin. It was the same bent nose as always.

“I don’t see anything wrong,” Djeri said. He reached out and grasped her hand, his gauntlet icy cold to the touch. “Come on. Everyone wants to talk to you.”

The rest of the party was gathered together behind a rock outcropping that partially blocked the wind. They had wrapped Helmet Jan in blankets and pressed her unconscious form closest to the rock, doing their best to keep her warm. They couldn’t start a fire because any smoke could alert the army to their presence. Instead, Willum’s axe was lying on the ground next to her emitting a steady pulse of heat. Evidently Theodore still had plenty of energy remaining from the blood magic he had absorbed during the fight.

Cletus was talking to everyone animatedly, but they all had their bleary eyes fixed on Tarah. She suppressed a wince. Jan was the only major injury, but several of the others huddled around the heat of the axe had wounds of their own. Dinnis had received several shallow cuts during the battle and Benjo had a deep gash over his eye that had been hastily bandaged.

“There you are, Tarah,” Willum said, standing and facing her. Then his eyes fixed on her face and a look of confusion passed over him.

“Sorry. I was watching the army,” she replied. Tarah Woodblade never apologizes, Grampa Rolf said, but she shoved his memory to the side. Why was Willum looking at her like that?

“And you found time to fix your nose while you were at it?” Dinnis said incredulously. Djeri frowned at him and the man added, “What? Did it happen earlier and I just didn’t see it?”

“Why does everyone keep making remarks about my nose?” Tarah growled.

“It looks different,” Benjo said. “It changes your face a lot, actually.”

“It looks funny,” Cletus agreed.

“No it doesn’t,” Djeri said. He stared at her face in confusion. “She looks the same as always.”

Tarah reached up and felt her bent nose again. Nothing was different. She tightened her grip on her staff as understanding flooded her. Esmine, are you changing my appearance?

You don’t like that part of your face, Esmine explained. You don’t wish others to see the way it is.

So the rogue horse’s powers went beyond just making things invisible. Tarah wondered what else she could do. Well, from now on, don’t change my appearance unless I ask you to, alright? I don’t need to hide anything from my friends.

Okay, Esmine said with a mental shrug. Tarah didn’t feel any change, but there was a visible reaction from everyone present.

“It’s back to normal,” Benjo said. “How’d you do that?”

“It was Esmine,” she replied gesturing with her staff. “For some reason she decided to change how everyone saw my face.”

“Oh,” Dennis said and everyone looked mollified by her explanation. Tarah found it strange how easily everyone accepted the concept when she was still trying to wrap her own mind around it. Evidently they all had much more experience working around magic than she had.

She changed the subject. “So I understand you’ve been arguing about something?”

“I would couch it more as a minor disagreement,” Djeri replied.

“Uh huh,” she said. “Then I assume you saw that the army is meeting with Aloysius.”

Benjo grunted. “I thought it was something like that when the demons let the smugglers get away.”

“Well you were right,” Tarah said, folding her arms. “They’re drinking tea with him and chatting like best friends right now.”

“Theodore says this is unprecedented,” Willum said with wide eyes. “Imp armies this large were rare even in his days and it only ever happened to quash a group of gnome warriors that were getting out of control.”

“Unprecedented or not, it’s happening,” said Djeri. “The thing we’ve been debating all morning is, what do we do about it?”

“I still say all we can do is inform the Alberri government,” Swen said.

“Ain’t good enough,” Tarah said, shaking her head.

Dinnis snorted. “What do you expect us to do?” The academy graduate was sitting next to Jan with a dour expression on his face, polishing Meredith. He had gotten grumpier and grumpier ever since receiving the sword from Tolivar.

“We go after Aloysius,” Tarah said and after noticing the incredulous expression on Dinnis’ face, added, “Hey, I hired the academy to get a job done-!”

“And the job is done,” Dinnis replied, frustration etched into his face. “We chased Shade and his dwarves down. We tried to save the rogue horse, but she died. I’m sorry, but it’s over.”

Tarah’s fist’s clenched. “No it isn’t!”

“Listen, Tarah!” Djeri said, grabbing her arm. “Dinnis is right. The contract as we wrote it up is fulfilled. The academy’s job is done here.”

Djeri’s words struck Tarah like an arrow. She had feared something like this would happen, but she hadn’t expected Djeri to be against her. She tore her arm free from his grasp. “What? You expect me to give up and go home? After what we know now?”

Cletus clamped his hand over his ears, his face twisted in anguish. “Please, no arguing!”

“No, Tarah,” Djeri said, raising his hands defensively and giving Cletus an apologetic glance. He lowered his voice. “That’s not what I’m saying. But we can’t just go after the scholar. We’re official academy representatives.”

“And?” she asked, hands on hips.

“If this was happening at home, yes, the academy would be getting involved. But outside of Dremaldria the academy isn’t a police force. In Razbeck and Alberri we’re just . . . benevolent mercenaries. It is our policy to stay out of other country’s politics unless they pay us to help. Even then, we don’t have enough manpower to go fighting armies. We do small things. We train. We advise. We send in small strike forces from time-to-time.”

Tarah swallowed. “Then I’m on my own, again. That’s what you’re saying.”

“No, you’re not,” said Willum, shooting a frown at Dinnis and Swen who both looked like they agreed with her statement. “We’re with you, Tarah. It’s just that, as academy soldiers, we have to go about things a bit different. Right, Djeri? You said you had a plan.”

She gave Djeri a hopeful look and the dwarf sighed. “Turds, woman. You know I’m not going to abandon you. None of us are. The point I was trying to make is that we can’t go after Aloysius just yet. Not unless we can get a mandate from the academy. And that isn’t going to be easy.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Swen asked, his expression unyielding.

“Obviously, our first priority is Helmet Jan. We need to get her to a healer and quick,” Djeri said. “So we head to Alberri’s Mage School. It’s about two day’s ride from here. We can get her healed up and while we’re there, we can use their pigeons to send messages to Alberri’s king and the Gnome Council telling them what Scholar Aloysius is up to.”

“Ooh!” said Cletus smiling. “The Mage School! I like that place! They have lots of flowers!”

“Good,” Dinnis said with an agreeing nod. “Like I’ve been saying. It’s Alberri’s job to keep their people in check. Let them deal with it.”

“But,” added Djeri, holding up a finger. “We also contact the academy and tell them that Tarah Woodblade wants to hire us for a secondary mission.” He glanced at Tarah. “That is, if you’re willing.”

“Of course I am,” Tarah said. Her grampa voiced stern objections and she pursed her lips. “But my funds were seriously depleted with our first contract. I don’t know how I can come up with enough money.”

Djeri placed his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t expect you to foot the whole bill. I happen to have some money saved of my own. It’ll be close, but we might have just enough.”

“I guess I could pitch in, too,” Swen said hesitantly.

Willum chuckled, a smile spreading on his face. “I like where you’re going with this, Djeri. But you should all save your money. This mission will be bankrolled by the Vrill Family Estate.”

Everyone stared at Willum in surprise. They knew he was the only living Vriil heir, but it was assumed that he had decided to give up his birthright. Willum had always been uncomfortable with his family’s history and he’d shown no desire to leave the academy and move to Vriil lands. Lord Commander Demetrius had given Willum until spring to decide or his holdings were to be parsed out to other noble families. The deadline was just weeks away.

“Then you’re leaving the academy?” Swen asked, a slight frown creasing his stiff brow.

“Theodore and I have thought of a way around that,” Willum replied, looking proud of himself. “As long as Lord Commander Demetrius is willing to work with me, that is. I’ll have some letters of my own to send out when we get to the Mage School.”

“Alright,” said Dinnis. “I won’t say you’ve convinced me yet, but I’m interested. What will our new mission be? The council isn’t going to okay an assassination of a gnome scholar. Not without an official request from the Alberri government.”

“No, our objective won’t be to kill him,” Djeri replied. “Our mission would be one of disruption.” He let out a grim chuckle. “We are going to make Aloysius miserable.”

*          *          *

I am king. That was his first thought. Before he had taken his first breath, before he had opened his eyes, he knew it. It was his predestined purpose. He had a people to lead.

His second thought was hunger. No, it was more than a thought. It was a fierce thing; a gnawing and painful ache deep in the pit of him. He took his first struggling breath and coughed out a stream of thick fluid. He hacked and sputtered, his limbs spasming.

Once his lungs had cleared, the king let out a cry of hunger. It was a piercing sound, a screech, high pitched and primal. The sound echoed back at him, reverberating and hurting his ears. His own screech was the first sound the king heard and it stunned him, overwhelming his hunger. What kind of creature was he to make a sound like that?

His other senses awakened one by one. The air around him was hot and humid and a thick moist substance covered his body. He flailed about, with two arms and one leg, but the other leg was stuck. He was hanging upside down, anchored by one foot that was stuck in something soft and wet.

As he dangled there, he breathed in through his nose and was hit by a complex scent. It was musky and alive and full of pheromones. His brain interpreted the smell and fed him a flood of information he found difficult to process. Where was he?

The king opened his eyes for the first time and blinked. His eyes felt odd on his face. It was as if they were different sizes. His right eye saw only darkness, but his smaller left eye saw a brilliant spectrum of reds and yellows, something he instinctually knew was the heat of the area around him.

His heat vision showed the king that he was hanging in a living cave whose walls and ceiling were made of hot flesh. He looked down and saw that his fingertips hung mere inches from a thick pool of liquid beneath him. He wasn’t alone in this place. Dozens of other bodies hung from the ceiling like ripe fruits. Each one of them was alive, but they weren’t yet conscious. None of them were moving or breathing.

As the king looked at these other bodies closer, he became aware that they were all different, varying in size and shape. Some of them were hairy, while others were smooth. Some dripped long streams of slime, while others merely glistened. What were they? Each one seemed to be a mutated mix of various beasts.

Shuddering, he lifted his hands before his face and hissed in dismay as the heat signature showed him that his own hands were odd and mismatched. His left hand was long-fingered and tipped with wicked claws, while his right hand had shorter fingers and stubby nails, but seemed more powerful. He looked at his body and saw a well-muscled torso and powerful legs. The toes on his free foot were tipped with black talons.

Afraid of what he might find, he reached up and ran his fingers over his face. His lower jaw was that of a man’s, though the teeth on the left side of his jaw were sharper than the teeth on his right. He had what felt like a man’s nose, but his eyes were indeed different from one another, the left one small and beady. A long thick mop of wiry hair grew from the left side of his scalp, while the right side was smooth and hairless.

This information stunned him. Why this disfigurement? Why would a king born to rule be so malformed? Why did he screech like an animal? What kind of being was he?

Horrified, the king flailed about and screeched again, trying to pull his leg free from the wet ceiling above him. He felt a sharp pain as the skin of his foot began to tear. The king stopped moving for fear that he would do permanent damage. He hung there, breathing heavily, his body aching with hunger, his mind full of fear and revulsion.

Then something happened. There was a stirring of the air in the cave, almost like an exhalation. He felt the hot breath of this living place move over his body and the king’s anxiety faded. This breath was the comforting caress of the Great Mother.

With a soft sucking sound, his foot was released from the ceiling and he fell into the slime pool below. Immersed in the Mother’s fluid, trace chemicals fed him information and the king began to understand. These differences in his body weren’t disfigurements. They were improvements. They were the mother’s gifts.

There was a jolt around him as if the cave were moving. He stood thigh deep in the slime pool and watched as a hole opened up in the far end of the cave. A shaft of light pierced the darkness and illuminated him. The king hissed in pain, and he raises his arms in front of his face, wincing. He closed his heat sensing eye, peering through his fingers with his right eye that saw in the spectrum of light.

The hole widened, letting in more light, and a breeze blew through. This new air was still warm, but in comparison to the Mother’s womb it felt cool against his glistening skin. At the Mother’s urging, the king took hesitant steps forward, rising out of the pool until he stood at the lip of the opening.

The light showed him that the interior of the mother was a soft pink. But outside there was a brilliance of color. It was swampland. The waters around were a brackish swirl of brown and deep green, while the grassy mounds all around were vibrant green with occasional blue flowers. Tall leafy trees rose from the water and grassy mounds alike. The sky was the brightening blue of early morning.

The cave mouth had opened in front of one such grass mound. It was a large one and long. Covering the mound and the others around it were dozens of slimy greenish beings, all of them bowing and prostrating themselves before him. The king stepped out of the womb and onto the grass, feeling its soft blades crush beneath his feet.

He turned and saw the cave shrink behind him. The opening puckered until it was but a greenish sphincter. Then it sank into the waters until only a vague slimy mound remained where it had been.

The smell of the living creatures around the king hit his nose and he felt the hunger deep within him rise. He had the urge to attack those creatures that bowed before him. He wanted to kill them all and devour them, but he pushed the urge down. A hiss escaped his lips. He was a king, not some mere monster.

One of the creatures stood and faced him. He recognized immediately that this one was a troll. At second glance, he changed his assessment. This one was a troll in every aspect but two. It had the eyes and mouth of a human.

It blinked and spoke to him in a raspy voice, “My king . . . You have finally arrived.”

The king didn’t understand how he knew what it said to him, but he did. He opened his mouth and, though the words felt unfamiliar rolling off his tongue, he was able to speak. “Who . . . are . . . you?”

The troll thing bowed again. Saliva ran down its chin as it replied, “I am known as the First, my king. I have been serving the Mother and preparing the way for your arrival.” Tears ran down its slimy cheeks. “We have waited so long.”

He nodded and looked at the forms of the other creatures kneeling all around him. Like the bodies in the cave, these things were of different shapes and sizes. All of them had deformities, some part human, others a mish-mash of various animals. They only had one other thing in common. They were all part troll.

He looked down at his body once again and saw that the skin covering his taut musculature was tinted green and glistened in the dim sunlight. He was like them. Clenching his hands he raised his voice and addressed his subjects. His words were hesitant at first, but the more he spoke, the more his confidence grew.

“Your . . . prayers have . . . been answered. I am born to . . . protect you. I am born to . . . rule you-.” He bit his tongue with the sharp teeth on the left side of his mouth and the taste of his own blood ignited the hunger within him again. He seized the hunger and used it to fuel his intensity as he roared.

“I am . . . the Troll King!”

Chapter One

Fist’s dreams were disturbing and violent. This wasn’t unusual for the ogre. He had lived a life often filled with violence. It was part of him, something at odds with his gentle nature. What made these dreams stand out tonight was how vivid they were.

They began with a recurring dream. It was one that Fist had dreamt dozens of times since leaving the Thunder People tribe. It was always similar with only minor variations, and had become so commonplace to Fist that it didn’t cause him anxiety anymore.

He was wearing his apprentice robes and reclining, floating peacefully on a bed made of cloud, unafraid of being high in the sky above the earth below. Life was perfect. After all, he was learning so many things and he had friends now and Justan had survived his meeting with Jhonate’s father. Fist relaxed in the fluffy softness, content just feeling the hot sun on his body.

His peace was interrupted by a thudding noise. He sat up and turned his head to see his father Crag running at him, his large feet obliterating the clouds beneath him with every step. Fist didn’t know how his father had gotten up there, but following closely behind Crag was an army of winged beasts, dark and terrible.

Crag yelled at him to stand up and fight, but Fist didn’t want to. He laid back on the cloud and closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of the sun. The part of him that knew this was a dream willed the darkness to go away. But it didn’t work.

The sounds of his father’s footsteps and the approaching army grew louder until Fist opened his eyes. Crag stood over him, blood running down his body from several open wounds. His face was pummeled and swollen like it had been the last time Fist had seen him; beaten nearly to death by Fist’s own hands.

“Go away father,” Fist said sadly. “You’re dead.”

“Toompa!” his father yelled and swung his arm down in a mighty punch. Crag’s fist caught Fist in the chest and knocked him through the cloud. Fist watched his father’s disappointed face get smaller and smaller as he fell unprotected through the sky towards the earth below.

Normally Fist would plunge into water at this point, but this time the dream shifted and he never struck the ground. Instead, he was back in the mountains of his youth, at the edge of the Thunder People territory. His robes were gone and he was wearing only fur wraps like he had in the old days, but he was carrying the mace Lenny had made for him. It was a good thing too, because he needed it for the horde that was coming at him.

It was at this point that he forgot it was a dream. It was real and Fist was angry; angry and fearful because his tribe was under attack. His face contorted with rage as he swung his weapon back, its magic enhancing his speed. The mace was long and heavy with a spherical head. One half of the head was covered in wicked spikes, the other half with rough ridges and Fist put it to good use.

He punctured and tore through flesh with the spikes and bashed in the heads of the enemy with the ridges. He couldn’t identify the assailants right away. Their faces were blurry. But what did it matter? They fell around him as if they were made of melons, smashing and splattering to pieces, showering him with gore.

Fist exulted. The battle was easy. The enemy’s attacks were weak, leaving nothing but superficial wounds on his skin. Why had he been so fearful?

He looked around for the rest of his tribe and found himself battling alone, surrounded by the enemy. Had the others fallen to the enemy or had they abandoned him? He didn’t know the answer, but he fought on, destroying the enemy with tireless strikes.

Then something caught his eye. In the distance a lone boulder rose above the enemy ranks. The faceless horde clawed at the rock, trying to climb it. Sitting atop the boulder was Squirrel’s leather pouch and he knew by the way it contorted Squirrel was still inside!

Fist shouted and began forcing his way towards his friend, but the enemy resisted. Something about them had changed. No longer did they burst apart and yield before him. They held firm, each one of them taking several strikes to bring down. Their weapons improved too. Fist felt daggers pierce his flesh.

He ignored the wounds and fought on, bellowing for Squirrel to flee. The pouch continued to move as the enemy climbed toward it, but Squirrel did not come out. Fist arrived at the boulder and started to climb, pulling the enemy climbers down as he went, ignoring the fierce stabbings of the assailants behind him.

Finally, he reached the top of the rock and stood exhausted. Blood dripped from his body; some of it his, but most of it the enemy’s.

He looked down at the crowd surrounding the boulder and a haze lifted from his mind. The enemy was no longer faceless. To Fist’s horror, they were men and dwarves and elves and even ogres. These were people he recognized. Many of them were people he had met during the war. And he had just mown so many of them down.

Fist shouted apologies, but their familiar faces didn’t seem to recognize him. They screamed mindlessly, clawing at the rock. Shaken, he picked up Squirrel’s pouch and peered inside.

Squirrel wasn’t there. In his place was a monster. It was a huge thing, a mix of wild beasts, and way too large to fit in that small space. Before Fist could drop the pouch it leapt out, increasing in size and bowling Fist over, sending him plummeting off of the rock into the howling masses below . . .

Fist’s legs spasmed and his eyes flew open as he awoke with a gasp. Breathing heavily, he realized that he was in his room in the Mage School dormitories. He was lying on his side in the oversized bed Darlan had procured for him and his head was pressed into his honstule flower pillow. He was sweating profusely.

With a groan, he threw back his blanket and sat up. As he did so, a pile of seeds fell out of his ear, striking his shoulder and cascading down his hairy torso in a tiny avalanche.

“Squirrel!” he grumbled, brushing the seeds off of his body. Several of them had fallen onto his bed and he swept them off of his mattress with one large hand, knowing that he would have to sweep them off of the floor later, but preferring that to returning to a bed with little seeds in it.

This was a constant game Squirrel played. He had started it the day they had first met. Whenever Fist was asleep, Squirrel would hide nuts and seeds somewhere on the ogre’s body. In the beginning he had done it because he felt safe with Fist and it was his way of claiming Fist as his new home. But along the way as Squirrel’s mind had grown larger and more complex, his reasons for the little game had changed. For awhile it had become a test of his stealth as he tried to see how many seeds he could hide on Fist’s body without being caught.

Now Squirrel’s game was more of a prank, made all the easier because of the large variety of food available at the school. People were giving Squirrel nuts and seeds all the time and as a result, Fist found them everywhere. Not just when he woke up in the morning, but everywhere he looked. Squirrel left them in the pockets of his robe, in his books, in his coin purse, and in every drawer Fist used. Squirrel thought it was hilarious.

Fist yawned and, from the stuffy sensation in his ear, he knew there were more seeds in there. He leaned over and shook his head, fumbling at his ear with one thick finger, trying to get them out but he was only able to dislodge a few. He smacked the side of his head, but to no avail.

Squirrel! he grumbled again, this time through the bond, not wanting to wake his roommate.  Fist looked around for his bonded, knowing that the mischievous creature was close by.

A sliver of early morning light peered in the room through the one small window, illuminating a tidy place with two beds, two desks, and two wardrobes. Out of necessity it was the largest room in the dormitories and Fist shared it with his friend, Jezzer.

To Fist’s relief, he hadn’t woken the man. Jezzer had already risen, making his bed before leaving. The old man had a habit of waking early and was often up and gone before the ogre. Jezzer was sixty five and the oldest cadet at the Mage School in centuries. He claimed that the older he got, the less sleep he needed. Fist envied the man that ability.

Knowing that he was alone, Fist reached up and palmed the light orb that was mounted in the sconce above his bed. Wincing at the sudden brightness, the ogre’s eyes fell on Squirrel’s pouch. It was sitting on Fist’s desk where he had left it the night before, the runes stamped into it’s deerskin surface glowing softly to Fist’s magesight. It was a gift from Beth and she had made it well. It was nice and roomy, silk-lined, and had extra pockets for storage. The large lump in it told him Squirrel was still inside. The beast was ignoring him, pretending to be asleep.

“Squirrel!” Fist commanded both aloud and through the bond. “I see you in your pouch. Come here.”

What? Squirrel replied innocently. His little head popped out of the top and he yawned, pretending that Fist had just woke him.

“You’re not fooling me,” Fist chided him. “Now get these seeds out of my ear.”

Squirrel let out a chattering laugh and exited the pouch, leaping from the desk to the bed to Fist’s shoulder in a series of bounds. His little laugh was an odd thing, sounding more like a snicker than anything else. He had just developed it in the months after the war. He was wearing one of the small vests Darlan had made for him. This one was red with tiny gold trim.

My seeds! Squirrel exclaimed, peering into the ogre’s ear.

“Yeah, you put them in there. Get them out,” Fist complained. His ear canal was itching now. “Why did you do it anyway?”

It is funny, Squirrel said.

“No. Not funny,” Fist said. “And not nice.”

Though Fist couldn’t see him, he knew Squirrel was rolling his eyes as he reached one dexterous paw into the ogre’s ear. He messed around for a moment, pulling out seed after seed. It tickled horribly and Fist winced as he tried to stay still, hoping that the animal wouldn’t scratch him with his little claws. Finally Squirrel stopped.

“Did you get them all?” Fist asked, turning his head to look at him.

Squirrel stared back at the ogre, his mouth hanging open in a parody of disgust as he held out an arm caked up to the shoulder with clumps of ear wax. A small black seed was clutched in his hand. He let go of the seed, but it remained stuck to his hand. He shook the seed off and looked around for something to wipe his arm on, worried that he would stain his vest.

Fist could feel his irritation through the bond. The ogre snorted. “Don’t look at me like that, Squirrel. It’s your fault for sticking them in there.”

Still stiffly holding his arm out to the side, Squirrel began walking down Fist’s arm towards the bed.

“Don’t wipe that on the blankets,” Fist warned. Squirrel let out a little grumble and hopped down to the floor, then went under the bed to wipe his arm on one of Fist’s dirty socks.

Fist stood and stretched. It was an abbreviated form of a stretch, not the full stretch he wanted to do. When fully erect, the ogre was eight feet tall and the hair on his head brushed the ceiling. His morning stretch now consisted of arching his back and rotating his shoulders, his arms sticking straight out to the sides. His back popped in a series of cracks as he did so.

“I had such a bad dream, Squirrel,” Fist grunted and walked to the wardrobe to retrieve his clothes. “It felt so real.” Indeed, he had been able to feel the blood of the enemies sticking to his body. He’d smelled their viscera as it spilled to the ground. He felt a wave of nausea at the memory and swallowed. “Why did I have a dream like that?”

Squirrel didn’t respond directly, but Fist felt a trickle of sympathy come through the bond. This was often the way they communicated with each other. Even with the growth of Squirrel, many of the things Fist felt and experienced didn’t make complete sense to him. Yet the animal always tried his best to understand. Sometimes he even surprised Fist with his observations.

Fist tried to shake the dream from his mind as he dressed, putting on a button-up shirt and linen pants before donning his apprentice robe. The robe was voluminous and made of a light material so that it wasn’t too warm for comfort. The colors represented Fist’s magical strengths. The main color was black representing Fist’s strength in earth magic, while the blue and gold trim work on the sleeves and hem represented his secondary strengths in air and water.

Fist looked at himself in the room’s lone mirror and shook his head. He had been wearing student robes for nearly six months and still didn’t feel natural in them. While wearing the robes he didn’t look like an ogre at all. His wide hips and bulging muscular frame were still quite evident, but he walked without the usual ogre slouch. Someone who had never seen an ogre might think him just a giant of a man with a brutish face.

He waved a dismissive arm at the mirror and turned to look at the large shield and breastplate that stood next to the wardrobe. Now those were the things he felt most comfortable wearing. Despite everything he was learning at the Mage School, Fist was a warrior at heart. At that moment he wished that he was in Malaroo with Justan. There were battles going on there. He could have been making a difference.

Frowning, he sat back down on the bed to put on his socks and boots. The boots were a gift from his half-orc friend Bettie and were runed to keep the leather strong and supple despite the punishment he put them through. He liked them. They were quite comfortable. The socks, on the other hand, were something he wore at Darlan’s insistence.

That thought reminded him of his first business of the morning. He needed to tell Darlan what Justan had been through the day before. Fist had spent the first part of the night talking to Justan about it through the bond and he had promised Justan that he would let his mother know.

Fist stood and moved to the window. The dim light outside had shown him that it was early and a quick glance at the clock tower confirmed it. He scratched his head. Darlan had told him she had a council meeting this morning and it would be at least an hour, maybe two before she was done. What to do until then?

“What do you think, Squirrel? What should we do this morning?” Breakfast was being served at the Dining Hall. He could eat first, but then what? “Should we go to the library and study?”

No. Squirrel jumped back atop the table and shook his head, pulling a nut out of his cheek to chew thoughtfully. Boring.

As much as Fist enjoyed the library, Squirrel became stir crazy after just a few minutes. Lately, this meant that the creature spent his time messing with people. The gnome librarian Vincent was his favorite target.

“Hmm.” Rubbing his still-itching ear, Fist opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a thin book. On the cover, written in Justan’s staccato handwriting was the title, Fist’s Book of Words. Justan had given it to him as a gift before leaving with Jhonate to work on rebuilding the academy. The pages were filled with complex words and their definitions, each word marked with a date.

Fist’s new word of the day was a tradition that had started back during their time at Coal’s Keep. It was a way for the ogre to expand his vocabulary and Fist enjoyed it. Justan hadn’t wanted the tradition to end while they were separated, so he had added enough words in the book to last the ogre a year.

“Let’s see,” Fist mumbled while flipping through the pages to find the current date. He ran a finger down the page. “My word of the day today is . . . skullduggery. Ooh. It means, ‘Underhanded and devious dealings. Trickery and scheming’.” He tucked the book away in one of his robe’s many pockets, a wide smile splitting his face. “That sounds like you, Squirrel!”

Squirrel cocked his head at him wryly.

“I know what we’ll do this morning,” Fist said, thinking of something that better fit his current mood. He pulled Squirrel’s pouch over his shoulder and held it open. “Let’s go visit Charz.”

Okay! Squirrel replied. He climbed to the top of the pile of books on the desk and dove inside.

Fist reached back into the pockets of his robes and withdrew a supple leather glove that he pulled over his large right hand. Then he used that hand to grab his mace from its resting place leaning against the desk. Protected from the weapon’s magic, he rested the haft of it on his shoulder and headed out the door.

The ogre didn’t get to carry his mace with him very often at the school. Though the increase in academy soldiers at the Mage School since the end of the war had led to a loosening of weapon restrictions, it was still frowned upon for students to walk around armed. Thankfully, Darlan had arranged a few exceptions for Fist since he was training to be a war wizard. He had been given permission to carry the mace with him when practicing war spells with her at the Testing Center or when sparring. This morning he planned to do both.

Fist smiled as he exited the building. It was the tail end of winter now and most of the region round about was still starting out each morning with a hard frost, but not here. Fist breathed in the fresh and balmy air of the Mage School and sighed. What a beautiful morning. He looked up into the blue sky and raised his arms, letting loose the mighty stretch he had wanted to do earlier.

One perk of staying at the Mage School was that it never got too cold in the winter. Or too hot in the summer, for that matter, thanks to the magic of the Rune Tower. Darlan had explained it to him once. Evidently, in a time long past, the Rune Tower had been infused with a special weather spell. Throughout the year it absorbed any excessive heat or excessive cold. It stored this energy, expelling it when needed to counteract the ambient temperatures and keep the Mage School grounds at comfortable levels. This allowed their gardens to continue producing food even in the harshest winters.

Charz’s quarters were located across the center square in a building next to Professor Beehn’s cottage. It was only a five minute walk from the dormitories, but Fist wanted to stop by the Dining Hall first and that would take him out of his way and all that walking around was going to suck away his time. Smiling, he switched the handle of his mace to his unprotected left hand and ran.

The magic of the mace increased his speed, helping him to run nearly twice as fast as usual. It had been an awkward feeling to get used to in the beginning, but he’d had the mace long enough by now that he was used to it. The downside of using the mace was that the increase in speed was tiring, which was why he carried it in the gloved hand most of the time.

Fist sped around the edge of the dormitory building and cut across the green towards the Dining Hall. The ogre made a fearsome sight, running at high speed with his wicked mace in hand. Luckily, it was still early enough that the area wasn’t crowded with students. Those few that were up and about took a few wary steps back when they saw him coming.

Fist switched the handle of the mace back to his right hand and slowed down just as he reached the open doors. He stumbled inside, his mace held high, causing several students to gasp. Breathing heavily, he lowered the weapon.

One old wizardess stood from her table and wagged a finger at him. “Be careful, ogre! Don’t you know that thing’s dangerous!”

“Sorry, Professor Landrine,” he said sheepishly.

“I don’t care what the new rules are. Weapons do not belong in the Dining Hall,” she grumped, sitting back down.

“Sorry,” Fist said again, bowing his head and hoping that she didn’t demand he leave and return without the weapon. Rules were one thing, but he was an apprentice. If Landrine told him to do something, he would have to do it. To his relief, she returned her attention to her breakfast and the open book beside her plate.

“Fist!” said a younger voice and the ogre turned to see his friend Neau sitting at a table nearby.

Neau was a portly young cadet wearing a red and blue robe that announced his strengths in water and fire. Jezzer was sitting next to him in his gray robe. They had half-eaten plates of food in front of them. The two men were part of a small group of friends Fist had cultivated at the school along with Charz and Antyni the elf.

“Come sit with us,” Neau said.

“Oh, I can’t,” Fist replied. He reached up and rubbed at his ear again. It still itched. “I’m just grabbing something quick and then I need to go to Charz’s place.”

“He won’t like that,” Jezzer warned in his aristocratic tenor voice. “You know how he is about his mornings.”

“I know,” Fist said. The giant liked to sleep in. Some days he wasn’t up before noon.

“Then stay here instead,” insisted Neau. “We were talking about what happened last night. Did you hear about the newest council member?”

Fist’s ears perked up at that. There had been a lot of speculation over who the last member would be. The rest of the council had been silent on the matter, including Darlan. “Sorry. I’ll meet you at the library later for study. You can tell me then. I have stuff to tell you, too. You won’t believe what happened to Justan yesterday.”

The two students nodded and Fist went to stand in line. To his relief, the queue was fairly short and he didn’t have long to wait. He grabbed a few dozen boiled eggs and all the cheese-filled rolls he could stuff in his pockets. The manager of the kitchens, Chef Richard, gave him a dour look and Fist explained that he was taking food for Charz. With a resigned grumble, the man stuffed a stack of sausages in a waxed paper bag handed them over.

The moment he left the Dining Hall, Fist switched the mace to his left hand and ran away, the sack of sausages clutched in his gloved hand. The quickest way to Charz would be to cut across the center square and head between the class buildings, but he knew there would be too many people there. So Fist took a more circuitous route, sprinting around the main part of the square.

He enjoyed the run. Moving at such a fast speed was the closest thing Fist could imagine to flying. He ignored the stares of the passersby and laughed as the wind whipped past his face.

As he passed the buildings, the wide expanse of the grounds opened before him and he looked past the manicured lawns with their winding paths, to the wall that surrounded the school. Fist’s laugh faltered. If there was one thing that showed the Mage School was a different place since the war it was the wall.

What had once looked like a fifty-foot-tall cliff hanging over the grounds was now only half its original height. Earth wizards worked on raising the wall higher every day, but it was slow going. The taller the wall became, the heavier it was and the more magic it took to get it to rise. In the beginning it had risen several inches a day, now it only rose a few inches a week. Some of the wizards predicted that, at the current rate of decline, it would take years to bring them to their former height and glory.

The other major change at the school was the academy presence. As Fist crossed the main road, he could see the new cluster of buildings and barracks at the base of the wall. Until work on the new academy was finished, trainees and students in their early years were being taught here. It was part of a bold new relationship between the warriors and wizards, one that was hoped to be beneficial to all. Fist couldn’t see why it wouldn’t be.

Once he had bypassed the main square, he curved towards the storage buildings. While the class buildings were finely built with ornate trim work, these were little more than squat warehouses. Charz’s place was actually a section of one of the storage buildings that had been walled off for his use.

By the time Fist stopped at Charz’ door he was breathing heavily, his energy drained by the use of the mace. He used to have more stamina, but he had spent the last few months focused on his magical studies, letting his physical training suffer. Fist knew that Justan would have had him training more. He made sure never to bring it up during their late night talks.

He didn’t bother knocking. Charz would never have answered. So, his mace gripped in his gloved hand, Fist pulled open the heavy warehouse door and walked in. The interior of Charz’s place was dark and dank, almost cave-like. Fist left the door hanging open behind him to let some light in.

Wizard Beehn had put in a few windows, but Charz had boarded them back up. The light from the open door illuminated a room quite different from Fist’s. For one thing it was much larger, a necessity when housing a ten foot giant, with ceilings twice as high as Fist. It was also a mess.

There were multiple dressers and wardrobes and desks around the room for the giant to use, but they were mostly empty. Charz was what Darlan called, ‘a pile person’. He kept his clothes piled on top of one table, his other various belongings piled on top of other various pieces of furniture. Scraps of garbage were cast around everywhere else.

As for the giant himself, Charz was sleeping in the corner of the warehouse farthest from the door. He was laying face down on a pile of fine mattresses that Beehn had hauled up from somewhere deep inside the Rune Tower. Charz thought the mattresses a hilarious waste since, with his thick rocky skin, he would have been just as comfortable sleeping on straw or wood shavings or gravel.

Fist figured that the giant would have been fine with anything, as long as it was a pile.

The ogre walked up and prodded the giant with his foot. “Charz! Wake up.”

“Mpf,” the giant mumbled and planted his face more firmly into a mattress that looked to be covered with pink silk. The wide wet spot under his face told Fist that Charz had been drooling in his sleep. Fist nudged the giant again, but he refused to respond. The ogre pursed his lips, pondering the best way to wake him, preferably without getting beat on.

Me! said Squirrel mischievously and the fuzzy beast exited his pouch, a chunk of bread clutched in one hand. Fist raised an eyebrow. He didn’t remember putting a roll in Squirrel’s pouch.

Squirrel jumped down and scrambled across Charz’ back, heading towards the giant’s head. The little beast let out a little snicker of anticipation and Fist took a couple steps backward, knowing what was coming. “Careful, Squirrel. He might squish you.”

Squirrel crept in close, sneaking over Charz’s neck to press his furry face into the giant’s ear. He then let loose with a loud high pitched, “Chi-chi-chi-chi-chi-chi!”

Charz rose to his knees with a roar. Squirrel darted away just in time to avoid the rocky hand that slammed into the side of the giant’s face with a thunderous crack.

“Gah!” echoed Charz’s booming voice. His mouth was wide open, his eyes confused.

“That’s enough!” Fist said in alarm. But Squirrel was already at the giant’s other ear.

“Chi-chi-chi-chi!”

Charz yelled again and grabbed for him. “Die, you fur-covered mosquito!”

Most people underestimated the rock giant’s speed. Charz’s body was enhanced by magic and despite his size, he moved as fast as a man. Luckily, Squirrel was faster. The little beast darted out of his grasp, then slid down the giant’s back and skittered across the floor of the warehouse to hide behind one of the piles of trash.

“Calm down, Charz!” Fist said, holding out a pleading hand. He hastily began preparing a spell in the back of his mind.

“What the hell was that, Fist?” Charz demanded. He jumped to his feet, towering head and shoulders above the ogre. He was wearing nothing but a tight pair of small clothes and a heavy iron chain with a crystal pendant that hung around his neck.

“I came to ask for your help with something,” Fist said.

“Well that was a stupid way of doing it!” The giant growled, his lips twisted with rage.

“I didn’t know what Squirrel was going to do,” Fist lied.

“Yeah, right.” Charz said and some of the anger left his voice as he let out a wide yawn. “What time is it, anyway?”

Fist knew the giant wouldn’t be happy about the hour. He shrugged and generalized, “Morning time.”

“Morning? You woke me up early and you brought your mace?” Charz asked, eyeing the weapon. “You know better than this.”

“I know you like to sleep longer, but-!”

“And I was up late last night, too! The new council historian arrived and I had to carry all her heavy stuff into the tower!” Charz complained. “Blasted old lady with her trunks full of books . . .”

“I brought breakfast.” Fist lifted the paper bag. “Sausages and eggs and cheesy rolls.”

Charz sniffed at the savory smell rising from the bag and jerked it from the ogre’s hand. “I guess I do usually miss breakfast.” He stomped over to the nearest table and shoved a pile of empty liquor bottles off of an oversized chair. He plopped down onto it, causing the chair to creak in protest as he looked in the bag. “There ain’t that many sausages in here.”

Fist rubbed at his ear again. It really was itching something fierce. Maybe Squirrel had scratched him somewhere deep in there. “I was kind of hoping we could share them.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Charz grumbled, tossing a handful of sausages in his mouth. He spoke while he chewed, “You said something about eggs and rolls?”

Fist dug a half-dozen eggs out of his pockets as well as several rolls and set them down on the table next to the giant. He grabbed another roll out and bit into it himself. As with all Mage School food it was really good. The bread was crusty and the cheese was savory and, as he swallowed and took the next bite, he could already feel the stirrings of extra energy that only magic could provide.

Charz looked at the food in front of him and snorted. “More of a snack, really,” he said and tossed two eggs into his mouth, not even bothering to peel them.

Fist heard it crunching in the giant’s teeth and wondered what it tasted like. He had never tried eating them that way before. Did the shells have a flavor of their own? He pulled one out of his pocket and bit into it. He chewed and grimaced at the way the shell shattered under his teeth, leaving crunchy bits of flavorless grit behind. Not pleasant.

Charz finished off another egg and bit a large roll in half. “What are you doing here, anyway? Ain’t you supposed to be studying with Sir Edge’s mom in the mornings?”

“Mistress Sherl is in a council meeting, so I thought I would come and get you to spar with me,” Fist replied. He took out another egg, but shelled it this time.

“Spar?” The giant raised a hairless rocky eyebrow as he chewed some more. “You mean you want to try out your new spells on me.”

Fist looked away from Charz and chewed the egg, wishing he’d had some salt and pepper. “While we are sparring, I will use my magic. So, yes. That too.”

The thing that made Charz an ideal sparring partner for Fist was the giant’s unique ability to shake off damage. The crystal pendant that hung from the iron chain had once been sealed in the wall of the giant’s cave. Now he wore it around his neck and it allowed him to heal from most types of wounds. Fist had seen huge holes blown into the giant by Justan’s bow. He’d even seen the giant half melted to glass. Both times, the magic had healed him back to normal.

“But you’re not supposed to be practicing those spells without Sherl around,” Charz said. He pointed a finger at Fist. “She says they’re ‘too dangerous’.”

“I know,” Fist said, rubbing his ear against his shoulder. “But we’re going to do it anyway and hope she doesn’t find out. It’s called, ‘skullduggery’.”

Charz frowned. “I don’t think you understand what that word means.”

“Yes I do! It’s my word of the day,” Fist replied. “It’s in my book if you want to look.”

The giant rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say. Still, you’re crazy if you think I’m gonna just stand there and let you shock me with lightning spells.”

“It’ll be more than that,” Fist promised. “We’ll fight, too. I need the exercise.”

“Yeah, right. If you really wanted to fight, you would have brought your shield and armor.” The giant upended the paper bag into his mouth, knocking in the rest of the sausages.

“I know you like the challenge,” Fist said in a tempting voice.

Charz’s attitude was quite different from the way it had been when Fist first met him. At one time, the thrill of the fight had been the only thing the giant cared about. That mindset had gotten him into trouble and was the reason he had spent a century imprisoned next to a cave. He was reformed now and wasn’t a danger any longer, but the thought of a good battle still excited him.

“Hmph,” Charz said, his mouth full. He gave Fist a sideways glance, then swallowed. “Well, you are one of the best fights in this place, I’ll give you that much.”

“Then you’ll come?” Fist said.

“I guess so. I-.” He slammed a heavy fist on the table, barely missing Squirrel, who jumped out of the way at the last possible moment. “Don’t you even think of eating my food, you little weasel!” He swung his hand, causing Squirrel to jump over to Fist and scurry into his pouch. Charz gestured at the ogre. “You tell him that I’m not forgiving him that easy. He’ll have to make it up to me.”

“He hears you,” Fist assured him. He dropped a roll into the pouch. Thanks for waking him. He received a satisfied chuckle through the bond in response.

“Alright, let’s go then,” Charz said. He stood and walked towards the door.

“You’re not going to get dressed?” Fist asked.

Charz’s shoulders slumped and he walked over to the table piled with clothes. He shuffled through them and pulled out a torn pair of pants and a shirt that wasn’t too badly stained. He began pulling them on. “I’m tired of these stupid wizards, insisting I walk around dressed all the time. I’m terrible on clothes.”

“I know what you mean,” Fist said. And he did. No matter how well humans tried to tailor clothes for him, they usually ended up damaged in some way. “Better material is what we need.”

“I know!” Charz replied. “I keep telling Alfred that all I need is a pair of pants that stretch.”

He bent over beside his pile of mattresses and picked up his trident. The three-pronged weapon was large and frightening, as tall as the giant was. The two outer prongs were sharpened like swords while the taller center prong was shaped like a spearhead. The metal had been etched with water runes and Fist knew that the magic of the weapon made it so that wounds it caused healed slowly. His goal for the day would be not to get hit by that thing.

They left the warehouse and headed west towards the Magic Testing Center. It was a large rectangular building consisting of rows of large rooms specifically made for the purpose of testing out dangerous types of spells.

Fist stopped just outside the main door and opened Squirrel’s pouch. “You should get out, Squirrel.”

Squirrel didn’t argue. He usually liked to watch when it came time for Fist to fight, but this time he knew what kind of spells the ogre planned to use. He left the pouch and darted over to the nearest tree.

Fist and Charz entered the building. The female mage on duty saw the two of them approaching and smiled as she handed out a key. “Try not to break the place, you two.”

“Thank you,” Fist said as he took the key from the woman.

It wouldn’t be a problem. Each wall in the place was reinforced by multiple runes protecting them from magical or physical damage. They headed down the hallway and soon arrived at their assigned door. The rooms were all pretty much the same.

Fist opened the door to a space slightly larger than Charz’s place. It was wide and open and empty with a dirt floor. Perfect for the ogre’s purposes. The ceiling was runed so that it gave off a soft glow as they entered, illuminating the place.

Charz walked to the center of the room and turned to face Fist, his trident at the ready. “Let’s get started.”

“Just a minute.” The ogre stabbed the spiky tip of his mace into the ground, then took off his glove and removed his robe. He then placed both the robe and Squirrel’s pouch into a rectangular trunk next to the door where it would be protected from his spells.

Fist picked up his mace, feeling the quickness of its magic overtake him.

“You ready?” Charz asked with an eager smile.

Fist sent out threads of earth and air, wrapping them around his body. He started the strands vibrating. Shimmering sparks of electricity flared up all around him. “Let’s fight.”

Charz laughed and charged.

Chapter Two

Fist sent threads of earth magic into the ground, causing a column of dirt to erupt from the floor beneath the oncoming giant’s feet. Charz, having seen Fist use this spell before, anticipated the attack and jumped, letting the force of the blast launch him into the air towards the ogre.

Startled, Fist dove to the side, barely avoiding the prongs of Charz’s trident as they pierced into the ground where he had been standing. “Hey! We’re not trying to kill each other.”

Charz chuckled and whirled to face Fist again. “You wake me up this early and expect me to go easy on you?”

“No,” said Fist. “But be careful. If you stab me with that thing, I might bleed to death before the wizards could heal me. I don’t heal as fast as you.”

Charz snorted. “I’ve been fighting for centuries. You think I can’t avoid a mortal blow when I want to?”

“I guess,” Fist said suspiciously. The real question was whether the giant could control himself in the heat of battle. He took several steps back and squared his shoulders. “Then let’s go on.”

Charz grinned and charged.

Fist sent threads of magic into the ground again, but enacted the spell sooner, launching the earth further in front of the giant’s feet. Charz felt the rumble under his feet and leapt, but this time the column of dirt struck him in the chest, knocking him backwards to land on his back.

Charz laughed. “Good one!”

But the spell had served a secondary purpose. The force of the eruption had also sent a cloud of dust into the air, setting up Fist’s next move. The ogre sent out a web of water, condensing in the air around the giant.

While Charz stood, the water and dust mixed creating a fine mist of mud that hung suspended in the air. Then Fist triggered an air spell and the mud was sucked against the giant’s body, hardening as Fist drew the moisture out. Within moments, Charz was encased in two inches of solid clay and looked like a sloppily formed sculpture.

Fist let out a whoop of excitement that the spell had worked. Darlan had been drilling the particulars into him for weeks, having him practice on various objects. This was the first time he had used it against a living combatant.

Fist paused, breathing hard. That spell had taken a lot out of him. In addition, his ear was bothering him again. The itch had become a throb. He ignored it as cracks began to appear in the statue.

The ogre took a few steps back and began preparing his next attack. He sent another web of water into the air. A cloud of mist began forming in the room.

Charz shattered the rock around him with a roar, sending pottery-like shards of hardened clay everywhere. The giant stepped out of the broken rock around his feet and swung around to face Fist, managing to look both angry and amused as he peered through the thickening fog towards the ogre.

“Good one, Fist. But I’m kind of mad that we haven’t struck any blows yet,” Charz said, shaking his trident, which was still encased in thick rock. “You have any magic left in you after that?”

“Yes,” the ogre replied, though truthfully he wasn’t sure whether he had enough left in him to make the next spell work. It was the biggest one and the most complicated. This spell was the main reason Darlan hadn’t wanted him to go with Justan and he definitely knew she wouldn’t like him trying it now, but he began to enact it anyway. He began increasing the vibration of the earth and air magic around him.

Charz smacked his trident against the ground but was only able to knock a chunk of rock loose. “And we’ll fight after you’re done messing around?”

“If I can still stand,” Fist replied, drooping slightly as he poured more and more energy into the vibration.

“You trickster, you’re about to fall over now,” Charz sneered and tossed his unwieldy weapon aside. He pointed at the ogre. “I’m gonna get at least one punch in, I’ll promise you that.” The giant charged again.

It was time. Fist roared, putting everything he had into the spell. He sent the vibrating and crackling threads of magic away from his body in a violent burst. Charz leapt toward him, his large arms spread wide.

The room filled with a blinding light as bolts of electricity blossomed into existence, arcing through the air using the thick watery mist as a conductor. For a fraction of a second, time stopped for Fist. He saw the spell clearly with his mage sight as well as his regular vision. White lightning filled the room, completely engulfing the oncoming giant.

He had done it. He had enacted the spell Darlan had told him about. The one that she had told him was too dangerous. Maybe now he could show her and she might change her mind and let him join Justan in Malaroo!

Then the fraction of a second ended and Fist was hit by the effects of his own spell. The same arcs of electricity that had struck the giant pierced through the meager barrier of earth magic that he had hoped to use to protect himself.

He barely registered the deafening crack of thunder that followed the lightning as the giant’s hurtling body struck him.

The next thing Fist heard was a buzzing noise. It took him a moment to realize that the buzzing was in actuality a person yelling. He didn’t understand what they were saying until the last two words, “-you idiot!”

A hand wrenched his nose and the ogre’s eyes fluttered open. Darlan’s angry visage came into view and Fist grimaced. “Ow! What-?”

“That’s right, Fist. Wake up!” The wizardess pried back his eyelids and caused a flickering flame to appear in front of his face. For some reason he didn’t understand, she was kneeling beside him. She glanced away from him. “His pupils are responsive.”

“You mustn’t be so harsh with him, Darlan dear,” said an older woman’s voice. “He has been through quite a bump.”

Darlan didn’t look at the woman who spoke. “I will deal with my apprentice in my own way, thank you very much.” She placed her hands on Fist’s chest and he felt a slight tingle of magical energy enter his body. Fist groaned and tried to sit up but searing pain shot through him at the attempt and he collapsed.

“Stop moving, you big dumb ogre!” Darlan demanded, her face tight with concentration. “Stay still while I examine you.”

Where was he? He turned his head and saw a stark, empty room with gray walls. He was still in the testing center and he was lying on the dirt. It was hard to focus his concentration. Despite the pain that flickered through his body, he felt sleepy.

Stupid! Squirrel barked and Fist felt the creature’s worry surging through the bond. He turned his head the other direction to see that Squirrel was sitting next to him. His little fists were clenched and one foot was tapping the ground.

I’m okay, Squirrel. I think.

Fist slowly realized that there were several other people in the room around him. It was hard to focus, but he saw Wizard Larus and Mage Ella standing nearby, both excellent healers. Charz was there too. Patches of his rocky skin were blackened and he was frowning at Fist while he spoke with Alfred. There were also a few others the ogre didn’t recognize. An old dwarf, a short-haired elf, and a female gnome were standing next to Charz, looking at Fist with their arms folded, amusement in their eyes.

The old woman who had spoken earlier was standing behind Darlan and looking down at him with a kind and sympathetic smile. She wore a white robe with an odd symbol embroidered on her sleeves in silver. Fist wondered why the old woman had just called Darlan by her chosen name instead of Sherl.

He tried to speak to the woman, but it was hard to stay awake. His deep voice was slurred as he said, “Wh-who are y . . .”

“Hey!” Darlan wrenched his nose again. “You look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

“Ow. I-I’m sorry Misstresss Sherrl,” Fist replied, forcing his eyes to stay open. He groaned. “Oh, I hurts all over.”

“Of course you do!” Darlan snapped. Her normally winsome features were pinched with anger and worry. “This is what happens when you get struck by a direct bolt of lightning.”

“Oh . . . right.” Fist’s eyelids began to droop. “Sso tired.”

“He has mild burns throughout his body,” Darlan announced, speaking to the others. “Even in some of his internal organs.”

“Ohh,” Fist said. The damage must truly have been extensive because there wasn’t a part of him that didn’t hurt. “Thhhat was how I feels. Like when I burnn my fingers, but all over. Hey, Misstress Sherrl. Whhhy do I sound drunk?”

“It’s a possible head injury, dear,” said the old woman looking over Darlan’s shoulder. Despite her sagging cheeks and wrinkles, the woman had vibrant blue eyes. Strange how much energy was in them at her age.

“You have prretty eyes,” he told her.

“Why thank you,” the old woman replied.

He returned his bleary gaze to Darlan. “Can I ssleep now?”

“No sleeping until after we’ve healed you,” Darlan said. “And focus on what I’m telling you.”

Had she been talking? “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t you ‘sorry’ me, Fist!” She waved the healers over. “Alright, Ella, you take his limbs. Larus, please see to his organs. You’re better at that kind of work than I am. I’ll work on his head. Let me know if you need my assistance.”

They crouched beside him and Darlan scooted over until she was kneeling above his head. She placed her hands at either side of face and nodded. All three of them began healing him at once. Fist cried out in surprise at the intensity of the magic that surged through his body. All thoughts of sleep ended and all he could do was clench his teeth and endure the sensation.

The healing went on for several minutes, Fist wincing as repaired nerves fired back up. The last thing that was fixed seemed to be his memory, because it wasn’t until they had nearly finished that he realized how much trouble he was in.

Finally, the tingle of their magic left his body and the healers stood. While Darlan thanked them, Fist climbed to his feet. He swayed a little, feeling almost as tired as he had before they had healed him. But this time, his mind was wide awake. The healers waved at him and he called out a thank you as they left.

Then Darlan punched him in the arm. “It was the ‘Cloud of Lightning’ spell, wasn’t it?” she demanded, shooting him a glare that he was sure would burn holes in his skin. He opened his mouth, but she didn’t bother to wait for his response. “Did I not tell you that spell was too dangerous to try on your own?”

“Yes, Mistress Sherl, but-.”

“Did you know that you stopped breathing?”

Fist’s eyes widened. “I did?”

“Indeed!” she snapped. “You are lucky that Charz was here to revive you.”

He turned grateful eyes on the giant. “You revived me? Thank you, Charz.”

“I ain’t talking about it!” the giant said.

“He was breathing the life back into you when we arrived,” said Alfred, holding back a laugh.

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about it!” Charz growled.

Darlan sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I was looking for you all over this morning. Luckily Alfred pointed me this way. I was right next to the testing center when Squirrel fell out of the tree next to me.”

“You fell out of a tree?” Fist asked in surprise.

Squirrel had climbed up the ogre’s body while Darlan was berating him. He was sitting on the ogre’s shoulder, his back to Fist’s head. I’m angry.

“He struck the ground, stiff as a stick!” Darlan said. “I fear the shock of what happened to you nearly killed him.”

Fist swallowed, a surge of guilt rising inside him. “I-I didn’t think-.”

“No you didn’t!” Darlan said. “You are a bonding wizard, remember? If you die, Squirrel dies too. Think these things through before you do something stupid!”

Fist’s shoulders slumped. I’m so sorry, Squirrel.

The old woman put her hand on Darlan’s shoulder and said sweetly, “Come now, dear. Look at the poor boy. He understands. You’ve berated him enough.”

“Oh have I now?” Darlan held her hand out towards Fist. There was something in her palm. “Tell me, Fist. What’s this?”

Fist squinted at the item on her palm. It looked like a small plant. “I . . . don’t know.”

“Are you sure? I found it in your ear while I was healing you,” she said accusingly.

“Oh, you shouldn’t put things in your ear, dear,” said the old woman, shaking her head.

“It’s a honstule sprout,” Darlan continued. “I’m surprised you could hear. Its little roots were digging into your ear drum. At the rate these plants grow, it could have done major damage in a few more hours.”

“Squirrel did it!” Fist declared, pointing at the beast.

Squirrel snorted and turned his nose up at the ogre.

“You shouldn’t place blame on others,” Darlan replied with a frown.

“He did!” Fist insisted. “He was being naughty last night. He shoved a bunch of seeds in my ear when I was sleeping.”

Darlan placed a weary hand on her forehead. “What am I going to do with you two?”

“Oh they’ll be fine,” the old woman told Darlan, patting Fist’s arm as she spoke. Her hair was silvery gray and she kept it tied back behind her head in a braid. She reached up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear and Fist noticed a rune on the palm of her left hand. This woman was named.

“Children always are,” the woman continued. “You know, your father was terrible with that kind of thing. Always sticking things where they shouldn’t go. His nose or ears, whatever holes were handy, really. Artemus was worried half to death about it. But I told him that the boy would be fine and I was right. He grew out of it.”

“I’m not a child. I’m twenty years old,” Fist said in protest, but then something she said struck him. “Did you say Artemus?”

“Yes, dear. My late first husband,” the woman said, smiling at some distant memory. “He was a sweet man. A good man. I still miss him terribly.” She shook her head, dismissing the memory. “But that was long ago.”

Fist blinked. Surely it was a coincidence. The woman was old, but surely she couldn’t be that old. Humans didn’t live that long. Did they?

Darlan cleared her throat. “Fist, I should introduce you. This is my grandmother, Mistress Sarine.”

Fist’s eyebrows rose. So he was right. “Your grandma? Then she was married to Justan’s great grand-.”

Darlan gave him a warning look. “Yes. That’s right, Fist. Not only is my Grandma Begazzi still alive, I found out last night that she’s actually better known as the ‘famous’ Mistress Sarine, one of the Prophet’s companions.”

Fist wasn’t well versed in human history, but he had heard Justan mention the Prophet’s companions. They were the group of warriors and wizards that had marched on the Dark Prophet’s palace at the end of the great war. That meant that this woman would have been at the Prophet’s side when the Dark Prophet was defeated two hundred years ago.

“She is also our new council historian,” Darlan continued, a bitter note in her voice. “Another in a long list of facts I learned when she arrived last night.”

“Why Darlan, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you weren’t happy I’m here,” Sarine scoffed.

“I . . .” Darlan’s mouth worked for a moment before words finally spilled out. “It’s just sudden and bizarre, don’t you think? You’ve been alive my whole life without bothering to tell me. Even after my father and mother died and I thought I was completely alone, you didn’t visit! And suddenly you show up calling me, ‘dear’ like you had been around the whole time?”

“Firstly, I’m an old woman. I call everyone ‘dear’,” Sarine protested. “And I have been around! As much as I was allowed. I couldn’t come in person, but I sent you letters. And gifts!”

“Right . . . The packages from my mysterious auntie, living with the elves in Khalpany,” Darlan said.

“It was true. Except for the ‘auntie’ part,” she admitted. “But that’s where I’ve been. In the Pruball Elf Homeland.” She gestured at the elf standing next to Charz. “The olives I sent came from Kyrkon’s own vineyard.”

“Oh! You’re the one who sent Mistress Sherl the elf olives!” Fist said in understanding.

Darlan had been receiving boxes of Khalpany Olives every few months for years. The intense elven magic in them is what had been keeping Darlan and Faldon young for so long. She didn’t talk about it, but as far as Justan had been able to figure, his mother was over 150 years old and his father at least a hundred.

Fist looked at Darlan. “But you said that an old client of yours was sending them.”

“My ‘auntie’ swore me to secrecy,” Darlan replied in a half grumble. “Her letters said that she was sending me the olives as part of a promise to my mother.”

“It was!” Sarine said indignantly. “I promised your mother that I would look after you and I did the best I could from afar.”

“I told you she wasn’t gonna understand, Begazzi,” said the gray-haired dwarf standing by Charz. He was dressed in brown travel clothes that looked like they needed a good washing and he had the oddest beard. His upper lip was clean-shaven, but the beard that hung from his neck and chin was so long that he had tucked the end of it into his trousers. “It’s gonna take a while.”

“Oh, Fist, I have been remiss!” Darlan said. “I should introduce you to these fine people as well. The dwarf here is named Bill. The elf is Kyrkon. And the gnome is Maryanne.” She forced a smile. “They are Sarine’s bonded.”

Fist’s jaw dropped. “She’s a bonding wizard too?”

Darlan nodded half-mockingly. “Interesting how they left that part out of the histories.”

Sarine sighed, “Yes, dear. I am a bonding wizardess and a sorceress. Now do you understand why I had to stay in hiding? At the time of the ban, my name had become famous in the land as a wizardess, but I am a spirit magic specialist. I have no elemental talent whatsoever. I couldn’t hide in plain sight like some of the others.”

After the Dark Prophet’s defeat two hundred years previous, the Prophet had banned the use of spirit magic in Dremaldria. He had forbidden all of the Mage Schools from teaching it and had even taken all mention of it out of the schools’ libraries. The wizards that specialized in its use went into hiding. By the time Justan was born, spirit magic was all but forgotten. Its existence hadn’t been acknowledged until the Prophet had lifted the ban just a few short months ago.

“I’d still be in Khalpany if John hadn’t sent me a letter saying that I could return,” Sarine continued. “The letter from Wizard Valtrek offering me the position on the council arrived only a week later.”

“Odd how he didn’t tell me about that,” Darlan said and from the irritation in her voice, Fist knew that Valtrek’s letter was news to her.

“Please understand, Darlan. I had no choice but to submit to exile,” Sarine said. “A command from the Prophet is a command from the Bowl of Souls itself. As a named wizardess, I could not disobey.”

Some of the hardness left Darlan’s eyes. “Please, Mistress Sarine, forgive me for being upset. Your dwarf-, uh, Bill is right. It will take some time for me to stop being angry with you, but I’m . . . glad you’re here.”

Sarine put on a look of deepest understanding and grasped her granddaughter’s arm. “Oh, Darlan. I know. I know. It has been a difficult return for me as well. I never wanted to leave this school and now that I’m back-.” She waved an arm. “Well, it is so different. This big ugly building, for instance. It wasn’t here in my day. Do you mind if we leave this dreadful room and go outside?”

“Of course,” said Darlan, trying her best to keep the temper out of her voice. “Come, Fist. You should tag along while I think of a fitting punishment for your chicanery this morning.”

Fist blinked at her choice of words. “Uh, I think you mean skullduggery, Mistress Sherl.”

“Shut up and follow me,” she replied, leading Sarine to the door.

Sarine’s bonded began following after them, but the female gnome paused in front of the doorway and turned to face Fist. Maryanne looked young for a gnome, with long auburn hair that covered her droopy ears and a petite mouth that was turned up in an assessing smile. She was well over seven-feet-tall and lithely muscular, wearing a skin-tight suit of elf-made leather armor. She had a rune encrusted bow slung over one shoulder while a quiver bristling with arrows was hanging from her hip.

“So you’re bonded to Sarine’s grandchild, huh?” Maryanne said. She traced a finger down the muscles of one of Fists massive arms. “I think you’re kinda cute.”

She turned and trotted out the door and Fist looked back at Charz with wide eyes. The giant shook his head slowly and with a roll of his eyes said, “Gnomes.”

Alfred laughed.

Chapter Three

Fist retrieved his belongings from the chest by the door, then quickly donned his apprentice robes and threw Squirrel’s pouch over his shoulder. The little creature jumped in and he ran out the door after Darlan and the others, trying to pull the leather glove onto his right hand with his teeth while holding his mace in his other hand. They hadn’t gone far. Darlan had paused just outside of the Magic Testing Center.

Mistress Sarine was talking away as Fist arrived. “ . . . And as I was saying earlier, I am constantly struck by how much has changed around here. Don’t misunderstand me, dear. The new clock tower is lovely, as are the fountains in the center square. Just enchanting. But this entire side of the grounds with this testing center and all these warehouses . . . well, frankly they’re just an eyesore.”

The dwarf, Bill, was nodding and stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Well it wouldn’t be so bad, Begazzi, if we could go back in and add some scrollwork along the edges and perhaps redo the roofs with decorative tile.”

“Some colorful paint and some flowerbeds would help, too,” added Kyrkon. The elf was as odd as the dwarf in his own way. His brown hair was cropped short and his clothes were of a strange cut Fist hadn’t seen before, with tight leather pants and a loose flowing shirt. He also wore riding gloves and a thin sword with an ornate pommel hung at his waist.

“Oh!” said Sarine, clapping her hands together. “That sounds wonderful! What do you think, Darlan? Bill could oversee the work. He loves that sort of thing. Would the rest of the council have a problem with that?”

“I don’t see why they would,” she remarked dubiously. “Though Wizard Beehn is the main one you’d have to run it by. He is the one in charge of the grounds, after all.”

“Well, this is all exciting conversation,” Maryanne said, the gnome yawning with boredom. “But what I really want to know is where your archery range is at.”

“It’s a school for magic, dear,” Sarine reminded her.

“But the academy has one,” Fist offered. “In their training grounds out behind the new barracks. They won’t mind if you use it. As long as it’s not already crowded with students.”

The gnome gave him a grateful smile. “See? Look at this big man, Sarine. He’s my hero.”

Fist blinked. Maybe she was confused by his clothing. “Uh . . . I’m not a man. I’m an ogre.”

“Oh, I know,” she replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t you start on him, Maryanne,” Sarine warned, wagging a finger at the gnome.

“I’ll be at the range if you need me, Sarine,” the gnome replied. She brushed past Fist as she walked by and said softly, “You can join me there if you like,” before heading towards the academy buildings.

Oooh, sent Squirrel, his head peeking out of the top of his pouch.

Fist watched her go, his cheeks reddening. She had spoken to him in much the same way female ogres teased a prospective mate. Surely she wasn’t serious. Was she making fun of him?

“That didn’t take long,” said Bill, sharing amused looks with Kyrkon.

“Sorry, ogre,” the elf added. “She tends to fall for the muscular ones.”

Fist frowned. Now he was sure she’d been making fun of him.

Sarine sighed. “Oh my. I feel I should apologize for Maryanne. She is my newest bonded and she still hasn’t grown past a few of her former flaws, the poor dear.”

“Well I don’t like it,” said Darlan and Fist saw that her glare was following Maryanne’s lithe figure as the gnome jogged away. “See to it that you have a talk with her, would you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about her,” Sarine said, dismissing the idea with a gesture. “She’s harmless.”

“Uh, Mistress Sherl,” Fist said, wanting to change the subject. “There is something I’ve been needing to talk to you about.”

She didn’t look away from the gnome. “Yes, what is it?”

Fist knew how Darlan would react and didn’t want to go over all the details in front of everyone. He cleared his throat and stepped closer, speaking softly. “It’s about Justan. I spoke to him last night and I’ve got news.”

That got her attention. Darlan turned her gaze on him, her brow furrowed in concern. “Did they make it into Malaroo alright?”

“Well, he’s okay, but . . .” Fist tried to give her a look to tell her that he’d prefer to speak alone.

“But what?” she asked, making an impatient gesture.

“I just think that maybe we should-.”

“Stop making faces at me and tell me what happened!” she snapped.

Fist winced. His attempt at subtlety had backfired. Now everyone was looking at him. “Well, Deathclaw and Gwyrtha finally caught up with him yesterday, but when they crossed the Malaroo border . . . they were attacked.”

“Attacked by whom?” Darlan asked warily.

“Was it Jhonate’s father?” said Alfred.

“More basilisks?” Charz asked.

“Oh dear, what has that boy gotten himself into?” Sarine asked, bringing one hand to her mouth.

Fist groaned inwardly. “No! Well, yes. Kind of. They were there, but-.”

“Use coherent sentences, Fist,” Darlan told him.

The ogre tried to answer all the questions, “They were attacked by an army of the wild people. You know, the Roo-Dan. And they had merpeople with them too. Justan and the others fought them for awhile and then some of Jhonate’s people showed up and helped them.”

“Jhonate’s people helped this army?” Darlan said.

“No. Jhonate’s people helped Justan,” Fist corrected. “They defeated the army of wild people together. But then, when the battle was over, the nightbeast snuck in and killed Yntri Yni.”

There was a moment of stunned silence after this statement. None of them knew Yntri well, but Darlan, Charz, and Alfred had met him while Justan’s party had stayed at the Mage School for a couple days. Charz had even shared a bottle of pepperbean wine with him.

“How horrible,” Darlan said.

“Yntri Yni?” said Kyrkon, his face pale and his voice strained. At that moment, Fist saw something in the elf’s eyes that told him Kyrkon was much older than he looked. “Of the ancient ones? But how?”

“The nightbeast had changed itself to look like one of Jhonate’s people. It . . .” Fist shuddered as he recalled the memory Justan had shown him. “It stabbed him in front of everyone. It looked into Justan’s eyes while it did it.”

The elf swallowed. “This is a terrible blow. I should send a message to my sect.”

“You can send a pigeon from the Rune Tower,” Alfred suggested.

“Thank you,” Kyrkon replied. “I remember where it is. They haven’t moved it in the last two hundred years, have they?”

“Not that I know of,” said Alfred. “Some of the droppings look at least that old.”

The elf didn’t smile at the joke, but nodded somberly and began walking towards the tower. He gave Sarine a quick glance along the way and she gave him an encouraging look in return. Fist had been bonded long enough to know that a mental communication had just taken place.

“The Prophet will be so heartbroken,” Sarine said. “John knew that elf for a long time.” She frowned. “But why would someone send a nightbeast after one of the ancient ones? What would they have to gain?”

“It wasn’t after him,” Fist replied. “It was after Justan. Yntri Yni was just in the way.”

“Poor Justan,” Darlan said. “He must be wracked with guilt over it.”

“And just who sent a nightbeast after my great grandson?” asked Mistress Sarine. There was real anger in her voice now.

“Someone in Malaroo,” Darlan said. “We don’t know who for sure, but there is the distinct possibility it could be his future father-in-law.”

“The leader of the Roo-tan? And you let him walk right into it?” Sarine said to Darlan, dumbfounded.

“It’s wasn’t Jhonate’s father,” Fist said. “Justan met Xedrion after the battle and found out that he had nothing to do with it.”

Darlan’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Well that’s good. Does he have any other ideas who it could be?”

Fist shrugged. “Justan has no other enemies that he knows about.”

“It still has to be someone in the Roo-Tan,” Darlan said. “Someone that doesn’t want an alliance between their people and the academy. When you speak with him tonight, tell him to look into any other people among the Roo-Tan that have the kind of wealth needed to hire a nightbeast.”

Fist nodded, but he was pretty sure Justan and Jhonate were already doing just that. “Okay.”

Darlan turned to Sarine and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Please excuse me, Mistress Sarine. I’ve just realized that I have more matters to attend to. I’m sure Alfred can show you the rest of the changes in the school without me.”

“I would be happy to,” the gnome warrior replied with a short bow.

A slight bit of irritation rippled across Sarine’s features, but she put on a polite smile. “Of course, dear. But just call me Sarine. We’re family, after all.”

“I’d prefer to use your proper title for now, thank you,” Darlan replied.

The comment stung the old woman, but she smiled at her granddaughter anyway. “We will have plenty of time to discuss things later.”

“That we will,” Darlan replied, forcing a smile of her own. Then she grabbed the arm of Fist’s robe and yanked him in the direction of the Rune Tower.

Fist followed along meekly, relieved that they were leaving the bonding wizard behind. Fist had found the old woman troubling. She had an intangible quality about her that made her presence overpowering. Perhaps it was a family trait because Darlan had it too. With those two women standing side by side, the large ogre had felt positively small.

Darlan headed straight for the moat around the Rune Tower. They followed along its bank until she was sure that they had moved out of eye and earshot of her grandmother. Then she stopped and turned around to face Fist.

“Alright, listen. I had to get you away from her before you blurted something I hadn’t prepared her for.”

“You mean, about the Scralag?” the ogre surmised.

“I haven’t told her about that yet. I told her about the rest of Justan’s bonded earlier, but not that one,” she said. Darlan reached up with both hands to rub at her temples. “I haven’t told her about Artemus yet for a few reasons. First of all, I barely know the woman. I have no idea how she’ll react to the news that her husband’s soul is still around, trapped inside my son’s chest. Secondly, I am angry at her.”

“You seem angry a lot of the time,” Fist remarked, then winced, regretting the words as soon as they had left his mouth.

Stupid, Squirrel agreed. The ogre braced himself for a dressing down or perhaps even an incineration but, to his surprise, she chuckled.

“Oh Fist, if I’m angry with you it’s because I care. I don’t waste my emotion on people I don’t care about.” She poked his chest with a stiff finger. “I am still furious with you about the trick you pulled earlier, by the way.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Fist said.

“What got into your head?” she asked.

The ogre shrugged. “I wanted to try the spells again, but I thought you’d be in a meeting all morning, so I got Charz. I knew that I couldn’t hurt him with them and I didn’t think I’d hurt myself.”

“You think your spells didn’t hurt him?” Darlan said, an eyebrow raised. “His skin was smoking when we got there. Patches of his back were glowing hot. Sure he healed up afterwards, but you owe him an apology.”

Fist’s face blanched. She was right. He had known that the spells would cause the giant pain and he had ignored the fact. “I will try to make it up to him.”

She folded her arms. “So what went wrong with the spell?”

“I tried my other spells first. I made a column of earth and I did that clay encasement spell you taught me the other day. They worked good, but I think I used up too much of my magic for the big spell,” he said. “I made the cloud and built up the electricity but when I let it go, I didn’t have enough earth magic left to protect me.”

Darlan nodded. “That’s a danger with large spells like cloud lightning. They are usually used as a last defense and you are often already exhausted by the time you’re in a situation where you need to use them. You need to learn your limits or you will kill yourself one day.”

“I understand,” the ogre said.

“Hmm. I think it’s time we trained your stamina,” Darlan said, stroking her chin as she thought. “Alright, this is how I want you to do it. Each night, just before you go to bed, drain your magic completely.”

“How?” he asked.

She smiled. “It’s an old trick I learned back when I was an apprentice. What you do is you make a ball of light. Then you focus on keeping it as dim as possible.”

Fist frowned. Making a ball of light was one of the first spells she had taught him. It required only a low amount of focus, but it was very inefficient, taking a lot of energy and making a bright light. Dimming it required tightening up the spell, which meant pouring more energy into it. That was why wizards still preferred to use candles or light orbs. Still, there had to be faster ways to drain his magic.

“If I try to make it dim, it will just go out,” he complained.

“Then you’ll just have to expend more energy to keep it going,” she said. “The dimmer you try to keep it, the faster you’ll drain your magic.”

“But why will that help?” Fist asked.

“Think of it like training your muscles,” she replied. “The more you push your limits, the further your limits grow. You won’t be able to increase your magic’s strength very much, but you can increase your capacity. In addition, you will better learn how to tell when you’ve exhausted your resources.”

“Okay,” he said, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. This would send him to bed completely exhausted each night. How would that affect his conversations with Justan? Would it be harder to use the bond over such a long distance if he was that tired?

“Alright, now I wasn’t lying to my grandmother when I told her that I have things to get done. I want you to go to the library and study until lunch time. Then we’ll speak again,” Darlan said and turned to stride away. “And when we do, you’re going to tell me all about how Justan’s meeting with Xedrion went.”

“Yes, Mistress. Oh! But what about my punishment?” he asked.

Stupid, said Squirrel, shaking his head.

Darlan stopped. “I imagine that the pain you went through, added to the guilt you must feel are probably punishment enough.” She turned back to face him again and her look was deadly serious. “But next time you feel the compulsion to train behind my back, think of this. Most people don’t learn the spells I have taught you until they are mages. Some of the spells, like cloud lightning, are only used by a handful of full wizards.

“I didn’t decide to teach you advanced war spells just because I like you. I do it because you’re bonded to my son and Justan is going to need you. Most of the council thinks I am crazy for teaching you this fast, but I do it anyway despite their objections. If you screw up like this again, whether you live or not, I am the one who will have to face the repercussions. Do you understand?”

Fist swallowed. “Yes, Mistress Sherl.”

“Good,” she said and strode away.

Fist stood there alone for a moment, staring into the water of the moat as the dark forms of the perloi swam lazily by. He wouldn’t let her down. He couldn’t. She was right. Justan needed him.

That was the real reason he wasn’t with Justan in Malaroo now. Fist needed to become stronger. Another war was coming. The Prophet had foretold it. Sooner or later the Dark Prophet would walk on the land again. John had told Fist that Justan would need his strength when that happened and the ogre hadn’t forgotten.

Tightening his fists in determination, Fist followed the moat around to the Rune Tower’s main gate. Once there, he passed over the bridge into the tower and strode down its gilded halls towards the library.

The Mage School in Dremaldria boasted one of the greatest libraries in the known lands, topped perhaps only by the enormous libraries in the Gnome Homeland. Scholars had debated which was greater for centuries, arguing whether it was the number of the books or quality of the books or size of the structure that mattered.

As for size, the Mage School library was huge. It was as long as the Magic Testing Center and six stories tall, with wide staircases connecting each level. Hundreds of bookcases stood in rows radiating out from the circular main desk. A half dozen students wearing assistant sashes stood behind it, checking out and bringing in books.

The main desk is where Fist had his eye because that is where Vincent lurked. The gnomish head librarian did not like Squirrel and the ogre wanted to avoid a scene. To Fist’s relief, Vincent was not in his customary seat.

It was mid-morning now and most students were in classes, but the library was bustling with activity. The long polished tables were crowded with students of every rank preparing for their afternoon classes. It was considered impolite to raise one’s voice in this place, but the room was filled with the low roar of a hundred whisperers.

Fist turned to the right of the main doors and faced a large wardrobe that had been repurposed as the official library weapon closet. A new rule had been instituted after the war. Anyone, wizard or warrior, that wanted to use the library had to leave their weapons in the closet. Fist thought it a silly rule. What were they worried about? Sword fights breaking out over books?

Fist opened the wardrobe and fumbled briefly with the mage staffs that threatened to spill out. Grumbling, he placed his mace inside and walked to the center desk where he waited in line for his turn to speak with one of the librarian assistants. He was only five back in the queue, but he did not make it to the front.

“Droppings!” accused an aristocratic baritone.

Fist winced at the sound. He knew that voice. He turned to see Vincent’s long nose hook over the top of the desk. The gnome peered up at him, his eyebrows twisted with irritation.

“You! Ogre! Come here this instant!”

Fist walked around the desk to the place where the gnome was crouched. Vincent backed out from under the desk where he had been when Fist had entered the library. His tall and slender frame uncoiled as he stood. The gnome was nearly seven feet tall and gaunt with dog-like droopy ears and a two pairs of glasses perched on his high forehead.

“Droppings!” The gnome announced again, shoving his hand out to Fist palm up. “Do you concur?”

There was a scattering of tiny raisin-like ovals on the gnome’s palm. “Uh, yes,” Fist said. “Those look like poop to me.”

“Poop is an uncouth term, but indeed they are,” Vincent said accusingly. “And I have been finding them everywhere. In my chair. In-between pages of my books . . !”

“You might have mice,” Fist suggested.

“Mice? Don’t be absurd,” Vincent said.

“Maybe rats, then?”

The gnome’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, wrinkling the pencil thin mustache above his lips. “There hasn’t been a mouse or rat in the library for decades, young ma- . . . ogre! No, there is only one rodent that has been allowed in this auspicious space and that is your little pet!”

Squirrel squeezed out of his pouch and scurried up to Fist’s shoulder where he affected a look of surprise, pointing at himself. Me?

“Gosh, I don’t know, Mister Vincent, sir,” Fist said. “Squirrel is really clean. I don’t usually find his poop anywhere.”

Squirrel snorted and nodded in agreement and Fist suddenly became suspicious. Where did Squirrel put all his droppings? After all, he was constantly eating. They had to go somewhere.

He shook the thought away. He really didn’t want to know. “I think those are rat poops.”

“Again, I say to you, absurd,” Vincent insisted, tossing the handful of droppings onto the desktop in front of him. He picked up a thick book from the desk and leafed through it. “I researched the matter. This is Bierbaum’s Twenty Third Treatise on Flora and Fauna in Dremaldria and the Region Thereabouts. It belongs on floor two, aisle thirty six. My evidence is on page two hundred and eighty seven. It is a chapter on the distinction between rodent droppings.”

Fist wrinkled his nose. Someone wrote books about that?

“Bierbaum says here in paragraph two, very clearly I might add, that there is a distinct variation in shape and color between the various squirrel species and the common rat. He states . . .” The gnome cleared his throat and began patting his chest with his free hand. “Where are my glasses?”

“On your head,” Fist said.

“Right,” Vincent said pulling a pair down onto the bridge of his nose in a quick manner, causing the other pair to fall off his head and land on the desk in front of him with a clatter. He gave the end of his nose a tug. “I quote, ‘The common rat lays ovaloid droppings, usually black in coloration in much the size of a grain of rice. Squirrel droppings are much the same size and shape. However-!”

The gnome raised a skeletal finger and there was a smattering of laughter from the students nearby. “‘Squirrel droppings are slightly lighter in coloration because of their more specific dietary choices and, whereas rat droppings are marked with an angular taper on both ends, squirrel droppings have a distinctive rounded edge.’ Close quote.”

He picked one of the droppings up of the desk and held it out to Fist. “See? Dark brown, not black, and with rounded edges. You may think that this not conclusive proof, but wait, there’s more.” He placed the dropping back on the desk and picked up another book from a nearby stack. “Pritchard’s Animal Almanac volume seven. From floor two, aisle thirty-six, row four, page hmm, let’s see . . .”

There was more laughter from the students and Fist turned his head in time to see that Squirrel was mimicking the librarian’s gestures, fiddling with an imaginary pair of spectacles and moving his mouth along with the gnome’s.

“Stop it, Squirrel!” Fist whispered, then sent through the bond, You’re going to get yourself banned from the library again. Luckily, Vincent hadn’t seen Squirrel’s little performance. He hadn’t even looked up from his book.

The gnome flipped a few pages. “Ah, here it is. Page one hundred and thirty-six, paragraph two. Quote, ‘The common rat has the distinction of leaving its droppings scattered here and there without any discernible pattern as they defecate as the urge hits them. Squirrels, on the other hand, are neater and tend to leave their droppings in piles.’ End quote.”

He looked back up at Fist. “And there you have it. Piles of droppings under my desk. Piles of droppings in my hat-.” He lifted a felt hat with a short brim from the desk and jiggled it so that Fist could hear the tiny droppings rolling inside. “And piles of droppings in my pockets!” Vincent reached onto the breast pocket of his tweed vest and pulled out a tiny handful of droppings that he then piled onto the desk in front of him. “Proof definitive! This was no mouse or rat.”

Fist looked at Squirrel and the little beast gave him an exaggerated shrug. The ogre could feel the intensity of his amusement through the bond. The ogre swallowed and said, “I don’t know how it could be Squirrel. Because I keep him close when we’re in the library and Squirrel stays with me at night.”

“He’s got a good point, Vincent, sir,” said one of the assistants standing nearby. “That’s a lot of droppings and he’s just one squirrel.”

Fist nodded in agreement. “Yeah. And how could he have got them in your pockets? Squirrel’s too big to fit in your pocket.”

The gnome’s thin lips twisted into a scowl. “I do not have a full explanation, but it is obvious that the little devil placed them in there somehow.”

“I will talk to him, sir,” Fist promised. “But he says he didn’t do it.”

Squirrel shook his head innocently.

“Nah, it wasn’t Squirrel,” said one student.

“Oh please don’t tell me we have rats,” worried another.

Vincent frowned at all of them. “I’ll find more proof,” he argued. “Why I am sure that there is more research on the second floor. Perhaps in Professor Varder-.”

“Vincent, sir?” Fist interrupted, remembering one of Justan’s tricks. “The reason I came here was that I want to research the War of the Dark Prophet.”

The gnome blinked for a moment and his demeanor changed. He was suddenly quite professional. “Histories, then. Floor three, aisles fifty through fifty-five. It’s a broad subject. What part of the war specifically?”

“Oh, uh, the Prophet’s companions,” Fist said.

“Aisle fifty-two, then. Look on the third shelf. Grennedy did some of the best work,” the gnome said. “Watch your step. Your feet are quite large for those stairs.”

“Thank you,” Fist said and turned towards the staircase. The gnome’s politeness at the end had made him feel guilty for lying. That was close, Squirrel. You need to stop being so mean to Mister Vincent.

Mean? Squirrel replied. He didn’t see it that way. Funny.

Well, he doesn’t think so, Fist replied. How did you carry all your poop in here anyway? Squirrel started to send Fist a series of memories and the ogre cut him off part way through, his stomach turning. Just don’t do it again.

“Fist!” shouted a loud male voice, drawing a frown from Vincent and the attention of the students nearby. Fist saw that it was Roobin, one of the academy graduates on guard duty at the school. He was dressed for battle in full chainmail, with a broadsword at his belt and he was breathing heavily.

The guard trotted up to him. “Good, Wizard Sarine said you would be in here.”

“What is it, Roobin?” Fist asked. He didn’t know the man very well. He had fought along side him during the war but hadn’t seen him much since.

“There’s a group of ogres at the wall,” Rubin said.

“Ogres?” Fist said in surprise. “Are we under attack?”

“We don’t think so,” Roobin replied. “There’s ten of them and we have them surrounded, but they say they’re not here to fight. They want to talk to you.”

“Me?” Fist asked. “Why?”

“One of them says he’s your father.”

Chapter Four

Fist ran towards the gate, his mace clenched in his ungloved hand, quickly outpacing the academy graduate that had come to fetch him. His mind churned as he sped down the road, forcing Squirrel to cling to his shoulder and leaving startled students in his wake. His father? It wasn’t possible.

Crag was dead. The Thunder People were destroyed. This had to be some sort of trick, but why? Why would ogres come to the school looking for him? A theory began to develop in his mind.

When he arrived at the front gate, Darlan was there waiting, as was Professor Beehn and Charz. They were speaking with Riveren the Unbending and Kathy the Plate. They paused their conversation as Fist ran up to them.

Fist switched his mace to his gloved right hand and stopped. “Is it true what Roobin said?”

“One of our student scouts reported seeing a group of ogres approaching through the woods this morning,” Riveren replied. The Captain Commander of the Mage School Guard had fiery red hair and a pointed beard and Fist could see the haft of his double-bladed axe rising from behind one heavily muscled shoulder.

“Roobin said there was ten of them,” Fist said. That was a significant number. Ogre tribes were usually quite small. Some of them might only have ten males altogether and they never left their females completely unguarded. They hunted in groups of three or four at the most. If any force of more than five left the tribe’s territory, it was considered a war party.

“We sent out a patrol to intercept them,” Riveren continued. “Kathy led the patrol.”

He gestured to Kathy and the woman nodded, her short-cropped hair ruffled by the breeze. She was the academy defense teacher. She wore a bulky suit of plate armor and carried her helmet under her arm. Her tone was formal as she reported, “We came upon an armed party of ten ogres, nine males, one female.”

Fist registered slight surprise at this. Ogre females rarely left the tribal territory. The males liked to keep them close and protected. Perhaps this was a group of outcasts left wandering after the collapse of Ewzad Vriil’s forces.

“They were traveling directly towards the school from the southeast. We cordoned off their approach and I commanded that they turn around and leave,” Kathy said.

“Why didn’t you just attack them?” Fist wondered.

“Good point,” said Charz. Ogres weren’t as aggressive towards humans as the goblinoid races, but it would seem unwise to let a group that large roam free.

“It is standard academy policy to determine the level of a threat before attacking.” Kathy hesitated for a moment, then said. “One of the ogres stepped forward and said that they were not here to fight. He claimed that they were from the Thunder People Tribe and that they had come to find you.”

A chill went up Fist’s back but he told himself that it wasn’t proof of anything. It was to be expected that these imposters would know that much about him. He had gained a reputation while part of the Thunder People after all.

“Tell him the rest,” Darlan said firmly.

Kathy glanced at her and then Riveren. The thick black stripe painted across her pretty face hid some of her emotion, but Fist could see something was troubling her. The commander gave her a nod and she cleared her throat.

“The ogre took another step towards me and one of my bowmen fired.” She met Fist’s gaze. “The arrow struck him in the eye. The rest of the ogres almost attacked, but he stopped them. He yanked out the arrow and then . . . then he said that he was your father.”

“And his eye?” Darlan asked.

“It looked bad, Mistress Sherl. The ogre female was tending to it when I left.”

Fist blinked at her, unsure how he should feel. “Did he tell you his name?”

“He called himself Crag,” she replied. At the frown that appeared on his face, she said. “I apologize that your father was maimed. The bowman was under my command. I take full responsibility for his actions.”

“I am not mad at you. I don’t think he’s really my father,” Fist said. He looked to Darlan. “I was told that the Thunder People were destroyed and he was dead. Even if Gerstag lied to me . . . Why would Crag come this far from the Thunder People territory? And how would he know I was here?”

“You fought other ogres during the war,” Charz said. “Maybe one of the survivors told him.”

“I killed the ogres I fought,” Fist replied. He returned his attention to Kathy, “What did he look like?”

“Uh, he was ugly,” she said automatically. Then as if realizing she might offend, added, “I mean, his face was all smashed up and he had a bunch of scars. Also, he looked older than the others.”

It’s him. Squirrel sent.

No, Fist replied.

Squirrel clutched at his ear and forced a memory through the bond. It was one that Fist had shared with him long ago, the visage of his father, bruised and broken on the night of Fist’s expulsion from the tribe. It was the same face he had seen in his dream that night.

Fist winced. I remember him, Squirrel. “She describes him right, but this ogre is not acting like Crag. Bringing a female away from the tribe? Backing down from a fight?” He shook his head. “No, I think it’s a trick.”

“But why?” Professor Beehn asked. He was wearing his formal council robes, bright gold with a streak of white across the back. The wizard’s bond with Alfred had done wonders for his health. He stood without help and it seemed like he looked thinner every time Fist saw him. “Why would a group of ogres come here to trick you?”

“I don’t know,” Fist said. He decided to share his budding theory “What if they were sent by the same person who sent basilisks after Justan?”

Darlan’s brow furrowed. That was not a possibility she had considered. “You think they may have been sent to kill you as an attack on Justan?”

“Maybe,” Fist said, but coming from her lips the idea sounded far fetched. He sighed. “But maybe not. How would the person after Justan know so much? Not very many people know the name of my old tribe. Or my father’s name.”

“The other ogre tribes might,” Charz suggested.

Fist nodded. “That is true.”

“Then what do you want us to do?” Riveren asked. “They are waiting just outside the wall only a few hundred yards from the gate. Kathy’s party is still watching them from the tree line and we have another score of archers ready to fire from the wall above.”

“I will go to them,” Fist decided. He had to know.

“No,” said Darlan. “If this is a trap like you think it is, I don’t want you stepping anywhere near them.”

“I will know if it is Crag as soon as I see him,” Fist replied. “And you heard Riveren. All of Kathy’s men are still there. And the archers on the wall.”

“We could cut them all down in under a minute,” Kathy said.

“And I’ll be there,” Charz declared, rubbing his fist into his palm. “Maybe I’ll actually get to fight an ogre today.”

Fist liked that idea. Ogres were not fond of giants, but worked with them from time to time. Having Charz with him would bolster his strength in their eyes.

Me too, said Squirrel, his hands on his hips and his chest thrust out.

Darlan pursed her lips, but said, “Alright, Fist. You can go. But I will be going with you as well.”

“But . . .” The glare she directed towards him kept Fist from finishing his protest.

“No offense, Sherl,” said Charz, raising one rocky eyebrow. “But if these ogres see a woman ordering Fist around, they’re gonna see it as a sign of weakness.”

She raised an eyebrow at Fist. “Do you care what these other ogres think?”

It was a good question. Anxiety had flooded his chest when she had insisted on coming. But why? There was no reason for him to be ashamed that she was his master. She was a female human, but Darlan was more powerful than any but a handful of living wizards in the known lands. No one who spent more than five minutes with her could ever think her inferior to any male.

“No,” Fist decided. “I don’t care. Why should I?”

“Very good,” she said, giving him a curt nod. “But nevertheless, I won’t ‘order you about’ unless it is absolutely necessary.”

“I’ll watch from above with the archers,” Beehn offered. “If something happens, I can help from the wall.”

“Thank you, Beehn,” Darlan said.

“Escort them, Kathy,” Riveren said.

Kathy placed her helmet on her head. “Let’s go.” While Beehn and Riveren climbed the stairs to the top of the wall, Kathy led the rest of them out the gate.

The Mage School was surrounded by forest on all sides, but the trees had been cleared back several hundred yards from the wall. This made it easier for defenders to see any incoming threat. It was doubly important now that the wall was only half its former height. Many of the trees were taller than the wall itself.

Fist’s anxiety rose again as they walked along the perimeter of the wall. What would he find? He felt a slight relief when the first ogres came into view. He didn’t recognize them. One of them even had a Fire People brand on his arm.

Then he saw Crag. Fist wasn’t sure at first because the female ogre was plastering something brown all over the right half of his face, covering his wounded eye. He looked to be the right height and his hair was the familiar brown speckled with gray. The female had stripped the winter furs off of his upper body and his build was like Fist remembered it. His skin was covered with scars and his muscles jutted out at angles as if he were chiseled from sandstone.

The female spat more of that brown stuff into her hand and slapped it over his eye. The scarred ogre bellowed in pain and protest and Fist knew that voice. He switched to mage sight and then to spirit sight, but there was no magic disguising the ogre or changing his face. He wasn’t an imposter. This was indeed his father.

“Hold still, Stinky Chief!” barked the female. She was just as muscular as the males, but slightly shorter. Her hair was long and black and matted, but she was pretty for an ogress. She had big dark eyes and there was no hair on her chin. “You need more leaves.”

She scooped up a handful of dead leaves off of the ground and shoved them in her mouth. As she began chewing, Fist realized that the brown sludge on Crag’s face was her idea of a poultice. He winced. He had forgotten how awful ogre medicine was.

One of the ogres saw Fist approaching and shouted, “Crag!” The ogre who yelled wore a chainmail shirt and carried a massive sword. There was something vaguely familiar about this one. With that gear, he was likely a leftover from the war. Fist wondered how many good people he had killed.

The armored ogre pointed. “Fist is here!”

The rest of the ogres turned to look at Fist. The ogress tried to apply more chewed leaves to Crag’s face, but he pushed her aside and shoved through the others. A broad smile split his grizzled face. “Fist! You come!”

“Crag,” Fist said slowly. “Gerstag told me you were dead.”

“Gerstag lied,” Crag said. “His Rock People comed and taked the stupid ones that wanted to join the Barldag’s war, but I stayed,” he said, smacking his fist on his chest. “I listened to my son, Fist.”

“You listened to me?” Fist frowned, hesitant to believe that what Crag said was true.

“I am chief, but you is the smartest,” Crag said and by the expressions on the other ogre’s faces, they were as surprised to hear this admission as Fist was. Ogres as a rule disliked admitting their faults and Crag was more stubborn than most.

Still grinning, Crag walked forward and grabbed Fist’s arms. Fist fought off the urge to back away. It was the closest Crag had ever come to giving him an embrace. The ogre sized him up with his good eye. “You is bigger now?”

“No,” Fist said, somewhat shaken by his father’s affection. “I stand straighter now.”

Crag cocked his head. “There is a food on your shoulder.”

Squirrel’s eyes widened in surprise and he looked around for the food he had missed.

“That is not a food,” Fist explained. “That is Squirrel.”

“Oh . . ,” Crag said, though it was obvious he didn’t understand. He gave Fist’s arms a squeeze. “You feel strong,” he said, approval in his voice. He glanced at Kathy and Darlan and Charz, who were standing slightly behind Fist, watching the ogres’ interaction warily. He dismissed the human women offhand. “You have a giant?”

Charz snorted and Fist ignored the question. “You are bleeding, Crag.”

A large chunk of the impromptu poultice that the female had applied to the ogre’s wound had slid off of Crag’s face, allowing blood to flow freely down his cheek. Fist had learned a lot about the way injuries should be treated during his time at the Mage School and the wound looked even more horrible up close. The thought of the ogress’ saliva being packed into the wound with all those rotted leaves was enough to make him cringe.

Crag grinned away the pain. “It will be good. Puj put leaves on it.”

“Yes!” said the ogress, her smile showing bits of brown leaves wedged in her teeth. “It will heal.”

“Let me see,” Fist said. He planted the spikes of his mace in the ground and raised his hands towards his father’s face. He sent out strands of earth magic, probing the injury.

He could see that the arrow had entered just below the eye, severing muscle and connective tissue. Crag had done even more damage tearing the arrow out. He was fortunate that the arrow had not pierced his brain and that a major artery had not been struck. As it was, the ogress had forced a lot of debris into the wound. The tissue was already swelling with infection.

Crag jerked back, feeling the intrusion of Fist’s magic. “What is that?”

“It was magic, Crag. I was looking at your eye,” Fist said. “It must be causing you a lot of pain.”

“It will hurt until it doesn’t,” said the ogre, no stranger to injury. His grin widened. “Then you do has magic, Fist? Burl said you is a great ogre mage now.”

Fist looked back at the ogre wearing the chainmail shirt. Now he recognized his half-brother Burl. Fist narrowed his eyes. If Burl knew about his magic, he must have seen him in that last battle of the war. The anger in his gaze caused Burl to take a step back in fear. Fist filed that information away and returned his attention back on Crag.

“I can fix your eye.” If the arrow had pierced the eye, there would have been nothing Fist could do, but Crag had gotten lucky.

“The womens are the fixers,” Crag said.

Fist felt Darlan touch his back and he knew that she was offering to heal Crag, but Fist wanted to show his father what he could do. “My magic can heal you.”

Crag took an uneasy step back. “You talk funny, Fist. You do not sound like a ogre.”

“Please let me try,” Fist said.

“Please?” That was a word ogre men rarely used. But Crag didn’t back away further.

Fist grabbed the sides of his father’s head and focused. Using strands of water, he cleaned the debris from the wound and flushed most of the infection. Then, using a mix of earth and water, he stitched the torn blood vessels and caused the muscle tissues to knit back together and pull the eye back in place. A few more strands of earth magic repaired the skin and Fist let go, feeling drained. His magic had still not recovered from his foolishness earlier that morning.

Crag, stumbled back, his body trembling at the intense magic of the healing. The other ogres surged forward, grabbing their chief. Several of them brandished weapons, one of them going so far as to rear back with a spear. Charz growled and prepared to attack. Fist heard the academy soldiers stirring in the trees.

“Stop!” shouted Crag. He shoved the ogre’s grasping hands aside and stepped away from them as he pulled the remainder of the ogress’ filthy poultice from his face. He blinked and winced a bit. Then he laughed. “I see! I can see!” He turned to the others and pointed. “Fist fixed my eye. He is a strong mage like Burl said!”

The rest of the ogres leaned forward, examining the repaired wound with distrusting eyes. This was new. Magic was for hurting, not healing. It was a known thing.

“Sloppy work,” Darlan remarked, looking at the ogre chief’s face.

Breathing heavily, Fist gave her an apologetic shrug. She was right. He still had difficulty with such detailed work. Crag’s eye would remain red and swollen for awhile. Fist had probably left his father with yet another scar. But he had saved the eye.

“It was no magic!” Protested the ogress Crag had called Puj. “I put leaves on it.”

“Yes, the leaves!” said another ogre. “Puj put leaves on it.” Several of them began nodding.

Crag blinked uncertainly. “But it hurt and then Fist made it not hurt.”

“Yes! He has magic,” Burl insisted. “I seed him make lightnings!”

Fist narrowed his eyes. So he was right. Burl had seen him fighting in the war and evidently the other ogres hadn’t believed him. Was that what this was about?

Had they come all this way to prove Burl’s story? Had Crag undertaken this journey to convince Fist to return to his old home? An ogre mage in the tribe would make the Thunder People so much more prestigious. Did they think he would just meekly come back with them? The idea made Fist furious.

He raised his voice. “You want to see lightning?”

Oh! Squirrel, sensing what was coming, darted over to Charz’s shoulder to take cover.

Fist tore his mace out of the ground and raised it into the air. Growling, Fist caused bright arcs of electric energy to flare up around the weapon. The ogres gasped in wonder. Then he pointed his mace at Burl.

Burl’s eyes went wide and he stumbled backwards in fear. In his minds eye, Fist saw his brother swinging that huge sword, ending the life of innocent villagers. One thought and Fist could send a streak of electricity straight for him. He could feel the electric energy wanting to leap for that chainmail shirt.

Darlan grabbed Fist’s arm and said softly. “Don’t do it.”

Fist gritted his teeth, but obeyed, lowering his arm. He had learned his lesson earlier that day. As tired as he was, he may not have been able to control the intensity of the strike. The arc of energy could have killed Burl. Not that he didn’t deserve it.

“There!” Fist shouted. “You saw my magic. Now go! Leave here and don’t come back!”

Crag gave him a worried look. “But Fist, I comed to get you. Your tribe needs you.”

Fist scowled, his suspicions confirmed. “You made me leave. I am no longer part of the Thunder People.”

Crag frowned. “No! You is my son. You is Thunder People. Leave these humans and little peoples. You is a ogre. You will come back with us.”

“No!” Fist said. “I have my own tribe now. We are the Big and Little People!”

“You will come back!” Crag insisted. “The Thunder People is different now. I listened to your words and you was right. We did not join the Barldag! And while other tribes died, we growed big while you was gone. We letted many ogres back in. We even letted in the rogue ones. We is the best!”

The other ogres roared in agreement.

“Good!” said Fist. “I am glad for you. Then go back to your big tribe. You do not need me.”

“We do!” Crag insisted.

“Why?” Fist said. “Why did you come all this way for me?”

“Because . . .” Crag cocked his head at Fist. “Because you is Fist. You is the one that cares.”

“Cares about what?” Fist said, flabbergasted.

“The Thunder People,” Crag said. He stepped forward. “There is a great evil in the mountains. It is big and it is black and it eats the tribes.”

Fist blinked. “An evil?”

“It covers the ground,” said another ogre. He was tall, a few inches taller than Fist, though his body was not as broad. “It grows and grows and if it touches you . . .” His voice quavered. “You get evil too.”

“And this evil attacks ogre tribes?” Charz asked.

Crag looked dubious about speaking to Charz, but replied, “Yes, giant. But not just ogre tribes. It touches goblins and orcs and humans and the little peoples in the mountains too. Then the evil sends them after us.”

“The evil is still far from the Thunder People territory, but they come anyway,” the tall ogre said. “All of them. They come and fight us.”

“Ogres and goblins and humans?” Fist asked, a shiver coming over him.

“All of them,” Crag said. “They try to stab us. They try to bite us, but we are strong. Our tribe is big. Our tribe is many. They do not die easy, but we smash them. We crush them. But more come.”

Charz looked at Darlan. “Does this sound familiar to you?”

“In a way,” she said, trepidation in her voice.

Fist swallowed. This sounded eerily like his dream the night before. He addressed Crag. “If this evil is so bad, why are you here? It must have taken a long time for you to reach me.”

“Many days,” Puj agreed, nodding her head.

“It was a long walk,” Crag admitted.

“Why did you leave the tribe to fight without you?” Fist asked. Many days was an understatement. The journey from the Thunder People territory would have taken over a month, especially if they had taken pains to avoid settlements.

Crag scratched his head. “We is big. We is many. Old Falog is smart. He is in charge until we bring you back.”

“Why me?” asked Fist. “What can I do?”

“You is Fist,” said Crag, frowning as if that answered the question. “You is smart. You is strong. You is a ogre mage.”

“You has lightnings,” added Burl.

“Yes!” said the tall one. “Lightnings kills the evil! I seed it!”

“Yes, Fist,” said Crag. “You will come. You will kill the evil with your lightnings. The Thunder People will be safe.” He grimaced and reluctantly added. “You can bring your giant, too.”

Darlan whispered something to Charz and the giant nodded. “Do you have any proof of this evil?” he asked.

The ogres looked at each other uneasily and Crag pointed at one of them. “Rub, bring the evil thing.”

Rub, an ugly balding ogre with a jutting forehead, lifted something large wrapped in furs and carried it to Fist. As he came closer, Fist remembered him. Rub was one of sly Old Falog’s sons and he was every bit as stupid as his father was clever.

Rub set down the fur bundle in front of Fist and unwrapped it. Inside was a wooden chest. It was made of fine polished oak and was reinforced with bands of copper. The chest definitely wasn’t of ogre make. It was likely more spoils from the war. Rub eyed the chest with distaste and took several steps back.

Fist bent over and examined the chest. A foul odor wafted up from the wood, causing his nose to wrinkle. The chest was held shut by a copper latch with a wooden peg shoved through the loop. The ogres grabbed their noses as he pulled out the peg and pried up the latch.

The chest opened with a creak and dozens of flies burst out. Fist winced, turning his head as they flew away in random directions. The odor that he had smelled earlier increased a hundred fold. It was the intense smell of organic rot. He forced himself not to retch as he peered inside, Darlan and Charz looking over his shoulders.

The chest was filled half way with a black sludge. Floating in it was the head of a dwarf. It was in such an advanced state of decay that it was barely recognizable, with large parts of it rotted to the bone. Covering most of the exposed surface of the head, and squirming in and out of the black sludge, were hundreds of tiny white worms with green heads.

While Fist peered at the worms, all of their movement stopped. Then their tiny forms turned and their little green heads pointed at him in unison. He got the overwhelming sense that they were grasping at him. He shifted to spirit sight and saw a multitude of tiny black beams shooting up at him. He slammed the top of the chest shut and latched it quickly, feeling shaken.

He stood and swallowed. Something had tried to attack him. He had felt it. Something vast and full of hatred. Just what was this evil?

Darlan gave Fist’s backside a fierce nudge. He turned to look at her and she jerked her head in the direction of the gate. Fist turned back to face his father.

“Stay here. I will go and think about it,” he said.

“Yes. Fist is a thinker,” Crag agreed, his voice eager. “Think how to destroy the evil and come back. We will wait.”

Darlan said something to Kathy the Plate. The guard nodded and trotted towards the treeline to join her men. Then Darlan gave Charz a nudge. The giant sighed and bent over the chest. He wrapped it back up in the furs and picked it up.

“Wait,” said Crag. “You are taking the evil thing with you?”

“Yes,” said Fist. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but evidently Darlan had her reasons. “I want to look at it some more . . . over there.”

“Oh,” said the ogre chieftain.

Darlan and Charz started back along the base of the wall towards the gate and Fist followed behind them. He felt more uneasy now than he had on the way to meet his former tribe. What should he do?

Riveren and Professor Beehn met them back at the main gate. Riveren looked concerned, but the wizard looked excited.

“I used an air spell from up on the wall,” Beehn said, eying the chest. “I heard everything.”

“That seemed like an interesting meeting,” Riveren said. “I half thought Fist was going to strike all of them down. So what do we do with our ogre friends?”

“I don’t know,” Fist said.

“You don’t?” said Darlan, sounding surprised. “I got you away from there so you didn’t commit to anything before I could stop you.”

“I was impressed with the way you held back, Sherl,” Charz said with amusement. “I was waiting for you to barrel in and take over the conversation.”

She glared at him. “I know when it is and isn’t a good time to ‘barrel in’, thank you. Those ogres wouldn’t have listened to me anyway.”

“You two thought I was about to promise to go with them?” Fist said incredulously. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn’t that what you want to do?” Darlan asked.

“No!” Fist said though, as the word came out of his mouth, he realized that it felt untrue.

“Then maybe I was wrong,” Darlan said with a shrug. Fist’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Darlan saying she was wrong?

Riveren scratched his head. “I don’t know, Fist. If it were me, I would feel like I had to help my relatives, no matter how much I resented them.”

“But they’re not really my . . . I mean, I don’t owe them anything,” Fist said.

Nope! sent Squirrel from his perch on Charz shoulder.

“You certainly don’t,” Beehn agreed.

“And I have my new tribe to think about now,” Fist pointed out. “Justan needs me.”

Yep, said Squirrel, leaping from the giant’s shoulder to Fist’s in a show of solidarity.

Charz nodded in agreement. “Let ‘em rot.”

“And . . . I have my lessons here at the school. I still don’t know those spells right,” Fist said, watching Darlan’s face for a response. “As I learned this morning.”

She continued to watch him patiently.

“And there’s the rules,” he said. “I’m still an apprentice. I couldn’t leave the school unless you came with me . . .” He looked at her hopefully, but she still said nothing. “And you couldn’t come with me because you’re busy with the council and things. It’s all the same reasons I couldn’t go to Malaroo . . . Isn’t it?”

Darlan inclined her head and finally said, “That is all most likely true.” She stared ahead for a moment, then cleared her throat. “And then again, he is your father.”

Fist sputtered. “What are you saying? Do you actually want me to go with them?”

“What happened to you back there?” Darlan asked, changing the subject. “When you looked into the box something frightened you.”

Fist reached up and ran a hand through his scruffy brown hair. “I was attacked. The worms looked at me and . . .  I think something tried to grab my soul, but it couldn’t. I don’t know why, but I think I was protected by the bond.”

“I had a feeling it was something like that,” Darlan said, chewing her lip. “What do you think of this evil in the mountains, Beehn?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Put it all together,” she prodded. “Rotting black sludge? Mental attacks?”

Beehn swallowed, looking suddenly troubled. “It couldn’t be. She’s dead.”

“I think we need to get this chest to Wizard Locksher, and fast,” Darlan said. “Where is Alfred? Is he still showing my grandmother around?”

“Yes,” Beehn replied. “They’re in the Rune Tower. He was taking Mistress Sarine to the archives where the books on spirit magic were stored before the Prophet lifted the ban.”

“Do you think you can convince him to leave her side long enough to roust our Wizard of Mysteries from the dungeon where he’s been spending all his time lately?” She asked, using that tone of hers that left little doubt that she expected to be obeyed.

Beehn nodded and Darlan focused her attention on Charz. “Charz you can take that chest up to Locksher’s rooms. I’m sure he’ll be excited to look at it.”

The giant grunted irritably. “You’re not my mistress.” She gave him a wide-eyed look and he sighed. “Fine.”

She returned her gaze to the wizard. “Beehn, you and I will get word to Valtrek and the others. We’ll need to hold another council meeting over this.”

“But what do you want me to do?” Fist asked. “What should I tell them?”

“You, my apprentice, can march back out there and tell those ogres to set up camp. Tell them that you will need a couple days to make your decision. We can’t invite them in, but we will see that food is brought out to them and blankets if they need it. And later,” she gave him a pointed look. “You need to discuss this with my son.”

Chapter Five

By the time Justan finally crawled into his bedroll, he was well and truly ready to sleep. It wasn’t exhaustion that forced him to seek the solace of dreams, but rather the desire to escape the embarrassment of his day. Lying alone in the darkness of the small tent Jhonate had commandeered for him, Justan allowed himself to relax. Surely tomorrow would be better. It couldn’t possibly be worse.

The nightbeast could attack, Deathclaw offered.

Don’t borrow trouble, Justan said with a groan, quoting one of his mother’s favorite sayings.

What do you mean? Deathclaw’s confusion trickled through the bond. The raptoid was close by, keeping watch in a tree high above. Justan had set the tent below the tree specifically at Deathclaw’s request so that the raptoid could keep better watch over him.

It’s something my mother likes to say, Justan explained. It means that you shouldn’t worry about unlikely things.

Why? Gwyrtha asked. The rogue horse was lying right outside Justan’s tent flap. He could see her silhouette highlighted by the flicker of the camp fire. The two of them were determined to keep Justan safe and hadn’t strayed far from his side all day, which had led to some of the embarrassments he’d endured.

Because it’s a waste of time, Justan said, though there was more to it than that.

I think this is an unwise saying, Deathclaw said after some thought. How can one prepare for every eventuality if one does not think of them first?

It’s not saying that you shouldn’t be prepared, Justan said. It’s that you shouldn’t worry about everything. It is good to be ready in case something happens. It is not good to focus your thought on every possible bad thing that can happen to you.

Why? Gwyrtha asked.

Well, because if you worry all the time, you’ll be miserable, Justan replied.

Deathclaw gave him a mental snort. But you will be alive.

Perhaps, Justan admitted. But there is also the superstition that worrying about things too much can cause them to happen.

Oh, Gwyrtha said in understanding.

Deathclaw scoffed. Surely you do not believe this.

Justan shrugged. When things happen to you enough, you start to see connections. Then you start to believe them, he said, knowing that it would rile the raptoid’s sensibilities. Deathclaw understood more about humans every day, but there were some things Justan doubted he would ever be able to accept. I’m not saying that the superstition is true. I’m just saying that there is a pattern. If you search for trouble long enough, you are likely to find it.

Justan could sense Deathclaw shaking his head in disdain. Humans are ridiculous. If a problem is searched for and a problem is found, it is because the problem was there already.

Maybe. Justan smiled, deciding to needle the raptoid a little. But think about this, Deathclaw. What if the problem wasn’t there already? What if the act of searching for the problem is what caused the problem to appear.

Deathclaw mulled the concept over in his mind. I don’t see how that is likely. Perhaps in certain situations . . .

Thus the superstition, Justan said. Now I’m going to try and contact Fist. Do you want to join in?

Yes! replied Gwyrtha.

That would not be wise, Gwyrtha, said Deathclaw. We must focus on guarding Justan.

I will! she said insistently.

Communicating through the bond at great distances was a difficult process. It required a lot of concentration. For Deathclaw and Gwyrtha to join in, they had to add their own focus to the bond and that could be dangerous. The nightbeast was so good at disguising himself that it could take every bit of focus they had to find him before he came too close.

We can not afford to divert our attention, Deathclaw responded. Justan is at his most vulnerable while communicating with Fist. That means it would be the most opportune time for this Vahn to attack.

Remember what I said about borrowing trouble? Justan said. There is no way for Vahn to know that. Besides, the likelihood that he will attack again this soon is low. He needs to recruit more basilisks first. He said as much in his letter.

That is what you thought before he killed the elf, Deathclaw reminded him, his thoughts thick with irritation.

Justan winced. He had no defense for that bit of logic. He’d been replaying that moment over and over again in his mind, trying to figure out how he could have done things different. They’d all had their guard down at that moment. If they had remained vigilant, Yntri would still be alive.

He touched the bracelet of Jharro wood that was still tightly clamped to his wrist. When the elf had been alive, it had pulsed with life. Now it was dead, just a memory of Yntri’s presence.

Don’t be mean to Justan, Gwyrtha warned Deathclaw and Justan could hear her low growl issuing from just outside his tent.

No. Deathclaw is right, Justan told her. Then he directed his thoughts at the raptoid. The question is, can you detect the nightbeast on your own?

Deathclaw had spent much of the last day communicating with Gwyrtha on ways to identify the assassin. The rogue horse wasn’t completely sure why she had been able to see through the nightbeast’s disguise when Yntri Yni hadn’t. To hear her explain it, she had just known. Justan’s theory was that it had to do with how immensely detailed her senses were. She could smell, hear, and taste fine details that even the raptoid could not.

I am not sure. She tried to tell me and I think I have an understanding of how she identified him, but I cannot be sure until I see him for myself, Deathclaw admitted.

I’m sorry
Gwyrtha, Justan said. What Deathclaw is trying to say is that he needs your help. He can’t protect me alone.

Ohh, Gwyrtha said. Okay. I will help.

That is not what I meant. The raptoid protested.

I’ll tell you both what happened afterwards, he assured them.

Justan prepared for the communication first by making himself as comfortable as possible which, in this case, meant climbing back out of his bedroll and removing a few small rocks that were poking him in the back. Then he eased back in and closed his eyes, slowing his breathing as he narrowed his focus.

Justan’s thoughts slid into the bond until he was only aware of the milky whiteness of its magic. He reached out and found the link that was his bond with Fist. When the ogre was close by, he could pass through without thinking about it, but the distance thinned the bond until its entrance was tiny.

Justan grasped that link and forced it to widen so that he could reach all the way through. The process only took a few seconds, but it felt like minutes as his mind sped through the distance separating them until he felt the place where his thoughts ended and the ogre’s began. When he knew that he was finally there, he called out. Fist!

Justan! The ogre was there immediately. He must have been waiting for Justan to initiate the connection. This was unusual because it was later in the evening where Justan was. The ogre’s thoughts were both excited and worried. Oh, I have so much to tell you.

So do I, Justan said, comforted by the familiar feel of the ogre’s mind. Today was awful. I seemed to blunder from one embarrassing moment to another.

That sounds terrible, Fist said with genuine empathy. But when you hear what-.

I knew you would understand, Justan said. He didn’t let on to the others, but Fist was the one he liked talking to the most. While Deathclaw was good at analyzing a situation and while Justan found Gwyrtha’s innocent and childish simplicity refreshing, Fist was humble and his soul was filled with such an innate goodness and compassion that speaking with him just made Justan feel better.

He continued on, Today was the first full day of travel with the Roo-Tan and I discovered that Jhonate hadn’t fully prepared me for what I should expect.

She hadn’t? Fist asked.

No! Justan said, releasing some of that frustration as he blurted out his problems. She told me all about dining etiquette and how to deal with her people in the city, but she said nothing about the rules her people have regarding marching order.

The first thing I did when we left camp this morning was run up to join Jhonate as she was walking with her mother and Xedrion’s other wife. They looked at me like I’d grown an extra nose! Evidently, it is considered unseemly for an unmarried male to travel next to married females.

Jhonate could have warned you, Fist offered.

Exactly! Justan said. She should have noticed my approach through the ring she gave me but she wasn’t paying attention. So then I went back to join the rest of the men and rode Gwyrtha for awhile. I was there half the day before Deathclaw told me that he heard the men joking about how I was a lazy dry foot because I was riding instead of walking.

That’s because they don’t ride horses there, the ogre said patiently.

I understand that now, but it was yet another thing that she didn’t warn me about. Justan said. He was starting to feel a little guilty for complaining so much about Jhonate. With a sigh, he admitted, Then again, I suppose she didn’t have a reason to worry about it up until now because none of us rode on the way here. I guess if I were in her place, I might forget some things.

That’s true, Fist said. The ogre was eager to change the direction of the conversation, but Justan barreled on, oblivious.

Well I stopped riding Gwyrtha after that, but a while later I ran up to the front of the group, hoping to speak with Xedrion about those troll creatures. One of the guards told me that he was too busy to speak with me and I knew that wasn’t true because I could see him walking up ahead and he wasn’t speaking with anyone. By the way, have you had the chance to talk to Locksher about those troll creatures yet?

Uh, no, said Fist. So much happened today that I didn’t get to speak to him.

It’s important that he knows right away, Justan sent. I have a feeling that he’s going to want to come down here and see them for himself. Since Xedrion wouldn’t talk to me, I talked to Jhonate about it. She said that she would speak with him about allowing him into Malaroo since he’s somewhat of an expert on modified trolls. I thought about it quite a bit today and I think it’s possible that the rings of Stardeon have somehow made their way down here.

They never had recovered the rings after the war. They hadn’t been on Ewzad Vriil’s corpse and no one among the remnants of the enemy army seemed to know where they were.

I will try to tell him tomorrow, Fist promised. Now there are some things you should know about my day.

Just a minute. What else was I going to tell you? Oh yes, and then there’s the tents we have to use, Justan continued, so intent on unloading his problems that he didn’t register the ogre’s irritation. Jhonate found me one in decent shape, but these Roo-Tan tents are a pain to put up and when you’re sleeping inside them the walls are so thick that it’s hard to know what’s going on around you. I would have gone without it but, according to Jhonate, sleeping in a tent is a necessity in the wilds of Malaroo because the insects are so bad.

I almost died today, Fist said suddenly.

And then I . . . y-you what? Justan asked, all of his other concerns falling away. Are you okay? What happened?

I attempted a difficult spell while sparring with Charz and I was hit by my own lightning, Fist explained. Mistress Sherl says that I had stopped breathing until Charz revived me. It took her and two other wizards a long time to heal all the burns in my body.

Wow. I didn’t feel anything, Justan said. I should have felt something if you were hurt that bad. I wonder if it had something to do with how distracted I was with-.

Squirrel almost died, too. Because of me, Fist interrupted.

Oh . . . From the ogre’s tone, Justan finally realized that his problems were small in comparison to what Fist had been through that day. Fist, I’m sorry. I haven’t been letting you speak. Go on, you have my full attention. Is Squirrel alright?

Yes, but he might not have been, Fist said and Justan could feel his guilt through the bond, something that Justan well understood. He had felt that same guilt many times since learning that his death would mean the death of his bonded. Fist felt that understanding and took some comfort from it before adding, Also I found out that your great grandmother is alive.

Justan nearly lost control of the connection in his surprise. My great what?

Fist told him about his encounter with Sarine, pushing through his memories of her face, her voice, and her attitude. Then he proceeded to tell Justan about her powers and her bonded.

Justan absorbed it all in stunned silence and when Fist finished, he said, Unbelievable. My great grandmother is the famous Mistress Sarine. She was one of the eight companions of the Prophet. Wow. And she’s still alive . . . Justan felt an excitement rising within him. I need to tell this to Artemus.

Do you think he’ll listen? Fist asked.

I sure hope so. I’ve come so close to reaching him lately. I know he’s somewhere in there behind the Scralag’s eyes. Justan was eager to tell him. How could he resist the knowledge that his wife lives? What did Sarine say when she learned that Artemus’ spirit was still . . . around?

Your mother hasn’t told her yet. She says she will soon. Fist’s voice grew curious. You seem so excited about her being one of Big John’s companions.

Are you kidding?
The Prophet’s companions were some of the biggest heroes of my childhood, Justan said enthusiastically. Every kid in Reneul learned about them. The academy had two enormous tapestries describing their battle in the council hall!

Justan realized that Fist knew very little about the stories, so he went on, There were eight companions and now that you told me that Sarine is a bonding wizard it makes a lot of sense. The stories never said what her powers were, just that she was a wizardess. She was one of the Mage School representatives along with Master Vlad, the air wizard. Then there were the representatives of the blood magic races; Bill, the Dwarf adventurer, Sir Kyrkon, the elven swordsman, and Cliff, the gnome warrior.

Kyrkon is named? Fist was surprised. Evidently his rune had been covered by the riding gloves he wore.

Yes, a named elf. I always thought that was fascinating. It’s even more so now that I know that he and Bill were bonded to Sarine. Let’s see, then there was the two academy-trained named warriors; Sir Blade, the swordmaster, and Sar Haft, the axewoman.

Sar? Fist asked.

A female named warrior. There haven’t been many so you don’t hear it very often. Justan paused. Uh, where was I? Right, the last member was Lester Muldroomon, the brother of the king. Justan sighed dreamily. There are so many stories I could tell you about their battles. I’m not sure how many of them are true, but what am I saying? You don’t need me to tell you. You could ask Sarine herself. Or Bill or Kyrkon.

That’s a good idea, Fist said hesitantly. Maybe I will do that.

What is it? Justan could tell that Fist was getting frustrated again. I’m sorry. I started taking over the conversation again.

No, I’m interested in what you’re saying. It’s just that . . . There is something else I need to tell you. And it’s a big thing. Probably the biggest thing. The ogre frowned. Well, maybe it isn’t the biggest thing. But it’s the most important. Or at least it’s the one that’s the most important right now.

Go ahead, Justan didn’t know what could be possibly bigger than the things Fist had already told him, but he listened intently.

Crag came to the Mage School today. Fist told Justan what had happened with his father and all about the big decision facing him. Then he waited for Justan’s response.

Justan felt numb. Fist had been right. This was big and it scared him. So my mother is going to let you go?

She wasn’t clear, Fist said. His confusion leeched through the bond. She encouraged me to go, but she also admitted that it wasn’t a good idea. She was going to discuss it with the rest of the High Council and tell me what they decided in the morning.

I see, Justan said. He had received a similar reaction from Darlan when he’d first told her he was going to Training School. Do you want to go?

I-I don’t know, Fist admitted. He’s my father, but that doesn’t mean the same thing to ogres that it means to humans.

It doesn’t matter what it means to other ogres, Justan said. What does it mean to you?

There was a moment of silence while Fist thought about it. Again, I don’t know. Crag was never nice to me, and we didn’t agree about what was best for the tribe very often. But I made him proud with my accomplishments until the day I defied him in front of the tribe.

That’s when he called you ‘Toompa’, Justan said. In ogre culture that was the gravest insult that could be given to a male warrior. It was basically calling him an infant.

Yes. That was the last word he said to me, Fist said. I left him bleeding and never thought I would see him again. Then I thought he was dead. But now he’s not and when he looks at me . . . it is like he sees me completely different than he did back then.

Justan understood the feeling. He had gone through much the same thing during the war. Many of the academy students that had once ridiculed him had started to treat him like a hero. Do you think they really need you? Is this ‘evil’ as great as he claims?

I wish it wasn’t. The choice would be easier then. But Crag wouldn’t have left the Thunder People territory and come all this way if he didn’t think I was needed. Those worms . . . Justan felt the ogre shudder. When they turned and looked at me it reminded me of the day we fought the Mother of the Moonrats. She was much stronger than these worms were, but they gave me the same kind of feeling.

Justan swallowed. Then it really was important. What if this had something to do with the Dark Prophet? He thought about what John had told him during the war. He and Artemis would eventually be needed. It had been prophesied.

Maybe I should come with you, he said.

You? Fist said in surprise. But how?

If we rode Gwyrtha, Deathclaw and I could be back at the Mage School in less than a week, Justan offered.

But what about Jhonate’s father? Fist asked. What about Jhonate? What about the nightbeast?

Justan chuckled. Oh I have no problem making Vahn follow me all the way to the Trafalgan Mountains. As for Jhonate and her father, well we came a long way to bring her back home. Jhonate wouldn’t like me leaving, but she would understand. I’m not sure about Xedrion though.

What if you left and Xedrion decided not to let you marry Jhonate? Fist asked, his thoughts filled with trepidation. I don’t want you to risk that.

I would be willing to risk it. For you, Justan replied. Jhonate and I would find a way to make things work.

No, Fist said. The ogre was touched deeply by Justan’s offer, but he wasn’t willing to put the man in that situation. At least, not yet. I may not be able to go after all. I will speak with Mistress Sherl in the morning and see what she has decided. I will let you know tomorrow night.

Alright, Fist, Justan said. Just know that whatever you decide, I will support you. I will leave here and rush to your side if you need me.

Thank you, Fist said and there was deep feeling of relief in his thoughts. I will let you sleep, then.

Good night, Justan replied.

He withdrew his thoughts from his connection with Fist, but he did not check in with Deathclaw and Gwyrtha. Nor did he go to sleep. He was too troubled by all of the things the ogre had told him. Instead, he floated in the soft whiteness of the bond and pondered the situation.

If Fist went with his father and traveled up to the mountains to face this evil alone, there was no telling how much danger he would be in. What if he died? Justan didn’t know how he would be able to handle such a loss.

Don’t borrow trouble, he reminded himself. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment. He had to trust in his mother. Surely Darlan wouldn’t let Fist go into such a perilous situation unprepared. Besides, if need be, he was prepared to do exactly as he had promised and accompany the ogre himself.

Eventually, he pushed his worries aside and focused his attention on something he could impact right away. He moved towards his bond with his great grandfather.

Justan approached the thick web of elemental and spirit magic that blocked his connection to the Scralag. As usual, he probed the web looking for the small crack near the center of the blockage. It was a tiny place where Justan could feel a chill breeze blowing into the bond. Justan wasn’t sure whether or not he was imagining it, but the crack seemed larger than before.

He pressed his mind’s eye up to the opening and called out, Great grandfather! Artemis! This is Justan. It is urgent. I must speak with you!

He waited. There was silence for a few long moments, but just before he yelled out again, there was a stirring behind the blockage. The chill breeze turned into a stiff wind blowing uncomfortably into Justan’s thoughts.

GO AWAY! I AM NOT NEEDED! came the Scralag’s dreadful voice.

No. You’re not! Justan snapped, tired of the Scralag’s incessant rudeness. You go away. I need to speak with Artemis.

GO! WE ARE RESTING!

It was the same response the Scralag gave him every time he tried to communicate, which was every night since the war had ended. Justan might have given up if not for the times, few and far between, when Artemis broke free from the power of the Scralag long enough to speak to him.

You rest then, elemental, Justan replied, his voice firm. I’m here for Artemis! I want to speak with him about Sarine.

The stiff breeze that rushed through the crack sputtered and Justan saw a pair of beady red eyes staring back at him. Sarine? the Scralag said, only it’s voice wasn’t as terrible as before.

Yes! Mistress Sarine, Justan said.

Sarine . . . then its voice grew stronger. STOP THIS.

Evidently her name alone wasn’t going to be enough. A thought occurred to him. Sarine was the name the Bowl of Souls had given her. You might have known her better as Begazzi.

BEGazziiiiiiiii . . . The loud voice faded to a whisper. The Scralag’s red eyes slowly lost their color until a pair of clear gray eyes looked back at Justan.

Yes, Artemis, I’m here to speak with you about your wife, Begazzi, Justan said, frustrated with himself for not thinking to speak of Darlan’s grandmother sooner. Focus on her.

Ahh, Begazzi, said the voice of Justan’s grandfather. It was almost as clear as it had been the time Justan had spoken to him in his little cabin sipping tea. Sooo beautiful.

She is alive, Justan said. Somehow, whether it was because of her bonds or elven magic, she still lives. She is at the Mage School right now. Fist saw her today.

Alive? After so long? There was longing in Artemis’ voice. Oh to see her again. To hear her voice . . .

I can help you with that! Justan said excitedly. He pulled up the memories that Fist had shared with him and pushed them through the bond into Artemis’ mind. Do you hear her? Do you see her?

Begazzi? Artemis said wistfully and there were tears in his gray eyes. It is her.
So much older now, but it is her. To think that she still lives after all this time. How long has it been?

Two hundred years, Justan said. It’s been two hundred years since she helped to defeat the Dark Prophet.

There was a sharp intake of breath and the crack in the blockage widened, melting away as if it were ice. Now Justan could see his great grandfather standing there. His arms and legs were still long and pale and skeletal, but his head and torso were that of a man wearing a tattered robe.

I see, Artemis said. Begazzi succeeded and lived on. So the world did not end with the Dark Prophet’s destruction after all.

Justan didn’t know what he meant, but he filed that information away. No, the world did not end. Otherwise how would I have been born?

Ahh, that’s right. You are my great grandson, Artemis said, his long limbs gradually shrinking and becoming more human. So much is returning to me now.

Hold on to that, Justan said. Hold on to the fact that your Begazzi is alive. She has accepted a place on the High Council of the Mage School. She is the new Council Historian. Her bonded, Kyrkon and Bill are with her.

Artemis smiled. Why those vagabonds! What of Cliff?

It took Justan a moment to understand what he was referring to. Oh! Cliff, the gnome warrior. Of course. It made sense that he was one of Sarine’s bonded as well. I’m afraid that he died while infiltrating the Dark Prophet’s palace.

Such a pity, Artemis said. He looked like a regular man now, other than the long black nails on the ends of his fingers. He was a good fellow. A strong card player. He often defeated me while playing Elements.

Sarine has a new gnome bonded now. Justan said, eager to keep him talking. A female named Maryanne.

Good, said Artemis. The blockage in the bond had opened up until it was but a few strands of magic. Justan and his great grandfather stood only a short distance from each other. Do you know . . . has she moved on?

Moved on? Justan asked,

Has she found another? Remarried? The old wizard sighed. What am I saying? It’s been two hundred years. Of course she has. I would be furious with her otherwise.

Well, according to Fist, she was alone except for her bonded. Justan thought hard. There had been something else she’d said. Oh yes, she called you her first husband, so I suppose that means she did remarry at some point.

Then she mentioned me? Artemis asked, his voice eager.

She did. She said she missed you. Justan found the particular memory of her saying that and sent it through to the wizard.

Ah, Begazzi, Artemis said again. There were tears in his gray eyes. I miss her too. Does she know I still remain?

My mother has not told her yet. Justan replied. She is trying to figure out how to explain it.

The old man smiled. Begazzi is a wise bird. She will understand. Still, his smile faded. I don’t know that I can meet her like this. I won’t be able to keep control. The elemental will return.

Don’t let it, Justan urged. Assert your will. The elemental is just a personification of your own power. It is yours.

So you said the last time we spoke, Artemis said. He held up his left hand and Justan saw his nails darken again. It tries to regain control even now.

Justan shook his head, refusing to let go of this opportunity. He rushed forward and reached out with his thoughts to grasp his great grandfather’s hand. It was cold to the touch.

Look at this hand. Look at it! Justan turned the palm towards Artemis’ eyes so that he saw the rune clearly impressed on it. You are Artemis, so named by the Bowl of Souls. The fact that the rune is still here means that the Bowl still recognizes you. You are a master. A frost wizard. You cannot let your power control you.

Artemis laughed. The way you manipulate my feelings, you are indeed from Begazzi’s bloodline.

I’m a named wizard too, Justan said. Even if your presence blocks me from using my magic.

Staying in control will be a struggle, Artemis said. I would call it impossible if your stubborn refusal to believe that fact hadn’t convinced me.

Stay convinced, Justan insisted. I need your help. Your experience and insight will be invaluable to me. On top of that, the Dark Prophet is going to return at some point in the future. You still have a prophecy to fulfill.

So you believe that prophecy is still active? Artemis asked.

I do, Justan said. John told me so himself.

He tried to tell me so as well, now that I think about it. Artemis said, his brow furrowed in thought. The elemental tried to bite him for his trouble.

Justan remembered the frost covering the prophet’s finger that day and nodded. Please tell me you will do it. Stay in control.

Artemis rubbed at his chin. If it is going to be possible I will need your help.

Let me know what to do. I will help you in any way I can, Justan promised.

Then speak with me for a while longer. Help me hold on to my faculties while I figure out what to do. Just tell me what is going on in the world. There is so little that I have been able to hold onto from inside here while the elemental is in charge.

Of course, Justan said and he did so.

Justan stayed with Artemis for a long while, telling him what had gone on in the world during his long absence. Justan showed him memories of his journeys, shared stories of his bonded, tried anything he could think of to keep his great grandfather alert.

Artemus listened, deep in thought, sometimes he made the odd insightful observation, but those comments were few. Mostly the old wizard concentrated on keeping his form and he succeeded, holding the Scralag at bay throughout the night. Eventually, he held up a hand, bidding Justan to stop.

I think I have come to somewhat of an understanding of my situation, he said.

What is it? Justan asked.

It seems that I need to make a deal with this power of mine. The elemental has truly become sentient while I have convalesced. It does not want to give up control.

Alright, Justan said. What do I need to do?

You? he said. You have done enough.
Leave me for a while. Let me see what I can do on my own. If you return in a few days to find that I have lost my battle, call for me again. Remind me of my wife and I will try again.

I will, Justan promised.

Very good. Now go, he said, making a shooing motion with his hands. Your other bonded are calling. Do you not hear them?

Now that he mentioned it, Justan did hear them.

Justan! Deathclaw said. Justan wake up!

Wake! Gwyrtha agreed.

Justan opened his eyes to see Deathclaw’s face glaring back at him. The dim light of early morning streamed in through the open tent door behind him. What is it?

“Look around, you fool,” the raptoid said.

“Oh!” Justan said, surprised to discover that the entire interior of his tent was coated with a thick layer of frost.

Chapter Six

Justan stumbled out of the tent. He trailed a frosty mist behind him despite the cool morning air. He brushed clinging bits of snow from his clothing and glanced around the rest of the camp. It was an orderly group of tents, though they didn’t keep to any particular formation like the strict lines of an academy camp.

The Roo-Tan warriors were in the process of preparing for the day’s journey. It was early enough that most of them were still cooking their breakfast at the various camp fires. The Roo-Tan used a different blend of spices in their cooking and ate a lot more reptile and amphibian than Justan was used to. The smell of many of the meats roasting was foreign to him.

Justan was relieved to see that no one was directing any looks of alarm his way. There were a few curious glances, but they were directed at the raptoid and the rogue horse. Justan couldn’t blame them. His two bonded were a fearsome sight; Deathclaw looking like a dragon in humanoid form, and Gwyrtha with her reptilian head and skin that was a patchwork mix of various animals.

He glanced back at the tent to see how bad it looked from the outside. There was a thin layer of frost, but it was only obvious in a couple patches. Justan decided that this was one area in which the tent’s thick material came in handy. With the tent flap closed, the only real way someone could tell something was off was that the tent was sagging and that could be explained by how bad of a job Justan had done setting it up.

I’ll fix it, Gwyrtha decided. The rogue horse approached the tent and licked at a patch of frost. Her large tongue stuck to the canvas for a moment and she jerked back. That is cold.

“These Roo-Tan will talk if it is discovered,” Deathclaw observed.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about,” Justan replied.

The peoples of Malaroo were notorious for their distrust of elemental magic. In past generations, there had been a prevailing belief that the elements were the realm of the gods. Spirit magic was a gift to mankind, but men who tried to steal the power of elemental magic for themselves were committing sacrilege. Wizards had been hunted down and expelled from the country. Even members of their own people that were born with the talent had been killed or banished.

Things had changed to a certain extent since then. Since taking a vow to protect the Jharro Grove, the Roo-Tan had become a much more tolerant people, but the old traditions still held some power. Elemental magic was seen as distasteful. Wizards were only rarely allowed into the country and were dealt with quite harshly if they tried to enter without announcing themselves.

Knowing this, and especially knowing how dearly her father held the old traditions, Jhonate had downplayed Justan’s talent for elemental magic. She had focused on his being a named warrior and a bonding wizard, two things that her people respected. Still, Justan had seen the way Xedrion eyed the naming rune on the palm of his left hand with distrust. The fact that he was unable to use his elemental magic was likely part of the reason that Xedrion had allowed Justan’s betrothal to Jhonate to continue.

If any of the Roo-Tan soldiers saw his tent-full of frost, Justan’s reputation would take yet another black eye. Especially if a rumor spread that Justan couldn’t control his powers. If Xedrion decided that Justan was a danger to his daughter, things would get very uncomfortable. Justan realized that he wouldn’t be able to handle this issue on his own.

Jhonate, I need your help, he sent through the Jharro ring on his finger. She was on the far side of the camp and Justan could tell that she was deep in conversation with someone. He hoped that she wasn’t too distracted to hear him. His voice would be faint. The connection to Jhonate provided by the ring was a pale comparison to the bond he shared with his bonded.

What is it? she asked, her worry flaring through their connection. As it ended up, he had underestimated her concern for his safety. She had been monitoring the ring in case of an attack by the nightbeast.

When Justan told her what the issue was, she responded with an irritated sigh. Very well. I will be there soon. Keep the tent shut until I arrive. Try not to let anyone see it.

Alright. Please hurry, Justan said. Then he addressed Deathclaw. “She’s coming.”

“Why did this happen?” the raptoid asked. He folded his arms. “Were you being reckless again?”

“No,” Justan said. “At least no more than usual.”

Justan opened the flap and reached back inside the tent to fish around for his boots. They were next to his bedroll where he had left them, but they were partially frozen to the interior wall of the tent. When he jerked them free, a two-inch thick sheet of slowly melting frost fell from the ceiling onto his bedroll.

“Ugh, my blankets are going to be soaked after this thaws,” Justan griped.

“This would not have been a problem if you had not insisted on tearing down the barrier to that thing in your chest,” Deathclaw replied.

“That thing is my great grandfather,” Justan admonished him. He repressed a gasp as he put one foot into a distressingly cold boot. “Whatever happens was worth it. I got through to him, Deathclaw. I carried on an actual conversation with Artemis.”

“I know this,” Deathclaw said. “Gwyrtha and I listened to it. Still, there must have been a better way to go about it.”

Justan frowned at him. “Why do you have to do that? Every time something happens, no matter what I do, you stand around and start pointing out flaws.”

Deathclaw cocked his head. “Is this a problem? I report what I see. Do you not wish to know your mistakes? You are our leader. Our lives depend on you correcting those flaws.”

“Well . . .” Justan shoved his other foot into its equally frigid boot. He grimaced. “Of course I want to know if I need to improve, especially if I am endangering your safety. And I value your opinion on other matters, but do you have to be so accusatory in the way that you tell me?”

Deathclaw blinked. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Remember that discussion we had about tact awhile ago?” Justan asked. Deathclaw inclined his head in response. “Well this is what I was talking about. I was already in a bad mood before you started berating me. You need to learn politeness.”

Yes. Be nice, Gwyrtha agreed.

“Would you prefer I say it like this?” Deathclaw said and tried his impression of a syrupy sweet voice. “Excuse me, Justan, but your foolishness nearly killed us.”

No, Gwyrtha said, her thoughts tinged with distaste.

“You know what? Forget I said anything,” Justan said, echoing the rogue horse’s feelings. Deathclaw’s voice had sounded like a deflating gurgle. “I’d rather have you gripe at me all day than ever hear you use that voice again.”

“Humans,” Deathclaw said with a snort.

Jhonate is coming, Gwyrtha said.

Justan looked through the tents and saw Jhonate weaving towards him. She walked with firm purposeful strides. Two of her older brothers, Qurl and Jhexin, trailed behind her. From the expressions on their faces it didn’t look like they were coming of their own free will.

By all rights, Qurl should have been the one taking the lead, since he was the oldest of the three siblings, but the relationship between those three had changed on the trip from the academy to Malaroo. Jhonate’s forceful presence had worn down her two brothers until they found themselves following her lead without knowing it. That wasn’t the only thing that had changed. They had warmed up to Justan as well. Just before he had faced their father, the two of them had even given him permission to address them by name, a big honor among their people.

Jhonate walked straight past Justan to his tent and pulled open the flap. A curl of frosty mist escaped the interior, though the cold didn’t seem as intense as it had when Justan first awoke. A few more chunks of frost had fallen down from the ceiling of the tent since Justan had last looked. Jhonate’s brothers stood next to her gazing inside the tent in bewilderment. Justan glanced around, hoping that their obvious interest wasn’t drawing anyone else’s attention.

“Was it not cold enough for you here, Sir Edge?” asked Qurl, holding back an incredulous laugh as he stepped back from the tent. “Did you really have to bring your horrible Battle Academy winter down here with you?”

“Very funny,” Justan replied. “I wasn’t aware it was happening. It was the Scralag.” He looked to Jhonate. “What should we do about it?”

She frowned and shook her head. “My brothers and I will handle this.”

“And how do you plan on hiding this?” Deathclaw asked.

“You let us worry about that part,” Jhonate replied.

“You are serious?” Jhexin said, scratching his head and looking very put out.

“We will take care of it,” she said, fixing him with a glare. “Edge, I have something else for you to do and it’s best you start right now before the march begins.”

“Okay,” Justan responded. He was a bit irritated that Jhonate had brushed by him without so much as a ‘good morning’, but he was relieved to have the problem taken out of his hands. “What is it?”

Jhonate scanned the camp with her eyes. “He should be coming this way . . . there he is.” She waved to a Roo-Tan warrior that was picking his way towards them through the other tents.

The newcomer was nearly as tall as Justan and carried a short Jharro staff. He had the deeply tanned skin tone of the rest of the Roo, but in some ways he was strikingly different. His eyes were a startling yellow and his hair wasn’t dark brown or black like the other Roo. It was more of a deep auburn. The only other of Jhonate’s people that he had met with that hair color was Alexis bin Hoon, Xedrion’s traitorous fourth wife.

As the man approached, Deathclaw bristled with uncertainty. He didn’t like the arrival of someone unfamiliar. The raptoid slid forward and stepped in front of the man before he came too close to Justan. Deathclaw leaned in and sniffed at the newcomer, causing him to flinch and step away.

This one is a man, Gwyrtha assured him, and Deathclaw eased up, moving to stand behind Justan. Still, he didn’t take his eyes off of the man.

“This is Beltry, second son of Chersel bin Hoon, third son of Eldrol bin Hoon,” Jhonate said in introduction. “Beltry, this is my betrothed, Sir Edge.”

The man nodded at Justan with an uneasy smile. He was still unnerved by Deathclaw’s inspection and understandably so.

Justan thought through the encyclopedia of Roo-Tan knowledge that Jhonate had forced into his mind during their journey. The Hoon family was one of the middle houses of the Roo-Tan. Eldrol bin Hoon was the leader of that house. If this Beltry was the second son of Eldrol’s third son, he was basically a nobody in the Roo-Tan ranking.

Jhonate continued on, “I would like for you to spend the day traveling with him.”

“I was hoping to spend some time with you during the march,” Justan complained. What was the importance of sticking him with this man? “I barely saw you at all yesterday.”

In fact, he hadn’t seen her much at all since meeting her father. Xedrion was keeping her close and she had been keeping her distance. From the feelings he had received through the ring, Justan had gotten the impression that she was being particularly vigilant, making sure that nothing about her relationship with Justan could be seen as inappropriate to her father.

“We will have plenty of time to spend together once this is all over,” she said, feeling a bit embarrassed to have this conversation in front of the man. “Until then, you will have to be patient. As will I.”

Justan didn’t like that answer, but he could feel her determination and he knew that he didn’t have much choice in the matter. She gave him a firm stare that reminded him of the year he had spent with her at the Training School. That was back when she had only allowed him to call her Ma’am.

He didn’t like it and let her know as much through the ring as he said, And why do you wish me to spend the day with the son of Chersel bin Hoon?

“Beltry is a friend of mine,” she said, her green eyes focused on Justan as she clasped the man’s shoulder. “He is also a Jharro bow wielder and an excellent archer.”

That peaked Justan’s interest. He shook the man’s hand, noting that even though Beltry was carrying a short Jharro staff, he wore two quivers of arrows, one slung over his shoulder and one hanging from the belt at his waist.

“Nice to meet you,” Justan said. “I didn’t know that Jhonate had friends.”

Beltry laughed. It was a pleasant sound and, from the ease in which it came, Justan could tell that he laughed often. “You have a good point, Jhonate’s betrothed. I think it’s because we trained together a lot when we were younger and I let her boss me around.”

“That helps,” Justan agreed, smiling.

Jhonate frowned at the both of them and Beltry cleared his throat. “Well, if we’re going to get any shots in before the march, we should get moving. I’d like to see how much I need to teach you.”

“Teach me?” Justan cocked his head at Jhonate. “I didn’t know I needed an archery tutor.”

“He is not teaching you how to hit your target,” Jhonate said. “He is teaching you how to use your Jharro weapon.”

“Jharro bows are different than staves or swords,” Qurl explained. “We would have worked with you on the journey here, but none of us use one.”

“Do you mean like, transforming the wood and things like that?” Justan asked. He had seen Yntri Yni do amazing things with his bow, breaking it into pieces and reforming it as if it were clay. Justan wasn’t sure how useful that would be for him, but the best he had managed to do so far was to make the front of his bow narrow to a sharpened edge.

“As I told you before, Beltry,” Jhonate said, glancing at her friend. “His understanding of his bow is rudimentary at best.”

“Hey,” Justan protested. No one had complained about his skill level before. Why was he just hearing about this now?

“He only recently communed with his tree,” Jhexin added.

Jhonate agreed. “I want you to make him at least proficient enough that he does not embarrass himself.”

Beltry nodded, though his smile slid a little at the look of consternation on Justan’s face. “Well, he is named by the Bowl of Souls. I’m sure he’s a fast learner.”

“A fast learner . . ?” Justan was growing more and more frustrated. Why was he feeling so embarrassed? Shouldn’t he be above that by now? After all, he had been named twice, he had four powerful bonded, and had fought in a war, destroying scores of deadly monsters. Now they were saying he didn’t know how to use his own bow?

Jhonate couldn’t ignore the intense feelings that were coming through their connection. Why are you upset? Do you feel that you are above training your abilities?

Of course it’s not that, Justan said. Warriors always tried to improve. Even his father was constantly training. It’s the way you are going about it. I am tired of you yanking me around.

I apologize for my abruptness, she sent, confused. Perhaps I should have informed you of your deficiency earlier?

Justan clenched his teeth. Was she just as clueless as Deathclaw? Long ago, you told me that I deserved your respect. But lately you treat me like I am still that awkward teenager who couldn’t run without tripping over his own two feet. You might as well go back to calling me ‘boy’.

Jhonate blinked, her brow furrowed.

“Uh . . .” said Beltry and the rest of the group exchanged looks. Justan and Jhonate had been staring at each other silently for several seconds. The others didn’t know what was going on, but by the way the two betrothed’s facial expressions kept changing, it was obvious that there was some kind of communication going on between them.

Please, Justan, do not doubt my respect, Jhonate pleaded. I . . . I am not good at expressing the way I feel. I just do things in the way I know how.

She reached up and grasped Justan’s head with both of her hands, then pulled him in and kissed him fiercely, ignoring the panic that rose within her when expressing her emotions like this publicly. Justan felt the intensity of her passion surge through the ring as her tongue grazed his.

Finally, Jhonate let go of his head and ended the kiss. She pulled back a few inches from his face and looked firmly into his eyes as she said, “Remember, I love you.”

I love you both! said Gwyrtha enthusiastically. The others scratched their heads at Jhonate’s sudden affection.

Justan swallowed, finding that his mind had been emptied of the frustration that had been building inside him. Jhonate hadn’t kissed him like that since they had left the academy. He smiled. “That does make me feel better. You just need to remind me from time to time.”

“Humans,” Deathclaw commented again with a roll of his eyes.

The intensity of Jhonate’s passion abated quickly as she looked around to see if anyone in the rest of the camp had noticed their kiss. It was likely that someone had, but if that was the case, they were smart enough to look away before she noticed them.

Feeling a bit relieved, she said. “Please, Edge, be patient with me,”

Justan nodded. Sometimes he forgot that this was her first time loving someone. She might have been two years older than him, but she was just as inexperienced with relationships as him. The kind of emotional reassurances he needed from her did not come to Jhonate easily. She was far more used to pushing people away than letting them in and the predicament with her father made things even more difficult,

I love you, too, Justan sent. He turned his attention back to Beltry Hoon. “Shall we get going, then?”

“Yes,” Beltry said and from the expression on his face, he seemed eager to leave this awkward situation behind him.

We are coming, too, Gwyrtha said.

Justan knew there would be no talking them out of it. “I hope you don’t mind that my bonded will be coming with us. They are quite protective with the nightbeast after me.”

“Of course. I understand,” the archer said, giving Deathclaw and Gwyrtha an uneasy smile.

Deathclaw must have really unnerved him. Or perhaps it was the mention of the nightbeast that caused his unease. Justan wasn’t quite sure which.

Beltry pointed. “This way. I already have a target picked out.”

The archer led him eastward through the camp and Justan’s bonded flanked them, occasionally startling the Roo-Tan men that were putting away their tents for the day’s journey. Gwyrtha emulated Deathclaw’s style, peering around at everyone as if they were a threat. She enjoyed playing the protector.

“Sorry about the awkwardness back there, son of Chersel” Justan said as they walked. “Jhonate has a habit of springing surprises on me.”

“That’s just the way she is,” Beltry said with a shrug and Justan was struck by the easy way that the man talked. He sounded so laid back. It was such a contrast to the proper speech of Jhonate and her brothers. “She was like that as a kid, even. Jhonate gets an idea in her head and just goes for it, expecting everyone else to follow. And it works for her. She usually gets her way.”

“She does at that,” Justan replied. “So, uh, son of Chersel, how far away is this target?”

“You can call me Beltry,” the archer said off-hand as they passed the last row of tents. He pointed into the trees. “The targets are just a short way from here. I found the spot while I was out, uh, . . . starting a swamp last night.”

Justan’s eyebrows rose. “You are letting me use your name that easy?”

Beltry snorted. “Most of our people aren’t as concerned with the old proper traditions as the Leeths family. Besides, you are Jhonate’s betrothed. If she wishes to marry you how could you not deserve my respect?”

“Well, thank you,” Justan replied. “I wasn’t expecting such an easy time with the nephew of Alexis bin Hoon.”

The man winced. “Please don’t give me that title. Aunt Alexis isn’t exactly my favorite person. Nor is she my father’s favorite sister. When she was married off to Xedrion, most of the family was relieved to see her go. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t too surprised when I heard that Xedrion had her put under arrest.”

“Yeah, she didn’t seem like a very fun person to be around,” Justan commented. He had only met the woman once and that had been enough.

“Besides,” said Beltry, with a shrug. “I feel like I owe you. After all, I almost killed your rogue horse.”

“You what?” Justan said in surprise.

“You didn’t recognize me? I was one of the archers who fired at your rogue horse during the battle the other day,” he admitted. “I thought it was going after you and Jhonate. My first arrow struck it in the belly and as for my second . . . I have to say I was quite impressed with the way you caught it out of the air.”

Justan hadn’t known who had fired that last shot. He had been too preoccupied with protecting the rogue horse from it. “Your arrow came inches from piercing her eye. That was an amazing shot.”

“Yes, well-.” Beltry froze as Gwyrtha appeared in front of him. She brought her muzzle inches from his face and pulled back her lips, exposing her wicked front teeth. A low growl rumbled in her throat.

Tell him to say sorry, she said.

“You may want to apologize to her,” Justan told him. He sent soothing emotions to the rogue horse through the bond. “Her name is Gwyrtha. She won’t mind you using it as long as you’re nice.”

“Right, uh, I am sorry, Gwyrtha,” Beltry said, offering a hesitant smile. “If I had known who you were, I wouldn’t have fired.”

Hmph. She snorted and turned away, smacking the side of his legs with her tail as she went, causing him to stumble. He caught his balance and watched her warily as she sauntered into the trees.

You had better forgive him. It was an accident. Justan told her. He received another hmph in reply.

“Don’t worry, she has forgiven you,” Justan assured the man though, in truth, he wasn’t completely sure. She was known to hold grudges.

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Beltry said and Justan saw sweat beading on his forehead. “Uh, it’s right here.” He stopped in front of a fallen log and pointed through the trees. “Do you see those masks?”

Spring had come to this part of Malaroo and the morning chill was already fading. The trees in this area were mostly evergreens, but they weren’t fir trees like Justan was used to. They had thick waxy leaves that resisted the mild winters. The few trees that had lost their leaves over the winter were now covered in green shoots, giving the area a vibrant lush feel.

Justan saw the masks immediately, attached to tree trunks in varying distances from where he stood. They were hard to miss, wooden masks carved in the shape of grimacing faces. The masks were garishly painted in red and white runes. “Yeah. I see them.”

“We found them back at the ‘Dan campsite after the battle,” Beltry said, referring to the Roo-Dan. Justan had heard several of the Roo-Tan warriors refer to their savage cousins simply as the ‘Dan’. “I like to use them for target practice because they are easy to see in the distance. Plus, the runes they paint on them make them more durable too. They can usually take a few arrows without shattering.”

“Alright,” Justan said pulling Ma’am off of his shoulder. He reached for an arrow and looked down the range at the various masks. “What do you need me to do?”

“First, before you fire anything, you should tell me what you know about Jharro weapons,” Beltry said. “Oh, and I will need to know what you would like me to call you. ‘Jhonate’s betrothed’ works but it seems like an awkward title for a warrior like yourself.”

“Please, call me Sir Edge,” Justan said, inclining his head towards the man. “Any friend of Jhonate’s is deserving of my respect.” This was only his second day among the Roo-Tan and he was already finding this name/respect thing tiresome. He was going to have to ask Sir Hilt how he got around it. “Besides, the Bowl of Souls gave me this name. I don’t think it’s within my rights to decide who can and who can’t use it.”

“Very well. Sir Edge,” Beltry said, nodding in approval. “Jhexin said that you have only recently communed with your tree. How recently is that?”

“It was a couple of weeks ago,” Justan said, feeling awkward admitting it. “But that’s just because Jhonate hadn’t told me anything about that ‘communing with the tree’ thing until then. I’ve actually been using the bow for over two years now.”

“That’s interesting,” Beltry said. “I’ve never met someone who’s gone about it that way. Though I suppose I should have known by all the carvings on your bow. This is going to either make things much easier for you or make them very hard. It depends on what bad habits you’ve developed.”

“What about the carvings on my bow?” Justan asked. He looked down at the detailed shallow designs that covered Ma’am’s surface.

“Those are maker’s marks,” Beltry explained. “When the elves first pull the wood from the Jharro tree, the wood is without purpose. They carve those designs to tell the weapon what it is going to be. This way the Jharro weapons keep their form until their users are ready. The longer you use your weapon, and the more that the weapon becomes in tune with you, the more of those markings fade.”

Justan ran his fingers along his bow, feeling the textures of the carvings. “That’s too bad. I like the designs.” It made sense though, now that he thought about it. Jhonate’s staff had very few carvings in it and Yntri Yni’s bow had none that he had been able to see. He looked at Beltry’s walking staff and saw only two shallow curving designs carved into it.

“So is that a mark of prestige among your people?” he asked, grumbling inwardly at yet another detail that Jhonate had failed to mention. “The less markings, the better you know the tree?”

“It doesn’t mean as much as all that,” Beltry said with a shrug. “We’re humans, not elves. With a few rare exceptions, the trees pay only minor attention to us. The amount of carvings on your bow tells me something about your relationship with your weapon, but that hasn’t got anything to do with how well you know your tree.”

Beltry could see that Justan wasn’t entirely grasping the concept. He lifted the walking staff in front of him. “Each weapon has a personality of its own. The more time you spend using your Jharro weapon and getting to know its personality, the more it gets to know you and what you need from it. That’s when the markings fade.

“So, yes, you can look at a Roo-Tan warrior’s weapon and see how well it knows him, but that doesn’t tell you his skill level. You, for instance,” Beltry said. He lifted his staff and bent it, then pulled a bowstring from a pouch at his side and strung it in one fluid motion. The shape of the staff changed as Beltry did so, until it looked quite similar to Justan’s bow. He pulled an arrow from the quiver that hung at his belt. “You could be a far better archer than me.” He drew the arrow back and fired, his eyes never leaving Justan’s. He smiled as he heard it strike the mask on the target closest to them. “But I doubt it.”

Justan smiled back at him. “Nice shot.” He notched an arrow on his own bow and pulled it back. “I might not be able to make the shot you just did without looking, but . . .” Justan sighted in on the target furthest away. He led his breath, letting the world around him blur. He released the arrow and then looked back at Beltry knowing that it would strike true. “I could be more accurate.” He heard a distant thwack as the arrow pierced the mask. “Left nostril.”

“No way,” Beltry laughed. He lifted his bow to his eyes and a small hole opened up in the center of the wood. He peered through the hole at the distant target. “Ha! You were off by a muskrat hair. You struck it between the nostrils.”

Justan looked back at the target, focusing in with the enhanced vision given to him by his bond with Deathclaw, and his smile slipped slightly. “That’s too bad. I would have looked so much better if I had been right.”

It was a good shot, Deathclaw commented from a vantage point in a tree somewhere ahead of them.

“Don’t feel embarrassed,” Beltry said. He actually looked impressed. “That mask is over a hundred yards away. Quite a feat. That was a shot I couldn’t have made without looking.”

“Ah, but could you have made it while looking?” Justan asked.

Beltry chuckled. “We can have a contest another time. This is an evaluation. I want you to fire again. Sight in on a closer target, but shoot it in the same place. I want to be sure of something.”

“Alright.” Justan drew back another arrow.

He picked a mask that was about fifty yards away and sighted in onto the target, aiming for the tiny dot just off of the center of the mask that was the left nostril. He let the world blur again and released. This time he watched the arrow streak through the air and bury itself right where he wanted. The impact caused a crack to sprout horizontally along the mask and the bottom half of it fell away. He shouted and pumped his fist.

“Very good.” Beltry folded his arms. “So this is what I see from you already. Your bow is tight. It’s set for power. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. It suits you. With your musculature you can handle a pull like that.”

“Hmm.” Justan supposed the man was right. The bow was a hard pull. It hadn’t always been that way. Thinking about it, he supposed that it had started feeling tighter sometime after the dragon hair string had been destroyed. Perhaps it had been compensating for that lack of power. Had he been willing Ma’am to change without knowing it?

“Still, that is a setting that’s rather limiting,” Beltry continued. “What do you do if you don’t want to fire at great distance? What if you are hunting and the target is closer?”

“Then I just don’t pull back as far,” Justan said.

Beltry shook his head. “Now you are speaking as if it were a regular bow. The first thing you need to learn is how to adjust the tension in the bow as you need it. That’s something a Jharro bow can do that no regular bow can. You can change the power of your shot while it is pulled back to your ear.

Justan frowned in thought, thinking of the implications.

Beltry added, “I was trained in the bow by Yntri Yni’s grandson, Kyrn Yni. He can actually change the power of the shot while firing. I was training with him once and he sighted in on a bear that had entered the grove. He had his string pulled back and I could see his bow changing, tightening for maximum power. It would have been a killing blow for sure. Then, at the moment of release, he noticed that this bear had a little cub with her. Killing her would have perhaps doomed the cub as well. In that tiny fraction of a second after letting go of the string, he caused his bow to go limp. The arrow only traveled maybe twenty feet.”

Justan’s eyebrows rose at the thought of such a feat. He wasn’t sure how often an ability like that would come in handy, but to have that kind of control was impressive. “Let me guess. He had no carvings on his bow at all.”

“Well, when you’re nearly a thousand years old, you have a lot of time to get to know your weapon. Then again, most of the elves know theirs that well. We humans are another story. We have difficulty understanding the wood. As far as I know, only two humans have weapons without any marks and I’ve only seen a handful of humans reduce their carvings down to one.”

Xedrion bin Leeths was one of them. Justan had seen his weapon up close the other day. He nodded at Beltry’s bow. “You have two.”

Beltry smiled. “And I’m young to have come this far. But we should be focusing on teaching you to remove some of yours. The camp will be leaving soon. Fire some more arrows. Try to will your bow to become more flexible. See if you can fire some soft shots.”

Justan did so. He emptied his quiver before it was time to leave, but he was only making slow progress. Ma’am was stubborn.

*          *          *

On a tree not far away from the two men, was something that didn’t belong. A tiny multifaceted eye had sprouted from one of its branches. In truth, though it was nearly impossible to see it, this branch did not actually belong to the tree. Nor did the two branches under it. They belonged to the body of an assassin.

Vahn watched the men firing their bows and pondered the possibilities. There were so many delicious ways he could kill the target. His client hadn’t specified the manner of the assassination, but what form of death should he mete out?

He could wait until the men went to retrieve their arrows. It would be easy to drop onto this Sir Edge as they passed underneath him. He could pierce the man’s body with a dozen spikes before any of them knew what happened. It was an honorable way to kill. A good way, in line with nightbeast history.

Yes, that would be simple, and quick, but Vahn could no longer be satisfied with simple. He had begun his assignment eager to get it over with quickly. He had stalked his target, feeling him out, looking for the right opportunities. Then he had sent out his basilisk brethren in the traditional manner. Well, perhaps not exactly traditional. He had been so eager to get the contract over with that he had sent them in pairs.

That hadn’t worked. Now he wanted to savor the kill. He wanted to drive the man mad with fear. This was why he had sent Sir Edge that letter of introduction. He wanted to see the exhaustion and hopelessness in Sir Edge’s eyes as he tore out his heart.

Vahn enjoyed killing. He had assassinated hundreds of targets in his lifetime, but if he had given into his urges, he would have murdered thousands more. Oh it was tempting. He thought about it every time he passed a man on the road, every time he saw a dwarf working his field, or even saw a bird tweeting innocently in a tree. He enjoyed the idea that for that brief moment, he held their little lives in his hands.

This was the soul of a nightbeast, the desire to kill. But killing indiscriminately was not allowed. Nightbeasts and their basilisk brethren were small in number. If they went around murdering every living thing they saw, the ire of nations would be raised against them. They would be hunted down and wiped out.

Thus, his kind had long ago developed a code. They were not to kill unless it was part of their contract to do so. Killing someone that was protecting the target was also allowed, but was considered distasteful. A truly expert nightbeast assassin should be able to find a way to kill their target without being detected at all. Such collateral damage was acceptable only if the target’s protector was directly in the way.

Yntri Yni had been one of these casualties. Vahn still felt a sickness in the pit of him because of it. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to kill the elf. Vahn wanted to kill everybody. Ending the life of a creature that had survived even longer than him had given the primal nightbeast within Vahn great pleasure. But the moment the deed had been done, Vahn had regretted it.

Technically the murder had been allowable. Yntri had been a thorn in the nightbeast’s side from the moment Vahn had sent the first pair of basilisks. The old elf had proved himself adept at spotting a flesh changer and had taught Sir Edge and the rest of his groups many techniques to help sniff them out. The elf’s presence had taken away the element of surprise that was a basilisk’s greatest tool. The end result had been that Vahn’s entire clutch of basilisks had been destroyed.

Still, killing the elf had been bad form. Yntri hadn’t been directly in Vahn’s way at the moment of his death. The truth was that Vahn had been shaken by the elf’s abilities. He had been cozying up to the ancient elf to prove to himself that he was the more clever of the two. His plan had been to convince the wily ancient to take him to this Sir Edge and introduce him. Then, once he had pierced the target’s heart in front of the elf, Yntri Yni would have known who was superior.

But Vahn’s plan had fallen apart. Somehow, Sir Edge had spotted him. The human had pointed directly at him and yelled, ‘nightbeast’. Vahn had made a split decision. He had killed the elf and then he had made sure that the human knew the murder was his fault.

Now the ancient elf was no more. There was a part of Vahn that mourned that fact. This part of him had spent decades among the intelligent species of the known lands, focused on getting to know them. This part of him had developed friendships among the races. It had sublimated his inner desire to kill so that he could learn enough about them to avoid detection. This part of Vahn knew that Yntri’s death had been a waste.

This feeling inside Vahn led the nightbeast to hunger for Sir Edge’s death even more. Yes, Yntri’s life wouldn’t have ended for nothing. Surely it had increased Sir Edge’s guilt and fear after all.

Sir Edge and the other man finished their shooting and walked under the tree where Vahn clung, just as he had known they would. But he didn’t attack. Though the primal nightbeast within him cried out for blood, Vahn forced himself to hold back. This was a contract to savor.

Once again, he was back to the question of how to do it. If he had a mouth in his current form, he would have drooled over the challenge before him. Yes, in honor of Yntri Yni, Vahn would kill the man with flair.

Chapter Seven

The enormous beast leapt at Fist, driving him off of the boulder and into the midst of the mindless hungry mob below. It landed on top of him and glared at Fist with pained eyes. Then something hard stabbed him in the shoulder.

“Fist, wake up!”

The ogre stifled a shout as his eyes flew open. His roommate Jezzer peered back at him. The old cadet was standing next to Fist’s bed, poking the ogre with one stiff finger. Fist blinked at his friend, feeling disoriented, the dream still heavy in his mind. “What?”

“Are you alright?” Jezzer asked, concern etched in his features. “You look frightened.”

“I . . . I’m fine,” Fist said, though he was sweating profusely. “I was dreaming is all.”

It was that same dream again. The one where he had fought his way through a horde of faceless enemies, slaying them right and left before finding out that they were people he knew. Only this time one of them had been his father. Fist had been forced to kill Crag in order to save Squirrel, but when he climbed to the top of that boulder it wasn’t Squirrel he had saved. It was that wild beast again.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Jezzer said. “I was up early again this morning and I headed to the library as usual. Wizardess Sherl stopped me in the hallway and told me to come and fetch you.”

“Oh.” Fist threw back his blanket and sat up. A tiny pile of seeds fell out of his belly button, some of them spilling onto the floor. “Squirrel!”

There was a chittering snicker from Squirrel’s pouch.

“Your navel this time?” Jezzer said shaking his head with a slight grin. “Last time he got me I didn’t find out until the end of the day. I took off my right boot and out poured a handful of watermelon seeds. I had been wondering why my toes hurt.”

“Squirrel!” Fist said in admonishment. “He does this to you too?”

“Every once in a while. But I take it all in jest,” Jezzer replied, humor sparkling in his eyes. He leaned in closer to Fist and whispered conspiratorially, “Antyni and I have a plan to teach him a lesson. It should be ready later today.”

“Really?” Fist asked. He’d had no idea just how bad Squirrel’s pranks had been getting. He liked the idea of teaching the sneaky animal a lesson. “But why is Antyni involved?”

“Shh!” Jezzer said, eying Squirrel’s pouch. “He’ll hear you. She has her reasons. It has something to do with the other squirrels on the grounds.”

“What are you going to do?” Fist replied in a whisper of his own, though he wasn’t very good at whispering quietly. He could tell by the expression of the old man’s face that he was still too loud.

“Oh, it’s good,” Jezzer replied. Squirrel’s head peeked out of his pouch and he peered at them suspiciously. The old cadet looked away innocently and whispered into Fist’s ear, “We’ve had some seeds soaking in pepperbean wine for weeks. Antyni is drying them and says she has a way to make the heat odorless. All we have to do is sneak them into his pouch.”

I would know, Squirrel chided, exiting his pouch completely. He was wearing a green vest this morning. He had put it on inside-out and the seams were sticking up. He began shelling a nut with practiced clips of his teeth.

“Sorry, Jezzer. He heard you through the bond,” Fist said. Jezzer’s face fell. “It was a good one, though. Next time you probably shouldn’t tell me.”

The old man sighed. “Drat.”

Fist frowned at his bonded. “I should make you eat spicy seeds anyway. Why are you being mean to Jezzer? Be nice to my friends.”

I’m nice! Squirrel protested. Then he saw himself through Fist’s eyes and shook his head. He took his vest off and began turning it right side out.

“No you’re not.” Fist said with a grunt. He stood and brushed the seeds off of his belly and moved to his wardrobe. “Now pick up those seeds.”

Squirrel pulled his vest back on and looked at the seeds which were scattered across the floor. He sent Fist a mental frown. You spilled it!

“Pick it up! You know what you did.”

Chattering irritably, Squirrel did as the ogre asked, jumping to the floor and picking up the seeds one-by-one, tucking them into his cheek pouches.

Fist spoke to Jezzer while he dressed, “Did Mistress Sherl tell you anything else?”

“Just that she wants you to meet her at Professor Locksher’s rooms. She said nothing about what she wanted you for,” the old cadet replied, watching Squirrel with amusement. “Though it likely has something to do with your old tribe. I heard that the council was up late in the night debating what to do about it. I was surprised to see her up this early.”

“They were?” Fist asked, buttoning up a clean shirt.

“There was quite a split upon whether or not to let you go,” Jezzer said.

Fist wasn’t surprised, but he wondered how Jezzer knew this information. The old man seemed to hear rumors around the Mage School all the time. “Do you know what they decided?”

“No, but I suppose that whatever side Wizardess Sherl was on was likely the one who won,” Jezzer replied.

“Yes. You are probably right about that,” Fist sat back down on his bed to pull on his boots. He was feeling nervous now. Sherl had seemed like she wanted him to go with his father. Is that what they had decided?

“So are you going to leave us, then?” Jezzer asked. “Assuming that the council lets you?”

“I . . .” Fist put his face in his hands. That was the important question, wasn’t it? Justan had been supportive the night before, but even after talking out his options, the ogre wasn’t completely sure what he wanted to do. Fist felt Squirrel climb up onto his shoulder.

You go, Squirrel said, patting his ear and sending comforting feelings through the bond.

Why? Fist asked.

You are Fist. Squirrel replied. You help.

Fist sighed. That’s what it came down to, wasn’t it? “I don’t want to go, but I will if Mistress Sherl lets me. My old tribe needs me. My father . . . he asked me.”

“I thought you would say something like that,” Jezzer replied. The old man smiled and placed his hand on Fist’s shoulder. “We’ll miss you here, you know.”

Fist felt a lump rising in his throat. He hugged the man and stood, lifting Jezzer with him. The man grunted, his shoes dangling a good three feet off of the ground. “I’ll miss you, too. But maybe Mistress Sherl will say no and it won’t matter.”

“Maybe,” Jezzer replied, his voice muffled by Fist’s robe.

The ogre lowered the man down and walked to the desk where he retrieved Squirrel’s pouch. He left his weapon and armor where they were, and stood back, looking at the room. He felt sad, as if he were already saying goodbye.

This feeling deepened as Fist left his room and headed towards the Rune Tower. His heart was heavy. The Mage School hadn’t quite felt like home to him. Not like the farms of Coal’s Keep had. But he loved this place: the magic of it. He entered the tower and pushed the feelings back, telling himself again that he didn’t know for sure he was leaving. It would be so much easier if Darlan didn’t allow him to go. He could tell his father to go back home and he wouldn’t feel guilty because it wasn’t his decision.

He climbed the long sets of stairs leading to Locksher’s rooms. His legs burned and Fist was reminded once more how much he had neglected his physical training. He was breathing heavy by the time he reached the correct floor.

Lazy, Squirrel admonished from Fist’s shoulder.

Fist gave him a perturbed glance. “Me lazy? You’re the one who rides my shoulder all day.”

Squirrel shrugged and started on another seed as Fist arrived at Locksher’s door. He gave two sharp knocks. The door cracked open seconds later and Vannya’s blue eyes peeked out. She smiled up at him.

“Oh! There you are, Fist. Come in. They’re waiting for you,” Vannya said cheerfully and pulled open the door. She yelled back into the room, “Fist is here!”

“Bring him back,” shouted Darlan’s voice.

Fist stepped into the entrance of Locksher’s rooms hesitantly. He had only been here a handful of times and he was always struck by the way it seemed to be orderly and jumbled at the same time. The large central area was occupied by multiple bookcases, each one crammed with books of different sizes, some of them in bad shape. The walls of the room were covered in little hooks and shelves occupied by various implements and artifacts, many of them glowing with elemental magic.

The book shelves were tall enough that Fist could just barely see over them to the area in the back where Locksher kept his large ornate desk and several workbenches. Craning his neck, he could see the tops of Locksher and Darlan’s heads as they were leaning over one of the workbenches. His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of something rotten.

Stinks! said squirrel, placing two paws over his sensitive nose.

“You can smell it?” Vannya frowned, watching Squirrel. “Sorry, little guy. I tried to mask the odor with a spell, but it was pretty intense.”

“They have that chest in here?” Fist asked.

“Yeah. This way. Be careful not to knock anything over.” Vannya grasped one of his large hands with her soft petite one and led Fist around the bookcases into the back area.

As the ogre rounded the last bookcase, he noticed two other people in the room that had been hidden by the bookcases. Mistress Sarine was sitting in an old chair with two long thick needles in her hand, humming quietly to herself as she knitted something with bright blue yarn. Sitting cross legged on the floor next to her was the elf Kyrkon.

“Good morning, Mistress Sarine,” the ogre said.

Sarine didn’t acknowledge that he had spoke, but kept humming. She stared off into space, the needles in her hands making a series of soft clicks as she knitted.

“Sorry, she won’t answer you,” Kyrkon said, looking up at him. A yellow sweater was lying across his knees and the elf was unraveling it from the bottom, winding the yarn into a ball. The elf’s short brown hair was parted down the middle and his sheathed sword was propped up against the bookshelf behind him. The gloves Kyrkon had worn when Fist first saw him were gone and the ogre could see the naming rune on the back of his right hand. “She’s concentrating very hard to block the magic of those worms, and bewitching isn’t her strong suit.”

“Oh.” Fist was grateful that the wizardess was able to block the magic, but he wondered what bewitching had to do with it. Also why, if she was concentrating so hard, was she knitting something at the same time?

“Come on,” Vannya said excitedly, tugging at his hand again. “You’ve got to see what Locksher found.”

She pulled him over to the workbench that Locksher and Darlan were huddled in front of. Fist saw the source of the horrible smell. The chest that the ogres had given him sat next to them on the bench, its lid open. As Fist peered over the two of them to see what they were looking at, there was a sharp crack and a squishing sound.

“That is utterly disgusting,” Darlan muttered.

“Yes,” Locksher agreed. “And it’s also ingenious.”

The rotting dwarf head was lying in the center of a large metal platter on the workbench in front of them. The head had been placed cheek-down and tiny white worms dotted the surface around it, squirming and letting off a slight iridescence.

“What is it? Did you discover something else?” Vannya asked. She dropped Fist’s hand and pulled a notebook from within her robes.

Locksher pulled his eyes away from the thing and glanced back at her, smiling, a scalpel in his hand. “I opened a section of the skull. Look what I found!”

He reached out with metal tongs and pulled back a flap of skin and bone to reveal a gaping hole. Fist’s lips pulled back in distaste. The brain inside was covered in more worms, these ones slightly smaller than the others. Their presence wasn’t a big surprise to him. The chest had been filled with black sludge and maggots. It made sense that they would have penetrated the head inside.

“Ooh!” Vanya said in delight and began scribbling notes.

Fist was about to ask why this was of interest when the head suddenly moved. The dwarf’s jaws opened and closed, its brown-stained teeth alarmingly close to the wizard’s arm. The ogre pointed, his eyes wide.

“It’s trying to bite you!” Fist yelled.

Locksher jerked his arm away, dropping his tools with a clatter, and swung around to face Fist, one hand on his chest. “By the gods, ogre! Don’t sneak up behind a man and shout!”

“I didn’t sneak,” Fist said, taking a step back.

“I could have cut myself with those implements,” Locksher said, perturbed. He carefully picked the tongs and scalpel back up and laid them on the bench. “And considering what I have been using these implements on, that would have been very unsanitary!”

Locksher was a man of average height and rather plain features. His hair was mostly black with small patches of gray at his temples and he looked to be only just out of his twenties, but Fist knew that this was just because his work with magic had slowed his aging. Locksher was actually in his forties and was quite experienced. He was the Mage School’s Wizard of Mysteries, which meant that it was his responsibility to look into any strange magic happenings and report his findings back to the council.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Fist replied. “But the head was trying to bite you.”

“Of course it was,” Locksher replied. “It’s been trying all morning. But it can’t reach me. It’s just a head. It has no neck to turn on and frankly even if it did bite me it is quite decayed. I doubt it could do much damage.”

“Why is the head alive?” Fist asked.

“It isn’t!” Locksher said. “The dwarf this head belonged to is very much dead.”

Fist’s jaw hung open.

“Come here, Fist, and look at it again,” Darlan said, motioning him closer. The wizardess was wearing an expensive scarlet robe and had her hair pulled back away from her face, held in the back with a gold pin. When he hesitated, she said, “You can figure it out for yourself. Think of it as an intellectual exercise.” She glanced at Locksher and Vannya. “You two don’t help him. This is a learning experience.”

The two magic users looked at each other dubiously.

“Okay,” Fist said, leaning back over the workbench. He knew what an intellectual exercise was. He needed to think about what this meant, not what it looked like.

The head was in terrible shape. This dwarf once had a full head of hair and a beard, but large clumps of hair had fallen out, exposing desiccated skin. One large section of flesh was missing from the side of its face and, now that Fist looked closer, he could see that it had been torn free, maybe by a weapon. In this patch, some of the skull was completely exposed showing bone that had been stained brown much like its teeth. The gaping hole Locksher had made still teemed with the squirming worms.

The head moved again, causing Fist to flinch. One eye rotated slowly and the jaw opened and closed, but those motions were more mechanical than lifelike.

“It does look dead,” Fist admitted. “But how is it moving?”

“That answer lies in another question,” Locksher said, one of his eyebrows rising in excitement.

“Oh, it’s an interesting one,” Vannya agreed.

“Hey!” Darlan pointed at Locksher and Vannya. “You two, keep your mouths shut. I want him to figure it out.”

Their shoulders slumped.

“What am I figuring out?” Fist asked.

“You are looking at a puzzle,” Darlan replied. “This is one piece. Think of the circumstances surrounding this head. Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know,” he said, scratching his chin.

Squirrel tugged on his ear. The ogres!

“I know that, Squirrel,” Fist said. But maybe that was the answer she was looking for. “I guess Crag and the others brought it from the mountain where they say the evil is.”

“And how long did it take them to bring the head to us?” she asked.

“A month,” the ogre replied and Darlan gave him a quick nod as if his response had answered everything. He thought about it for a moment and said. “Should I be wondering why the worms are still alive? Because it’s real cold up in the mountains?”

Darlan looked to Locksher. “You know, that is a good question.”

The wizard shrugged. “I did wonder about the cold, but it seems that the little things generate a lot of heat. The inside of the box is a good five degrees hotter than the rest of the room and the dwarf’s head has a temperature that would indicate a fever in a living person.”

“That wasn’t the question then?” Fist was disappointed.

“Not the one we were looking for,” Darlan replied. “It has to do with the state of the remains.”

Fist frowned. “You mean why does the head still have so much meat on it?” She smiled and he knew he had gotten closer. “I guess I thought that was just because he was a dwarf.”

“Well, that’s true,” Locksher said. “Dwarves don’t decompose as fast as other races. The magic in their blood lingers after death. But that wouldn’t keep them from being . . .” He trailed off at Darlan’s glare.

“Oh!” Fist said in understanding. “The worms should have eaten it by now.”

“Actually, they aren’t worms. They are fly larvae,” Locksher corrected.

“Maggots,” Vannya added cheerfully.

“Otherwise, Fist, you are correct,” Locksher said, keeping watch on Darlan’s expression as he spoke. “There are several interesting factors here. After a month in such an enclosed space, the flesh should be eaten away, the larvae pupated into flies, and the flies should be dead.”

“Some flies flew out when I first opened the lid,” Fist remarked.

“That’s right,” Darlan said, snapping her fingers. “I had forgotten about that.”

“How many flies?” Locksher asked, sudden concern in his eyes.

“Not many,” the ogre replied. “I didn’t count them, though.”

“Hmm. Then they can eventually turn into flies. Make a note of that, Vannya,” the wizard said frowning in thought. The mage nodded and flipped her notebook back a few pages to make some notations. Locksher shook his head. “Well, at any rate, the contents of this chest should be a skull and a lot of dead insects. Knowing that, and what we have seen inside the head, what do you know?”

“That-.” Fist bit his lip. What did he know? The contents of the chest were an impossibility unless . . . An uncomfortable idea came to his mind. “Maybe Crag lied? Do you think the ogres killed this dwarf on the way here?”

“No.” Locksher said. “I don’t believe that to be the case. It would explain the suspended state of decomposition perhaps, but not the malevolent spirit magic or the post-death movement of the tissues.”

“Then the maggots are not eating the head.” Fist supposed, though that didn’t sound right. “But, they are inside it, so . . . They are what’s making the head move?”

“Ha!” said Darlan. “I knew you’d figure it out, Fist.”

“Yes,” Locksher said. “Strangely, the larvae aren’t ingesting the flesh. They are inhabiting it. These maggots are somehow using spirit magic to control the dead tissues of this dwarf and make it move. If his body were intact, no doubt they would make it attack us.”

“Oh,” Fist said. It was a disturbing thought. He peered into the open chest and tried not to gag at the smell. “What about that black sludge?”

The inside of the chest was still covered in the stuff. It undulated and squirmed with the movements of hundreds of worms. Fist was relieved that they weren’t moving in concert now as they had when he first opened the chest. That had been terrifying. They were much less frightening now.

“I’m still not completely sure,” Locksher said, scratching his chin. “I tested it. The black ‘sludge’, as you call it, is simply rotted organic matter. It seems to be what the larvae feed on. As for why it is black, I’ll need to run more tests.”

“It smells like the black stuff in the dark forest,” Fist said, thinking back to that time nearly six months ago when he had gone with Justan and the others into the forest to destroy the mother of the moonrats. He swallowed. “Could it be her? Is Mellinda not dead?”

“Well, it isn’t exactly the same,” Locksher said, looking at Darlan. “That ‘sludge’ didn’t have larvae like this in it.”

“No,” said Fist. “But when we went after her, the black stuff had stinging bugs in it. And what about the magic the worms tried to attack me with? Kyrkon says that Mistress Sarine is fighting it off with bewitching magic.”

“We have noticed the similarities between the way Mellinda worked and these things,” Darlan said.

Locksher sighed. “However, I must once again point out the impossibility. Mellinda was destroyed by Jhonate after you incinerated the dark forest. The elves have not seen any sign that she survived. Also, we are talking about a possible infestation high in the Trafalgan Mountains, weeks travel from there.”

“Maybe she got away somehow and went there instead?” Fist suggested.

“No. I have to agree with Locksher on this,” Darlan said. “I felt the attack of these worms before my grandmother was able to block them. Mellinda’s attacks felt different, she was mocking and intelligent. What I felt from those things was merely a mindless hatred and hunger for control. It’s not her.”

Vannya frowned. “We can’t dismiss the possibility, though. Can we? There are enough similarities that we should take the prospect into account.”

“With magic, most anything is possible,” Locksher allowed. “But all we can do now is theorize. I shall know better what we are up against once I get to the source.”

“Wait. You’re going, professor?” Fist asked. The wizard nodded. Fist looked at Darlan. “Are you coming, too? Are we all going?” he asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately I cannot,” she replied. “I have too much to do with my council responsibilities. In fact, it’s past time that I took up my post at the academy.” Darlan’s official post on the Mage School Council was as their representative to the Battle Academy. The only reason she hadn’t gone there yet was because so many of the Mage School’s regular council members hadn’t been replaced.

Fist felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. He wouldn’t be staying at the Mage School either way. He’d end up going to the academy with Darlan. “So Professor Locksher is going with them instead of me.”

A slight smile spread on his face as the idea sunk in. This was good. This way the Thunder People would get the help they needed. He wouldn’t have to feel guilty about staying behind. It was out of his hands.

“No, Fist,” Darlan said. “You can go. I very much doubt that the other ogres would listen to Locksher otherwise. I spoke with the rest of the council last night and they agreed that this is an extraordinary circumstance. They have allowed me to transfer your apprenticeship to Locksher for the duration of this excursion.”

Fist stood there numbly for a moment. He found himself saying, “Then I should call him Master Locksher now?”

“This will be fun,” Locksher said, giving him an encouraging grin. He clapped the ogre on the shoulder. “I’ve never had an apprentice before. I’m quite sure there’s much I can teach you.”

Fist tried to put on a smile, but it felt as if his guts were twisted. He didn’t want to change masters. He didn’t really have a problem with Locksher, but he didn’t know him very well. In some ways Darlan was a mother to him. Even before he had met her, he had known her. Sharing in Justan’s memories had made it feel like she had raised him.

Trolls, Squirrel reminded him. Fist didn’t understand what he meant right away, but Squirrel pushed a memory into his head.

Oh! Fist’s posture straightened. “But this might be a bad idea. Justan needs Professor Locksher in Malaroo.”

“In Malaroo?” Darlan asked. She narrowed her eyes at him and Fist knew she was suspicious about his sudden announcement. “Why is that?”

“I should have brought it up yesterday, but with everything going on, I forgot. I promised Justan last night that I would tell you.” Fist told them about the troll-like creatures that had attacked some of the Roo-Tan men and described what they had looked like. “Justan says that Xedrion commanded his men to burn the bodies, but the one with the human face was resistant to fire.”

As he finished, Darlan had her arms folded and was deep in thought.

Both of Locksher’s eyebrows were raised. “Then it’s possible that these trolls were modified by the Rings of Stardeon.”

“That’s what Justan thinks,” Fist said, glad to see the expression on the wizard’s face. When the wizard raised both his eyebrows, he was really interested. “That’s why he wanted you to come down to Malaroo.”

“How exciting!” the wizard said, rubbing his hands together. “Modified trolls in Malaroo.”

“Do we know for sure that there are more of these creatures? Is this an invasion?” Darlan asked finally.

“I don’t know,” Fist replied. “These were the first ones that Jhonate’s people had seen.”

“Then I don’t see that we have enough information to send our Wizard of Mysteries to Malaroo when he’s needed elsewhere. Strange creatures in the swamp are not our concern,” Darlan said aloofly. “Besides, the Roo-Tan don’t like wizards. It’s doubtful he would be wanted there.”

“But Justan says that Jhonate is getting permission,” Fist said.

“Ooh,” Locksher said. He was hopping from foot to foot, his hands clenched together. “I am actually quite tempted by this, Sherl. I have been trying to get permission to enter Malaroo for years. There are so many interesting types of magic to study there. And then there’s the Rings of Stardeon. If they are in Malaroo, we simply must retrieve them.”

“We don’t know that the rings are involved in this,” Darlan said firmly. “Meanwhile, this ‘evil’ growing in the mountains is a threat right at Dremaldria’s border. It should take priority.”

Locksher grimaced. “But it’s Malaroo, Sherl.”

“I’ll go,” Vannya announced suddenly. Everyone turned their eyes to her in surprise.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Vannya,” Locksher said.

“Professor, you have trained me well over this past year. I can do this. I have studied all the same books you have during that time. I know everything about the rings that you do. I should be the one to go to Malaroo. Sir Edge can relay my findings to Fist so that I can keep you informed.”

Locksher seemed a bit crestfallen at this statement. “Ah, well that is good.” He looked her in the eyes. “Are you sure you want to go, Vannya? It is a long journey.”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said indignantly. “I have traveled long distances before. And since I wasn’t going to be able to travel to the mountains with you anyway . . .” She glanced at Darlan.

“I stand by what I said in the council meeting last night,” Darlan said. “Traveling with a large group of ogres is not a good place for you. They would not take a human woman seriously.”

“They would have taken you seriously,” Vannya declared, folding her arms.

“Well, that’s me, dear,” Darlan said, giving her a terse smile. “Nevertheless, I think this new idea of yours is a grand one. As a mage, you should be off proving yourself. Perhaps this is the event that gets you raised to wizard.”

Vannya smiled.

“But . . .” Fist said. This wasn’t going the way he had hoped. “Sending Vannya to Malaroo? What will Jhonate think?”

“She is a grown woman, Fist, and too mature to worry about petty past disagreements,” Darlan replied. “She will be fine. You can tell Justan to tell her I said so.”

“Jhonate has nothing to fear from me,” Vannya said, offended. She looked away. “Sir Edge made his decision long ago.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him that,” Fist said. That did it. He was going. He told himself that this hadn’t changed anything. He had come into the room assuming that he would have to go anyway. He placed a hand on Locksher’s shoulder. “Then it’s you and me, Master Locksher.”

And me! Squirrel said.

“And Squirrel,” Fist added. “Do not worry. I’ll make sure my father listens to you.”

“Charz shall be accompanying you as well,” Darlan said. “The giant made the request himself. I think it is a good idea. He can make nightly reports back to Alfred during the journey and Beehn can keep the council abreast of the situation.”

“Good!” Fist said, feeling a bit better about the whole thing. “When do we leave?”

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind them.

Fist turned in surprise. He had all but forgotten that Kyrkon was sitting there. The yellow sweater was completely gone and in its place were five large balls of yellow yarn in his lap. He was feeding one of them up to Sarine, who had finished the blue ball she had been working with when Fist had entered the room. Whatever she was knitting was long and narrow with intricate cabling.

“Sarine is getting tired,” the elf said. He pointed to the platter on the workbench. “Wizard Locksher, if you are finished with your study, would you mind putting that thing away?”

“Yes. Of course,” the wizard replied. He picked up his prongs and shut the flap of skin back over the hole in the dwarf’s head before picking it up.

“You leave in the morning,” Darlan said, answering Fist’s earlier question.

“That soon?” Locksher said as he carefully set the head back into the open chest. He put the instruments down and shut the lid. “But I have so much to prepare.”

“You have a full day to pack, Locksher,” Darlan replied. “You’ll be fine.”

“Shouldn’t we wait an extra day?” Fist asked. “We could take the portal then.”

In two days, the council was planning to reopen the portal that led from the Rune Tower to the outskirts of the academy. Darlan had felt it was long overdue, but the rest of the council had been hesitant to provide such an easy entry point into the Rune Tower where all of the Mage School’s great artifacts were kept. It had taken this long to work out all the security protocols needed.

“Nonsense,” said Sarine, setting down her knitting. She had regained her focus, but she looked tired indeed. Her cheeks were pale and eyes had lost some of their luster. Her voice was insistent, however. “We can’t have ten ogres tromping into the grounds past our defenses. They could go on a rampage.”

“I wouldn’t let them do that,” Fist said, feeling slightly offended. Of course, he could understand her position. Ogres were generally seen as enemies to humanity. Letting them into a place that had been constructed to keep such creatures out would be difficult for the wizards to accept.

“And you would stop all ten of them by yourself?” Sarine shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear. The rest of the council may try to overrule me, but I would put my foot down.”

“No one’s overruling you, damn it!” Darlan snapped. She frowned, her eyes looking confused. “I agree with you. We are not letting the ogres travel by portal.”

Fist didn’t understand why Darlan’s rebuke had been so harsh. Perhaps she had been arguing with her grandmother before he had arrived. “But Mistress Sherl and Mistress Sarine, if we took the portal it would save us two weeks of travel time.”

“And we will be taking full advantage of that time, Fist,” Locksher said. The wizard seemed agitated. There was a sudden tenseness in his voice. Evidently he and Darlan had already discussed the topic. The wizard rubbed at his jaw as he added, “This gives us plenty of time to learn more about the situation. We will find out exactly what we are dealing with before the academy gets involved.”

“The academy?” Fist asked.

“This could very well be a severe problem on Dremaldria’s border. That is the academy’s province,” Darlan said sternly.

Fist frowned. He hadn’t thought about it in that light. “So you want me to take the Thunder People there?”

“That depends on what the Academy Council wants. We’ll let you know on the way through Charz,” She was on edge. Her hands trembled as she continued, “I will be leaving for the academy as soon as the portal opens. I will tell them what we have learned so far and find out what they wish to do about it. We will be waiting for you when you arrive.”

Fist nodded slowly. “Okay, but-.”

“Don’t question it further, apprentice!” Darlan said, causing Fist to flinch.

“Now there’s no reason to shout at him like that, Darlan,” Locksher said. There was an unease in his expression that was uncommon for him.

“I will shout at who I wish!” Darlan yelled.

Fist’s eyes moved to the platter on the workbench. When Locksher had put the head back in the chest, he had left over a dozen tiny maggots behind. They were arching their little bodies in unison, their little black heads focused on Darlan.

“Now just a minute!” Vannya said.

“That will be enough.” Mistress Sarine said with a calm but firm voice. She stood and waved a hand. The maggots collapsed, squirming mindlessly.

The tension went out of the air. Darlan blinked and looked at the platter, then back at the rest of them with an ashen expression. “I-I’m sorry. I owe all of you an apology. I can’t believe I let those things affect me like that.”

“It was my fault,” Locksher said. “I was thinking about too many things and got sloppy. I shouldn’t have left any of the larvae on that tray. Not knowing what I know.”

Vannya placed a hand on his shoulder. “You were distracted. It’s okay.”

“No it isn’t!” Locksher said, looking into her eyes. “I know better. Dealing with things like this is what I do. If I make mistakes like this, I could get people killed. Maybe even you.”

“Calm down, dear,” Sarine said. “It was just a little tiff. Some frayed emotion. No one was hurt. We just learned how affective the magic in those little worms can be, didn’t we?”

She swayed a little and Kyrkon grasped her arms to steady her. “Easy, Begazzi.”

She sighed and patted the elf’s hand. “I’ll be fine. Fist, dear, will you dispose of that menace, please?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Fist summoned vibrating threads of air and earth magic, wrapping them around his hand. He reached towards the platter with one finger and touched the metal. There was a loud zap.

Each squirming maggot burst with a puff of smoke.

Chapter Eight

Fist went back out to talk to the ogres alone. Though there were still a bevy of archers on top of the walls and soldiers in the trees that were watching them, the humans were told to stay back. Fist walked towards his former people with determination, puffing out his chest and building his confidence in his mind. He needed to show his father that he wasn’t being manipulated by the little peoples. This journey was Fist’s decision and he would make sure that Crag knew he was expected to follow his lead. This was why he approached them alone.

And me, Squirrel was on his shoulder providing support.

And Squirrel, he added. The important thing was that Fist would show his dominance and lay down the rules for the journey. If he had a human or Charz at his side, their presence could undermine what he was saying. Darlan and Locksher had agreed it was a good idea. In fact, Darlan had kind of suggested the idea.

As part of his plan, Fist had returned to his room and changed. He had taken off his regular student’s robe and buckled on the steel breastplate and chain greaves that Bettie had made him. Then he had pulled his hooded traveling robes on and strapped his weapon harness over that.

As he rounded the wall and the ogres came into view, Fist was a truly impressive figure. He was the perfect specimen of an ogre male, 600 pounds of pure muscle and fully armored with his large iron shield on his back and the spikes of his wicked mace sticking up over one shoulder.

The ogres were standing around a large campfire, laughing as they watched two of their number wrestling on the ground. One of the combatants was Rub, Old Falog’s son. Crag was pacing next to the brawlers shouting out encouragements.

The ogres must have grown bored with waiting. His eyes scanned the rest of the crowd and saw that several of them had blackened eyes or brown leaf poultices on their faces. The battles must have been going on for most of the day already. Crag had likely started the fighting himself as a way to keep up morale.

Fist wasn’t surprised by this behavior. Fighting was a common form of ogre entertainment. It was a way of settling any dispute in the tribe. Often times the disputes were started as an excuse for a brawl. These battles ended when one of the two either gave up or was unconscious. This might seem like a foolhardy pastime for warriors. After all, it wouldn’t benefit the tribe if one of its warriors were killed or disabled. But ogres were tough. It was rare that one of these fights resulted in any injuries more serious than a few bruises or a concussion.

The ogres were so intent on the struggle that they still hadn’t seen Fist approach. As he came closer, he saw that Rub had gotten the upper hand. The ugly ogre had straddled his adversary and was raining down blows with his meaty fists. Just as the ogre on the bottom was about to give up, Crag ran up and kicked Rub in the side. With a grunt of protest, Rub fell over and the fight began again in earnest.

“Crag! I am here!” Fist bellowed.

“Fist comed back!” Crag said with wide smile. The two ogres in front of him continued their struggle. Crag kicked Rub again. “Stop now. Fist is back.” The two combatants, their faces swollen from the repeated blows, turned bloody grins in Fist’s direction.

Even the female ogre showed signs of fighting. Puj had brown leaf mash shoved up both nostrils and the corner of her mouth was crusted with blood. Fist frowned. That wasn’t correct ogre behavior. There were no other females here for Puj to fight. Fully grown ogresses were just as strong as male ogres, but males did not fight with the females. They were too valuable.

“Fist!” cried several of the other ogres, following Crag’s lead. Burl and two ogres that were with him were the only ones silent. Those three gave him dubious looks.

“Do you fight with the women now?” Fist asked, gesturing at Puj.

“Ogre mens do not fight the womens,” Crag protested He looked at Puj and blinked, noticing her injuries for the first time. “What happened to your face?”

She glanced briefly at Burl and the two ogres with him, then stuck out her chin and said, “I could not fight. So I punched myself!”

The others nodded. This happened some times when ogres became too excited. If there wasn’t something to fight, they hit whatever was available. Crag seemed satisfied by this and he returned his attention to Fist.

“What is this you is wearing?” the chieftain asked, looking Fist up and down in disapproval. “Metal skin?”

“This is my evil-fighting armor,” Fist said, using the phrase he had practiced beforehand. He pounded his chest with his fist, but the metal didn’t give the loud ping he was hoping for. It was more of a thud and it hurt his hand. He didn’t let his pain show.

“You is ready for fighting the evil?” Crag said, his expression slowly changing to admiration. “You is coming?”

“I am,” Fist said.

Crag shouted with glee. “Fist is Thunder People again!”

“No!” Fist said, causing his father’s smile to wither. “I am Fist of the Big and Little People Tribe. My tribe will go into the mountains and fight this evil.”

Crag frowned. “But you is Thunder People.”

“The Big and Little People will fight the evil.” Fist repeated. He folded his arms and gave Crag his most imposing stare. “We will allow the Thunder People to help us destroy it.”

“You is the Big and Little People?” Burl scoffed and his two friends snorted. “One ogre is not a tribe.”

“My tribe is more than ogres!” Fist said, pointing to Squirrel, who was standing proudly, with his little arms folded in front of him. “We have many peoples. My tribe sends me and Squirrel and the giant, Charz. We will also bring the human wizard, Locksher.”

“You will not join the Thunder People again?” Crag asked. He looked saddened.

Fist found the look in his father’s eyes unsettling. Crag didn’t feel sadness. “No. But we will ally with you.”

“Ally?” asked Bash. The tall ogre scratched his head as if unsure what he meant.

Ally wasn’t a strong enough word, Fist realized. He took another tactic. “I am an ogre mage.”

Ogre mages rarely stayed in the tribes they were born into. Their ability to use magic gave them a high enough status that they could stay outside of tribal conflicts. Therefore, most of them preferred to keep to themselves or started small tribes of their own. The other tribes gave them food and women to ensure that the mages would help them when needed.

Fist raised one massive arm into the air and electricity crackled visibly around his fist. “I will lead you to destroy this evil!”

The ogres gasped at Fist’s reminder of his powers. Crag’s eyes widened, but jaw clenched at the idea of Fist taking charge. “I am chief.”

“You are not my chief,” Fist said. “You are chief of the Thunder People. As ogre mage, I will lead my tribe to the mountains and if you want us to help the Thunder People, you will listen to my rules.”

“You give the Thunder People rules?” Crag growled.

“I do,” Fist replied and the rest of the ogres looked warily from him to Crag.

It was obvious that the chieftain did not like this turn of events, but Fist had expected this reaction. Crag never had liked it when an ogre mage came to his territory and tried to tell him what to do. Well, he would just have to learn to deal with it.

Fist started with something Crag could not argue against. “The first rule is that our tribes will work together until the evil is destroyed. This means we will not war with each other. We will share our food. We will protect each other.”

Crag thought for a moment as if looking for a trick. Then he nodded slowly. “I agree to these.”

Fist nodded back at him. It was a good beginning. “Also, the Thunder People will not fight any of the humans or other little people we come across on the way.”

Crag scowled. “No fighting? Are all little people in your tribe now, Fist?”

“No, but they are under my protection,” he said, giving Crag a look of such firmness that the ogre blinked in surprise.

“What about the little peoples that is evil now?” Asked one of Burl’s friends, boldly stepping forward. He was a stocky ogre with a thick beard. “We should let them bite us and turn us evil too?”

“We will fight the evil,” Fist said, doing his best to avoid the question. The dreams he had been having loomed heavily in his mind. Hopefully Locksher would find a way to heal those affected by the worms. He didn’t want to have to kill any innocents if he did not have to.

“But what of the-!” Burl began.

“Stop, Burl!” Crag said, holding up a hand. “You are not chief.” He returned his attention to Fist. “You telled me long ago that the little peoples is not our enemies. You was right. I accept these rules, ogre mage.”

“Good,” said Fist. A smile split his face. This had gone much better than he had hoped. Darlan would be proud.

Crag turned to the others. “You heared Fist’s rules! We go. The Thunder People and the Big and Little People. We go together! We fight the evil. We save our territory!” The ogres cheered, though Burl and his friends did so half-heartedly.

“Puj, come here,” Crag said, pointing. The ogress walked to him hesitantly. He grabbed her wrist, his eyes never leaving Fist’s. “This is my gift to your tribe.”

Crag dragged her forward and shoved her at Fist. The ogress stumbled in surprise and grabbed onto Fist to steady herself.

“What are you doing?” Fist asked in alarm.

“This woman is part of your tribe now,” Crag said.

Puj looked from Crag to Fist and smiled. She giggled and a chunk of dead leaf poultice fell out of her nose. “I am in big Fist’s new tribe?”

Fist stammered. “I-uh. I did not ask for your woman, Crag.”

“It is good,” Crag assured him. “This is why I bringed Puj with us. For you.”

“For me? Why?” Fist asked, not understanding.

“You has been gone from us for a long time. It is much too long for a warrior to be away from the womens.” The rest of the ogre men nodded somberly. A few of them were giving Puj sad looks. With the ogress part of his tribe, they would all be without her company for the return trip.

“I-. But, I . . .” Fist swallowed. It had indeed been a long time, but he tried not to think about it. After bonding with Justan, he had decided that he would have to live without that kind of company.

Good for Fist! Squirrel said approvingly.

Shut up, Squirrel, he replied. This was not good. This was one of the things he had never liked about his people. Just passing the women around like property? How could he get out of it?

But you have dreams about this, Squirrel said and sent him a few choice images from the particular dream he was referring to. Fist’s cheeks went red. There were some things he wished Squirrel could not monitor through the bond.

“Poor lonely Fist,” Puj said as if in agreement with Squirrel. The ogress laid her head on his shoulder and ran her hand across his chest. “Your metal chest is cold.” Then she put her hand between his legs.

Fist yelped and leapt back, holding her out at arm’s length. Puj looked at him in surprise and the other ogres laughed at his response.

“What is wrong?” said Bash in amusement. “You forget what to do?”

“It really has been long for you, Fist!” said another.

Crag laughed. “Fist always was shy around the womens. We should go and leave them alone.”

“How far should we go?” Rub asked. The ugly ogre was still dazed from his fight. His eyes were unfocused.

“Wait!” Fist said, trying madly to think of a way out of this. He was embarrassed knowing that the archers above and the soldiers in the trees were seeing this whole exchange. He would undoubtedly hear about this later. “I cannot accept this gift,”

Crag frowned. “But you must. You are a ogre. You need a woman.”

Yes, said Squirrel, tugging on his ear.

Stop it, Fist replied.

“You do not like me?” Puj said, looking both hurt and offended. She really was pretty for an ogre and despite her bulky furs, Fist could tell that she had an impressive figure. She probably was not used to rejection from the males.

“This is . . . not about that,” Fist said. “I-uh. My tribe is not like ogre tribes. I can not accept a new member unless I talk to the others first.”

“What kind of tribe is this?” Crag said, insulted by the idea. “You is chief. You tell them what to do.”

“But I’m n-.” Fist shut his mouth before finishing his protest. He couldn’t see how correcting Crag’s assumption would help anything.

Uh oh, said Squirrel pushing an image of Justan into Fist’s mind.

I never said I was chief, Fist sent. He straightened his posture and gave his father a firm look as he lied, “It is the rules of the Big and Little People. I will speak with my tribe about it first. Puj must stay with you here for now.”

“You is leaving?” Puj asked in surprise.

“I’ll be back,” he told her.

Crag hadn’t stopped frowning. “But we is going to fight the evil.”

“We leave in the morning,” Fist proclaimed. “I will gather food and provisions and return with the giant and the human wizard.”

“You will bring more human foods?” asked Rub hopefully. Several of the others perked up their ears at this question.

“Yes,” said Fist. After all, they would be slowed down if they had to stop and hunt too often along the way.

A few cheers broke out among the ogres and Crag nodded in approval, his frown fading. “Human food is good.”

Evidently the food that the Mage School kitchens had sent out to the ogres had been a success. Humans were good at using spices and vegetables to flavor their food. Ogre cooking was bland and often either burnt or undercooked.

“Bring more of that bread thing,” added Bash.

Fist smiled back at them. He remembered how much he had enjoyed human cooking the first time he had tried it. Tamboor’s wife Efflina had invited him to their house for some wonderful bread and thick lamb stew. The memory still made his mouth water.

He gave the ogres an encouraging nod and assured them, “We will have good human food for our journey.”

This announcement went over well. Puj grinned along with the others, forgetting that Fist had slighted her. Even Burl and his friends were happy about this news.

Fist turned to leave and as he headed back towards the gate, his smile faded. Burl had probably eaten human food during the war. Most likely in the form of plunder from some conquered village. Fist sighed. This was going to be a long trip.

Why? Squirrel asked. Why you not want the woman?

Fist tried to think of the best way to explain. Are you still a squirrel?

I am Squirrel.

Yes, but are you like other squirrels? Fist asked.

Squirrel chewed a nut while he thought about it. Unlike Fist, Squirrel hadn’t stopped associating with his own kind after bonding. He was larger than other Squirrels thanks to the bond, but he often climbed the trees and chattered with them, sometimes darting around and playing with them. He even dallied with the females at certain times during the year. Those were the times that Squirrel’s bond with Fist made the ogre quite uncomfortable.

Yes, Squirrel said finally as Fist walked through the gate.

Fist hadn’t expected that response. Even though you think so different?

Squirrels are not smart, Squirrel admitted. I am smart, but I am a squirrel.

Well I am not so sure about me, Fist said. It wasn’t just the difference in intelligence that bothered him. He had found the entire encounter with his former people troubling and, once again, he had been reminded how little he resembled his ogre kin. Maybe I never was an ogre.

Fist’s steps slowed and he looked down at the ground as he walked across the manicured grass. Even before he had bonded with Justan, Fist hadn’t liked his people’s practices. Their roughness. The way they treated each other. Their flawed sense of honor. Back in his younger days, he had wanted to change the Thunder People way of life. Now he didn’t see the point in trying. Ogres were ogres.

“I take it that didn’t go well?” called a male voice and Fist turned to see that Captain Commander Riveren was jogging up behind him with Charz at his side.

The petite figure of the elf Antyni sat on the rock giant’s shoulder. She did that a lot when Charz was around. It was a habit she had picked up during the war. She was half the giant’s height and a tiny fraction of his weight and the giant put up with it. When Fist had asked her why she did it, the elf had confided to Fist that it was because she liked feeling so tall.

“It wasn’t like I hoped,” Fist replied. They must have been watching the encounter from atop the wall. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them. “You heard?”

Riveren stopped a few feet from the ogre. “We couldn’t hear everything that was said. I need to know if there’s anything my men should watch out for.”

“No. They should behave,” Fist said. He passed an embarrassed glance up at Antyni, who was looking down on him with a frown. “The ogres agreed to the rules I gave them. They know that I will be in charge for the journey.”

“Then why do you look like they force fed you a toad?” Charz asked, his voice amused.

“They . . . gave me a woman,” said Fist in disgust.

Riveren’s eyebrows rose. “They ‘gave’ you a woman?”

Charz snorted, then busted out with a loud fit of laughter. His shoulders shook so violently that he nearly dislodged Antyni, who smacked him in the top of his head. She did not look like she found the concept amusing.

“Crag said she was a gift to my tribe,” Fist explained. At the confounded look on Antyni’s face, he added, “Ogres do that some times. They use the women like money between the tribes. Crag said that he brought her here for me.”

“From how friendly she was acting, it looks like you got a great deal,” Charz said with a guffaw.

Fist grimaced. So they had seen that part. How had he not noticed that the giant was watching? Had Charz been on his knees, peering over the edge of the parapet? “I don’t think it’s funny.”

A smile had spread across Riveren’s face. “Well, if there’s nothing for me to worry about, I should get back with my men. Good luck with that, uh, woman trouble you’ve got.”

“Thanks,” Fist said with sarcasm as the captain turned and left. The ogre returned his frustrated gaze to Charz. The giant’s shoulders were still shaking. “This is serious. How am I supposed to handle this? I can’t just take her into my tribe.”

“You tell them. ‘No thank you’,” Antyni replied. The elf’s hands were on her hips and her lips were twisted in a cute scowl.

“It isn’t that easy, Antyni,” he said. “If I refuse her, I insult her and Crag. I need them to follow me.”

“Then let her in to your ‘tribe’,” Charz said. “You let lots of people in. You tell me and your other friends that we are part of your tribe and we’re not even bonded to you.”

“It isn’t that easy,” Fist protested. He didn’t like the flippant way the giant had put that. To Fist, the decision to accept someone as part of the Big and Little People was a serious one. He consulted with Justan over each one before they were invited. “She is an ogress.”

Charz shrugged. “So? You’re an ogre.”

“I’m not like them!” he protested. “She would be wild and . . . disruptive.”

His anxiety grew the more he thought about it. If he let Puj into the tribe, it would be a permanent thing. He couldn’t just trade her away or kick her out once she was part of their family. She would stick close to him too, and she wouldn’t understand the way he was living his life.

Puj would also expect certain things from him. He was the only ogre male in the tribe after all. Fist found the notion both alluring and cringe inducing. He had been around enough ogre females to know that she would be forceful about it too.

Good, said Squirrel.

“No,” he said with a shudder. “That would be bad.”

“Take it up with Sir Edge and Sherl then,” said Charz with a shrug. He chuckled again. “I gotta tell you, when I saw that ogress give you a grope I just about fell off the wall!”

Antyni pounded the giant’s head with her fist. “You be nice. He didn’t ask for that.” She turned her scowl on the ogre. “Did you?”

“I want nothing to do with her,” Fist said and sighed, knowing that the ire in her face was but a shadow of what he was going to receive when he took the situation to Darlan. She might even go visit the ogres herself and try to shout some sense into them. “Maybe Justan will be able to think up a way for me to say no.”

He doubted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Dealing with women trouble wasn’t exactly one of Justan’s strengths. Fist’s shoulders slumped.

Antyni’s expression softened as she recognized the depths of his misery. “How long do you have before they must know your decision?”

“We leave in the morning. Crag will expect my answer by then,” Fist said. “And he will expect me to say yes.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t tell him your decision right away,” Antyni suggested. “You could tell your father that you have to wait until after your journey is over.”

Fist nodded slowly. She had a good point. He could make up a custom in his tribe. Maybe he could tell Crag that he could not take the woman into his tribe until he had a cave for her to live in and he couldn’t arrange anything like that until after the evil was dealt with. Then when it was all over, he could refuse to take her in and it wouldn’t matter anymore whether or not Crag was offended.

Fist smiled. “I am going to miss having you around, Antyni.”

Antyni gathered herself and leapt from the giant’s shoulder. She collided with Fist and wrapped her arms around his neck. The impact of her strike knocked him back a step and Squirrel was forced to leap down to avoid being crushed. Squirrel chattered indignantly in protest.

Antyni ignored the little creature and squeezed Fist tight. “I wish I could come with you. It would be a fun adventure.”

“I wish you could too, Antyni,” Fist said in surprise, returning her embrace. She was so small in his arms.

Their friendship was a strange thing. He hadn’t spent much time with her during the war. She had stayed close to her people during that time, but once their homeland had been reclaimed she had returned to the Mage School to take Qyxal’s place. Evidently she had shared her twin brother’s gift with elemental magic and she had retained much of the knowledge he had gained in his years as a student. The wizards at the school were impressed with how quickly she learned and expected her to rise to the rank of Mage swiftly.

The more she learned at the school, the more of Qyxal’s memories came back to her. One day she had approached the ogre in the library and told him that she wished to be his friend. Evidently, the memories that had resurfaced had included the time that her brother had spent with Fist.

“You are strong,” she said softly into his ear. “You will make the right decision about this ogre woman. Maybe you need someone like her.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied. Antyni’s scent filled his nose. It was a comforting smell, like the woods right after a rainstorm.

As he lowered her to the ground, he realized what had frustrated him the most about his experience with Puj earlier. At one time, an ogress like her would have been exactly what he wanted, but the things he could receive from a relationship with her weren’t enough for him anymore. Ogre women had nothing close to the intelligence and capacity for love that the women of the smaller races had. Fist much preferred the company of someone like Antyni. It was too bad that they could never be more than friends.

He let go of her, his frustration turning to sadness. Perhaps friendships were the only kinds of relationships he was destined to have.

Chapter Nine

The Troll King lounged on an island of grass at the water’s edge and brooded. He laid back and looked up into the sky, watching as the stars faded into early morning. He felt a sadness as each star lost its brilliance. He knew that this should have been a good thing, heralding the dawn of a new day, but for some reason found the disappearance of the stars troubling.

The king wanted to resist this melancholy. After all, he was the ruler of a new race. His heart should be light. But he was plagued by many frustrating questions. Questions that he feared to ask the Mother. Questions that seemed impudent to ask. Why was he burdened with so much knowledge? Why could he not be oblivious to truths like so many of his people.

The doubts that caused these questions to arise within him filled him with guilt. Oh why did the Mother choose him to be king? What did he have to give his people? If he was honest with himself, he ruled over a patch of swampland. His people were diverse and varied and full of promise, but they had nothing to aspire to. The only thing they had of value was the job of protecting the goddess who had made them.

A tall form suddenly loomed over him, silhouetted against the brightening sky. The king wasn’t startled. Its human-like eyes glowed slightly to the king’s trollish eye and he could tell by its scent that it was the First.

“She births,” said the First in his raspy voice.

“Good,” said the Troll King, his head perking up. The Great Mother gave birth but once a day, usually at the break of dawn. This was the best part of the king’s day. This was the time when he received new subjects. “Do you think this will be a good day?”

The First shrugged. “It will be as the Mother wills it.”

“I suppose,” replied the king, though he knew that wasn’t necessarily the case.

He rose from his position sitting on the thick clump of grass and stood upright. The others of his people saw him rise and stood along with him, eagerly awaiting the daily spectacle. They watched as a slimy mound rose from the brackish water in front of them. The mound was a splotchy green and glistened with the slime that coated its surface.

“Ready yourselves!” the king commanded. He waved his clawed left arm and three of his largest subjects strode forward.

These were his cullers. He had chosen them for their strength and vicious claws and for their restraint. These three could resist the hunger better than most. The biggest of them was a male with a strong human-like jaw and bulky arms. The other two were females, one a misshapen mix of troll and dwarf, the other part orc.

The Mother’s womb increased in size until it towered over them. An opening appeared in its side as the womb opened, stretching wider until it was the size of a large cave entrance. The quiet of the morning was broken by a chorus of screeches.

The first to emerge was a yowling mass of slime and fur. It darted from the entrance, trying to run past them and escape, but like most of the Mother’s newborns, it was awkward, unused to the movements and capabilities of its body. It stumbled and the largest of the king’s cullers grasped it by the neck. He lifted it into the air and wrapped his other arm around its waist. He stood behind it, keeping the bulk of his body away from its flailing limbs.

The king approached this newest creation of the Mother and sized it up. The creature was a mix of troll and swamp cat. Bristling fur covered its upper half, while its lower half was smooth and hairless. Its head was that of a cat, except for trollish beady eyes and mouth full of needlelike teeth. From the acrid smell of the slime that dripped from it, the Troll King could tell that this one was flammable.

It let out a yowling screech and twisted in the culler’s grip, trying to break free. The long retractable claws on its rear legs tore long grooves in the culler’s legs. He grunted, but did not let go. He was a fast healer and the wounds would close quickly.

The king reached out with his right arm and placed his human-like hand against the creature’s chest. He pushed through the coating of slime on its skin until his palm touched its skin. A signal passed between them and it calmed as it recognized him on an instinctual level. Yes, this one knew him as its king. But he looked into its eyes and saw very little intelligence there.

Their shared touch communicated more information to him. The king now knew that the creature had the ability to heal quickly, but it would not regenerate lost limbs and it would not self duplicate. It wasn’t a threat to the rest of his people, but the king wasn’t sure how useful it would be to his people.

“Set it down,” he commanded. The culler did so, bending and letting the creature’s feet touch the ground. The animal started but did not try to get away. “Let go of it.”

This was the deciding moment for this creature. Would it join the rest of the king’s subjects? The culler released the beast and stepped back. The creature looked up at the king, then growled and ran away, slinking into the grasses. The culler started to chase after it, but the king called out, stopping him. Though the cat-thing was not willing to obey him, it was still one of the Mother’s children. He would let it find its own way.

The king moved on to the next of the cullers. This one was the part-dwarf female. She was one of his shorter subjects at just under six feet tall and had a wispy beard on her slime coated face. She had latched onto another newborn. This one was fat and short with a pig-like head and had long streams of saliva pouring from its open mouth. It was squealing and trying to bite the culler.

It had already bitten her once. A large chunk of flesh had been torn from her muscular shoulder. Blood spurted out but the wound was quickly closing. She was one of those that could regenerate.

“It is a bad one, k-king,” she said to him.

Her voice was slurred and hard to understand because of the many rows of sharp teeth that filled her mouth. The king had spent some time with this one and knew how much she hated the sound of her own voice.

“I shall see if it is bad.” The king leaned forward and looked into the creature’s face. Human eyes looked back at him, but they were mad eyes, filled with the hunger. It seemed the culler was right, but the king tried anyway.

He stuck out his right hand. The creature flailed at him, but the culler held it tight and the claws on its stubby legs could not reach him. His palm touched the creature and he sent it a commanding message. It refused to calm down, continuing to squeal and flail.

He absorbed more information about the beast. Its slime was not flammable, a useful trait, but this creature had only a scrap of human soul and its mind was not strong enough to process its higher instincts. This one would see its kindred people as food. In addition, it had the ability to regenerate and duplicate. If it was cut in two, it would live on, becoming two identical creatures. That made it a true danger to his people.

“You were right. This one must be culled,” he announced.

“Shall I break-k its neck-ck?” she asked, then added hopefully, “C-can we eat it?”

The king thought about it and the hunger rose within him. Eating it could work. The acids in their stomachs would dissolve the creature faster than it could regenerate. But they would have to eat it all. If they left even one bone behind it could have enough regenerative energy to grow another creature.

He pushed the hunger away. “No. We must give it back to the Mother.”

“I . . . Yes, k-king,” she said, her voice disappointed.

“I shall call forth her mouth.” The king knelt at the edge of the grassy island and plunged his long clawed arm into the slime-tainted waters of the swamp. The waters were warm, the result of the Mother’s body being so close to the surface. The tip of one of his claws pierced her skin and he submitted a short prayer.

The water bulged and the king stepped back. An enormous mouth surged out of the water, and opened up, revealing a gaping maw full of rows of wicked teeth. A long tentacle-like tongue with a clawed tip rose from inside. It waved in the air menacingly.

“Feed it to her,” he told the culler.

The part-dwarf stepped forward and heaved the pig thing towards the Mother’s reaching mouth. Unfortunately, the creature was heavier than she expected. It fell short, clutching at the grass as it squealed in panic. It gathered its legs under it and tried to run, but it was useless. There was no running from a god.

The Mother’s tongue darted out and pierced the creature’s torso, spearing through its ribcage and coming out the other side. The pig thing struggled as the Mother’s tongue hoisted it into the air and pulled it back into her open mouth. The squealing thing disappeared inside and the Mother’s maw slammed shut before sinking back into the swamp.

“What does the Mother do with it?” the culler asked as the mouth disappeared.

The king cocked his head at the part dwarf female. This one was smart. Asking questions was not a common trait of his subjects. He placed his right hand on her shoulder. “The Mother will take it apart and use it to make another. Perhaps the next one will be good.”

She nodded in acceptance and he found a smile curling the human side of his face as he turned his attention back to the work. He hoped to find more good subjects like her. With enough people like this culler, he could turn the Mother’s children into a great nation.

This dream wasn’t to happen this morning, though. Eight more of the Mother’s children were birthed. Three of them were as wild as the cat thing and were released into the swamp to fend for themselves. Two more were insane from the hunger and non responsive to the king. These ones did not have the ability to regenerate, so the king allowed the cullers to kill them and set them aside to be eaten.

Only two of the children were worthy of joining his subjects. These ones were part human and able to conquer their hunger. As all the Mother’s new children were, they were confused and frightened, but they had strong souls and recognized him as their king right away. He eagerly welcomed them into his people.

The last of the births that morning was the worst one. The king could hear the pained screeches coming from within the Mother’s womb and he had to send his cullers in after it. The creature they pulled out had been born in misery. It was barely recognizable as troll or human. Two of its limbs were tiny and shriveled. Its face was a mangled mess and half of its organs had grown on the outside of its body.

The king had stood over its trembling body and looked down on it in pity. The one eye that could see was beautiful with a green iris and it looked up at him pleadingly. He reached out and held the beating heart that bulged from its chest.

This one had a human soul. It knew who he was. Tears streamed from the king’s eyes as he called again for the Mother’s mouth. He gave the creature back to her and prayed that it would be reborn again with a stronger body.

The part dwarf culler saw the tears on his face and asked, “Why does the Mother send us so few useable ones, my k-king?”

The king thought about how to answer her question. He had to be careful. The minds of his subjects were fragile. Their faith in the Mother was one of the few things that kept them sane.

“The Mother is ancient and wise, but her children are not. We are weak. We are not wise.” He sent his arm out in a sweeping gesture taking in the swampland. “This world is given to us, but we must overcome the hunger inside us if we are to serve her. Those of us that do not survive our first day are those that could not overcome their weakness.”

She looked out at the swampland with something akin to disappointment, then turned her gray eyes on him and nodded slowly. “Why does the Mother not make us perfec-ct?”

The king blinked back at her. Of all of his people, only he and the First knew the reality of their existence. The Mother was an old god, but she was new at making children in this way. Because of this newness, she was making a lot of mistakes.

Today had been one of her bad days, but usually the Mother did better. The king’s subjects had grown from a few dozen to over a hundred in the short time since his birth. He was confident that by throwing the worst of these mistakes back to the Mother, she would learn. It might take some time, but eventually, all of her children would be perfect.

The king yearned to tell this culler the truth. She was one of the closest to perfect among his people. If not for her misshapen mouth, she would even have been beautiful. He opened his mouth to tell her, but stopped as he realized that too many of the others were listening. Over a dozen of his subjects had gathered to hear their conversation.

The king revised what he was going to say. Each of the Mother’s children had been born with an innate predisposition to serve her but, just like the king had been, they were also born with the knowledge that they were deformed. Many of them still wept at their reflections in the water. He could not acknowledge to his people that the Mother made errors. Gods were not meant to be fallible.

What he said was, “We are not meant to be perfect. The Mother does not wish for perfection. She wants only to be served.”

“But how are we to best serve the Mother if we are not perfec-ct?” the culler asked.

“We serve her by . . .” The king realized that he did not know. He looked around at all of the listeners. Their number had grown as more gathered round. They were all looking at him expectantly.

He looked to the First for help with the answer. The troll with the human eyes and mouth was the oldest of them and the smartest. Surely he would know. But the First said nothing. He only gave the king an encouraging nod.

There was only one thing for the king to do. He raised his voice and addressed all of them. “Shall I ask the Mother what she wants of us?”

“Yes!” cried several of his subjects. “Ask the Mother!”

They watched with eagerness as he knelt by the edge of the water and dipped his trollish hand through the film of slime floating at the surface. The pores of his skin opened up, releasing a chemical message into the water, then he sat back and raised his hands into the air.

“Speak with me, Mother, I plead!” he shouted. The verbal part was unnecessary. He had done that for his people’s benefit. The chemicals that he had released carried his prayer. The water stirred in response to his summons and the people hissed, excited to discover their god’s message.

What happened next was different from the rising of the Mother’s mouth or womb. A slender cylindrical form rose from the water. It was long and green and neck-like with a pulsating lump of pink tissue on top. It waved over them, then bent and descended towards the king.

A hush fell over the assembled people. This was a holy moment. Many among the people could call forth one of her mouths, but the ability to commune with the Mother’s mind was something given to the king alone.

Keeping his arms outstretched, the king bowed his head in readiness to receive the Mother’s wishes. The center of the pink flesh opened up as it approached the top of his head. Multiple rows of white fangs ringed the inside of the opening and reached for his flesh. Then it sank over him, covering his head and stopping at his shoulders.

The king did not panic as his head was enveloped and his face pierced by the teeth of the Mother’s mind. He had done this once before. There would be no need for him to breathe or see while he was communing with her and the pain was easy to ignore, knowing that his flesh would heal. He relaxed instead and opened up his mind to her.

What he felt from her right away was a vague sense of curiosity. What did her servant want of her? The Mother’s mind was unlike others. She knew so much; saw so much more than he could fathom, but she did not communicate with words. She used chemicals from within her body to give him impressions.

The king did his best to project to her what he wanted. His list of questions for her was long, mainly dealing with her wishes for the future. But within those questions was a more deep seated concern. Her children were strong, but they all had a weakness. They hated their existence. They protected the Mother and obeyed them only because they were predisposed to. Sooner or later that wouldn’t be enough. They needed something more.

Her response wasn’t what he expected. The Mother didn’t give him specific answers. After all, so many of his questions were small and petty to a being as vast as she was and she expected her king to figure such things out for himself. Instead, she presented him with a broad sweeping vision. He saw what she wanted from her children and for her children. As the king understood, he saw that he had a great work ahead of him.

Their communion lasted most of the day. The king knelt there unmoving, his arms slack at his sides, his head consumed by the Mother. His servants, led by the First, prostrated themselves in prayer to their goddess, pleading for answers to the questions that plagued them. Finally, with a soft sucking sound, the Mother released the king and her neck-like stalk sank back into the water.

The king slowly rose and turned to face his subjects, the wounds in his face quickly healing. He understood something more clearly now. As he looked down on his people and saw their disfigured pleading faces, he knew what they needed. They needed an identity.

“I know what the Mother wants of us!” he cried, raising his arms in exultation.

“What is that, oh king?” asked the First.

He smiled at them, knowing that doing so twisted the trollish side of his face horribly. It did not matter. This was a moment for joy. “She wishes for us to live. The Mother wants us to thrive!”

“But how?” asked the half-dwarf culler. The look on her face was pained. “How c-can c-creatures like us thrive?”

The king turned to her, feeling pity wash over him at her agony. “Do you wish to have a name, culler?”

“A name?” she asked, frowning. “I am . . . just a c-culler. A servant of my k-king and the Mother.”

“Yes you are, but you are more than that.” He swept his arm out in a wide gesture, taking all of his people in. “We all are!” He focused back on the culler once more. “The Mother loves you. She wants your happiness. You have importance.”

The culler blinked in surprise at this statement. “The Mother ‘loves’ me?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “And she finds you beautiful. All of us are beautiful in the Mother’s mind.”

“But . . .” she said hesitantly as she touched her face. “Look-k at us. We are part troll. How c-can she find that beautiful?”

“No!” He raised his voice. “We are not simply ‘part troll’! These deformities we have, they are not imperfections. They are pieces of the Mother’s flesh that have become one with us! We are each of us from the body of the Mother.”

“The Mother’s flesh?” she asked in wonderment and the king saw that many others among his people were touching the trollish parts of their bodies.

“Yes. We are all part god,” he announced. “We are not trolls. We are not like the rest of those mindless hungry beasts that fill these swamps. We have minds. We have souls. We are the Trollkin!”

A murmur of excitement rushed through the people and the king’s twisted smile broadened. They were starting to understand. He pointed back to the female culler. “Do you see? You deserve a name of your own. There is one already there deep within your mind I know it. What is your name, Culler?”

“I . . .” The culler’s gray dwarven eyes widened. “I am Murtha.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder, sending her a chemical confirmation of her choice. “That is good, Murtha. I have something to ask of you.”

“Yes, k-king,” she breathed,

“I would have you leave the job of culler to others. You are strong. I will need you at my side,” he said.

“Yes, my k-king,” she said, her smile revealing her razor-like teeth. “Gladly.”

He looked to the others. “Did you hear? This sister of yours is named Murtha. Each of you has a name just as grand as hers. Think deep. Find it within yourself!”

The king exulted as they buzzed over this revelation, each of them searching for their name. This would work. The sense of identity would give them mental strength and they would need it because the Mother’s vision for their future was grand.

“What of you, First?” the king asked.

The trollkin with the human eyes and mouth was frowning. He shook his head. “I do not need a new name.”

“Very well. You remain the First,” the Troll King said, nodding in acceptance. He understood the First’s reasons. The king had a name inside him too that he refused to think about. Instinctively he knew that there was a power in it that could undermine his purpose. He was satisfied being known as king.

He focused back his subjects. “There is more! The Mother showed me a vision! I saw the Mother grow. She increased the size of the swamps until they covered all of the lands. I saw our people, the Trollkin, become a great nation! But we will not do it by remaining here!”

No, this patch of the swamp was insufficient. Everything in it was temporary, even the grassy island they stood on shifted and changed with the flow of the water. They needed a home to stand in. Roofs over their heads to protect them from the elements. More than that, they needed a position of power that they could fortify.

“The Mother has prepared a place for us to the north of here!” he announced. “We leave for our new home in the morning!”

“But what of the Mother’s womb?” asked the First. “How are we to care for her new children?”

“The Mother tires of this place,” the king assured him. “She will bring her womb closer to us.”

“Where is this place that she has prepared?” asked Murtha.

“It is a place of power,” he replied in excitement. “We go to the ancient city of KhanzaRoo!”

Chapter Ten

“You need to make your move soon,” said Tarah’s papa as he peered out the shattered window of the ruined building. He looked as he had when she was a child. Tall and strong, with keen eyes. “Otherwise your target isn’t gonna make it.”

“Stop it, Esmine,” Tarah whispered. She was crouching beside her papa’s insubstantial form with her bow in her hand. She needed to focus on the task at hand. Just talk to me yourself if you have something to say.

I can’t, complained the soul of the rogue horse residing in her staff. I don’t have . . . words. Your memories have the words I need.

Tarah gritted her teeth and focused her eyes on the scene below. The wide central square had once been the main gathering place for the medium-sized village. Their market had ringed the area and the center green had once been host to community activities and religious ceremonies. Now it was filled with the surviving villagers, all of them huddled together in fear, watched over by a score of orc captors.

War was raging in Alberri. The long held peace between the gnome homeland and the dark wizards had been broken. Key figures on both sides of the conflict had been assassinated. Large sections of the capitol city were burning and skirmishes had spread to villages and cities all around. This particular force, led by a dark wizardess and her imp henchman had invaded the village the day before, intending to use it as a staging ground for further attacks on the capitol city.

The dark wizardess had set up an altar on the far side of the square from where Tarah hid. The woman was dressed in a long red robe and, though her face was young and beautiful, she had a full head of long white hair. She was standing next to the altar conversing with her gray-skinned imp, a short muscular male wearing spiked ceremonial armor.

The village’s ruling council must have been defiant in the face of the invaders because the wizardess had slaughtered them before Tarah and her friends arrived. Their bodies, eyeless and eviscerated, had been taken for the orcs’ cook fires. Tarah’s trained nose could smell the orcish cooking wafting in through the window.

The person Tarah was here to save, a gnome scholar, was currently stretched out on the altar awaiting whatever evil ceremony the wizardess had planned. He was rather calm about it, too. He had allowed himself to be stripped naked and bound, making only the most feeble of protests. He was staring up at the sky, his brow furrowed as if making calculations in his mind.

“This ain’t the kind of situation Tarah Woodblade should be putting herself in,” said Grampa Rolf. Tarah could hear his voice in her ears as well as in her mind. He was standing beside the window, leaning with his back to the wall. For some reason Esmine had him whittling a piece of wood as he berated her. She couldn’t tell what it was he was making, but she never had been good at guessing the result until he was nearly finished. “You’re a tracker. Not some academy archer.”

Tarah didn’t respond to him. She was well aware of what her training was, but she had no choice but to adapt. Djeri knew her skill set and what she was capable of. He had put her in what he felt was the best position for her to help the group.

Still, it didn’t feel right. She was confident that Esmine’s magic would protect the group where she was, but she didn’t like sitting up above, firing arrows like an assassin. For some reason she ached to be on the ground with the others. Her father was nodding in agreement with her thoughts. Of course, rushing headlong into the fray was what berserkers were trained to do.

Tarah’s current position was in the top floor of the recently ruined three story building at the center of the town. Tarah supposed that this had been a church of sorts before the dark wizardess’ bombardment because of the various reliefs of the Kneeling God that were carved into the two surviving walls. She knew very little about the obscure Alberri religion, except that the practitioners believed in a god that would possess the bodies of those that knelt in supplication. Supposedly, while possessed, their god gave them visions of the future and granted them protection from physical harm.

“Well, evidently none of ‘em knelt in time,” said Grampa Rolf in response to her thoughts. He leaned over and looked away from his whittling long enough to glance down at the prisoners shackled in the center of the square below. “Instead, look at ‘em. All slaughtered or taken captive.” He shook his head. “If their god was real, he could’ve at least warned them that this was coming.”

Tarah nodded. She herself had never bothered believing in any gods. In her experience, the only thing she could put faith in was herself. And Djeri. She knew she could trust him. “They put their faith in the wrong place . . . still, this gives me an idea.”

“What was that?” whispered Swen the Feather.

“Nothing,” Tarah said with a wince. She had been so busy deciding how to handle the situation that she had forgotten that he was standing there.

The wooden-faced archer’s tall form was mostly hidden in the shadows at the corner of the window opening. He held his oversized bow in one hand and a long arrow in the other. He was peering down out of the corner of his eye, picking out the best target for his opening volley. He placed the arrow against the string and lifted the bow. “Are you ready to give the signal?”

“Not yet,” said Tarah.

Swen’s mouth made the slight downward tilt that was his version of a frown. “What are you waiting for?”

She bit her lip as she considered the new plan that was blossoming in her mind. Yes, this was better. It would sate that need for action that was burning inside of her. “I don’t think this is the right place for me. I’ve got a better plan.”

“Isn’t it kind of late for changes?” Swen asked. His voice was as bland as ever, but she imagined a note of worry in his tone. “Everything could fall apart if you deviate from the plan Djeri gave us.”

“I’m just not sure my magic can hide everyone from this distance,” she lied and swung her bow over her shoulder. She picked up her staff from where it had lain at her feet. “It’ll be safer if I’m on the ground with the others. Don’t worry. Nobody else’s job will change. Just stay here. I’ll give the signal from below.”

“Yes! This is more like it,” said her papa, drawing his huge sword from the sheath on his back. “We’ll take them head on.”

His eagerness should have given her confidence, only he wasn’t real. Her papa was long dead and his sword was actually in a building across the square in Djeri’s hands. She could practically feel the dwarf over there fuming. Djeri was probably struggling to keep Cletus in check until she gave the signal.

Enough, Esmine, Tarah sent, gripping her staff as she stealthily made her way down the pile of rubble that had once been the staircase to the ground floor. The apparitions of my papa and grampa are an unneeded distraction at this point. The thoughts they had been expressing were the rogue horse’s ideas, not theirs. Esmine didn’t understand ranged warfare. She preferred sneaking in close to do battle.

Tarah reached the bottom floor and paused, leaning back against the wall. When you use their voices . . .  when you show them to me as if they were alive-.

They make you feel sad, but good, the rogue horse replied. Is this bad?

No, but . . . How did Esmine not understand that Tarah had just recently gotten to the point where she was able to let go? The deep sadness that had plagued her for years had finally began to fade before Esmine had started bringing them back again.

Tarah swallowed back the lump that had risen in her throat. Look, let’s continue this discussion later. Right now I need you to concentrate on the mission in front of us. You have been monitoring my thoughts. Do you know what I want you to do?

Yes, Esmine said and there was an increased eagerness in her thoughts. After all, this was the kind of approach the rogue horse had wanted all along.

Tarah pushed off of the wall and walked toward the gaping hole where the front doorway had once stood. She had nearly reached the light before hands grabbed her and yanked her back into the shadows beside the doorway.

“What the hell’re you doing? We’re all waiting for your signal!” whispered Helmet Jan angrily. Her near brush with death hadn’t done anything to sooth the academy graduate’s temper. Jan had awakened, both upset that she had missed the battle and perturbed that Tarah had become more powerful during that time.

“I’m about to give the signal,” Tarah replied, jerking her arm from Jan’s grasp. “The only difference in the plan is that I’m gonna come out fighting with you instead of shooting down from above.”

“But why?” Jan asked.

“Just do whatever you’re going to do,” said Dinnis, who stood nearby peering out of a hole in the wall. He had Master Tolivar’s old sword in his hands and he was twitching in anticipation of using it. “That gnome’s about to die.”

Tarah pushed past Jan and strode quickly into the light, confident in Esmine’s ability to hide her from the orcs outside. Dinnis was right. The dark wizardess had finished conferring with her imp.

The woman was standing in front of the altar and was chanting loudly over the scholar in a strange language. As Tarah watched, she threw back her head and raised her arms high over her head. A black dagger was clutched in her hands. For the first time, the scholar had fear in his eyes.

Now! Tarah commanded and Esmine gave the signal.

To Tarah and her friends nothing changed, but everyone assembled in the square flinched. Villagers and orcs alike shaded their eyes and cried out as Esmine sent out the illusion of a blinding flash, followed by a deep echoing boom. The wizardess screeched and turned around in shock. To her eyes, the sky had become filled with dark clouds and a brilliant pillar of light had descended from the heavens.

Now it was time for Tarah’s new revisions to the plan. Tarah stepped out of the ruined building and the crowd of villagers and their captors gasped as they saw an enormous figure appear as if falling from the sky above. It struck the ground in front of the remains of the ruined church and towered over the square like a looming giant.

The figure looked very much like Tarah herself, but with a glowing visage and a staff of pure light in one hand. The god-like being opened its mouth and bellowed with a voice like thunder, “I HAVE COME TO DELIVER JUDGEMENT!”

The giant raised its foot and Tarah darted forward. The orc in front of her crumpled to the ground, its skull caved in by her staff, but to the assembled it looked like it fell beneath the giant’s foot. All around the square, more terrified orcs fell bleeding as Tarah’s friends, invisible to the eyes of the crowd, rushed out of nearby buildings and attacked. What the crowd saw was bolts of light firing from the giant’s eyes, slaying the orcs.

The dark wizardess overcame her shock quickly and hurled a ball of fire up at the giant, but the spell passed harmlessly through the illusion, exploding into the air far above Tarah’s head. Several orc arrows joined the wizardess’ spell in its futility.

The wizardess roared in defiance, giving Swen the target he wanted. A long arrow darted in, filling the evil woman’s open mouth. The white-haired woman stumbled backward and fell, gurgling as she clutched at the fletchings that jutted from between her teeth.

Tarah finished off another orc with two quick strikes from her staff, then made her way towards the gnome bound on the altar. It took her longer than expected to get there as she had to bob and weave around cowering and praying villagers. Finally, she arrived at the altar and pulled the gag from the gnome’s mouth.

Before Tarah could say anything to him, he spoke with a voice that was calm and precise. “Excuse me, miss, but you and your friends seem to have forgotten about the imp.”

Tarah’s eyes widened and she turned, looking around for the dark wizardess’ assistant. Suddenly, she felt something tight clamp around her wrist and the imp appeared from thin air. His clawed hand was gripping Tarah’s arm right behind where she held her staff.

“I’m not so easily fooled, human. I see through your illusion!” sneered the imp. The clever demon had acted as soon as the flash of light had appeared. He had pressed himself against the wall of the building behind him and wrapped himself in air magic, disguising his presence.

Tarah wasn’t intimidated. She was a full foot taller than the imp and much stronger. She tried to pull free from its grasp so that she could bring her weapon to bear, but she found herself unable to move, bound by flows of air.

“Release your weapon!” the imp snarled, his red eyes flaring at her.

The imp’s claws dug painfully into her wrist, but Tarah refused to let go of the staff. Calling upon Esmine’s magic, she snarled back and flooded the foul creature’s senses with a torrent of horrible images and sounds. It grimaced in discomfort.

Esmine amplified her voice to sound like that of an enraged beast and Tarah’s eyes blazed with fire as she commanded, “Let go of me or face an eternity of torment!”

“More illusion!” the imp snapped. “And powerful too. But nothing compared to what I can do to you. Give me the staff!”

Flames erupted from his hand, burning Tarah’s wrist and she cried out in pain. Esmine cried out along with her and the illusions faded, the image of the towering giant evaporating into thin air.

The imp sneered in triumph, “Perhaps I’ll simply take the staff once I’m done burning the flesh from your bones. I’ll-!”

The imp’s eyes caught movement coming towards him and turned his head just in time to meet Willum’s axe. The heavy blade struck the creature right between the eyes. The runes in the side of the axe flared on contact and an invisible blade of air cleaved the imp in two, tearing through his armor as if it were paper.

Willum sunk his axe into the imp’s remains so that Theodore could drink his fill and turned to Tarah. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she said. Now that she was released from the bands of air, she switched her staff to her other hand and raised her arm to inspect the damage. The wrist was a bright red and her skin was white where the imp’s fingers hand been clamped onto her. It felt as if it were still on fire. “It gave me a nasty burn, but that’s about it. Thanks for coming in when you did.”

“Theodore warned me that you were in trouble.” Willum scratched his head. “He was surprisingly excited at the thought of striking down one of his own kind.”

“Oh gosh!” said Cletus’ voice from across the square.

Tarah glanced over at him. The gnome warrior’s eyes were focused on the altar and he didn’t see the angry orc that was running towards him. She shouted a warning, but it ended up not mattering. The gnome warrior didn’t bother turning around as he slung his chain weapon in an arc behind him, slicing through the doomed orc’s throat.

As the orc fell gurgling, Cletus flung the blood off the end of his chain weapon and darted towards them, dancing around the startled villagers. To Tarah’s surprise, he pushed his way between her and Willum. Standing in front of the altar, he took his shirt off in one smooth motion and placed it over the bound gnome’s lower body.

“Oh! Hello there, Cletus!” the gnome scholar exclaimed in surprise. “How nice. I didn’t expect that I would ever see you again.”

“Hello, Scholar Tobias,” Cletus said, grinning back at him. “I covered up your wee-wee.”

“And I am most grateful,” the scholar replied, struggling to sit up with the way he was bound. “Would you, er, mind helping me up?” Cletus helped him rise into a sitting position and began untying his bonds. The gnome scholar looked at Tarah and Willum appraisingly. “Very interesting weapons the two of you have. What sort of creatures are bound to them I wonder? They must be quite powerful for them to do what I just saw.”

They blinked at him. This gnome scholar seemed strangely observant.

“Tarah!” Djeri ran up to them, weaving around a cluster of men wearing brown robes, who were kneeling in praise to the god that they assumed had just saved them.

“Stupid turd eaters took longer to take down than I expected,” Djeri said as he arrived. The dwarf slid the long blade of the Ramsetter back into the sheath on his back. “It seems that the illusions only last so long. Once we took a few of those orcs down, they started seeing through it. We need to take that in mind for future raids. I-.” He winced, sucking in air as he looked at Tarah’s wrist. “Are you alright? That burn looks horrible.”

“It hurts pretty good,” she admitted, wincing back at him as he lifted her hand to look at it closer. Long blisters were rising up in the shape of the imp’s fingers.

“Some tomparro root would be good for a burn like that,” the gnome scholar commented. “Or xander melon sap. Unfortunately neither of those grow in these parts so that information isn’t very helpful. At any rate, you should tend to it quickly. A burn like that could leave scars.”

“I’ve got some healing salve in my pack. I picked it up from the wizards before we left,” Willum said. “I’ll be right back.” He retrieved his axe and rushed back towards the building where he had been waiting before the battle started.

“If only the wizards would have sent a mage along with us,” Djeri griped.

The Alberri Mage School had not been as helpful as they had wished. The wizards had healed Helmet Jan and replenished their supplies, but they had refused to get involved in their cause against Scholar Aloysius. Evidently they were too preoccupied with the current war to worry about the oncoming threat of a rogue gnome scholar and a relatively small army that, as far as they were concerned, hadn’t yet become involved in the conflict.

“Then you have been to our mage school,” said Scholar Tobias excitedly. “Have you met any other members of the resistance?”

Tarah and Djeri glanced at each other. The ‘resistance’ against Aloysius seemed to be a fairly flimsy one. The handful that they had met seemed quite scatterbrained and afraid. They only thing they had agreed upon was that Aloysius was dangerous. Hopefully they didn’t represent the limits of Tobias’ forces.

“We met a few scholars that were taking shelter at the school,” Djeri replied diplomatically. “They were the ones who told us to come to this village to find you.”

“How clever of them!” Tobias said proudly. “I am so pleased that they sent you in time to rescue me.”

“They didn’t know that you had been captured,” Tarah said. “They just said you were hiding here.”

The gnomes face fell slightly. “Ah well. It was a fortunate coincidence nonetheless.” A sudden gust of wind whipped through the area and he shivered. “A bit chilly today, isn’t it?”

“Do you know what they did with your clothes?” Tarah asked.

“Burned them, I’m afraid,” he said, his cheeks turning red. “It was quite humiliating. The village maidens got quite an eyeful.”

“I doubt they were looking too hard,” said Grampa Rolf. The specter of the old man was leaning up against the side of the building. He was still whittling the same piece of wood he had been when Tarah had last seen him.

Really? Is that comment coming from you, Esmine? Tarah thought. Her grampa shrugged.

“What about this robe?” Cletus said pointing to the figure of the dead wizardess on the ground nearby. Her red robe was thick and voluminous, fluttering in the stiff breeze. “It’s nice. It looks warm and there’s hardly any blood on it.”

Tobias wrinkled his nose. “I can’t say that I like wearing red but it’s better than the nothing that I’m wearing now.”

Cletus pried the robe off of the woman. She was wearing a simple set of under garments beneath it. Tarah noted with distaste that the wizardess’ skin was covered in obscene tattoos.

As the gnome warrior carried the robe to the scholar, Tarah’s eyes caught the flash of something golden gleaming on the ground. She stepped closer, her curiosity momentarily distracting her from the pain of her burned wrist. It was the wizardess’ dagger.

It was long and wicked looking, made of black iron. The gleam she had seen came from the amber stones embedded in the hilt and base of the blade. The blade of the dagger was a strange thing. It turned in a corkscrew fashion almost as if someone with extremely strong hands had gripped it while it was red hot and twisted it a few times.

Tarah picked it up with her unburned hand and felt an immediate wave of revulsion. This thing seemed angry somehow. She almost dropped it right away, but felt compelled to look closer. The twisted blade was engraved with fine silver runes and the edges were covered with a rusty red powder that looked like dried blood.

“I don’t like the look of that thing,” Djeri said.

“Me neither,” said Grampa Rolf, pointing at it with his carving knife. “Dagger like that’s got no edge. It’s got no good purpose but murder.”

“Yeah, I don’t like it either,” Tarah agreed. Part of her was screaming that she should throw it away, but at the same time she really didn’t want to. “But I can’t just leave the thing laying here in the village, can I?” She didn’t know where to put it, so she tried to place it into the quiver that was slung over her shoulder. Tarah had to wiggle it back and forth to get it to fall in between her arrows. She felt relieved when she let go of it and shuddered as she wiped her hand on her pants. “I’ll take it out and bury it deep in the ground next chance I get.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Djeri agreed, eyeing her quiver with unease.

Willum ran back up to them, a small clay jar in one hand. He pried open the lid and held it out to her. “Here, try this on that burn. Theodore says it has some elf magic in it.”

“Thank you,” Tarah said and dipped two fingers inside. The salve that filled the jar was light blue in coloration, though to Tarah’s eyes it had sort of a blurry dark blur about it. It smelled strongly of mint, but of a variety she had never smelled before.

“Ah! Tomparro root just like I said,” exclaimed Scholar Tobias proudly. He had put the red robe on and belted it around his narrow waist. It was obvious that the garment wasn’t designed for a seven-foot gnome. The sleeves came several inches short and the length of it barely reached his knees. “Of course those wizards should know this sort of thing.”

Tarah pulled out a large glob of the salve and applied it gently to her red and swollen wrist. She felt a momentary flash of pain, followed by a cool tingly sensation spread across her skin. “Ooh. That is much better.”

“Well!” said Scholar Tobias. “I take it from your earlier remarks that the wizards at our local mage school haven’t yet seen fit to act against Scholar Aloysius?”

“They said that they don’t wish to be involved in ‘gnomish politics’,” Djeri replied.

“And you told them of his army of demons?” Tobias asked, his eyebrows raised.

“You knew about that?” Djeri said in surprise.

Tobias snorted. “But of course.”

“How could you?” Djeri asked. “It only happened a week ago.”

The gnome gave him a self important smile. “My good young dwarf, if I did not make it my business to know these sort of things, what kind of resistance leader would I be?”

“I don’t know. The kind that gets tied naked to an altar?” said Grampa Rolf sardonically.

“Alright, fine,” Djeri said, narrowing his eyes at the gnome. “Yes, we told the wizards about the army and no, they didn’t seem too worried.”

“We’ll see if they keep that attitude when Aloysius takes his little army and assaults the capital,” Willum said, shaking his head as he resealed the bottle of salve.

“In actuality, they’re right not to worry about the capital at this point,” Tobias replied. “Scholar Aloysius isn’t taking his army there. They were marching in that direction earlier, but two days ago they changed course. Now they are headed east. I found out about their course correction just before that wizardess attacked the village.”

“East?” Djeri said in surprise. “That makes no sense. There are no targets of note in that direction.”

“Not in Alberri there isn’t,” corrected the gnome. “But Aloysius is taking his little army to Malaroo.”

“Malaroo?” Tarah said in disbelief. “There’s nothing there but a bunch of swamps. What could he possibly have to gain by taking an army down there?”

The gnome’s smile faded. “Oh, only the power to conquer the known lands.”

Chapter Eleven

The arrow shot forty feet upward at a slight angle, arced softly, then, weighted by the steel arrowhead, fell back towards the earth. The plummeting arrow passed through a small brass ring affixed to a tree limb and struck the target that lie flat on the ground, sticking just outside the center circle.

“Yes!” Justan exulted. “Deathclaw, did you see that shot?”

Justan examined his bow again and noticed with excitement that another rune had faded away completely. That made three designs gone since Beltry had started him on this odd type of training over a week ago. He could feel the results. His bond with Ma’am felt stronger than before and she was more responsive to his wishes.

“You hit the target,” Deathclaw replied from his position a few yards behind Justan. He was sitting atop the tall white brick wall that surrounded this section of the archery range. He was facing Justan, his taloned feet dangling over the edge while he balanced a throwing knife on one claw-tipped finger. “It was ten feet away.”

“That’s not the point,” Justan said. “It was a soft shot. I couldn’t have done that before.”

“Yes you could,” Deathclaw said, he flipped the blade into the air, then caught it and threw it in one quick movement. The blade flew in a straight line, striking the target right next to Justan’s arrow, a fraction closer to the target’s center. “A simple shot at short range. Why worry about firing soft and fancy when a direct shot is just as effective? Perhaps you should train a useful skill.”

“You don’t get it,” Justan said exasperatedly. “It’s more of a subtle thing. I can now control how taut the bow is and that lets me fire at varying distances with greater precision.”

“You missed the center,” the raptoid pointed out.

Be nice, Gwyrtha reminded. The rogue horse was lying on the ground beneath Deathclaw’s perch. Her eyes were shut and she looked as though she were asleep, but her mind was awake and in full concentration as she absorbed the sounds and smells around her. She hadn’t gotten much sleep since they arrived in Roo-Tan’lan. It was a good thing rogue horses had plenty of energy to pull on.

Justan shook his head and walked over to retrieve his arrow. Deathclaw had difficulty comprehending the intricacies of ranged combat, especially the intricacies possible with Jharro bows. The archery range they were standing in was designed to train just that kind of skill. Justan had never seen another one like it.

The range belonged specifically to the Leeths family and was located out behind Xedrion’s palace. Since it was within the confines of the city, high walls had been erected around it to protect the populace from stray arrows.

The range was shaped like a key, with a large circular arena in the front and a long firing range at one end. The walls were especially tall at the sides and far corner of the range. The length of it was peppered with various types of targets, including some at the very end that laid flat on the ground for volley shots.

Justan stood in the arena. Half of the circle was taken up by a tall tower with platforms set at various heights so that archers could practice firing down on targets from above. The rest of the circle contained a tree nearly as tall as the tower. It was a dead tree, bare of leaves that had been trimmed to six thick overhanging branches. Brass hoops of different sizes had been attached to these branches in cunning arrangements. This was a range focused on training finesse shots.

Depending on where an archer stood and aimed, he could line up a soft shot that would pass through the center of multiple hoops. Beltry had demonstrated this for Justan by fired one arcing shot that had pierced five of them. And he wasn’t even the best. Supposedly the top archer in Xedrion’s guard had perfected a shot that pierced seven hoops and struck the center of one of the various targets on the ground.

Justan crouched and retrieved his arrow from the target. He put it away in his quiver and grabbed Deathclaw’s throwing knife.

“You’re getting better,” Justan remarked and he sent the knife back to the raptoid with an underhand throw. It arced a little higher than Justan had intended, flipping end-over-end above Deathclaw’s head. The raptoid reached up with his right hand, adeptly catching the weapon between two fingers.

“Yes I am,” Deathclaw agreed. He rolled the blade over the back of his scaled knuckles, something Justan had seen him practicing quite often since returning from his mission with Hugh the Shadow. Deathclaw stowed the knife in the bandolier he wore across his chest and looked down at the fingers of his right hand. “It is this hand. It makes many things easier.”

While Justan had been training his skill with the bow over the last week, Deathclaw had undergone training of his own. The raptoid had been teaching himself to transform his body.

Deathclaw had known for a while that the Rings of Stardeon had made the structure of his body unstable, but it was only recently he had found out that the adaptive blood magic of his dragon heritage allowed his body to transform its tissues much in the way that rogue horses could. He had discovered this after he had unknowingly changed the new lips that Justan had given him. Somehow he had made them firmer and more nimble, allowing him to speak more clearly.

This discovery excited Deathclaw because it allowed him to fix some of the errors Ewzad Vriil had made when transforming him. Specifically, the claws on his hands. They were long and deadly and made for effective weapons, essential for the life of a raptoid, but Deathclaw was something new. Effective as they were, they got in the way when he was using his sword or throwing his knives.

He had looked to Gwyrtha for advice on affecting the changes he wanted, but she was little help. Her makeup was more fluid than his and he didn’t have a rogue horse’s energy reserves to power his transformation. He had to use the energy in his own body. This meant that while Gwyrtha could change her form in seconds, changes in Deathclaw’s body were a slow and draining process.

Deathclaw had been eating twice as much food as normal to generate the energy needed. It also required an intense amount of concentration, something which he had little time for since protecting Justan was a full time job. Despite the difficulty, he had put his mind to it and was close to accomplishing his goal.

The fingers on his sword hand were now slightly shorter than before. The long claws at the end of his fingers, while still sharp and formidable, had shrunk considerably, leaving the pads of his fingertips larger and more sensitive. This allowed him a more deft and responsive grip.

Someone is coming, Gwyrtha said suddenly, raising her head. No, two someones.

“I’ll see who it is,” Deathclaw said. He turned and slid over the edge of the wall, falling out of view. The raptoid ran across the grass on the other side and scampered across one of the bridges linking the palace grounds to the rest of Roo-Tan’lan.

Roo-Tan’lan was the strangest city Justan had been in. Even though Jhonate had described her homeland to him, Justan hadn’t been prepared when he’d first seen it. The city jutted from the forest like a great white arm. Multiple layers of wide squat buildings made of white brick were built on top of each other and terraced, each one of them surrounded by canals swollen with water.

It was an amazing engineering feat. Before migrating to this forest, the Roo-Tan had populated the great delta where the Wide River emptied into the vast Green Ocean. The hub of their society and culture had been swampland, and their cities had reflected that, using the waterways to their advantage. But the forest that surrounded the Jharro Grove was little like their homeland. So the Roo-Tan had decided to bring the water to them. They had cut into the bank of one of the Wide River’s tributaries and dug channels, diverting the water to their new proud city.

The design of Roo-tan’lan preserved their former culture. The flowing canals were used for transportation as well as the moving of goods around the city. A series of sluice gates could raise and lower the water levels as needed, channeling the water in different directions. The various buildings and walkways were connected by a series of bridges that could be raised if there was ever an invasion.

Deathclaw wasn’t gone long before Justan felt a mix of familiarity and irritation coming through the bond. It is Beth. And she brought her child with her again.

Oh. Gwyrtha put her head back down and closed her eyes again. Good.

Justan smiled at Deathclaw’s discomfort. Beth had become a regular visitor since their arrival in the city. She mainly came to see Deathclaw. The two of them had been through a lot together during the siege of the Mage School and she had forged a connection with the raptoid that Justan found intriguing. She was the only human besides Justan that Deathclaw ever opened up to.

The baby was the reason for the raptoid’s discomfort. For some reason, Sherl-Ann adored Deathclaw. She smiled and reached out for him whenever he was near. Holding the child made Deathclaw uncomfortable. She was so delicate and helpless and he worried that his claws might scratch her. Beth wasn’t concerned. She forced the child onto him whenever possible. She said it was good for him to hold an infant.

Justan turned his attention back to his training. He notched another arrow on his bow and looked up at the tree, trying to find a good target path for his next shot. He let the world slow around him as he lined up a shot and did as Beltry had instructed him, envisioning the shot, letting Ma’am know exactly how he wanted her to fire. If things went perfectly, he would pierce two of the brass rings before striking the target on the far side of the tree.

“Practice shots again, Sir Edge?” came a female voice from behind him. Justan lowered his bow and turned to see that Beth had entered the arena.

Beth was a pretty woman in her mid thirties. She wore a loose white blouse with long sleeves and a pair of extremely baggy trousers cuffed tightly at the ankles. Her long blond hair was pulled up above her head in a bun. She carried a bow made of dark wood in one hand and a quiver holding a single arrow was slung over one shoulder.

“Good morning, Beth,” Justan said. He gestured with his bow. “Yeah, I’m getting better. Another design faded today.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” she said, not sounding at all impressed. She glanced up at the tree. “A Roo target tree. How many rings can you pierce?”

Justan blinked at her. She hadn’t shown any interest in his target shooting on her previous visits. “Three. But I’ve only managed one while still hitting a target.”

“Come, come. The great, Sir Edge? Surely you can manage better than that.” She smirked and drew her single arrow. It had a thick white shaft and a black tip. It was an odd-looking arrow and Justan wondered if it had some sort of spirit bound to it. “It’s been a while since I tried one of these, but let’s see what I can manage.”

Without taking a step closer, she pulled the arrow back and aimed high into the air, preparing an arcing shot.

Gwyrtha raised her head with sudden alarm. Not Beth! she sent as she jumped to her feet.

Justan’s eyes widened and he took a step backward, but the woman didn’t turn the bow on him. She lined up her shot towards the tree and fired. The arrow soared up into the air and fell, piercing three small rings before burying itself into one of the targets beneath it. The woman smiled in triumph.

Justan drew back an arrow, but hesitated to fire. She seemed so real. What if Gwyrtha was wrong? Are you sure?

Get back, Gwyrtha said. She was approaching Beth slowly, a low growl rising in her throat as the scales on her body hardened and her teeth lengthened. I will kill it.

Beth heard the sound and looked back at Gwyrtha. A look of irritation crossed her face. “Sir Edge, your rogue horse is growling at me.”

Justan fired.

His arrow burst through the woman’s right eye, rocking her head back. She didn’t fall, but slowly looked back at him, the eyebrow above her undamaged eye raising. No blood poured from her wound. “You like to go for the face, don’t you? Do you really think I’d keep my brain there?”

Justan drew another arrow. His heart raced. It was the nightbeast. After all this time waiting, here it was, standing before him.

“How did you know it was me?” Vahn asked, still using Beth’s voice. It was disturbing for Justan to see her standing there talking so calmly with his arrow still in her head.

“Beth wouldn’t refer to Gwyrtha like that,” Justan said.

Vahn snorted. “Of course. It would have to be one of those small detai-.” Justan’s second arrow caught it in the throat. Vahn winced. Its throat contorted around the arrow, pushing the shaft to the side, and it spoke again, “I shan’t be so careless next time.”

Gwyrtha let out a roar and darted towards it, but Vahn stepped aside at the last moment, letting the rogue horse skid by in the soft dirt of the range.

“We’ll continue this conversation at a later date,” the nightbeast said. It dropped its bow and ran for the gate. It was fast, running much quicker than Justan had expected Beth’s form to manage.

Gwyrtha chased after it and Justan fired again, his arrow catching the retreating figure between the shoulder blades. If it had been human that shot would have severed its spinal column, but the nightbeast only looked like it had a spinal column. Vahn made it through the gate, Gwyrtha at its heels.

Justan chased after them, drawing another arrow. He passed through the gate, expecting Vahn to run towards the palace where the largest group of people would be.

Beyond the gate was a wide walkway bordered by long grasses that led to the palace’s main building. A few of Xedrion’s servants were walking busily by, but Vahn didn’t head towards them. It turned and ran to the right, heading across the grass towards one of the wide canals that ran past the palace.

Gwyrtha gained on it, but just as she was about to run the nightbeast down, Vahn spun and swung a vicious backhand. The nightbeast’s arm grew in size and hardened as it did so. The changes happened much faster than with any of the basilisks Justan had seen. Vahn’s fist was the size of a small boulder when it connected with the side of Gwyrtha’s head.

The force of the blow staggered her and Vahn let out a whoop of a laugh before running again. Gwyrtha shook her head, growling again and rushed after it.

Justan swore. It was going to reach the canal.

The canal was deep, one of the cities arteries, and its waters were flowing swiftly. It was wide enough for two of the Roo-Tan poleboats to pass side-by-side, but from the agility it had already displayed Justan had no doubt that Vahn would be able to leap across. If the nightbeast did so, Justan wouldn’t be able to follow. He’d have to run further ahead to find a bridge and by that time, it would be out of sight.

I’ll catch it, Gwyrtha promised and Justan knew that she could probably manage the leap, but that wasn’t what he wanted either. He didn’t like the thought of her chasing Vahn down by herself.

Justan stopped and forced the world around him to slow as he pulled back another arrow. He focused in on the escaping assassin. It looked back at him and made the mockery of Beth’s face it wore stretch in a wide smile. Justan tried not to let that distract him. Where was the best place to strike? It could be keeping its brain anywhere.

Vahn reached the bank of the canal and took a short leap into the air. As it did so, it underwent another transformation. Its body, its clothing, even the quiver on its back faded, losing any coloration and turning translucent. Justan understood. Vahn wasn’t trying to clear the canal. It was planning to disappear into the water.

Just before Vahn hit the water, Justan saw his target, a dark lump within the nightbeast’s clear form. Justan knew there was little chance his arrow would strike true, but he released it anyway. Ma’am reacted to his intentions, stiffening as he let go, pushing the arrow forward at a speed that she hadn’t fired since the loss of his dragon hair string.

The arrow hit just as Vahn struck the water. Gwyrtha followed, hitting the water so hard that it splashed up over the edge of its banks. Justan couldn’t see whether he had hit the mark. Gwyrtha thrashed, trying to grab hold of Vahn’s translucent body, but her teeth found nothing but water.

Justan ran up to the edge and watched helplessly as the current swept Gwyrtha down the canal. She passed under a footbridge and disappeared around a bend. Justan swore again and chased after her.

Gwyrtha! he shouted through the bond.

I’m swimming, she replied. The water is fast.

Get to the bank and get out of there! Justan slowed and stopped chasing her. He told himself that she would be fine. Gwyrtha was a strong swimmer.

He stomped his foot, furious with himself. He had missed. He was sure of it. If the arrow had struck true, Vahn would have turned to stone and Gwyrtha would have found him.

He headed back the way he had come, scanning the banks of the canal. The nightbeast very well could be clinging somewhere along the side, disguised as part of an abutment or piece of debris. But there was no debris. Jhonate’s people were efficient at keeping the waterways clear. Justan made it most of the way back to the gates of the archery range without seeing anything suspicious.

“There you are, Edge,” said Beth’s voice.

Justan came to a stop. She was standing next to the archery range dressed just as she had been earlier. Her clothes were dry but the paving stones under her feet gave her away.

He raised his bow, pulling an arrow back. Vahn must have made it to the bank and circled back around. “Your footprints are wet.”

Beth stopped. “Hey, watch where you’re pointing that.”

“Your footprints are wet,” Justan repeated.

She saw the threat in his gaze and raised her hands, palms out. “I stepped in a puddle. What’s going on, Edge?”

“Where’s Sherl-Ann?” Justan asked accusingly. Deathclaw had said she and Beth were together. He should have noticed that when Beth showed up alone the first time.

“I left her with Deathclaw,” she said, her expression puzzled as she watched his firing hand.

“You left her alone with him and came here alone?”

“Of course. She adores him.” Beth said defensively, placing her hands on her hips. “Put that bow down. What’s this about? Were you attacked or something?”

Justan reached out to Deathclaw but before he could ask any questions, the raptoid came running up the path from the palace. He had the child cradled in one arm and a throwing knife gripped in the other. Sherl-Ann was giggling as if it were a fun ride. Where is it? Where did Gwyrtha go?

At the same time as Deathclaw spoke, Justan felt a probing touch at the edges of the bond. Justan lowered his bow. This was Beth attempting to use her bewitching magic to calm him down. Her magic was something that the nightbeast couldn’t duplicate.

“I’m sorry, Beth,” he said. “Vahn was here. He was disguised as you.”

“Me?” she said, her eyes widening.

“He had you down perfect,” Justan said, turning to look back down the canal. “The voice, the clothes. Even your smell. It took Gwyrtha a while to figure out that he wasn’t you.”

“He smelled like me?” She said, frowning.

“Where is it now?” Deathclaw insisted. Sherl-Ann giggled at the sound of his voice and slapped the side of his face.

“He jumped into the canal and Gwyrtha went in after him,” Justan explained, sending memories of the situation to him through the bond.

“Is Gwyrtha okay?” Beth asked.

“Yeah. Here she comes now,” Justan said just as the rogue horse rounded the corner of the archery range.  She came towards them, still dripping wet.

That’s Beth, she sent.

“I know that now,” Justan replied. He shook his head. “What I don’t understand is why Vahn attacked like that.”

“What are you talking about?” Deathclaw asked, his face twisted with irritation as he raised a hand to block the infant’s repeated slaps. Sherl-Ann grabbed onto his fingers and began gnawing on one knuckle. She was a beautiful child, with large expressive eyes and a head sparsely covered with reddish curls.

“The whole encounter doesn’t make sense,” Justan said. “Vahn showed up and managed to catch me off guard. Why didn’t he just shoot me? He could have killed me before I had time to react.”

“Perhaps he is like Talon. She liked to play with her prey,” Deathclaw suggested. He was trying to gently pry his fingers from the baby’s mouth, but she was insistent. “You must take the child now, Beth.”

She ignored him, her lips tight with anger. “He came here disguised as me? Wearing my same dress? With his hair done up like mine?”

“Well, yeah,” Justan said, looking her over. “He looked just like you in every detail . . .” He blinked. “Except your bow. He didn’t get that right. And your quiver. He only had one arrow.”

Justan turned and ran into the range, looking for the bow that the nightbeast had discarded. He picked it up. It was made of dark wood, similar to Beth’s bow, but the handle wasn’t wrapped in snakeskin.

“He was prepared,” Beth said. Her voice was steady but her eyes burned with rage. “He must have been following me for awhile. Especially if he knew how I dressed this morning. I don’t always wear my hair up this way, you know. Just when I go out walking with Sherl-Ann because she likes to pull on it.”

Justan’s hand tightened on the bow. “He could have planned this fairly quickly. This bow isn’t a perfect match. Maybe he picked it up in a hurry. Why didn’t he just make a perfect duplicate out of his own flesh? The quiver was part of him. As was his clothes.”

“Oooh, was he watching me bathe this morning?” Beth fumed. Her fists were clenched now. “How else could he know how I smelled? I used some of the lavender soap Hilt brought me.”

“The smell is obvious without watching you bathe. The child reeks of it,” Deathclaw remarked, his nostril’s flared. “But you could be right. The nightbeast surely followed you here. It waited until I was with you before it attacked.”

“But he didn’t attack,” Justan said, throwing the bow to the ground in disgust. “What was his point? He only brought one arrow and he fired it at the tree. Was he just trying to prove he was a good shot?”

He looked over to the target where the nightbeast’s arrow was still protruding and walked towards it. The arrow was oddly made. Justan had noticed it at the time and it stood out even more now that he was paying closer attention. The white shaft was thick in the middle, but narrowed at the end where the black fletchings started. Justan reached for it.

“Stop. Let me look at it first,” Deathclaw said. He handed Sherl-Ann back to Beth. The baby fussed, unhappy about leaving his arms. She reached for the raptoid as he walked to Justan’s side. “The arrow could be the real threat.”

“I guess,” Justan said. The raptoid crouched next to the arrow and Justan frowned. “Wait. If it is explosive or something, you shouldn’t get so close.”

“Then you should stand back,” Deathclaw said and Gwyrtha agreed. The rogue horse pushed Justan back with her bulk before joining Deathclaw at the arrow. Both of them sniffed at it.

“I do not smell anything dangerous,” Deathclaw said hesitantly. “The shaft is made of bone.”

It smells like . . . Gwyrtha’s senses flooded Justan’s mind and he recognized the smell immediately.

“Paper and ink. I know what this is,” Justan said in understanding. He stepped forward and pulled the arrow out of the target. “This is a messenger arrow.”

He twisted at the fletched end and pulled and sure enough, it popped free. The center shaft was actually a hollowed-out bone tube and inside was a tightly rolled scroll. Justan unraveled it and saw that the page was filled with Vahn’s familiar flowery script.

To Sir Edge, or Justan son of whoever,

Hello again. This message is to assure you that I haven’t forgotten to kill you. I know you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to. Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve been out recruiting. Now I’m finished. I have a complete new pod of basilisks and I can focus purely on the matter of your death.

Your murder could occur at any time. It could be a week from now. A month even. Or it could be today if I so choose. It depends on my mood and that changes often. Seriously, I work on whims like that. In fact, I may have turned right around after delivering this note and come back to get you. I might have decided to stick around and watch you read this note, excited to kill you at the height of your fear.

I could be behind you right now. Go ahead. Turn around and look. You’re itching to look, aren’t you? You have to wonder. Am I that rock? Am I part of that wall over there?

Justan gritted his teeth.

“This one is crafty,” Deathclaw said, reading along through the bond. There was something akin to admiration in the raptoids thoughts.

“What does it say?” Beth asked.

“He’s playing with me,” Justan said. And blast him, it was working. It took an excessive amount of willpower not to glance around and give in to the nightbeast’s taunts. He forced himself to keep his eyes on the page. Surely Gwyrtha would know if Vahn had returned.

I know I’m being cruel, but I can’t help amusing myself at your expense. You named warriors think so highly of yourselves. I have targeted many of you over the years and I enjoy taking you down a peg before ending you. The only frustrating part is deciding. There are so many ways I could do it. It would be simple to fire an arrow from afar, or I could slip poison into your food. I know of a hundred varieties, many of them tasteless and odorless and many of them causing excruciating pain before death. Then again, I do like the hands on approach. I’m not beyond strangling you in your sleep.

All you need to know is that when that time comes, I promise you, it will be spectacular.

With love,

Vahn

Oh, and I am truly sorry about the old elf. He was in the way. I hope his death taught you that no one who tries to protect you is safe.

Justan read the scroll over again, his hands trembling. His whole body shook and it wasn’t from fear. It was rage. Not just at the gall of the nightbeast, but at himself. Why had he let that evil thing get away once again?

“May I see it, Edge?” Beth asked, shifting the child to her left arm and reaching out with her right hand.

Justan handed it to her wordlessly, deep in thought. Did Vahn really think he would be so easily frightened? Or was it angering him its real purpose? Did it expect him to act recklessly and leave himself open?

Beth tried to read the scroll one handed, but it kept rolling up on her. She tried to hold it open with her other hand, but the baby kept reaching for the paper. Finally she groaned in frustration and held the baby out to Justan. “Would you hold her, please?”

It was the last thing Justan wanted to do at the moment, but he didn’t know how to refuse. He took Sherl-Ann from Beth and held her up against his chest. He patted the baby’s back, absently noting the strong flowery scent that wafted up from her soft skin as he went over the words of the nightbeast again and again in his mind. What could he learn from its threats? He was so angry it was hard to think straight.

Sherl-Ann grasped at his face with her soft little hands and he looked down into her clear blue innocent eyes. Her eyebrows were furrowed in concentration. Her mouth hanging slightly open, a bead of drool hanging on her lower lip. She was giving him such a serious look that Justan momentarily forgot about his anger and frustration. An odd calm fell over him and in that moment a few simple truths about the nightbeast’s threats fell into place in his mind. Then the baby reached up and grabbed his nose. Her thumb went deep into his nostril and her little nail gave him a painful gouge. He winced and pulled his nose out of her grasp as the peaceful moment ended.

“I hate the bastard,” Beth announced and though Justan saw her through watering eyes, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the paper in her hands disintegrated from the sheer intensity of her expression. “That snide son of a dog. Yntri was ‘in the way’?”

“The nightbeast is cunning,” Deathclaw said, folding his arms as he gave Justan an approving nod. “But this letter was foolish. Despite all its preparation, it does not know Justan very well.”

“Oh?” Beth said, and she was surprised to see that a smile had spread across Justan’s face.

Justan kissed the center of Sherl-Ann’s forehead. “That’s right. Sending me that message was a mistake. Now I know exactly what I’m dealing with.”

Chapter Twelve

Vahn clung to the bottom of the canal and waited as the swift current dragged the rogue horse downstream. The only things keeping his body from being swept away with her were a series of hastily-formed claws digging into the tiny gaps in the white bricks that made up the canal walls.

His amoebic body shuddered in disbelief as sharp spikes of agony rippled through him. This had never happened before. He had been wounded by his prey.

As he had hit the water, Vahn had allowed the hard shell encasing his core to soften. This made it less visible in his translucent state, but at the moment of this change, an arrow had struck his body. The sharpened brass head had grazed the soft part of his core, cutting a tiny furrow in the edge of his brain.

It was a severe wound. Not life threatening, but close. Oh how that thought burned him. One centimeter more and he would have died, turned to stone like a malformed statue.

As it was, the part of him that had been damaged was the part that gave him control over his shape. Clinging to his translucent form was causing him great pain and he could feel his control slipping. Several of the claws anchoring him to the rock lost their form and he slipped, nearly losing his purchase and getting swept away by the current.

Vahn growled inwardly. He would undoubtedly have to spend quite some time in his native form in order to heal completely. The indignity of that fact irked him. To look like a common basilisk . . . the disgrace of it repulsed him.

He had underestimated that human again. And the man’s bonded, that rogue horse, had sensed him somehow. Vahn was sure of it. Sir Edge hadn’t known he was there until his pet growled.

What had given him away? His shape had been perfect; his scent, his voice. He had spent a full day shadowing Beth and studying her. He had been the woman in every noticeable way. How had that beast known? Was it perhaps the bow or the arrow he had used? Had they carried an unfamiliar scent?

He would have to be more careful next time. He wouldn’t allow his plans to be derailed by this injury, of course. He would kill Sir Edge in a glorious manner and both of his bonded beasts would fall with him.

The pain that shot through Vahn lessened the pleasure of that thought. Murdering them wouldn’t be enough to sate him. Perhaps he would kill more than his target, nightbeast rules be damned. His client wouldn’t mind. The more noise the better. There were plenty of enemies around. Plenty of tempting targets.

With that comforting possibility in mind, he allowed the rest of his anchoring claws to lose their form and let the water carry him away. He would take another form at the end of the canal and join the pod of basilisks that awaited his instructions. He had things for them to do. There were so many preparations to make.

*          *          *

“You’re smiling about this?” Beth asked, shaking the scroll at Justan.

“Of course. I was on edge before I read that,” Justan explained. Sherl-Ann squirmed in his arms and reached for his nose again, but he intercepted her little hand with his finger and she held on. “Now I know what to expect from him.”

“How so?” Beth said, her brow furrowed with skepticism. “As far as I can see, he’s just proven that he can get to you whenever he wants.”

“Exactly,” Justan said. “So why hasn’t he? He could have killed me before.”

“What?” Beth said.

Deathclaw understood. “If he could get that close to Justan looking like you, he could have killed him many times over the last week.”

Justan nodded towards the scroll in Beth’s hands. “Look at what he said and then take in mind what we know about him so far. He’s ancient. Confident. Experienced. But what kind of assassin sends a taunting letter like this? This isn’t professional. If one of Hugh the Shadow’s men sent something like this to a target, he’d expel him from the school.”

“This nightbeast is broken.” Deathclaw’s eyes were narrowed. His sister weighed heavily in his mind.

“Yes,” Justan replied, sensing the tone of the raptoid’s thoughts. He thought of the way Talon had tormented Miss Nala’s family before she attacked. There were similarities there. “He’s decided to make this personal. This is why I know he won’t be satisfied with shooting me from afar or poisoning me. He’s going to want to do it up close and he’s going to want to do it himself.”

“Are you sure about that?” Beth asked. “If he plans to attack you alone, why would he go to the trouble of recruiting more basilisks?”

“He has a plan, evidently,” Justan replied. Sherl-Ann, tired of yanking on his hand, twisted around and saw Deathclaw standing nearby. She squealed and reached out, leaning toward the raptoid and Justan had to switch his hold on her to keep her from falling out of his arms. “Uh, that’s more evidence that he isn’t going to act randomly like he claims. He’s going to use those basilisks in his attack somehow.”

“And that doesn’t worry you?” she pressed.

Justan shook his head. “It gives me insight into what he’s going to do. In a sense it makes things easier.”

Sherl-Ann cried out for Deathclaw again, more insistently this time. Justan sighed and handed her back to the raptoid. Deathclaw hissed, but allowed the transfer, curling one lip as she squealed and laid her head on his shoulder. Justan noted that Deathclaw was more practiced at holding her now, his newly modified right hand resting against her back protectively.

“How would you do it, Deathclaw?” Justan asked. “You liked to deal the death blow when you were the leader of your pack. How would you approach it if you had a pack of raptoids at your command and I was important prey you needed to take down?”

Deathclaw blinked at the question.

That is silly. Deathclaw would not hurt you, Justan, Gwyrtha said, pushing her head between them.

“We would track you and watch your movements,” Deathclaw replied in a low hissing voice. “I would instruct my packmates to harry you and wear you down. We would chase you into the perfect position and then, when you were most vulnerable, I would strike.”

A low growl issuing from Gwyrtha’s scaled throat. I do not like this talk.

It’s okay. We are just talking strategy, Justan assured her. He reached out and scratched her behind the ears.

“And knowing all this makes you relieved?” Beth asked.

“It means I have a better idea what to expect,” Justan said. “If I know what he is going to do, I know how to fight him. We’ll know when danger is coming because we’ll start smelling basilisks around. They give off an odor that all three of us know how to identify. He also gave me one big clue with the last line on his letter.”

Beth opened the scroll and read it again. “You mean, his promise that it will be spectacular?”

Justan nodded. “He’s going to wait for a big moment. He’ll make his attempt when it’s going to make the most noise.”

Beth frowned for a moment. “Your wedding?”

Justan thought about it. “Perhaps, but no one knows when that will be. Xedrion hasn’t exactly given me his permission yet. I could be wrong, but I doubt Vahn will want to wait for something as nebulous as that.”

“But . . .” Her eyes widened. “Yntri’s funeral. It’s set for three weeks from now and it’s going to be a big event. The most ancient of the elves will be in attendance. The leaders of all the Roo-Tan families will be there.”

“You’re probably right,” Justan said with a wince. “If Vahn killed me there, it would make quite a wave.” Justan’s hand went to his right wrist where the stiff band of dead Jharro wood still clung. A wave of remorse rolled over him at the thought of the elf’s funeral being disrupted.

“I notice you’re still wearing that wristband,” Beth said.

“Yntri formed it perfectly to my arm and I can’t remove it without cutting it off. I . . .” He grimaced. “I can’t make myself do that.”

A sad look of understanding came over Beth’s face and she placed a hand on his arm. “I know how you feel, but you can’t keep it on forever.”

“It’s a reminder,” he said, his jaw tightening. “If I let my guard down people close to me will be killed.”

“You’re so much like your mother. Sherl always burdened herself like that. Everyone’s problem was her problem.” Beth let go of his arm and reached up to cup his jaw line. “You know this isn’t your fault, don’t you?”

Justan stepped back, pulling away from her hand. He didn’t want to be comforted. “Fault or not, Beth, it’s my responsibility.”

She nodded slowly, letting her hand fall back to her side. “I think it’s about time you met Yntri’s family.”

“His family?” Justan said.

“They need to know of the nightbeast’s plans and Tolynn will want to see that wristband. They have odd customs about dead Jharro wood,” Beth said.

“Tolynn?” he asked.

“Yntri’s wife,” Beth said. “She shares your tree.”

Justan nodded somberly. “Alright. I’ll bring it up with Jhonate later today. I’d talk to her about it through the ring, but she’s in a meeting with her father and they are too far away for me to reach her.”

“This is too important to wait. You should go now,” Beth said. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

“To the grove?” Justan said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m not supposed to leave the palace,” Justan replied. “I’ve been asking for permission to visit the grove, but Xedrion hasn’t allowed it yet. He says he wants to ‘interview’ me first, whatever that means.”

In fact, Justan wasn’t allowed to go anywhere in the city without an escort. He hadn’t seen much more than the palace grounds and the local marketplace. Jhonate said that Xedrion had made the order as a precaution because of the nightbeast, but Justan was beginning to feel more like a prisoner than a guest.

“You’re kidding,” Beth said with a roll of her eyes. “And it’s been how long?”

“A week. And believe me, I want nothing more than to get out of here. It’s been driving me crazy waiting here at the palace while Xedrion plans for war with the Roo-Dan. He won’t even let me help.” Justan sighed. “But Jhonate says I should be patient. She’ll get me permission when she can.”

Beth snorted. “By the gods, Edge. Grow some rocks. You’re a named warrior and wizard and she’s not even your wife yet.”

“What?” Justan let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re saying I should just go? Defy Xedrion’s order?”

“Yes!” She pointed at him. “Xedrion isn’t your ruler. He can’t keep you from going. You have been chosen by one of the trees. You have every right to visit the grove.”

“This is true,” Deathclaw said. Sherl-Ann had settled down. She wasn’t asleep but she was resting her head on the raptoid’s shoulder, watching Justan with serious eyes. “Xedrion bin Leeths is not your leader. There is no need to follow him.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take you,” Beth said. “The Roo-Tan won’t try to stop you if you’re with me. I’m the ‘savior of the grove’ after all.”

Justan had no doubt she was right. Beth was held in high esteem here. Everywhere she went, people greeted her with wide smiles. Many of the local women had even adopted her style choices, wearing embroidered blouses and wide baggy pants gathered at the ankles.

“I’m tempted. Really, I am. But I should talk to Jhonate about it first. Xedrion barely tolerates me as it is. If I go against his wishes now-.”

“Oh, for the love of hell.” Beth reached out, grabbed Justan’s earlobe, and twisted.

“Ow! Hey!” he said as she jerked him towards the gate of the archery range.

“Now you can say I twisted your ear and made you go,” Beth snapped. She let go of him. “Xedrion’s strategy meeting won’t be over for at least a couple more hours and I’m not gonna wait around for him to finish just so that he can say no. Come on.”

Justan scowled at her and rubbed his ear. Why were all the women he respected in his life so mean? And why did he always do what they said? Was there something wrong with him? He could sense Deathclaw’s amusement at the situation.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked Beth as he followed her out of the range, Deathclaw and Gwyrtha trailing behind him. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“Maybe not, but I owe your mother,” she replied. “Besides, I like you. You’re a good man, Edge. I knew that the first time I listened to you.”

Beth led them to the green inlaid doors of the palace proper, but they did not go inside. Instead, she turned and took them along a stone walkway that skirted the outside of the grounds. It was a picturesque route. Manicured shrubberies and colorful swamp flowers were planted at every turn in the path. At one point the path came out from between two buildings, opening up into a breathtaking view of the city and the forest beyond.

Beth stopped to point out at the horizon. “You can actually see the grove from here.”

“Where?” Justan asked, looking out at the forest. The prophet had once shown him a vision of the place and the picture in his mind was immense. The Jharro trees would have to stick up out of the rest of the forest like an apple tree rising above shrubs

“It starts not too far into the forest. The grove is pretty well camouflaged from a distance, but if you look closely, the wind gives it away,” she said. “Look at the treetops and you’ll see flashes of blue.”

While she spoke a gust of wind hit and Justan saw what she was talking about. Little flecks of blue flickered across the treetops like a thousand tiny lights among the sea of green. Jharro trees were leafy evergreens and their large waxy leaves were green on top, but had a light blue underside.

“I see. I guess I thought they would stand out more,” Justan said.

I can smell them, Gwyrtha said, inhaling deeply. They smell of music.

Justan didn’t catch the scent, but Beth breathed in deeply, closing her eyes for a moment as if she had heard what Gwyrtha said and agreed. “You’re actually looking out over a valley, believe it or not. But that’s only part of it. The reason they don’t stand out is that the shape of the trees is . . . Well, you’ll understand when we get there.”

They continued down the path until it connected with one of the main palace walkways. When they arrived at the gates, the guards didn’t want to let Justan and his bonded pass, but Beth assured them that she would act as their escort. There wasn’t much the men could say to this and they acquiesced, letting them through.

They entered the city proper, heading in the general direction of the marketplace where Justan had been before. He turned to Beth. “I’m curious. Why is it that you feel you owe my mother?”

She smiled. “I didn’t have the best example of a mother growing up. When the wizards brought me to the Mage School I was happy to be there, but I wasn’t very talented and, to tell you the truth, I was a bit of a brat. Wizardess Sherl was one of my teachers and she didn’t put up with my attitude. I hated her for it at first, but eventually I figured out that she was looking out for me.

“When I made apprentice, she became my master and she was great. She took me under her wing and taught me so much. It was more than just magic. She taught me how to be tough.”

Justan chuckled. “You’re not the first person to tell me that. When I was growing up, she was always taking the other kids under her wing. Even the kids that were mean to me respected her.”

“Yes, but she was more than that to me,” Beth said. “In many ways Sherl is more of a mother to me than my real mother.”

Justan shook his head. “Now I find out that I have an older sister. It seems like every time I talk to someone who knows my mother I learn something new.”

“I’d be honored if that were the case,” she replied. “You know, when I wanted to leave the Mage School to marry my boyfriend, your mother tried to talk me out of it. She told me to be patient and wait until I was a mage. We argued and I defied her. But when the council decided to quell me, she fought them. She lost that battle and it wasn’t until years later that I learned that she’d resigned from the Mage School because of it. Over me.”

“I see. I . . . guess I never thought of it that way before,” Justan said.

“Now you can see why I can never repay her for everything she’s done.” Beth’s said, her voice laden with emotion. “I still can’t believe that all those years I spent in Pinewood, she was living in Reneul. I even went there to see Testing Week a few times and I never knew she was there. I would have visited with her for sure, if just to let her know that I was okay.”

“Don’t feel bad about that,” Justan said. “Not many people knew. Heck, even I didn’t know that my mother was a wizardess.”

“I’m actually surprised by that,” she replied. “The way that woman used her magic, anyone with mage sight would have seen it. She put wards on everything. Even my schoolwork. She knew before I came to class whether I had completed it or not.”

Justan pursed his lips. “Yeah, well evidently I was dense growing up.”

“Hold on a second.” Beth slowed down as the market area came into view. It was getting close to noontime and the streets were bustling. “I think we’ll take a different route.”

She took a turn and headed down a side street, leading them into a section of the city that Justan hadn’t been shown on his previous excursions. It was a poorer area. The people here lived in tall buildings that looked like small squat houses stacked on top of each other. Justan could tell that the buildings were not made of the same white brick as the rest of the city, but were instead made of rougher brick or wood and then painted white. Smaller slower moving canals passed through the area in a web-like pattern, separating each building.

They traveled through the area by a series of unadorned wooden bridges that connected each of the buildings. The people in this area wore clothes that were a bit more worn and drab than the Roo-Tan in the rest of the city. Justan noted that most of them wore brown ribbons in their hair.

The people stared at Justan and his bonded as they passed by. They had obviously heard of the visiting strangers and were curious but friendly. Most of them knew Beth on sight and greeted her with smiles and waves.

“Do you come this way often, Beth?” he asked.

“It is the quickest way to my house from the palace,” she explained.

“You live out here?” Justan was surprised. He had never seen their place, but he had assumed that they lived close to the palace.

“No. We have a nice little home that’s not surrounded by canals. It’s just outside the city,” she clarified. “Between here and the grove. When I first came here, Hilt was living at the palace as Xedrion’s guest. I grew tired of it. Having all those servants around? My parents would have loved that, but a woman wants her privacy. That’s one of the reasons why I choose to travel through this part of the city.”

Justan wasn’t sure how this section of the city meant privacy. A group of excited children started following behind them, chatting and pointing at Gwyrtha and Deathclaw. All the attention made Deathclaw uncomfortable.

“I do not like this,” the raptoid grumbled. “All these humans staring. Must we go this way?”

“Oh calm down, Deathclaw,” Beth replied. “I’m taking you this way specifically to avoid extra attention. There is a small gateway out of the city not far away from here. I know most of the guards who are posted there. They won’t give us any trouble.”

“Very well, but can you at least take your child now?” The raptoid complained. The child was clutching tightly to his hand and had one of his knuckles tucked into her mouth. Drool was running down the scales of his arm and dripping off his elbow in a long string.

“Sorry. Sherl-Ann is much happier this way. If I took her, she would just cry,” Beth said, a small smile curling the corners of her mouth.

Justan shared her amusement. “Besides, Deathclaw, carrying a baby makes you much less frightening to the locals. With her in your arms you look nearly as cuddly as Fist.”

Deathclaw hissed, knowing he was being teased and not happy with the comparison. “Must she gnaw on me like this?”

“Yes,” said Beth. “She’s a baby. That’s what they do. Don’t raptoid babies do the same?”

Deathclaw’s brow ridges tightened. “I never had a successful brood of my own. I mated many times but something happened to the clutches of eggs . . . my memory . . .” He shook his head. “There is much lost to my mind.”

Beth gave him a sympathetic look and said, “I’m sure you would have made an excellent father.”

Deathclaw smiled in agreement. “With an adult pack of my offspring I could have conquered the desert.”

The statement sounded quite arrogant, but Justan didn’t disagree. If Deathclaw’s children had been gifted with the same amount of intelligence and control over their bodies that Deathclaw had, they would have been a force indeed.

They soon reached the outskirts of the city. Roo-Tan’lan did not have a city wall on the forest side. The likelihood of invaders coming from within the forest was a small one. The wide canal that ran across the city’s edge sufficed as the borderline. The small gateway Beth had spoken of was only a city gate in the loosest sense. It was basically a set of pillars on either side of the bridge that led into the forest. The two guards that were stationed there were a surprise.

“Sir Edge!” said Poz. The academy graduate stood suddenly from the ground where he had been lounging, his back to one of the pillars.

Jhexin didn’t bother to stand, but looked up at him with a frown. “What are you doing out this way? I did not think father wanted you wandering the city without an escort.”

“I’m with Beth,” Justan replied. He raised an eyebrow at him. “What are you two doing here? You seem pretty relaxed for guard duty.”

Poz’s freckled cheeks reddened, but Jhexin wasn’t cowed. “Father wants the academy warriors to experience all the responsibilities that we Roo-Tan warriors have. He has placed me in charge of Poz’s responsibilities.”

“And you chose this post because you knew it would be easy work,” Beth surmised.

“I was-uh, just listening to my trainer, sir,” Poz said to Justan. “You know, doing things the Roo-Tan way.”

“Right,” Justan said, shaking his head in amusement. He was pretty sure that Faldon would not have approved of an academy representative taking such a lax attitude on guard duty, but it wasn’t his place to reprimand him. Justan wasn’t officially part of the academy yet. “Well, keep at it.”

They made as if to step through the gateway, but Jhexin leapt to his feet and stood in front of them, raising his arms. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“I am taking Sir Edge to the grove,” Beth said. “Now kindly step aside.”

Jhexin frowned. “I am sorry, Listener Beth, but I heard father say that he wished to speak to Sir Edge before he went to the grove.”

“Is that so?” she said. “Well, things have changed. He needs to go there now. Tolynn wishes to speak with him.”

“She does?” Jhexin started to lower his arms, then thought better of it and firmed his stance. “Still, you must wait. I will not let you leave until I hear from father.”

“We’re leaving,” Beth said firmly, her hands balled into fists.

Deathclaw held Sherl-Ann out towards her. “If you will take your child, I will clear the path.”

Jhexin’s hand went to the Jharro sword at his waist. Poz reluctantly grabbed the hilt of his own sword and gave Justan a pained look.

“That won’t be necessary,” Justan said, raising his own hand to stop things from escalating further. “Jhexin, did Xedrion specifically give the guards instructions to keep me from leaving the city?”

“No,” Jhexin admitted. “But like I said, I heard him tell you-,”

“Then get the hell out of our way,” Beth snapped.

She strode forward, forcing Jhexin to make a decision. Either he stepped aside or he’d have to restrain her physically. At the last moment, he grimaced and allowed her to shoulder past him.

“You do realize that I will be in trouble for this,” Jhexin said, his voice filled with anxiety.

“It won’t be that bad,” Justan assured him as he walked by. “I’ll likely be back before Xedrion hears I was gone.”

Beth left the bridge and took Justan down one of the pathways that led into the forest. It was a narrow trail, but well-traveled and free of undergrowth. It didn’t take long for the sounds of the city to fade behind them, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the low thrum of buzzing insects.

Justan looked back the way they had come. “I feel bad about what we did to Jhexin and Poz back there,”

“They would not have been able to stop us,” Deathclaw replied. “At least this way they get to retain their dignity.”

“A fine point,” Beth agreed. “Come on. The grove is just a short walk ahead.”

It ended up that her idea of a short walk was a four mile trek along a twisting trail through the forest. The trees here were a mix of tall magnolias and other leafy evergreen trees with occasional palm trees mixed in. After the first mile, the valley Beth had spoken of began. As the trail sloped downwards, the air grew more humid. Justan found himself sweating profusely and swatting at tiny bugs that seemed to follow him around like a small cloud.

“Do you travel this way often, Beth?” he asked.

“A few times a week,” she replied. “More when I can. The grove is worth it. You’ll understand why when we get there.”

Do you smell it now, Justan? Gwyrtha said enthusiastically. Neither she nor Deathclaw seemed bothered by the bugs at all. It’s wonderful.

I’m not sure, Justan replied through the bond. The humidity was so thick it was hard not to gasp.

I think I smell what she’s talking about, Deathclaw sent. Sherl-Ann was fast asleep now and the raptoid was keeping his strides steady and even so as not to jostle her. It’s strange, a scent I have not experienced before.

Frowning, Justan shut his mouth and breathed in through his nose, focusing and extending the enhanced senses that his bond with Deathclaw gave him. Finally, he found what she was speaking of. “Beth, what’s that smell? It’s almost minty.”

She smiled over her shoulder at him. “You smell that already? It’s Jharro sap. Wait until you’re amongst the trees. It’s a heady experience.”

The grove . . . said a dusty voice from the corner of Justan’s mind. I remember this smell.

Artemus? Justan said, surprised. The spirit of his great grandfather had been getting stronger over the last week, gaining control of the Scralag bit-by-bit. They’d had brief conversations at night, but this was the first time he had spoken to Justan during the day. You mentioned before that you have been to the grove. What were you doing there?

Long ago . . . yes, Artemus said. It was before the war . . . I came there with John.

Justan kept talking, eager to keep Artemus alert. You did? Why?

He . . . had an errand there, the old spirit said. His voice was strained as if speaking was a struggle. He had to see to the . . . raising of a new treemaster. I happened to be traveling with him at the time. The . . . Roo-Tan soldiers did not like my presence in the grove, but the elves were quite . . . friendly.

A treemaster?
Justan asked. What is that?

It’s . . . I . . . must . . . The voice faded.

Artemus are you with me? Artemus? Justan sent, but there was no reply.

“Your progenitor still struggles,” Deathclaw observed.

“Yes, but he is much stronger,” Justan replied. He was growing more confident each day that the old wizard would eventually regain full control of himself.

I like him, Gwyrtha said. He smells like old paper and tea leaves.

“What are you two talking about?” Beth asked, looking back at them.

“Beth, what’s a treemaster?” Justan said.

She blinked at him. “Well, they’re the caretakers. It’s one of the elves whose job it is to watch over a particular tree. They’re picked when they’re young and it’s a job they keep throughout their life. Each Jharro tree has one.”

“Oh,” he said. The mint-like scent was growing stronger.

Justan began to feel a bit light headed. It was similar to how he had felt when in the elven homeland of the Silvertree Sect, but more intense. The cloud of bugs that had been bothering him was gone and the forest around them was lush with vitality. The trees grew taller and wider and the soil was rich and black.

“Oh yeah, I can smell the grove now,” Beth said, smiling. “Yntri was the treemaster of his tree. It’s expected that his grandson will take his place as part of the ceremony at his funeral.”

“Oh,” Justan said. There was a faint musical hum in the air and a warm tingling sensation swept over him. With each step, the forest became both quieter and more alive at the same time.

“There is something about this place,” Deathclaw said softly.

Justan agreed. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what he was feeling, but he was excited to move forward.

Then the first Jharro tree came into view. It was as big as Justan had envisioned, but not exactly in the way he had imagined. The trunk was easily as wide as two houses, and covered in a silvery bark. But the tree was not as tall as he had expected. It was likely over 150 feet tall, but seemed squat in comparison to its width.

Justan’s jaw dropped as they walked fully into the grove. Every tree was as big as that first one or bigger. Many of the roots that stretched out from the base of these gigantic trees were twice as tall as Justan. The floor of the grove was taken up by the intertwining of these roots, with barely a patch of soil to be seen.

Justan couldn’t see how they were supposed to make their way through the grove at first. Then Beth led them up one of the roots and he saw that the tops of these great roots formed a multitude of intersecting pathways. These pathways were smooth and flat, likely formed by the will of the elves that cared for the grove.

The canopy overhead was a startling flickering layer of powder blue from the undersides of the Jharro leaves. The light that filtered through glinted off of the silvery bark of the trees, filling the grove with a soft blue glow.

The scent that had hit Justan and his bonded so hard earlier was much thicker here, but the air here wasn’t as humid as it had been in the surrounding forest and it wasn’t hard to breathe. Instead, each breath filled him with energy. Justan felt more awake and aware than he could remember. His every sense and synapse was alive.

I love it here, Gwyrtha said.

“There are no leaves on the ground,” Deathclaw commented.

“That’s true. They don’t fall often,” Beth said. She was smiling and her eyes were closed, the soft light of the grove giving her an ethereal and youthful look. “The elves spend a lot of time in the tops of the trees watching for signs of weakness. When a leaf is ready to fall, they claim it.”

“What do they do with them?” Deathclaw asked, staring up at the canopy overhead.

“Oh, there is strong magic in the Jharro leaves. Especially in the sap that fills the fleshy parts. But they have many uses for them and let nothing go to waste.”

Ah, this feeling . . . It is as I remember, but perhaps stronger, said Artemus’ voice within Justan’s mind. There was a fervent feel to his thoughts. It’s wonderful.

I think I know what you mean. There’s something sacred about this place. It’s a-. Justan felt a twinge in his chest and a sudden pulse of cold flared from the frost rune.

THE LEAVES! FREEZE THEM!

Justan clutched the front of his shirt, half expecting to feel the icy fingers of the Scralag. “Stop it, Artemus!” Keep control.

Yes. I . . . I’m sorry, Artemus replied. I’m not sure why but . . . something about this place makes the elemental quite uncomfortable. The urges coming from it are quite violent. I must retreat for now.

The chill in Justan’s chest lessened and he let out a sigh of relief. What would he have done if the Scralag had gotten loose? Was there anything he could have done to stop it?

There was a rustling in the leaves above and Justan looked up to see many dark forms clinging to the undersides of the branches overhead. He recognized immediately that these were Yntri’s people watching.

“Come this way,” Beth said, walking along one of the paths to the south. “Tolynn’s tree is over here.”

“I know,” Justan said. He could feel it pulling at him from the very center of the grove. “It’s my tree too.”

He walked along the path trying to breathe it all in, trying to catalog every moment. This place was more than special. He understood now why Jhonate’s people had kept to their vow for a thousand years.

Finally he stood before his tree. She was beautiful, one of the largest and most ancient. He reached out and touched her bark and felt a shiver rush through him as he recalled the century of memories she had shared with him when he had communed with her.

A creak issued from the tree, breaking the silence. Justan looked up in time to see a vertical crack appear in the bark of the tree a few feet above him. It widened and a slight figure stepped out from within the tree, alighting atop one of the places where a great root joined the tree.

She was an elf, with skin as dark as Yntri Yni’s, but she was not as old or leathery. There wasn’t a hair on her head, not even an eyebrow, and yet there was an ageless beauty about her. She had large dark eyes and full lips that were slightly open showing a set of bright white teeth.

Her torso and upper legs were covered completely in smooth Jharro wood that moved with her body as if it were a second skin. She carried a Jharro staff in one hand.

Her eyes alit on Justan briefly, giving him a cold glance before moving past him. “Greetings, Listener Beth. I did not expect to see you today, though the young trees will be glad of your presence.”

Justan was glad to find that he knew what she was saying. Though he could not speak it, his time spent conversing with Yntri through the wristband on his arm had given him an understanding of their language.

“Greetings, Tolynn. Actually, that is not why I’m here. I have brought someone to meet you,” Beth said and gestured to Justan. “This is Sir Edge. He is the betrothed of Jhonate bin Leeths.”

Justan looked up at the ancient elf woman and without knowing quite why, bent to one knee in front of her. “I am honored to meet the wife of Yntri Yni.”

“You are the one my Yntri died for?” she clicked.

“I am,” Justan said, bowing his head. “And I mourn that fact. My life was not worth his.”

“Is that so?” she asked, cocking her head. She jumped down from her perch atop the root. As she did so, the tip of her staff narrowed, becoming a spear-like tip. She pointed it at him. “Then perhaps I should take your life in exchange?”

“No, Tolynn,” Beth said, her eyes widening in alarm. “Yntri wouldn’t have wanted-.”

“Silence, Beth!” Tolynn said, stretching out her other hand to point at the woman’s lips. Her lips were drawn back in rage. “I will be the judge of what my husband wanted.”

What is she saying? Deathclaw asked. He shifted Sherl-Ann to his other shoulder, freeing his right hand up to grasp a throwing knife. Was it a threat?

Gwyrtha climbed to her feet and crept forward, issuing a low growl.

Calm yourselves, Justan snapped, then said aloud to the elf, “I would readily give my life in payment for Yntri’s, but I am a bonding wizard. It is not my life to give.”

“Stand, human,” she replied, the anger still filling her eyes.

Justan obeyed and though he towered over her five-foot frame, he felt overwhelmed by the power of her presence. She looked him over, every darting movement in her eyes weighing and calculating. She grasped his hands and turned them over, muttering as she examined his naming runes.

“You still carry part of him with you,” Tolynn observed, her hand resting on the Jharro band that clung to his wrist.

“I could not make myself remove it,” he replied.

“Hmph,” she said. “Raise your arms.”

She ran her hands along the muscles of his arms and up to his shoulders, then slid them down his chest, pausing only briefly at the frost rune before continuing across his abdomen. Justan felt a brief moment of discomfort as she rested her hands on his hips.

“Give me your bow,” she said.

Justan hesitated. What if she took it away from him? Did she have the ability to do that. He pushed the anxiety that rose within him away and pulled Ma’am off of his shoulder, handing it to the elf.

She ran her fingers down the length of the bow, examining the runes, the look on her face unreadable. Then she gave the bow back to him and poked and prodded him, making him turn around, before leaning in and pressing her ear over his heart.

She stayed that way for a long while and Justan could feel a quiet movement within his mind, as if she was in there, sifting through his soul. Then he heard her thoughts. They didn’t come from within the bond, but somewhere close to it.

She addressed him directly, Yntri saw much in you. He said that you would become a great man. He told me much of your potential.

He did? Justan said.

He saw this when he first listened to you, she replied. And our tree agreed with him. This is why it chose you.

Justan sensed irritation and sadness in her thoughts. What do you think?

Despite myself, I see what they saw, she said reluctantly. You are as Yntri said and yet there is so much you have not yet lived up to.

I am sorry for that, he responded. Though I do not know in what ways I have fallen short.

She pulled back and as she looked up at him the anger in her eyes was gone, replaced by tears. “You are young yet.” She patted his arm. “The nightbeast that killed my husband, it is still after you?”

“Yes. That is one of the reasons I came to see you,” Justan said.

“Come,” she said and pulled him closer to the tree. She reached out and the silvery bark of the tree split again, opening up to reveal a circular hole. “Place your arm inside. It is time that you returned Yntri’s gift.”

Justan reached his arm into the hole. The interior was warm and smooth. The wood moved to conform around his arm and then there was a slight pressure around his wrist. When he removed his arm, the wristband Yntri had given him stayed inside the tree.

He grasped his wrist, feeling both a sense of relief and sorrow that it was gone. He looked to Tolynn.

“I believe that the nightbeast plans to attack during Yntri’s funeral,” he told her. “It wants to make my death a spectacle, something to be remembered. I . . . want to let you know that is why I won’t be there. My bonded and I will stay far away so that we don’t disrupt anything.”

Tolynn drew back and looked at Justan, her face becoming hard. The Jharro wood that covered her torso rippled and stiffened.

“No,” she said, reaching out to touch his chest. “You must be there. Let that wretched creature come to us.” Her lips twisted into a snarl. “We will be waiting.”

Chapter Thirteen

There had been much discussion about the route Fist’s group must take. They were to head to the Battle Academy, but they couldn’t take the main roads. A troop of ogres would frighten any settlement they came across and, even though they had Locksher with them to explain the situation, there was too much potential for conflict. In the end it was decided that they should avoid populated areas altogether and stay off the roads. This would add many miles to the journey and take them through rough terrain, but the ogres were used to that kind of travel.

They were loaded with provisions and left the Mage School traveling eastward, back the way the ogres had come. They forded the Fandine River at a shallows that Locksher knew about. The water there was only thigh deep for the ogres, but chillingly cold. As they headed into the forest at the far side, skirting the elven homeland, Fist found himself falling into an increasingly sour mood.

It wasn’t just the fact that his legs and boots were soaked with the icy water. With all the conflicting emotions Fist felt at leaving the Mage School, he found the happy attitudes of his other traveling companions irritating. Charz was excited because of the many opportunities for fighting along the way and Squirrel was happy because he had been growing bored at the school. Locksher was fascinated by the mystery of the powerful force that created the maggots. There was a spring in the professor’s step that Fist hadn’t seen before.

The ogres were even more annoyingly enthusiastic. Though for Fist the journey was just beginning, the ogres had completed their main mission. They were returning home with Fist in tow and, as far as they were concerned, the evil was all but destroyed. As they walked, the ogres laughed and played and pushed each other and wrestled. Fist felt even less like one of them with each step.

Puj’s presence didn’t help the situation. Her feelings had been hurt when Fist announced that she couldn’t join his tribe until after the evil was destroyed. She had burst out in tears until Fist, feeling terribly guilty, assured her that this requirement was just a formality. Scowling, Puj had run to Crag. Fist didn’t know what Crag said to her, but she calmed down after that. Fist had been relieved by how well she was taking it. Then, to his dismay, she began shadowing him.

Puj stayed at his side the first full day, dogging his steps. She stayed fairly quiet for the most part, but nudged him from time-to-time and laughed while making crude suggestions. This was the ogre version of flirting. Fist didn’t know how to respond without being rude and Squirrel and Charz found his discomfort hilarious. Several times he politely tried to excuse himself from her presence so that he could talk to Locksher, but Puj was back at his side within minutes.

When night came, Fist set his bedroll on the far side of the fire, next to Locksher and away from the rest of the ogres. To the further amusement of Charz and Squirrel, Puj placed her furs right next to him. Fist moved his bedroll further away from the fire, but she moved her furs next to him again. Finally, Fist told her that he needed to be alone to practice his magic before sleeping and she let him move his bedroll away from her again.

He spoke with Justan through the bond and, though Justan was sympathetic to his plight, he could offer no helpful suggestion. All he said was that Fist should probably just ‘put up with it’. After closing his connection with Justan, Fist did as Darlan had instructed and practiced draining his magic. He used a static mix of air and earth to create a glowing orb and focused on making its light as dim as possible.

As Darlan had promised, Fist felt his resources deplete quickly. The longer he kept it up, the more power it took to keep the light from blazing like a beacon. After just a few minutes, the light winked out and he collapsed with exhaustion. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the reflection of the firelight in Puj’s eyes as she watched him from her furs. For the first time in a long while, Fist didn’t dream.

When Fist woke up in the morning, Puj was next to him. She was on her back asleep, and one of her arms was lying across his chest. When Fist looked down, he saw that Squirrel had left a tiny pile of shelled seeds on her open palm as a sign of his approval. For a moment, Fist contemplated squishing his little friend and told Squirrel so, but the little beast was unapologetic.

Fist gently moved her arm aside and looked for Wizard Locksher, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Fist grew concerned and considered going to look for the man, but Squirrel assured him that the wizard wasn’t far away. Sure enough, Locksher returned to the camp a short time later lugging the chest full of maggots, one eyebrow raised in contemplation.

That day they continued their journey through the forest, the ogres’ long strides eating up the distance. Locksher grumbled about the pace at first, needing to jog to keep up. Fist offered to let the wizard hold his mace, but Locksher had scoffed at the weight of the weapon. Instead, the wizard had enacted a spell of his own to increase his speed. After that, he had no trouble keeping up, but he made a strange sight, his legs pumping at twice their normal tempo while the rest of him moved like normal. He somehow even managed to read from an ancient leather-bound book as he walked, pausing every now and then to jot down notes in a small notebook he kept within his robes.

There was a minor bit of excitement that afternoon as the group was attacked by three hungry trolls, but the slavering beasts were no match for the power of their party. Charz and the ogres gleefully smashed the trolls to pieces and Locksher set their quivering remains on fire with a quick spell.

The battle helped develop a sense of camaraderie between Fist’s tribe and the Thunder People. The ogres looked at Locksher with a newfound respect after witnessing his fire spell and they had all been impressed at the savagery with which Charz had pulped the trolls. Several of the ogres now marched alongside the giant, giving him reverent stares. Charz enjoyed the attention and regaled them with stories of his past battles, grinning as the ogres oohed and aahed.

For Fist, this second day of the journey was better than the first. The battle with the trolls helped him realize that the enthusiasm of the group wasn’t such a bad thing. Fist had also resigned himself to the fact that Puj was determined to follow him around.

The ogress noticed the difference in his attitude and became quite talkative, telling him all about her life growing up. Fist realized how little he had known about the day-to-day life of ogre females. In some ways it wasn’t so different than the life of the females of most species. They grew up learning how to clean and cook and care for the injuries of the men. Then he was reminded of the cruelties they endured.

Puj was two years older than Fist, but had already been part of six different tribes. She was born into the Water People tribe, but had been stolen away from them as a child during a raid by the Stone People. The ogress had then been traded around different tribes, most recently to the River People before Crag had taken over their territory during the Barldag’s war. She was popular among the men wherever she went and the other ogresses often treated her roughly, jealous of her looks.

To Fist’s surprise, he learned that Puj had already borne two children; one to the River People and one just the last summer to the Thunder People. Fist had always seen the way ogre females were treated as demeaning and told her so, but Puj didn’t understand what he meant. To the ogress, these experiences were a badge of honor. Puj was quite proud of the way the men clamored for her attentions. The most uncomfortable part of the conversation for Fist was the amount of unnecessary detail she used when bragging about her mating prowess.

The party made good time, covering many miles through the woods. That evening they camped in a glade by a deep pond. Charz and the ogres saw this as a great opportunity for fun. Despite the lingering winter chill they hurled themselves into the water and horsed around, splashing and dunking each other until the pond became a battle royale filled with roars and laughter.

Fist estimated that the group splashed out a good third of the water in the first ten minutes. He didn’t join them, despite the urging of Charz and Crag. As much as he liked the idea of a bath, he did not look forward to trying to dry off and warm up afterwards. Besides, the others would just try to get him involved in the fighting. Puj watched the ruckus longingly, but since Fist didn’t go in, she didn’t either. She sat on the trunk of a downed tree and waited while Fist built the fire.

Stupid, Squirrel remarked from his perch in a tree overlooking the scene.

“They are pretty foolish,” he agreed.

Not them. You, Squirrel said.

“What do you mean?” Fist asked, as he stacked some dry branches in the fire pit he had dug a safe distance from the pond.

They are fun, Squirrel replied. You are not.

“They are fun?” Fist said, scowling as a particularly large splash sent a gout of water right into the fire pit. He noticed Puj glance at him and this time didn’t speak aloud. If they are so much fun, why don’t you go swim with them?

Squirrel snorted. Squirrels don’t swim. Ogres do.

Fist glanced back at the thrashing group of ogres and watched as Charz, laughing maniacally, hurled Rub into the air. The ogre howled as he flipped end-over-end towards another group of ogres that were brawling with the chieftain. Crag saw Rub coming and met the airborne ogre with an uppercut that caught him in the jaw and reversed his forward momentum, knocking him back into the other ogres with a concussive splash.

A chorus of laughter erupted from the pond and Fist had to admit to himself that it did look like fun. He would have to check out Rub later and see if he needed healing, though. He turned his head to look at Puj, who had watched the whole spectacle with an open-mouthed grin.

“You should join them, Puj,” he said.

The ogress shook her head. “No. There is only mens out there and I am not part of their tribe. I am not part of any tribe now.”

Fist winced guiltily. Technically she was right and it was his fault. Even though Fist had not let her enter his tribe, Crag had told the male ogres that she belonged to Fist. This meant that she was not a Thunder People woman any more and was off limits for the journey home. Any contact between her and the other ogres would be inappropriate.

“This is only temporary,” he said.

Puj gave him a confused look. “Tim . . . what?”

“This won’t last much longer,” Fist clarified. He kept forgetting that the other ogres didn’t know all his new words. “When the evil is gone, you will be part of a tribe again.”

The ogress nodded and stared back at the cavorting ogres while Fist struggled to get the fire going. Fist used his water magic to draw the moisture out of the branches, a trick Locksher had shown him the night before. He still didn’t quite have the technique down and looked to the wizard for help, but Locksher had disappeared into the trees with the chest again.

It took Fist a few minutes of trial and error, but eventually he succeeded in getting the wood dry enough to light. As the flames grew, Fist stepped back and surveyed his handiwork with a smile of satisfaction.

“Are you sure you can do it, Big Fist?” Puj asked suddenly. “You can kill the evil?”

“I-uh, well . . .” Fist stammered for a moment. There was such a pleading look in her eyes. Fist had no doubt that Locksher would find a way to destroy whatever evil force was controlling the maggots, but the ogre wasn’t sure just how much of it would be his own doing.

You will! Squirrel urged and Fist glanced to see that the little animal was sitting on the log next to the ogress.

“I will,” he said firmly, deciding that it wasn’t really a lie. “The evil will be gone and you will be part of a tribe again.”

That night, after the furor had died down and the shivering ogres had eaten and were huddled under their furs, Puj moved her bedding next to Fist again. This time he did not move as far away, just making sure that there was a good two feet of earth between them before communing with Justan. He then drained his magic using the ball of light and fell right to sleep.

When Fist opened his eyes, it was morning. He must have been really out of it, because when he turned his head, a pile of seeds that Squirrel had left on his forehead spilled across his pillow. This was the second night in a row that he had avoided those vivid dreams. Was it Darlan’s technique that caused this? Fist smiled at the possibility. Did he now have a way to avoid the dreams altogether?

The rest of the camp was beginning to get up and moving. Puj wasn’t in her furs and Locksher was already off on his own with the chest. The ogress showed up a short time later, shoving her way through the ogres, her cheeks tear-stained. Fist didn’t see Locksher until the rest of the camp was ready to leave. When he did appear, he was carrying the chest, a contemplative frown affixed to his face.

The rest of the day went without major incidents. Puj continued to stay at Fist’s side, but was quieter than the day before. The group stopped for the night at the forest’s edge, staying within the trees, the vast rolling plains waiting just outside the flickering light of their campfire. Once again, Fist drained his magic and fell into a dreamless sleep.

That morning he woke a bit later than the day before. The sun was cresting the mountain to the east and the other ogres were already eating their breakfast fare. Fist saw that Puj was missing from her furs. For some reason, the air smelled quite strongly of pine trees.

Charz pointed and laughed as Fist sat up. “Who’re you trying to be? Lenny Firegobbler?”

Fist reached up to find that his upper lip was crusted with tiny seeds. He tugged at them and discovered that Squirrel had used the sap from a nearby pine tree to give him a handlebar mustache.

“Squirrel!” He barked.

Not me! The little beast was sitting on Charz shoulder and pointing at the giant’s face. Fist let lose a snort of laughter despite himself. The giant was sporting a bushy set of seed eyebrows.

Well his is funny, Fist admitted. He began scraping the mustache off of his lip with his fingernails. Just don’t do it to me again.

Please? Squirrel begged, feeling disappointed. He was quite proud of his latest creation. You were really asleep.

“No!” Fist said aloud. The sap was terribly sticky and he knew that it would be a pain getting it all off. But maybe doing it to Charz is okay.

Then Fist heard Puj walk into the camp from the trees. As she had the day before, the ogress pushed her way through the ogres, making a series of angry grunts as she did so. Fist turned at her approach and his brow furrowed in concern. Puj had a split lip and was bleeding from her nose. None of the other ogres that were awake seemed to notice as she weaved her way through them and plopped down onto her furs, scowling glumly.

Fist threw back his blankets and turned to face her. “What happened to your face, Puj?”

“Me?” Puj seemed surprised by his question. She cocked her head and looked closer at him. “What is under your nose?”

“Uh, Squirrel did that.” Fist said, rubbing at his upper lip again. He had managed to get most of the seeds off, but the sap was still so sticky. How had Squirrel avoided getting it all gummed up in his fur? “What happened to you? Your nose? Your lip?”

She looked down in embarrassment. “Nothing.”

Fist frowned and scooted next to her. He reached out one hand and lifted her chin. Now that he was looking closer, he saw that her face was quite swollen. She had the beginnings of a black eye as well as evidence of older fading bruises. “It’s not nothing. You are hurt.”

“It . . .” She pulled her chin away from his hand, refusing to meet his eyes. “I-I did it.”

“You?” he asked skeptically. That didn’t make sense. “How? Did you fall?”

“Yes!” she said quickly, then corrected herself. “No. I . . . hit me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Fist replied.

“I was mad. Mad at me!” she snapped. The ogress stood and turned her back to him. “I am a bad woman.”

“Why do you say that?” Fist asked.

“I am not good,” she said, folding her arms tightly in front of her. “I am ugly. Fist does not want me.”

“That’s not . . .” Fist bit his lip, unwilling to lie to her. Giving her false hope would just make things worse. “You are good, Puj. Very pretty. That has nothing to do with it.”

She looked back over her shoulder at him, confusion in her large dark eyes. “Then why? Why do you not want me, Fist?”

Fist opened his mouth to say that he did want her. It was just a rule of his tribe. But he stopped himself. Fist hated lying to her. It didn’t come natural to him and he knew he was bad at it. But how could he tell her the truth? She wouldn’t understand the real answer. It might even hurt her more.

Guilt welling within him, he stood and he reached for her face. “Let me heal you.” She blinked at him and he added, “With my magic.”

Puj took a step away. “I will put leaves on it. It will get better.”

“But those leaves . . . That will take time,” Fist said. She shook her head slightly and he pressed on, “Please. Let me fix it. The others might think I was the one who hit you.”

That seemed to get through to her because she didn’t back away further. “Will it . . . hurt?”

“No,” he assured her. “It will feel strange, but then your face won’t hurt anymore.”

She gave him a hesitant nod. Fist took a step closer and placed his hands on either side of her head. “Close your eyes.”

He sent probing energies into her face and saw that she indeed had multiple layers of bruising. In addition, one of the bones around her eye had a series of tiny fractures. That was troubling. Ogres had strong bones. It would have taken quite a blow to cause that damage.

Puj shivered as he went in with threads of water and earth to repair the split in her lip. He then sealed the cracks in her bone. Cleaning up the bruising was the tough part. There were dozens of tiny broken blood vessels in her face and that required a delicate touch. Justan would have been able to handle it much better, but all Fist could do was repair the larger vessels and clear away inflammation to encourage her body’s natural healing.

When he let go, Puj stumbled back. She grasped at her face. “What did you do to me?”

“I fixed it,” Fist replied. “You are all better now.”

She shook her head, probing at her lip and at the ridge around her eye. “Something is wrong.”

“It’s not wrong,” Fist assured her. “You look good.”

Slowly a smile grew on her face. “Nothing is wrong. You do like me! I will tell Stinky Chief!” she said enthusiastically, then turned and ran towards Crag.

Fist watched her go with trepidation. Had healing her been a mistake? He had felt bad for her, but now things would be even more difficult when the mission was over.

Squirrel leapt down from a branch overhead to take up his regular perch on the ogre’s shoulder. He shook his little head. Lying.

“I didn’t lie to her,” said Fist defensively. “I did before, but not this time.” He hadn’t. He had just sidestepped her question.

Not you, Squirrel specified. Her. She lies.

“About what?” Fist asked.

She not hit herself, the beast said confidently.

Fist thought about it and Squirrel’s assessment made sense. It would have been difficult for her to punch herself in the face hard enough to cause the injuries he had healed. “How do you know?”

I hear her yelling earlier, Squirrel replied.

“With who?” Fist wondered.

Squirrel shrugged. Don’t know. He sent Fist a memory from earlier that morning. He had been searching for acorns and had heard faint shouting. One of the voices was female, likely Puj’s. The other one was gruff and male, but it was hard to make out which ogre it belonged to.

Fist rubbed his chin. If she wasn’t hurting herself, who was it?

Your father? Squirrel suggested.

Fist didn’t like that possibility, but he considered it. Could Crag be angry that Puj hadn’t been able to get Fist to let her enter his tribe? Was that why she was so excited to talk to him about it? Fist watched Puj as she spoke to Crag excitedly, pointing at her face. Crag looked across the camp at Fist and grinned, giving him an approving nod.

“No, not Crag,” Fist replied. The ogre chieftain was lascivious towards the women and treated them like property, but he never hit them. It had to be one of the others; someone who wasn’t happy that Puj was no longer available to them.

Fist searched the camp with his eyes and Burl and his friends came into view. All three of them were watching Puj tell her story with frowns on their faces. Fist clenched his teeth. They were the ones who had most disliked Crag’s announcement that Puj was to be given to Fist. If she refused one of them, they might have lashed out.

Burl was the one Fist instinctively wanted to blame, but the other two were just as likely. The shorter of the three was named Bud, but everyone called him Beard. He had a thick beard and a full head of red hair, an oddity among ogres. Beard had been friends with Burl back in the old days and had always resented Fist. The other one was Glug, a buck-toothed brute with bulging eyes and one missing ear. He was new to the tribe, an ex-member of the Rock People who had known Burl from the war.

Fist didn’t know what to do about the situation. He couldn’t just walk up and accuse them without proof. He wished he could talk to Justan. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be able to speak again until the next evening. He could bring up his concerns with Charz, but the giant’s solution would likely be to just stomp over and beat on the three ogres. Fist smiled at the thought. It was an amusing idea, but ultimately an unfair one and he dismissed it.

The wizard, Squirrel suggested.

Fist nodded. That was right. He was Locksher’s apprentice now. It made sense to speak with his master. But once again, the wizard had disappeared. His bedroll had already been put away. “Do you know where he went, Squirrel?”

In the grass, Squirrel replied. He could smell the stench of the evil wafting in from the plains.

Chapter Fourteen

Fist put on his armor and strapped on his mace, then followed Squirrel’s nose out of the trees. The plains were an ugly sight. In the spring, the area would be blanketed in quickly growing green grasses, but the weight of winter snows had crushed the normally waist-high grass. Now that the snow was gone, the plains were a sodden mess, their hillocks and valleys now looked more like a marsh of brown clumpy islands between temporary shallow ponds.

Fist stomped through ankle-high water and sucking mud with a growing scowl. Bettie’s runework would keep the mud from destroying his boots, but his feet were already getting wet. The ogre troop would have at least two full days of travel through the plains and he could already tell that it would be a rough slog.

They found Locksher in a dry patch at the top of one of the smaller hillocks. From the traces of red and gold magic left behind in the grass, Fist could tell that the wizard had a hand in drying the area.

Locksher was sitting cross legged with his back to them and the chest was sitting open next to him. He had that ancient leather-bound book open in his lap and was alternating between reading it and monitoring something on the ground in front of him. Fist noted to his amusement that Locksher was wearing the bright blue and yellow scarf that Mistress Sarine had been knitting back at the Mage School.

“Good morning, Master,” Fist greeted.

Locksher jerked in surprise, placing a hand on his chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on a wizard, Fist! I might have attacked you.”

“Sorry,” Fist said, though he didn’t see how what he had done could be called sneaking. He had been stomping through the mud quite loudly. He looked at the three little gray lumps on the ground in front of the wizard. “What are those?”

“Dead mice,” Locksher replied. “I’ve been experimenting.”

“Oh . . .” Fist said. Now that he looked closer he could see that they were indeed three dead mice laying on their backs, their stiff little paws in the air.  He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “But-.”

“Why are you here, Fist?” Locksher asked. “Is it time to go already? Sometimes I lose track of time when I’m working.”

“Uh, not quite yet,” Fist replied, his eyes still on the still forms of the mice. Squirrel hopped down from his shoulder and scrambled over to them, inspecting them.

They are dead, Squirrel agreed.

“I came to ask your advice, Master,” Fist said.

For a moment, Locksher seemed surprised. Probably because Fist had never asked his advice before. “Ah. Good. Regarding what, exactly?”

“It is about Puj,” Fist said. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“The ogre female?” Locksher cocked his head. “And you think I can help with that kind of advice?”

Fist nodded. “You are my master now. I would ask Mistress Sherl, but she is not here.”

“I . . . see. Uh, I have noticed the trouble you’ve been having with her.” The wizard smiled. “She seems to be quite a persistent woman, but I’m afraid I’m not any sort of expert on the subject. I have thus far managed to avoid those types of entanglements.”

Fist reached up and scratched his head. “But I thought that with the way things were going between you and Mage Vannya-.”

Locksher’s eyes widened. “Well what’s going on with Mage Vannya is . . . There’s nothing going on between us.”

Lying, said Squirrel with a slow shake of his head.

“Everyone at the school thinks there is,” Fist replied. It had been obvious to everyone that something had begun between Locksher and his prized student during the war. Fist had witnessed a few tender moments between them himself. His roommate Jezzer was positive that the two had begun spending their nights together.

“That’s a . . . ridiculous notion!” Locksher scoffed uncomfortably. “I-I am old enough to be her father, after all. At the very least, I am one of her father’s colleagues.”

“Okay,” Fist said with a shrug. “I guess I heard wrong.”

“I told her these rumors would start,” he grumbled. “Now it’s true, things were uncomfortable for awhile, especially while she was ‘in mourning’ over Sir Edge and Qyxal, but that was a completely different matter. I have discussed it with her since then and we have come to an agreement. She understands that I am her professor and she is my pupil.”

“Vannya agreed to this?” Fist asked. That was surprising. The mage hadn’t been acting at all crestfallen. In fact, she had seemed more chipper than usual.

“Yes, I have a specific set of rules spelled out. We speak to each other using formal terms. No unnecessary touching and even if she needs comforting, no more than two embraces daily. As for kissing . . . only rarely,” Locksher said as if that was a common arrangement.

Squirrel snorted. Lying again.

“It has been working well.” The wizard raised a finger. “Perhaps you could agree on a similar set of rules with this ogress of yours?”

“Perhaps,” Fist said. It was obvious that the wizard wasn’t going to be any help in that area. “But the advice I wanted wasn’t about that. It’s-.” The wind changed, carrying the stench from the open chest right past Fist’s face. He wrinkled his nose and Squirrel darted into his pouch to avoid it. “Do you need to keep that chest open?”

“It has to do with the experiments I have been running.” Locksher said. He raised an eyebrow. “Let me show you. This will be a good learning experience. Come, sit.” Locksher pointed to the ground across from him.

Fist looked at the slightly damp patch of ground. He didn’t want to be that close to the chest. “Do I have to sit?”

“Of course. You’re far too tall for me to explain it while you’re standing there. I’m already developing a sore neck from looking at you ogres all day.”

With a sigh, Fist sat down facing the wizard, the three dead mice on the ground between them. The rotting stench was even stronger here. Fist breathed through his mouth and tried to ignore it.

Fist could feel the anger of the evil prodding at the edge of the bond. The inside of the chest was issuing a soft glow that he could see even in the morning light. “Are you sure you should leave it open like that, Master? It’s going to affect you.”

“Ah, but it won’t.” Locksher smiled and lifted one end of the garish scarf tied around his neck and Fist saw that intricate designs had been knitted into the material. “These are bewitching runes. Mistress Sarine made this to protect me from the effects of the larvae. It’s also quite warm. I wear it whenever I’m working with the contents of this chest.”

“Oh,” Fist said. He could understand why the professor hadn’t been wearing it around the others. The ridiculousness of the bright colors made it hard to take him seriously. “What are the dead mice for?”

“They are at the crux of my experiment this morning. You see, I have been learning a lot about the nature of the ‘evil’ that has been plaguing the mountains to the north of us during the past few days. For instance, I ran an experiment yesterday to determine the strength of the magical attack of each individual larva. First I took out an individual specimen and tested its power output. Then I tested the output of two and then three and so on. What I determined is that the spirit magic power produced by each larva is weak, but constant. It neither waxes or wanes. Therefore the severity of the threat depends on the number of larvae involved.”

Fist nodded, his brow drawn in thought as he processed Locksher’s wordy way of explaining. “My father says that there is a lake of these things in the mountains.”

Eww, said Squirrel. He was still in his pouch and had stuck his head into a pocket filled with honstule flowers, trying to drown out the maggot’s stench.

“Yes. Crag described the same thing to me,” the wizard replied. “He said that when he approached the place, his men felt an overwhelming urge to jump into the mass of larvae.”

Fist and Squirrel shuddered.

“What I am trying to discover this morning is what happens when the larvae encounter a host body,” Locksher continued. “I happened upon these dead mice as I thawed out the hillock we are sitting on.”

“You’re going to put those maggots on the mice?” Fist asked.

“Indeed,” Locksher replied.

“Why not use live ones?” Fist asked. The plains had to be full of little dens of rodents hibernating for the winter. Surely the wizard could use his magic to locate some.

“Eventually I may,” Locksher said. “But the ogres have told me that the ‘evil’ can animate the bodies of the dead. By watching in person and studying it, I may better be able to understand the depth of what we are up against.”

“Okay,” Fist said, feeling uneasy. “But what if they just get up and run away?”

“I am going to set shield wards around the corpses to make sure that they can’t go any where.” He lifted his hands over the mice. “Has Sherl shown you how this is done?”

“Yes,” Fist said. “But I’m not very good at it yet.”

“Then watch,” Locksher instructed. Using flows of air, the wizard created a sort of box around the three mice. Fist saw the walls of the box shimmer with a golden glow as the air solidified. Locksher then added a ward to the box, linking it to him. Now he would be able to move his hand in and out of the box, but the mice inside would be unable to get out.

Then, using a small silver ladle, Locksher scooped a small pile of squirming maggots out of the open chest and poured them out next to the mice. Fist watched with sick fascination as the white maggots squirmed their way over to the stiff corpses and began burrowing into their fur. Moments later, the little bodies began to tremble.

The mice convulsed for a few seconds, their little paws twitching, their jaws opening and closing. Then their eyes opened and, without making a sound, they rolled to their feet. Two of them came slowly towards Fist while the other one approached Locksher. They were stopped by the walls of air, but clawed and bit, trying to reach them. It was all Fist could do not to jump to his feet and back away.

“Fascinating,” Locksher said, watching them with both of his eyebrows raised while he jotted notes down in his tiny book. “Did you notice what happened?”

“Th-they came to life,” Fist said, his skin crawling.

“No-no. They aren’t alive. Just moving,” Locksher said. “Were you paying attention when it happened?”

“I saw them start twitching,” Fist said.

“Yes, but that wasn’t the first sign. You need to pay more attention with your mage sight. The first thing that happened was that the larvae started giving off heat. They were warming up the tissues of the creatures. The twitching you saw was likely a side effect of the entity that controls the larvae taking control of the corpses’ nervous systems.” He licked his lips. “Switch to spirit sight. Tell me what you see.”

Fist did as the wizard requested. “They are filled with blackness.”

“As I thought. Negative spirit magic. You can tell the nature of spirit magic by its shade. Pure or positive spirit magic is a silvery white. The more negative the intent of the wielder, the darker it gets.” Locksher nodded. “This is good.”

“How is it good?” Fist said.

“We have just learned something, haven’t we? Think about it. How can we take this information and use it to our advantage?”

Fist frowned and watched the mice silently scratching at the invisible confines of the wards. “I guess if something dead starts twitching, we know it’s being taken over.”

“True,” Locksher said. “We also now know that those bodies in the control of the ‘evil’ are filled with black spirit magic. That is useful information for anyone with the ability to see it.”

Fist nodded slowly. “Also they’re too quiet.”

Locksher gave the ogre an impressed glance and looked back down at the mice. “You are correct. A body reanimated in this way will likely be silent. It would have no need to breathe, therefore no noise. Something else we should look out for. Very good, Fist.”

Despite the praise, Fist wasn’t able to tap into any of Locksher’s enthusiasm. The idea that the enemy would attack silently was a frightening one. It seemed that every bit of information they had gained just made the situation seem worse. “What do you want to do with them now?”

Locksher gave it some thought. “If we were back in my laboratory, I would keep them for observation, but that isn’t such a wise course out here in the wilderness. I suppose we should destroy them.” He rubbed his chin. “Another opportunity to learn something, don’t you think?”

“I guess,” Fist said.

“There’s no need to guess in this case, Fist.” Locksher rubbed his hands together. “Now, I have already explored several methods of destroying the larvae and have discovered that they are susceptible to just about anything that would kill any maggot. Burning them or smashing them are both effective methods, for instance. Let us see if the effects are any different with a reanimated corpse.”

The wizard added a couple more wards to separate the three mice into individual boxes. “I propose we start with fire.” He focused in on the mouse in the box furthest to Fist’s left. It was still trying to get at the ogre, gnawing incessantly at the wall of air that imprisoned it. “Just a little at first, to see how it reacts.”

Locksher sent a tiny flow of fire at the creature, setting its fur ablaze. There was no noticeable reaction right away. It continued its silent attack. “Hmm. There is no fear response. No attempt at self preservation.”

The wizard increased the heat until the creature’s entire body was covered with flames. The beast’s behavior didn’t change. It continued trying to get at Fist until it was completely consumed. Fist drew back in distaste as wisps of smoke blew across his face. Locksher pursed his lips at the blackened husk that remained.

“As I suspected. As long as the larvae are alive and the reanimated corpse has the ability to move, it will continue to do so. If we are to fight them with flames, it seems we must do so with caution.” He sighed. “On to the next. Let us try electricity this time. Fist, you’ve seen this work on the larvae before. Will you take care of this one?”

With a reluctant nod Fist targeted the mouse in the center. He sent out a short zap and the mouse fell stiff.

“Interesting, the effect is instantaneous.” Locksher waved a hand over the still body, sending out a probe of magic, then jotted down a quick note. “It seems that the shock burst all of the larvae inhabiting its body. Your ogre kindred were right. Electricity is most effective against this foe.”

“Good,” Fist said. That was the first positive information to come out of this experiment as far as he was concerned. “And the last mouse?”

“Well, the ogres seem to use ‘bashing it’ as their proffered method of dealing with the problem.” Locksher reached out and made a fist.

Two stones rose up from the ground on either side of the mouse and slammed together, crushing it between them. When the two stones fell to the side, the remains of the mouse were still twitching. Locksher stuck his hand out over the creature and nodded.

“I thought that might happen. The body of the mouse insulated the larvae from the force of the blow, but all of its bones are broken, making it unable to move effectively.” He waved his hand, dismissing the shield wards, then shrugged and began writing more notes in his book. “I suppose that breaking the bones of the attacker is an effective way to neutralize the threat until the body can be burned.”

“Was this really necessary?” Fist wondered. “All we did was confirm what Crag and the others already told us.”

“And I should just take the ogres’ word for it?” Locksher didn’t look up from his book. “Now that I have tested their theories, I know it for a surety.”

Fist didn’t know why, but something about the way Locksher dismissed Crag’s words out of hand stung him. Frowning, Fist looked at the crushed mouse. It was still moving weakly and with his spirit sight, he could still see it pulsing with black.

A curious impulse overtook him and he reached out and picked it up. The little body was hot in his hand and he felt the malevolence of the maggots prying at the bond.  Gritting his teeth, Fist bent his will against it. The malevolence recoiled from his attack and the tiny maggots began squirming free from the mouse’s body, falling into his hand.

“Don’t do that!” Locksher snapped as he realized what Fist had done. He reached out and an arc of electricity leapt from his fingers, stinging the ogre’s hand and popping the bodies of the tiny maggots.

“Ow!” Fist complained, dropping the mouse to the ground and rubbing at his singed fingers. The shock had numbed his arm from the elbow down. “Why did you do that? The bond makes me immune to their magic.”

“Never get overconfident when you are investigating with the unknown!” Locksher snapped, pointing at him with uncharacteristic sternness. “There is no such thing as a perfect defense when it comes to spirit magic.”

Fist blinked. No such thing as a perfect defense? “But . . . Justan’s great grandmother told me so back at the Mage School. She said the bond would protect me.”

“That may be true in part, but I have learned more since leaving the school.” He lifted the ancient leather tome that he had been reading earlier. “This is an in depth study on spirit magic attacks. It’s one of the books that was unsealed by the prophet during the war. Neither Vincent or Mistress Sarine knows I borrowed it, by the way, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell them.

“Anyway, I have learned many things I didn’t know about the nature of spirit magic. For one, it has an inherent weakness; a weakness that those maggots are designed to exploit.”

“What weakness?” Fist said. He squeezed his fingers into a fist repeatedly, trying to get the sensation in them to return.

“What would be the best way to explain this to you?” Locksher bit his lip, frowning. “I’ll start with the basics. Spirit magic is different from elemental magic in one important way. While elemental magic is powered by the mind, spirit magic is powered by the soul. A person’s soul is the sum total of who they are and is immortal. It carries on with you into the next world when you die. However, despite being immortal, your soul is susceptible to attack and can be damaged or coerced by the spirit magic of others.”

“I know that much,” Fist said.

“Good,” Locksher said. “Then it will be easier for you to understand this next part. Everyone’s soul has two forms of defense. The first is your willpower. The second is your physical body.”

“My body?”

“Yes!” Locksher said excitedly. “Your soul doesn’t just inhabit your body. Your body is your physical tie to this world. Think of it like an anchor that holds your soul in place. This is why souls aren’t susceptible to binding magic unless the body is dead.”

Fist blinked. “I guess I haven’t thought of it that way before.”

“It’s a revelation, isn’t it? In fact, your body is probably the strongest spiritual defense you have. This book details ancient spirit magic warfare and the most effective methods are all designed around getting past your body’s defenses.”

Fist frowned. “But I’m protected by the bond.”

“The book talks about the benefits of being bonded and you are right.” Locksher said in agreement. “The bond is an additional layer of defense that others don’t have. Think of it like spiritual armor. It keeps your body from being pierced by spirit attacks. It does not protect you from physical attacks, however. This is why your body is also the greatest weakness you have.”

Locksher could tell by Fist’s expression that the ogre wasn’t understanding him. “Your spirit inhabits your body. All of it, down to each finger. If your body is pierced, your spirit is pierced. Do you see? If one of those larvae were to burrow into your flesh, it would have already made its way past the defense that your bond gives you.”

Fist shivered. “I guess I should thank you for that shock, then.”

“This just means that you can’t let the larvae come into contact with your skin,” Locksher said. “This scarf wouldn’t protect me from that either. The only one of us that is truly immune is probably Charz because he has the bond and I doubt that the larvae could penetrate his thick skin.”

Almost as if on cue, the giant’s voice rang out. “Hey! I been looking for you two.”

The giant was approaching them across the sodden plains, his large feet making loud sucking steps. He was accompanied by Rub and Bash. The two ogres had taken to following Charz everywhere he went. The giant didn’t seem to mind. Fist thought that Charz liked the idea of having two worshippers.

Locksher hurriedly shut the chest containing the maggots and stood, turning to face them. “Is it time to leave, then?”

“Naw,” Charz said. “I just got a message for you.”

As they got closer, Rub gave Locksher an incredulous look. “What is that thing around your neck, Wizard Man?”

“It is a scarf.” Locksher said, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment.

Charz snickered. “And a lovely one, too.”

“A scarf?” Rub asked.

“That means it eats real fast,” said Bash confidently.

Rub leaned closer to Locksher with concern. “It is eating you, wizard man?”

“No. A scarf is an article of clothing that one wears around their neck to keep them warm. It . . .” Locksher rolled his eyes at the dubious looks on their faces. “It’s magic. I wear it to protect me from the ‘evil’.”

“Oh,” said Rub, looking relieved.

“It eats the evil?” asked Bash hopefully.

“No! It’s not that kind of scarf, you idiot,” Charz said with a sigh. As much as the giant had come to enjoy the rough company of the ogres, his patience for their stupidity was wearing thin.

“Oh,” Rub said, not smart enough to realize that he had just been insulted.

“What is the message you have for me, Charz?” Locksher asked.

“Alfred talked to me last night. He’s at the academy with Sir Edge’s mom,” The giant explained. “They got the portal working yesterday and have been meeting with the Academy Council.”

“And what have they decided?” asked the wizard.

Charz shrugged. “I don’t know all the details, but they’re getting together a party to come and meet us.”

“Really?” Fist asked, feeling excited. This would give him a chance to talk to Darlan about his situation.

“Yeah, they’ll meet us somewhere in the plains in a couple days,” the rock giant replied. “Evidently the academy wants to add a few members to our group. They are still deciding who to send.”

“Whomever they choose, it’s a fine idea,” Locksher said. “An academy force can lead us past the villages and make the journey easier.”

“That is good,” Fist said. Finally something about this morning was looking up. He had been worried about that last stretch of the journey.

“Yeah, good,” Charz said, firing Fist a mischievous grin. “Also that girl gnome that took a liking to you is coming along.”

Fist’s face fell.

Chapter Fifteen

That first day of travel through the sodden plains was just as miserable as Fist had feared. The ogres had found the mud a fun distraction at first, laughing every time one of them became stuck and throwing huge sticky handfuls at each other, but by mid morning the novelty had worn off. There was nothing but brown grass and puddles of water as far as their eyes could see and they slogged through the mire, their moods growing fouler by the hour.

That evening, the exhausted group stopped on a wide hillock that rose mostly clear of the mud. Locksher had Fist help him dry the area out even further so that they could light a fire and bed down for the night. The next morning Fist awoke with Puj curled up at his side, Squirrel asleep in the crook of her arm.

That day’s travel was better than the day before. They were able to stay out of the more marshy areas and everyone’s spirits rose. Puj spent most of the day walking right behind Fist and Squirrel stayed on Puj’s shoulder. The animal chattered at the ogress, feeding her shelled seeds and nuts.

Puj found the squirrel’s companionship amusing and did her best to carry on a conversation with him, saying things like, “This is a better day than yesterday, Food” or “I like your red shirt, Food” or “Thank you for the nut, Food.” Squirrel chattered back at her and she pretended to understand. Sometimes she even made lewd remarks about Fist. Squirrel would respond with his little chattering laugh.

This new development grated on Fist. By mid-day, he couldn’t hold his irritation back any longer. Without looking at them, he sent, What are you doing, Squirrel?

Me? Nothing, the little beast said innocently as he shelled a rather large pumpkin seed with practiced clips of his front teeth.

Yes you are, Fist said. You are being too nice to Puj. You are encouraging her.

She is a good ogre, Squirrel replied. He held out the seed and Puj opened her mouth, letting him toss it in.  She will make a good mate for you.

I told you, I don’t want her to be my mate!

Squirrel snorted at his attitude. Not before, but you like her better now.

She’s an ogress, Squirrel.  They don’t stay with just one mate. Fist replied as much to remind himself as to convince his bonded. It was true that he had been warming up to Puj over the last few days, but they just weren’t compatible. She wouldn’t be able to comprehend the kind of monogamous relationships that humans tended to have; that he wanted to have. Besides, she’s not smart enough.

At that moment, Puj stepped in a hole and stumbled, nearly falling. Squirrel had to grab onto her hair to keep from being thrown free. “Are you alright, Food?” she asked. “I almost squisheded you.”

Squirrel let go of her hair and chattered back at her as if nothing had happened. She is like you when we met.

I was much smarter than her, Fist argued. Surely Squirrel was exaggerating. Even back then he had been more intelligent than the other ogres. She can’t even say your name right.

“Food, do you know what I like about Big Fist?” Puj asked.

“His name is not ‘Food’,” Fist snapped, turning his head to shoot her a glare. It was the third time that morning he’d corrected her. “It’s Squirrel.”

“Oh. Yes. Skirl.” Puj said cheerfully, oblivious to his irritation. “You know what I like about Big Fist, Skirl?”

Fist could sense Squirrel’s amusement as he shook his head and chattered questioningly back at her.

“He has a good strong butt,” Puj said. “When I am part of his tribe, I will hold onto it with both hands.”

“Stop talking about that!” Fist yelled, spinning around to face her.

She frowned. “I wasn’t talking to you, Big Fist.”

Fist rolled his eyes. “Squirrel, get off her shoulder right now.”

Squirrel folded his little arms and ignored him.

“I mean it, Squirrel. Get down!” Fist demanded.

No! Squirrel said, stomping one foot in defiance.

“Why does Skirl have to get down?” Puj said, her brow knit in confusion. “Why can’t he stay with me?”

“His name is Squirrel! And he doesn’t belong to you. He belongs to me!” Fist said.

Puj flinched at the anger in his voice. She grabbed Squirrel off of her shoulder, and held him out to Fist wordlessly, keeping her eyes averted from his. Squirrel chattered in protest and struggled in her grasp. When Fist tried to take him from her hand, he bit Fist’s finger and darted away.

Not your pet! Squirrel shouted mentally, his thoughts full of anger.

Fist grimaced as he sucked on his wounded finger. That’s not what I meant, he said, but Squirrel wouldn’t listen. The little animal climbed Charz’s shoulder and stayed with the giant for the remainder of the day.

It was a quiet night. They didn’t stop until dark and the ogres bedded down right away. Squirrel closed his end of the bond and refused to talk to Fist no matter how many times he tried to apologize. Puj didn’t even try to flirt with him. She put her bedding next to his, but lay down on her side facing away from him.

With a sigh, Fist closed his eyes and reached out to Justan. The distance caused the bond to be extremely narrow, but Fist had a lot of experience dealing with that problem. He muscled his thoughts through until he could brush Justan’s presence. The bonding wizard had a lot to talk about.

Justan had been through an exciting day. He told Fist about his encounter with the nightbeast and subsequent visit to the Jharro Grove for the first time. Fist told him about his own struggles that day and how he had yelled and offended Squirrel. Justan was sympathetic and assured him that Squirrel would forgive him.

They talked deep into the night and by the time they had finished, Fist was quite tired. When he withdrew his thoughts back through the bond, he felt a furry ball of warmth on his chest and knew that Squirrel had returned.

I am sorry, Squirrel, he said.

Squirrel stirred. Sleeping, he mumbled before drifting off again.

Smiling, Fist joined him.

“Toompa!” cried a thunderous voice and Squirrel’s warmth was replaced by a crushing weight.

The ground gave way beneath Fist’s back and suddenly he was falling. Fist windmilled his arms in panic and opened his eyes to find that he was high in the sky. He plummeted past wispy clouds and the air that whipped past his body was freezing cold. As the ground rushed towards him, Fist saw that the earth wasn’t flat, but composed of a series of white jagged spikes. He was about to die.

But the ogre’s demise didn’t come quickly and his panic subsided. The fall lasted for what seemed like several minutes and as he watched the spikes below him grow larger, Fist realized that they weren’t spikes at all, but snow-capped mountains. He was headed for a black dot between the peaks. The black dot increased in size until it became a great lake. Then the smell of death hit him. It wasn’t water below.

Fist struck the black lake with a deafening splat. The landing didn’t hurt, but his panic returned as the frigid air that had surrounded him was replaced by an intense heat. He was completely submerged in the center of a mass of squirming maggots.

“Don’t let them in,” warned Locksher’s distant voice.

Fist kept his eyes and mouth clenched closed and pinched off his nose with one hand. He struggled to swim through them towards the surface using one arm, but it was impossible to tell if he was making progress. A tingle swept across his skin and knew that the larvae were starting to nibble at him. Pressure started to build within his mind; a raging dark thing that threatened to overwhelm him.

He fought back, sending vibrating threads of air and earth away from his body in a powerful electric pulse. Thousands of maggots were vaporized all around him and Fist felt a momentary sense of triumph as his head burst free of the black lake and he was able to take a deep breath.  He wasn’t far from the shoreline. Justan was there, reaching out for him. He would survive this.

“It’s too late,” said Locksher’s voice.

The pressure in Fist’s mind continued to grow. But why? He felt a sudden tickling sensation in his ear canals and understood. The larvae had gotten inside him after all.

The vile rage built within him until it burst free. Against his will, he pointed towards Justan. A command erupted from his mind and a thick cloud of flies rose from the surface of the lake. They swarmed over Justan, obscuring him from view. Justan started to scream.

Fist awoke with a shout, sitting up so fast that Squirrel was launched from his chest. The little creature struck the edge of the ogre’s bedroll and tumbled into the grass, too deep in his own sleep to react in time. Squirrel flailed about in disorientation for a moment before he stood, trembling. Bad dreams. Bad dreams.

“Good. Fist, you’re up!” said Locksher cheerfully, glancing over at the ogre. “I was about to wake you.”

The wizard was standing by the embers of the fire, drinking something hot from a tin cup. Charz stood next to him, his rocky face hanging in a scowl.

“Wake me?” It was early. The sky was a dark blue, the sun still far behind the mountains. Most of the camp was still snoring. Crag was the only other person up. Fist could see him rousting two of the other ogres.

Fist rubbed at his ears. They still itched as if those maggots were inside. That dream had been as vivid as any of the dreams he’d had over the last few months. Only this time there had been something different. He had never landed in that black lake before.

Bad dreams, Squirrel agreed. He skittered over his pouch and disappeared inside.

Fist blinked. “Did you dream the same thing, Squirrel?”

Bad, Squirrel said and Fist caught a flash of images from his bonded’s mind. In Squirrel’s dream Fist had been covered in maggots and blood. His eyes were black, his mouth open in a silent roar. Puj was dead at his feet.

Fist shoved the disturbing thoughts away and swallowed. Those were bad dreams indeed. “It’s okay, Squirrel. You’re awake now. It was just a dream.”

I know. Squirrel emerged from the pouch wearing an orange vest. It was his favorite one. Darlan had told him that orange was a lucky color. Never sleeping again.

“Come on, Fist. Get your boots on,” Locksher urged. “It’s time to meet the academy party.”

“We’re meeting them already?” Fist swung his legs out of his bedroll and began tugging his boots on. He had thought they wouldn’t be meeting up with the academy party until that afternoon.

“They rode hard to get close to us last night.” Charz grumbled. “Then the blasted jerks insisted on meeting us this early. Alfred says they got someplace to be after we’re done.”

“We is coming too!” announced Crag’s gruff voice. The ogre chieftain came around the fire pit to join them. Burl and Rub were walking not far behind him, both ogres bleary-eyed.

Fist stood and faced his father. “You do not need to come, Crag. I will speak with them.”

“I will go too,” Crag said. “Burl telled me about these academy’s you go to see. They is human warriors. You go to tell them about the evil.”

Fist shot a glare at his half brother, but Burl didn’t meet his eyes. If Crag was at the meeting it could complicate things. The ogres had some difficulty understanding the way humans talked and if Crag decided to be aggressive, Fist could find himself having to stop a fight.

“Okay, Crag. You can come. But you don’t need Burl or Rub.” Rub was stupid and timid and wouldn’t do anything unless Crag told him to, but Burl was an unknown. Fist wasn’t sure how much of an enmity the ogre had developed against humans during the war.

“If the Big and Little People are sending three, the Thunder People will send three,” Crag insisted.

Fist tried to decide if it was worth arguing with him. So far, Crag had honored their agreement and deferred to Fist’s commands, but the chieftain was proud. Fist was sure that if he overruled his father too many times it would cause Crag to cancel their agreement. Fist looked to Locksher for help, but the wizard just shrugged back at him.

Fist sighed. “I will allow it, Crag. But there will be no fighting. The academy warriors are friends. Some of them are part of my tribe.”

“They might attack us,” Burl disagreed. “They hated ogres in the war.”

“That was only because you attacked them first,” Fist growled. He pointed his finger at the ogre. “There will be no fighting today.”

Crag put a hand on Burl’s shoulder and gave Fist a brief nod. “We will only fight if they fight.”

“Good then,” Fist said. He strapped on his breastplate and slid the handle of his mace into the sheath on his back. “Let’s go.”

Charz led the six of them northwest into the plains. The sky slowly brightened and it wasn’t long before they saw the smoke from the academy’s camp on the horizon. As they approached, Fist saw that the party the academy had sent was much larger than expected. Darlan had made it sound like a small group would come, but there were many tents and he counted more than a score of horses. Were they planning on adding that many troops to the mission?

Burl noticed the same thing. He elbowed his father. “There is too many of them, Crag!”

“Don’t worry,” Fist assured them. He grabbed Charz’s arm and said in a low voice. “Why didn’t you tell us there would be so many?”

The giant shrugged. “I didn’t know. Alfred didn’t say how many were coming.”

“There are lots,” Rub said, wide-eyed. He gripped the knotted club he carried tightly.

“Charz, tell Alfred they’re scaring the ogres,” Locksher said.

“We is not scared!” Crag barked. “We can fight them. We is strong and we have Fist.”

“There will be no fighting!” Fist said.

“I just told him, Locksher,” Charz said, his rocky eyebrows raised in amusement. “Alfred says we should wait here. There’s no need for us to meet with the whole group.”

Not long after the giant finished speaking, Fist saw several figures mount horses and break off from the rest of the camp. The riders approached at a quick trot. In the dim light, Fist couldn’t make them all out right away, but he recognized Darlan’s scarlet robe.

Burl counted them. “They still has more than us. There is seven of them and they ride horse pets. We only have six.”

Seven! Squirrel corrected.

“There are seven of us,” Fist said, correcting his half brother. “We have Squirrel.”

“Your food does not count,” Burl said.

“He’s not food!” Fist said through gritted teeth.

Crag slapped Burl upside the head so hard that the ogre stumbled to the side. “Stop crying! The Thunder People is not scared of little peoples!”

“That’s right. There is no reason to be afraid,” Fist said. “These are not our enemies and we are not outnumbered! I told you before. Some of them are part of my tribe.”

The party that rode up was led by Faldon the Fierce and Darlan. Alfred and Maryanne rode right behind them and Fist was surprised to see Mistress Sarine riding with the two gnomes. Why had she come? Bringing up the rear were Sabre Vlad’s son Qenzic and the elven swordsman Lyramoor. The two warriors were watching the ogres with wary eyes.

The ogres weren’t expecting the academy’s party to be such a disparate group. Rub squinted at Mistress Sarine and scratched his head while Crag frowned and said, “Your tribe is strange, Fist.”

Fist and Locksher approached them and Fist had to resist the urge to wrap Darlan up in a big embrace. That would really have confused the ogres. Instead, he turned to Justan’s father and stuck out his hand. “Justan’s father, I am glad to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Fist,” the large warrior replied with a smile, giving Fist a firm handshake. He lowered his voice. “We have a lot to discuss, but we need to keep this meeting short. We have somewhere to be.”

“So where are you going?” Locksher asked. The wizard gestured towards the academy camp on the horizon. “And why did you bring so many others with you?”

“Why we’re headed to Wobble, of course,” said Darlan. “Or have you forgotten about the wedding?”

Fist palmed his forehead. “Oh! Lenny’s wedding!” With everything that had gone on, he had forgotten all about it. The wedding was supposed to have taken place weeks ago, but Bettie had delayed the journey from Coal’s Keep. “I feel so bad. I was supposed to go since Justan couldn’t.”

“Don’t worry,” Darlan said. “I will explain everything. You know Lenui will understand.”

“I know he will,” said Fist. “It’s Bettie I am worried about.”

Uh oh, said Squirrel.

Darlan laughed. “Well, you’ll be far enough away that she won’t be able to reach you. I’m sure that by the time you get back, she will have forgiven you.”

Fist grimaced. “I hope so.”

“Please give them my regards as well,” Locksher added.

“Of course,” she said.

Crag cleared his throat loudly. The ogre was standing at his full height with his arms folded. His back was arched and his chest puffed out. In ogre culture, this was the proper posture used when negotiating peacefully. By keeping their arms folded, they showed that not only were they not about to attack, they weren’t afraid of being attacked either.

Faldon lifted an eyebrow and Fist said in an official tone, “Uh, Faldon the Fierce, this is Crag, chieftain of the Thunder People tribe.”

“I am chief,” Crag confirmed. “The Thunder People is the biggest ogre tribe. We have many warriors and many womens!”

Fist blinked, knowing the ogre procedure with this kind of thing but unsure how it applied to the humans. “Crag, this is Faldon the Fierce, chief of the Dremaldrian Battle Academy . . . tribe.”

Faldon, no stranger to dealing with different cultures, folded his arms and mimicked Crag’s posture. He whispered, “What do I say, Fist?”

“Do like Crag did,” Fist replied.

Faldon nodded. “I am chief. We are a training school and have thousands of warriors, both men and women. We, uh, protect the people of this country.”

Fist gave his father an uneasy glance, not sure how the grizzled ogre would take the warrior’s nonstandard reply. He wasn’t even sure if Crag could comprehend the concept of thousands of warriors. To his relief, Crag merely nodded.

“Good, so let’s start the meeting,” Faldon said, his posture relaxing slightly. “First of all, I should tell you what we have heard from our patrols in the mountains.”

“Have they seen the evil that the ogres have told us about?” Locksher asked.

“Not exactly. Our patrols haven’t gone as far as the ogre territories,” Faldon replied. “But it’s more complicated than that.”

The academy’s information network had been dismantled during the war and it had still not recovered. Much of their information came from the villagers and academy retirees that lived in the frontier and the majority of the refugees from the high mountain villages had not yet returned to their homes, preferring to wait until spring and avoid trying to rebuild during winter. Those that had returned hadn’t been heard from.

This winter had been a particularly harsh one for the outskirts of the human territory. The mountain passes most commonly used for travel were blocked by snow. There had only been one piece of information Faldon had been able to find that substantiated the ogre’s claims and that was a report from a small village near Jack’s Rest.

“Qenzic the Heir and Lyramoor Elfswords led that particular patrol,” Faldon said. “That’s one of the reasons I decided to send them with you.”

“The heir?” Fist asked, looking at Qenzic. The man was of average height for a human and had shoulder-length brown hair. Fist could see the short-sleeved chainmail shirt most common to the Swordwielder’s Guild peeking out from the collar his long deerskin jacket.

Qenzic gave a glum shrug and gestured to the curved hilt of the sabre that protruded from the sheath on his belt. “I carry my father’s sword now. The men started calling me that after the war.”

“A worthy name,” Fist said. Sabre Vlad had been a legend and his sword, The Commander, was even more famous as it had also been wielded by his great grandfather during the War of the Dark Prophet.

Fist didn’t bother asking Lyramoor about his new name. That one was obvious. The fantastic dual-swordsman had risen through the ranks of the academy while passing himself off as a half-elf for years until his true identity had been discovered on the night of Sabre Vlad’s death. Lyramoor was actually a full-blooded elf that had been stolen from his people as a child. He had been kept as a blood slave, passed around by dwarf smugglers for decades until Vlad had saved him from that life during an academy raid.

The heavily-scarred elf had been fiercely loyal to the man ever since, joining the academy just to remain near him. Now that Sabre Vlad was gone, Lyramoor had passed that loyalty to Vlad’s son. The elf hovered at Qenzic’s side like a zealous bodyguard, something that had to be a burden to the young warrior.

“Go ahead, Qenzic,” said Faldon. “Tell them what you heard.”

The graduate nodded. “It was about a month and a half ago. We were far to the northwest attempting to escort a group of refugees back to the Village of Pike. We tried to get through Rohran’s gap, but a blockade of snow and ice blocked our path.”

“That place is too tight,” Crag said and Fist was surprised that his father knew what the man was talking about.

Qenzic was unsure how to reply to the ogre. “I know what you mean, uh, Chief Crag. Rohran’s gap is a bit of a squeeze in places, but it is often passable during the winter when other routes are not. At any rate, it wasn’t open this time. We were about to turn around, when we heard someone shouting from high up on the blockade. So Lyramoor-.”

“They don’t need to hear the whole story,” Lyramoor interrupted.

“But it’s a good one.” Qenzic said, ignoring the elf’s scowl. “So Lyramoor climbs the blockade. It must have been a good forty feet tall. The rest of us had to back away because chunks of ice were falling everywhere. I was sure he was going to fall but somehow he reaches the top and finds this dwarf half frozen, stuck up to the waist in ice.”

“It was mostly snow,” Lyramoor corrected. His voice was low and rough. Not the usual voice of an elf.

“You had to chisel him out,” Qenzic replied and the elf rolled his eyes.

“And he was still alive?” Fist asked.

“He was a dwarf.” Charz said with a snort. “Anyone you two knew?”

“No. Probably a hermit,” Lyramoor said. “There’s lots of people living solitary lives in the mountains. Some of ‘em aren’t heard from for years at a time.

“He was barely coherent. We couldn’t get a name out of him,” Qenzic added. “Anyway, Lyramoor got him out of the ice and lowered him down to the rest of us. We were able to get a fire started and warm him up. Then the dwarf starts raving, going on and on about blood on his hands.”

“What he kept saying over and over was ‘they wouldn’t die’,” Lyramoor said.

“Right,” said Qenzic. “He got louder and louder and suddenly he rushes one of the villagers. He’s scratching at her. Biting at her. Lyramoor and I had to pull him off of her.”

Fist swallowed. This was starting to sound familiar. He looked to Locksher and saw the wizard’s eyebrow rise with interest.

Locksher took out his notebook. “Describe this dwarf to me. Was he wounded when you found him?”

“He was bruised and scratched. His clothes were torn,” Qenzic said. “He smelled like he hadn’t bathed since . . . ever.”

“His forearm was bandaged up,” Lyramoor added. “It looked like a nasty wound. He could barely move that hand.”

Locksher nodded, jotting down notes. “And what were his symptoms when he attacked you? Did he have a fever?”

“His skin was hot,” Qenzic said. “I remember that from when we pulled him off the lady. He was just screaming like he was in pain.”

“Do you think he had maggots in him?” Fist asked.

“It’s likely,” Locksher replied. “What happened next?”

“We had to kill him,” Lyramoor said, his voice grim.

“But he wouldn’t go down,” Qenzic said. “Lyramoor stabbed him through the heart and he fell, but then he got back up and kept attacking. He was quiet after that, though. His mouth was open like he was trying to yell, but no sound came out.”

Rub spat. “The evil had him.”

“That is what happens,” Crag confirmed. “They only get quiet when they die. But they keep fighting. You have to mash all their bones and throw them in the fire.”

The two warriors stared at the ogre and Qenzic said. “Uh, he’s right. We didn’t ‘mash his bones’, but we had to dismember him and even after that, he didn’t stop moving until we burned him.”

Fist shivered at the thought of it, but Crag simply nodded as if they had made a wise decision.

“This confirms what I have discovered about this threat,” Locksher said. He told them what he had learned from studying the contents of the chest. There was a moment of silence as everyone digested the information.

Finally Darlan spoke. “So we know how this ‘evil’ spreads, we know how to destroy the larvae, and we know how to fight those that are taken over. What we still don’t understand is the nature of the enemy behind the larvae. We need to find out what it is and soon. I fear that the winter is the only thing holding it back.”

“I agree,” Locksher said. “Once summer comes, it will spread quickly.”

“I guess we’ll find out who our enemy is when we get there,” Charz said. The giant cracked his thick knuckles in a series of loud pops. “Whoever they are, I plan on punching ‘em in the face.”

“It is a big evil,” Crag said as if that explained everything. He grunted with confidence. “Fist will kill it with his lightnings.”

“Well, whatever we’re up against, you’ll need to keep us informed,” Faldon said. “If we need to put together a large strike force for an attack this spring, we’ll have to know as soon as possible.”

“That shall not be a problem,” Alfred said. The gnome’s voice had a lightness to it. He was pleased about something. “I will be staying at the academy build site where I can make regular reports to the council. Charz will keep me updated on their progress and  I’ll pass everything I know on to Beehn.”

“And I’ll tell Sarine what happens,” Maryanne said. She had been quiet up to that point. The female gnome was sitting on the ground cross-legged. She had unclipped her quiver from her belt and emptied it onto the ground. She was looking over each arrow one-by-one, examining them for straightness and balance.

“That should work out nicely,” said Faldon.

“We really should get going,” Darlan said, placing a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “We will need to press in order to make the wedding as it is.”

“Alright, then. I think we’ve discussed what we needed to discuss.” Faldon said. He returned his attention to Fist and his father. “Qenzic and Lyramoor are well trained scouts. They know the mountains well and can gather information at any villages you pass along the way. Do you have anything else to discuss? Any questions?”

That elf smells funny, Squirrel remarked. The scent he was catching was utterly foreign. Some kind of spicy musk. He didn’t like it.

“I have a request,” Locksher announced. “It has become evident that I need a horse for this journey.”

Faldon smiled. “I thought you didn’t like horses.”

Locksher blinked at him. “I have neither a like or dislike of horses. It is true that I do prefer walking in most cases. It is good for the circulation and jostles my equipment less. However, horses are an efficient mode of transportation through certain kinds of terrain. In this situation a horse would be preferred. These ogres walk too fast and the spell that I have to use in order to keep up is tiring.”

“I see,” said Faldon with a chuckle. “Unfortunately, we didn’t bring along any extra horses.”

“Nonsense,” said Darlan with a wave of her hand. “Locksher, you can use mine. Faldon won’t mind if I ride behind him. Will you, Dear?”

“Uh, no. That will be fine,” Faldon replied and Darlan took Locksher over to her horse.

“I have a question,” Fist said. “Why is Maryanne coming?” It had been bothering him ever since Charz had announced it and seeing her again made him even more nervous. Explaining her to the ogres, Puj in particular, was going to be difficult. “Alfred is bonded to Professor Beehn. He can tell the wizards what they need to know.”

“I’m coming because I want to come,” Maryanne snapped. “You got a problem with that, big guy?”

“Well . . . not a problem. Not really,” Fist said, raising his hands. “I just wondered why-.”

“I have my own reasons for sending her along, dear,” interrupted Mistress Sarine, giving Fist a comforting pat on the arm that was in stark contrast to the firm look in her eyes. “I assure you that she will be of great use to you on this journey. Maryanne is the best archer I have ever seen. And, like you, her bond will protect her from the enemy’s magic.”

“I wasn’t saying that I have a problem with her coming,” Fist replied, though he didn’t see how an archer would be of much use against the things they would encounter.

“This women is coming . . . to fight?” Crag scoffed. “There is no problem with this?”

Fist winced, expecting an outburst from Darlan or worse an arrow from the gnome at this point, but support came from an unlikely source.

“Many of the little people send their womens to fight,” said Burl. The veteran warrior was eyeing Maryanne warily. “They can be good warriors or mages. I seed many strong ogres killed by them in the war.”

“Killed by womens?” Crag snorted in disdain. “Then the Barldag is a bad chief.”

“Burl’s right, Crag,” Charz said and Fist hoped that his father would calm down. Crag respected the giant. “And gnome warrior women are the most dangerous there is. Believe me, we want her on our side.”

Crag shook his head. “No! I am chief! The Thunder People will not have a women fight.”

At that remark, Maryanne stood and raised her bow. Her jaw was clenched and she had an arrow in one hand. Things were going bad fast. Fist moved between the gnome and his father and raised his voice.

“Stop, Crag! You are chief of the Thunder People, but you are not the chief of The Big and Little People! I am the leader of this journey. You agreed to this.”

“I did not agree to womens fighting!” Crag replied.

“You agreed that I was in charge,” Fist said. “I say she can come!”

Crag’s face went red with anger, but he surprised Fist by keeping his voice steady. “This skinny women is part of your tribe, Fist?”

“Uh, yes!” Fist found himself saying. He hoped that none of the others would contradict him.

“Your tribe lets the womens fight?” Crag asked.

Fist gave him a firm nod. “My tribe lets the women do whatever they want,”

“You tribe is . . .” Crag pressed his lips together and breathed heavily through his nose. He locked on to Fist’s eyes and Fist matched him glare for glare. Finally the ogre chieftain let out a disgusted sigh.

“You lead, ogre mage. I promised.” Crag unfolded his arms and pointed to Burl and Rub. “We go back to camp. I am hungry.”

The ogre chieftain turned and strode away. His two companions followed behind him, Burl shooting cautious glances back at them as they went.

Fist watched his father leave with trepidation. That had been too easy. Crag had let his pride be hurt. Why? And how long would it be before he decided that he’d had enough?

He turned around to find Maryanne standing in front of him, her hands on her hips, a sour expression on her face. “So I’m part of your tribe now? A skinny ogre, am I?”

“I’m sure that’s not what he meant, dear,” Sarine soothed.

“No, my tribe isn’t like that. It’s not a regular ogre tribe.” he continued. “I had to say that to Crag right then, but I was going to ask you anyway. All three of you,” he said, gesturing to Qenzic and Lyramoor. “Since you are going to be with us on this journey, I would like to invite you to join my tribe. It’s called the Big and Little People.”

“Really?” Qenzic said. He and Lyramoor gave each other quizzical looks.

“How sweet of you, dear,” said Sarine.

“It’s a good tribe,” Faldon said encouragingly. “Filled with good people.”

Some of the hostility had left Maryanne’s eyes. The gnome cocked her head. “I’m starting to feel flattered. Who else is in this tribe of yours?”

Fist cleared his throat and tried to impart the importance of his offer. “The Big and Little Tribe is me and Squirrel, Justan, Deathclaw, Gwyrtha, Jhonate,” He gestured at Justan’s parents. “Faldon and Mistress Sherl are in it. And Lenny and Bettie . . . oh, and their baby. What’s his name again?”

“Uh, Jack,” Faldon said.

“Or is it Jacques?” Darlan asked. “I think that’s what Bettie said.”

“So, baby Jack is in it,” Fist continued. “Miss Nala and her kids, you don’t know them. Uh, Tolivar and his bonded, Hilt and Beth. Also my friends at the Mage School, Antyni, Jezzer, and Neau.” Fist bit his lip, making sure he didn’t leave anyone out. “Oh! And Charz and Professor Locksher.”

Faldon gave Qenzic an encouraging nod and the graduate said, “That’s certainly an auspicious company, Fist, and Lyramoor and I are pleased that you would ask. But why us?”

“You will be traveling with us for a many weeks,” Fist said. “The Thunder People tribe has agreed to an alliance with my tribe. I think it would be safer if you were a part of it.”

Maryanne chuckled and moved closer to him. “Aww. So this is for our protection?”

“Y-yes,” Fist said, trying not to be aware of the fact that she had put an arm around him and was resting her hand on his lower back. “The Thunder People are not evil, but they can be . . . rough. They will know that they shouldn’t fight with you, but it’s easy to make them angry. Especially since they are not used to humans or elves or gnomes.  If you are part of my tribe, the other ogres know that you are under my protection.”

Lyramoor didn’t look too keen on the idea. He folded his arms. “What does being a part of this tribe of yours entail?”

“Well . . . it means that we are family. We watch out for each other,” Fist said.

The elf still looked doubtful, “I already have loyalties.”

“We won’t force you to choose between us and the academy. Or your other family,” Fist assured him.

“And if we should want out at some point?” Lyramoor pressed.

Fist frowned. He hadn’t considered that this could be a problem. No one had refused being a part of his tribe before. “I guess you can leave if you decide you don’t like us anymore.”

Lyramoor rubbed his chin. “What if we were to just ‘pretend’ that we are part of your tribe until the journey is over.”

Fist stammered, unsure how to answer. He was finding the elf’s reluctance quite off-putting.

Qenzic cleared his throat. “I accept your offer, Fist. I am honored to be part of any tribe with Sir Edge.”

Lyramoor sighed. “I guess I’ll join too.”

Fist looked to the gnome. She had finally removed her hand from his back. “What about you?”

Maryanne slipped her arm through his. “Oh, I’ll join your tribe any time, big man.”

“Is there some kind of ceremony to let us in?” Qenzic asked.

“Uh, no.” Fist said, trying to decide how rude it would be if he pulled his arm away from the gnome warrior. “D-do you think there should be?”

“No. It’s fine,” Lyramoor assured him. “I prefer a life with as little ceremony as possible.”

“Oh. I had always just asked people if they wanted to join, but maybe if there was a ceremony of some kind it would feel more special?” Fist was finding the idea appealing. After all, asking someone to join his family should feel more important. He had noticed that some of the ogres had branded themselves with the jagged lightning symbol of the Thunder People. Perhaps something like that would be good?

Ouch! No, said Squirrel, shaking his head.

“I think we could work something out,” said Maryanne giving him a suggestive grin.

Darlan walked up and grasped Fist’s other arm. “Maryanne, do you mind if I borrow him for a moment?” The gnome let go and Darlan turned her eyes on Mistress Sarine. “Can I speak with you too, grandmother?”

Darlan dragged Fist and Sarine followed. When Darlan felt that she was a safe distance away, she dropped Fist’s arm and whirled to face her grandmother. “Maybe Fist had a good point. Maybe she shouldn’t go with them.”

Sarine gave her a patient smile. “Dear, I know what you’re worried about, but believe me there is nothing to worry about. Maryanne has a habit of developing little crushes, but she never takes it far. She is just flirting. That is all.”

“And you are sure of this?” Darlan said.

“Sherl, dear, she may be the newest of my bonded, but we have been together for four years. I have seen this half a dozen times. Fist will be fine.”

“If you say so,” Darlan said dubiously.

“I do,” Sarine said. “Maryanne needs this. She hasn’t been away from my side for more than a day or two since we bonded. It will be good for her to get away and stretch her legs, so to speak.”

Darlan nodded slowly. “I can see that. Nevertheless, Fist, if she gets out of hand have Charz tell Alfred so he can let me know.”

“Okay,” said Fist. There was no way he was going to talk to Charz about something like that.

“You really are too concerned, dear,” Sarine said. “Would it really be so bad if these two children did get together?”

Darlan’s brow furrowed as if she hadn’t considered the merits of such a union before.

Puj won’t like it, Squirrel said. Say you already have a mate.

Puj is not my mate, Fist replied. He needed to change the subject. “Justan fought the nightbeast yesterday.”

That got their attention. He spent the next several minutes retelling the story as Justan had told it to him, while both women peppered him with questions.

“The elf’s funeral is in three weeks?” Sarine asked. “That gives him time to prepare.”

“Yes, Justan and Yntri Yni’s wife are meeting with Xedrion today to make plans,” Fist said.

Darlan sighed. “Well, I am grateful to Beth for watching out for him. I shall have to send her a letter. I can’t believe how Xedrion has been treating Justan. Toadstools, but that man’s behavior is deplorable! Jhonate must keep her father in line.”

“Darlan!” called Faldon. He was standing near the horses and pointing at the sun. It had now risen well over the mountain tops.

“We must get going,” Darlan said. “Quickly, is there anything else we need to discuss? Are your lessons with Locksher going well?”

“Uh, yes. He’s teaching me when he gets the chance,” Fist replied. “He showed me how to dry out firewood. Oh, and I’ve been draining my magic every night like you told me. Making that ball of light works real well, just like you said.”

Darlan shook her head. “Fist, when I told you to use that technique I didn’t know you were taking this journey. I intended for you to use it at the Mage School where you are in a safe environment. You should never use it on the road.”

“I shouldn’t?” Fist said.

“When your magic is that drained you’ll sleep through nearly anything. What if your group is attacked at night? Even if they could wake you, your magic would be too drained to be of any use.”

“Oh,” said Fist, disappointed. She had a point. He did sleep very deeply after draining his magic. “But it really helps me keep away the dreams I have been having.”

“I am afraid you’ll have to put up with dreams,” Darlan said with a shake of her head. “We all do.”

Mistress Sarine, who started to walk towards the horses, turned back and gripped Fist’s arm. “What was this about dreams, dear? Have you been having nightmares?”

“Yes,” Fist said, surprised by the intensity in her eyes. “Bad ones. But when I drain my magic completely, they go away.”

“You mustn’t avoid your dreams,” Sarine replied.

“But why?” he asked.

“Because you are a bonding wizard, dear. Those of us with special spiritual talents have access to a deeper part of the world of dreams than most people. The things you see there could be bits of the future, the present, or the past. It’s different for each of us, but there are always important things to learn. John would never verify this, but I think they are the Creator’s way of speaking with us.”

Fist frowned. “I don’t think that the things I have been dreaming could come from Big John’s master.”

Bad dreams, Squirrel agreed.

“The Creator is your master too, whether you know it or not,” Sarine said. “He is the reason you have the bond in the first place. You were chosen.” She saw the frightened look on his face and patted his arm. “This is a good thing, dear. It means you were meant for great things. As for the nature of your dreams, you shouldn’t fear them, no matter how horrible or real they seem.”

“But I don’t want them to be true,” Fist said. His ears started crawling again and he had to resist the urge to rub at them.

“You shouldn’t take them literally, dear,” Sarine said. “They are just glimpses. Our minds aren’t meant to understand the complexities of the world of dreams. What you think of as a nightmare is actually your mind’s attempt at explaining the brief glimpses of truth it has seen during your waking hours. The odd things you see are actually just representing something deeper.”

Ohhh, said Squirrel as if he understood.

Fist had no idea if Squirrel was teasing him or not. This was a hard concept to grasp. “How do I know if the dream is true or not?”

“The dream is rarely completely true. Just aspects of it are,” she explained. “As for how to tell, it just takes practice. I’ve been having them for two centuries now and I still have difficulty discerning what is truth at times. The key is to stay aware.”

“How do I do that?” Fist asked.

“There is usually a moment somewhere during the dream where you are aware that it isn’t real.”

“Oh, at the beginning,” Fist said. “It usually starts the same way, with me up in the clouds. I usually know I’m dreaming then, but I forget.”

“Good. Use that moment. Hold onto that awareness and don’t let the dream overtake you. If you hold on to your consciousness during the dream you’ll find that there are some aspects of the dream that you can control. The truths in your dream are often the constants. Those are parts that will not change no matter how aware you are.”

“In my dreams I’m always falling,” Fist said, his eyes wide. “Does that mean I’m going to fall?”

“Possibly,” she said, then laughed at the expression on his face. “But I wouldn’t count on it. One thing that will also help you discern the truths mixed into your dream is knowing what your talent is.” She held up three fingers. “Do your dreams tell you the present, the past, or the future? That is something only experience can tell you.”

Fist thought it over. The dreams always had Crag calling him ‘toompa’. That was probably about the past. But the other parts: the dark army, the fall, the lake of worms, Squirrel turning into a beast and attacking him . . . he hoped that the things he was dreaming weren’t the future.

Chapter Sixteen

The ogres accepted the appearance of the two academy warriors in their midst without quarrel. They were members of Fist’s tribe after all, and that was to be respected. Maryanne, on the other hand, was greeted by a camp full of wide-eyed stares.

Rub and Burl had warned them that she was coming, but few of the ogres had ever seen a gnome before and none of them had seen a gnome female. At nearly seven and a half feet, she was as tall or taller than most of them, yet she looked so different with straight auburn hair and her long narrow nose. And she was so thin, thinner than any ogress they had ever seen. A debate started up between some of them as to whether she was truly a female at all.

Maryanne misunderstood the attention as admiration and smiled at them. She shrugged off her jacket and spun, giving them all a good view of her lithely muscled frame. Hers was definitely a female body. The gnome’s leather armor covered her body completely from ankles to wrists, but it was so tight that it left little to the imagination. This stirred the ogres up even more.

Maryanne’s outfit was scandalous, not because it was so tight, but because of her bow and quiver and the knives strapped to various places on her body. Rub had told them that this female was a warrior, but most of the ogres had laughed off the idea.

Another debate started up. How could this female survive a fight? Would she not crumple under a single blow?

This time Maryanne heard what they were saying. She gripped the handle of one of her knives, a particularly long one, whose sheath was strapped to her right thigh. “Do any of you care to try striking me? You’ll lose an arm.”

This caused another round of outraged grunts. A few of them stood and puffed out their chests.

“Nobody is striking anybody,” Fist said, rushing up to stand next to her. He addressed the ogres. “What you heard is true. Maryanne is a warrior. A good one. She is also part of my tribe! You will give her that respect. Otherwise, I will not stop her from killing you.” This quieted most of them, but a few still snickered and Fist looked to Charz for help. “Charz, tell them how deadly she is. Would you want to fight with her?”

“With her?” Charz grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Gnome warriors are always a challenge.”

Maryanne narrowed her eyes in response. “I can’t say the same about giants.”

The ogres sent startled looks Charz’s way. The giant laughed. “She would eat you all for lunch!”

This startled the ogres as they took his statement literally. Could such a skinny thing eat so many ogres? But they didn’t dare dispute the giant’s word. There was only one of them left that wasn’t cowed.

“This thing is part of your tribe, Big Fist?” Puj said, her voice was hoarse and filled with anger. “Do you mate with it?”

“Oh, I don’t like her,” Maryanne growled.

“In my tribe women are not just for mating. I’ve told you that,” Fist said.

Puj grunted in derision. “You like skinny womens. Twigs and bones!”

“I’m going to cut that fat sow,” Maryanne said, grabbing the handle of her long knife again.

“Stop!” Fist grasped her hand before she decided to slide the blade clear of its sheath. He put his attention back on Puj. The ogress’ voice sounded ragged and pained, but it wasn’t from emotion. He stepped closer to her. “What happened to you, Puj?”

She took a few steps backward and shook her head. “You don’t like Puj.”

He moved closer to her and frowned. There was blood at the corner of her lips and big red welts on her neck in the shape of fingers. So that was why her voice sounded so strained. “Who did this to you?”

“Me!” she said, large tears welling up in her eyes.

Lies, said Squirrel from his position on Fist’s shoulder.

“No, Puj. You could not have done this. The marks are all wrong.” Fist swung around to face the rest of the ogres. Most of them looked away. “Who did this? Which of you is hurting her?”

There was no response. Fist scanned the ogres. Which one was it? Burl and his two friends were averting their eyes, but Fist doubted it was Burl. It might have been technically possible, but Burl had returned to camp only a short time before Fist had.

He looked to his father. The chieftain had been ignoring the conversation. He was sitting on a stump with his back to them. “Crag! Tell them to leave Puj alone.”

“They did nothing!” Crag replied.

Lies! Squirrel snapped.

“Nothing?” Fist shouted. He grabbed Puj’s arm and dragged her over to the chief. “You know this! Look!”

“Thunder Peoples do not fight womens!” Crag shouted, still refusing to look his way.

“Look!” Fist said again. He pulled Puj in front of his father and tilted her head back, showing Crag the angry red finger marks on her neck. “Puj did not do this. I did not do this. Who else could it be?”

Crag’s eyebrows drew close together. Surely he could not ignore the evidence now that it was this close to his face. Not while everyone was watching. His eyes met Fist’s. “She is not a Thunder People any more. I can not protect her.”

“Just because she isn’t part of your tribe?” Fist asked. “Don’t you see that this is wrong? She is being hurt and one of your ogres is doing it!”

Crag cocked his head. “Why do you care about Puj, Fist? You will not let her in your tribe. You push her away at nights. We seed it.”

Fist’s jaw worked for a moment. “She could be part of my tribe when this is all over.”

Yes! Squirrel agreed.

“No.” Puj pulled out of his grasp. “You have your skinny women now. You do not need Puj!”

Let her in, Squirrel urged. You let the gnome.

Fist sighed. Squirrel had a point. He had been unfair to Puj and the thing was, for the worry and frustration she caused him, Fist didn’t dislike her. She didn’t deserve all the humiliation she had gone through.

“I know. I will take her back then,” Crag decided with a nod. “You do not want her. So you can choose another women when we get to our territory; one you like better.”

Now all eyes were on Fist. He wasn’t sure what to say. After all, he didn’t really want to take her as his mate. Perhaps this was for the best. If Crag took her back, the chief could protect her. Fist wouldn’t have to worry about her any more.

She will be happier with other ogres and their ways. It’s the life she’s used to, Fist sent. And whoever is hurting her will stop.

No, said Squirrel, and he pushed a memory into Fist’s mind. It was from that day at the Mage School when Fist had seen the ogres fighting. Puj had been wounded then, her nose and mouth bloodied.

Fist understood what Squirrel was saying. That had been before Crag tried to give her to him. The chief hadn’t protected her then. Why would that change? Fist looked at Puj’s pretty face and the tears streaming from her eyes and the blood on her lips and the marks on her neck.

“I will not wait any more,” Fist decided. “Puj, you can be part of my tribe.”

Good! said Squirrel, clapping his little hands in excitement. Puj’s eyes widened in confusion.

“You will take her?” Crag asked with a surprised smile. “You sayed you must wait.”

“I am an ogre mage. I can change the rules,” Fist said, but he was still watching Puj’s reaction. Her face was pinched in thought and one hand was fingering the welts on her neck.

Crag laughed and clapped him on the back. “Good! Good! Now you have a ogre women. You will have strong sons.”

Fist decided to ignore that statement. “But if she is to join my tribe, it must be her choice.” He reached out and placed his hand on the ogress’ shoulder. “Are you sure you want this, Puj? The Big and Little People is different than other ogre tribes. You might find some of our ways hard to understand.”

“She has no choice,” said Rub flippantly. “She is a women.”

“I give her that choice!” Fist snapped, causing the stupid ogre to flinch. “What do you say, Puj? No one will dare to hurt you if you are in my tribe.”

Puj stared over at Burl and his friends. All three of them were looking back at her. Burl wore a look akin to approval and gave her an encouraging nod. Glug and Beard glared.

“I am Big and Little People now!” she shouted. “I am with Big Fist! You cannot have me any more!”

Glug looked away, his cheeks coloring, while Beard’s glare only deepened. Fist was now positive that one or both of them were responsible for the beatings Puj had endured. He would have to watch them closer now. Squirrel will you tell me if they come close to her?

I will watch, Squirrel agreed. He jumped over to Puj’s shoulder and held out a shelled nut.

“Oh!” she said, a smile spreading on her face as she opened her mouth and allowed him to toss the nut in. “Skirl! I am in your tribe now!”

Squirrel nodded and chattered back at her excitedly.

Maryanne sidled up to Fist and whispered, “You have something going on with that girl, big guy?”

“No,” he replied. “She’s just . . . it’s complicated. I’ll explain later.”

The gnome sighed, her breath hot on his ear. “This is going to be an interesting trip.”

The presence of the academy warriors allowed the party to take a more direct route towards the mountains. They headed northwest through the plains, Qenzic and Lyramoor scouting ahead to make sure that they didn’t run into any other travelers. The warriors led them into the hills just north of Wobble where they could keep out of sight of the main road. In a mere two day’s time, they had made their way west of the academy construction and crossed the High Dremald road. The trek into the mountains began.

Fist had feared that letting Puj into his tribe would make things more uncomfortable between them, but instead her change in status calmed her down. No longer did she feel pressure to please him for Crag’s sake. She continued to sleep close to Fist, but stopped trying to throw herself at him. For the time being, she was content to stick by his side and listen as Fist told her stories of his experiences with the other races and explained ways in which their society was superior to the ogres.

The newest members of the party blended in quite well. Lyramoor and Qenzic kept ahead of the others on horseback most of the day, only returning back every once in a while if they needed to warn the others of dangers on the paths ahead. In the evenings, they joked around with Charz by the fire side, not acting nervous around the ogres at all.

Maryanne kept pace with Fist as they traveled, her bow in hand at all times, looking for opportunities to shoot. There wasn’t much game to hunt. The region had been picked bare by Ewzad Vriil’s armies and she shied away from killing squirrels at Fist’s request. Still, her eyes were keen and she managed the odd bird, which was a good thing, because their provisions were running low.

When there wasn’t anything living to shoot at, the gnome warrior focused on opportunities for crazy trick shots. She never missed. Fist saw Maryanne strike tiny knots at the top of trees and shoot pebbles off of boulders. The strange thing was that she never bothered to retrieve her arrows. When Fist asked her why this was the case, her response was quite strange.

“Chester will bring them back,” she said.

“Who?” Fist asked.

“That’s my quiver’s name,” she explained. “Chester was a gift to me from Kyrkon’s sect, the Pruball Elves in Khalpany.” She unclipped the quiver from her belt and held it out so that Fist could examine it. The quiver was made of fine oak and leather, and was covered with tiny runework.

Fist noticed that some of the runes were spirit magic runes. When he switched to spirit sight, he saw a soft gray glow surrounding it. “Is there a spirit bound to it?”

“A falcon,” Maryanne said, clipping the quiver back at her hip. “Chester memorizes the arrows I put inside and whenever I fire ‘em, she brings ‘em back.”

“But how do they come back?” Fist wondered. He couldn’t figure how such a thing would be done magically speaking. The gnome had fired at least a dozen arrows that morning and the quiver seemed full. He imagined air magic was involved in some way, but he hadn’t seen any of the arrows flying back.

Maryanne shrugged. “I don’t know how she does it. The arrows just disappear from wherever I shoot ‘em and show back up.”

Fist found the idea fascinating. “Does it have a range? If you shoot an arrow too far away does it stay gone?”

“I can’t tell you for sure, but I shoot a lot of arrows and Chester has never lost one. Not unless the arrow’s broke.” The gnome patted the quiver fondly. “She watches over ‘em like they are her own clutch of eggs.”

“She?” Fist said. “Chester is a girl?”

“A female falcon,” the gnome verified.

“But . . . isn’t Chester a boy’s name?” he asked.

Maryanne rolled her eyes. “Everybody asks me that. Look, I was newly bonded back then and not near as smart as I am now. If I was choosing the name today it would be different, but don’t tease her about it. Chester likes her name.”

“Sorry,” Fist said. Evidently it was a sore subject.

“You named your squirrel Squirrel,” she pointed out.

Fist chuckled. “That’s true. I probably would have named him different if I knew what I know now.”

What? Why? Squirrel asked from his spot on Puj’s shoulder.

Puj said nothing during the exchange, but kept a close eye on them. She did this whenever he spoke with the gnome, measuring their interactions. Fist could tell that the ogress found Maryanne intimidating, but since he hadn’t shown the gnome any more affection than he had Puj, it hadn’t become an issue.

Things were going much better than expected. Fist would have found the journey enjoyable if not for his struggles at night. He had done as Darlan instructed and stopped draining his magic. Now he had to suffer through the nightmares.

Knowing that Justan had endured vivid dreams of his own, Fist told him what Mistress Sarine had said. Justan was surprised. He hadn’t known that his dreams had anything to do with his magic. Justan grew excited by the concept and encouraged Fist to try what she had suggested; learn to control the dreams and figure out what it was they were trying to tell him.

Of course that was easier said than done. The times when Fist knew he was dreaming were brief. He tried to hold on to that awareness, but only with rare success. The dreams just seemed so real. When he did manage to hold on to his reality, it didn’t last long. As if aware what he was trying to do, the dreams would throw in a new wrinkle, something that would surprise and disorient him until he lost himself once again.

The dreams varied in some ways but they always started with him up in the clouds and ended with him either attacked by the mysterious beast in Squirrel’s pouch or with the discovery that maggots had found a way to burrow into his body. Each time this happened, Fist woke up startled and sweating. The nightmares left him disoriented and it often took a few hours before he was able to shake the feeling that worms were crawling under his skin.

Squirrel was affected as well. The intensity of the dreams bled through the bond and he would be wakened by his own version of the horrors Fist experienced. Eventually, Squirrel discovered that the dreams didn’t affect him unless Fist was asleep. So the little creature started staying awake all night. He watched over Puj and Fist, then slept in his pouch during the daytime.

Fist envied Squirrel that option. He had no choice but to continue enduring the dreams as he tried to understand them. Things became worse the further they traveled into the mountains. Fist’s dreams increased in both intensity and frequency. For three nights in a row he awoke twice in the night, anxious and shaken by the terrible events of his dreams. These occurrences left him tired and irritable and he seriously considered abandoning Darlan’s directions and drain his magic just so that he could sleep through the night. It wasn’t until the fourth such night that he had a breakthrough.

Fist was laying on cloudy softness. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face. It was wonderful, peaceful, but he found himself fighting against it. That peaceful feeling was wrong. He heard a rumbling in the distance. A cool moist breeze blew past him, thick with the smell of rain.

He forced himself to open his eyes and look at his surroundings. He was on an island of sunlit cloud. On one side of him was empty blue sky. On the other was an encroaching darkness, a billowing storm front stretching high above him. Lightning danced through the smoky black clouds. Fleeing from the storm, running at the edge of it, was Fist’s father, his heavy feet disturbing the white cloud below him as he ran.

Crag bellowed at him, “Stand, Fist! Fight!”

Fist’s first urge was to close his eyes, pretend the oncoming storm was an illusion, and bask in the sun’s rays while he could. It was what he usually did. After all, he had no reason to heed Crag’s words; no desire to think on the turmoil his father’s presence brought.

The memory of Sarine’s voice rippled across his mind, “Don’t let the dream overtake you . . . there are some aspects of it that you can control.”

Fist held onto her words resisting the urge to do as he had always done and ignore Crag’s plea. This was his dream. He had a vague understanding that he had endured it many times in the past. Not this time. He would take charge.

Fist stood and faced the approach of his father. He shouted, “I will fight!”

As the words left his lips Fist saw that the approaching darkness wasn’t a cloud at all. It was made up of thousands of winged beasts. The cool moist air that blew towards him was thick with the smell of rot and the flashes of light he saw weren’t lightning. They were the flickering glow of the beasts’ eyes.

The shock of this understanding threatened to suck his concentration away, but he resisted the compulsion. He needed to analyze the dream and learn from it. There was something familiar about the beasts, but it eluded him. What was it?

Suddenly, Crag was there standing on the cloud before him. The ogre chieftain was covered in wounds, his face bruised and bleeding. His voice was ragged. “Fight, Fist!”

“I will,” Fist said, “But how? I have no weapons and there are so many.”

“Toompa!” Crag snarled and swung his muscled arm. The punch struck Fist squarely in the chest so hard that he was launched off of the cloud.

As Fist plummeted towards the ground below he looked up, determined to stay aware. This was his dream. He would retain control.

The dark mass of beasts caught up to Crag and surrounded him, obscuring the chieftain from view. The swarm dove after Fist, pouring over the edge of the cloud like filthy water out of a bucket. Then, in unison, they opened their tooth-filled mouths and the sound that came out of them was soul-piercing. It was a sound filled with anger. Filled with hatred. Filled with longing. A chittering moan.

Fist awoke, gasping. It was bitterly cold and dark. He had no idea what time it was. The night sky was overcast, blocking out the moon and stars. Only the dull glow of the coals in their fire pit gave off any illumination.

Moonrats, said Squirrel with a shiver. The little animal was a few feet away, curled up with Puj in her furs.

Did you have the same dream? Fist asked.

Fist felt a hand nudge his shoulder and looked up to see the face of Locksher dimly illuminated by the coals’ light. He was crouching next to Fist and both of his eyebrows were raised in interest. The wizard whispered, “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Fist whispered back.

“Shh!” Locksher replied, a finger to his lips. “Listen.”

Then the sound echoed out again, the moonrat moan. It started as a lone voice, but was soon joined by a dozen more. The sound wasn’t as large and terrifying as it had been in Fist’s dream, but it still sent a chill through him.

Locksher let out an excited laugh. “Ohhh that’s interesting.”

Fist sat up and heard the rustle of the whole camp stirring. Everybody had heard it that time.

“What is that hellish sound?” asked Maryanne, joining Locksher at Fist’s side.

“Ghosts!” said a frightened Puj from within her furs.

“No. It’s moonrats,” Fist said. “But what are they doing up here?”

“That’s a good question,” Locksher replied and his toothy grin gleamed in the coals’ glow. “How many of them do you think there are?”

Fist thought how creepy Locksher could get when he was interested in something. “I-I’m not sure.”

The wizard threw up his hands and Fist switched to magesight in time to see a golden net of air fly from Locksher’s fingertips, expanding to form a thin dome over the campsite. “Listen and watch,” the wizard said.

The moans started up again. This time Fist paid closer attention. The first moan came from the north, further up the mountain slopes. The voices that replied to it were scattered all around.

As the sounds hit the camp, parts of Locksher’s dome rippled, each vibration caused by a single moonrat voice. When the sounds faded, the wizard said. “Did you count that? How many?”

Fist had tried to count, but it was a jumble. “I don’t know. Fifteen? Twenty?”

“Seventeen,” replied Maryanne.

Locksher nodded his head. “I concur.”

“How could you tell that?” Fist asked, looking at the dome. The surface was trembling still. “The ripples were so close together.”

“Ripples?” Maryanne said. She looked up, following Fist’s eyes. “Oh that. I wasn’t using magesight. I was listening.”

“Really? Good ears,” Locksher said in approval. At Fist’s questioning look he explained, “I knew she was right because the spell told me. That’s how I designed it.”

Qenzic and Lyramoor joined them moments later. The elf was agitated. “What the hell are moonrats doing here? Usually they stick to the Tinny Woods.”

Not anymore, Squirrel observed, poking his head out from under Puj’s furs where the ogress was still cowering.

Fist nodded in realization. “Squirrel just reminded me. Earlier, when we were traveling through the woods, we didn’t hear moonrats once.” The most powerful of Mellinda’s children had been destroyed in the war, but many of the yellow and green eyed ones had survived. They were tamer than before but still let out their moans from time to time.

The wizard snapped his fingers, “You’re right, Fist! I was so focused on the chest that I didn’t even notice.” He reached up and gripped his hair with both hands. “Blast me, but I should have. Vannya would have noticed.”

“What are the moonrats doing here?” Lyramoor repeated.

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Locksher replied. “I have a few theories, but I would like to find out more before I espouse them. Hmm, listen. I believe they’re about to start up again.”

As if on cue, the moonrat’s cries started up again. Several frightened gasps echoed from the ogre side of the camp. Fist watched the golden dome overhead shiver and tried to pick out their numbers by sound as Maryanne had done. He failed miserably.

One more, Squirrel said.

“Eighteen this time, I think,” Marianne said. “But they are further north of us than before.”

“I hate those things,” Lyramoor growled.

“Did you notice something different about their moans?” Locksher asked, arcing his eyebrow again. “I don’t mean, different now than a few minutes ago. I mean different now than they were before Mellinda was destroyed.”

“Actually I think it is different,” Qenzic said. “They sound less mournful. More . . . angry.”

Hungry, Squirrel said and Fist agreed with his assessment. The sound was haunting, but in a more aggressive way than before.

“I will require a specimen to study,” Locksher decided. “I need to determine if the enemy we are facing is behind this.”

Lyramoor drew one of his swords. “Does the rat have to be alive?”

“Preferably,” Locksher replied. “Though one of both would be nice.”

“I think we can manage it,” Qenzic said. “Though these things are nasty. A nonfatal attack will be harder to manage since it’s this dark out. I wish we’d thought to bring a net.”

“Oh, I have just the thing, boys,” Maryanne said with a smile. She pulled an arrow out of her quiver.

In the dim light, Fist could barely make out the impressions of air and earth runes on the arrowhead. He suddenly had a better understanding of how the archer could be useful on this mission. “Shock arrows?”

“Shock arrows,” she confirmed. “I had the wizards magic up some for me before I left the school. When I nail one of those rats with a leg shot, this’ll put ‘em down for a good minute. Long enough for you two to hop in and hogtie ‘em or whatever.”

Lyramoor snorted. “Hogtie a moonrat. Right.”

“Is that so hard for you?” Maryanne asked, causing the scarred elf to let out a growl.

“They have an extra set of limbs on their backs and a hand on the end of their tails.” Qenzic explained. “It’ll be a pain, but don’t worry. We’ll manage.”

“Just be careful,” Locksher said “The enemy’s power is similar to Mellinda’s. If it is controlling them, you might have to deal with bewitching magic.”

“I’ve got the bond,” Maryanne said.

“Spirit magic can’t touch me,” Lyramoor replied.

Qenzic gave the two of them envious looks. “I . . . I’ll be careful.”

“Good. Good,” the wizard said absently, rubbing his chin. He took his notebook out and began writing furiously.

The warriors slipped out of the camp, heading northward. Seconds later, the chorus of moans sounded out again. The fire in the pit blazed back to life as several nervous ogres began shoving dry wood into the coals. All the commotion caused one large figure to stir.

“Will someone tell those blasted moonrats to shut up!” Charz roared. The giant reached over and yanked the furs off of a snoring Rub, then wrapped them around his head and turned on his side. The sleeping ogre was left naked in the frigid night air, but he didn’t seem to notice and kept snoring away.

“Master Locksher, you said you had theories,” Fist said to the wizard. “What do you think this means?”

“Hmm . . . I think it may be possible that there is some truth to Sherl’s original assertion.” He continued to write as he spoke. “What if Mellinda wasn’t destroyed completely? What if she somehow simply changed location instead?”

Fist frowned. “But how? We destroyed all her powerful eyes.”

“So we thought,” he said, his ink cylinder moving faster. “Latva’s plan was a clever one. I have read his journals. He crafted the plan over decades. He led the country’s best warriors and wizards into the heart of Mellinda’s domain, causing her to pull all of her power in close, bringing her most precious children in range. He knew that it was the only way to truly defeat her. He needed the blue eyes destroyed for sure and he worried that if enough orange eyes survived, she could escape with at least part of her essence.”

“So you think his plan failed?” Fist asked, his throat tightening.

“It’s hard to say.” Locksher shrugged. He seemed more interested than frightened by the possibility. “It certainly seemed to work. After all, Sherl’s attack destroyed the heart of Mellinda’s domain. Jhonate, with Beth and Master Tollivar’s help, hewed her essence in two . . .” He cocked his head. “That was how they described it, wasn’t it? Hewn in two?”

Locksher flipped a few pages and jotted down another note. “Anyway, the remnants of her army scattered. By all reports, they lost all contact with her. The remaining green and yellow eyed moonrats changed their behavior, losing their aggression. I certainly thought it was over.”

“So,” Fist’s mind was churning with unsettling possibilities. “If one of her blue eyes escaped the destruction-.”

“Master Latva was sure that one surviving blue eye could have contained the entirety of Mellinda’s soul and power. It was her escape plan, so to speak. After hundreds of years of imprisonment, all she had to do was place the eye inside of an individual and possess them, free again to conquer the known lands.”

Locksher paused and looked up at Fist. “I’m making you anxious, aren’t I? Sorry. Vannya says I have a tendency to do that when I’m spouting off theories.”

“It is a frightening idea,” Fist admitted.

Locksher reached out a hand and hesitantly patted Fist’s arm. “You shouldn’t worry. If a blue eye had survived, Mellinda wouldn’t have stayed around linked to her body waiting for Jhonate to use that white dagger on her.”

“Oh. Good,” Fist said, feeling somewhat relieved.

“At least, I don’t think so,” Locksher said, tapping the end of the ink cylinder on his chin. He started writing in the notebook again. “I’ll know more when I’ve run some tests on these moonrats.”

Fist was about to ask another question, but was interrupted as Crag stormed past the fire to stand in front of him. “Pack up, Fist. Our tribes must leave now.”

“Why is that?” Fist asked.

“This place is haunted,” Crag said as if the answer were obvious. “Ogres can not fight ghosts.”

“They are not ghosts,” Locksher said without looking up at the chief.

Crag shot the wizard an irritated glance. He did not like it when the human spoke to him informally, something Locksher did quite often. Fist had spoken to Locksher about it before, but the man didn’t understand ogre etiquette. When you are a person of low status speaking directly to the chief, you should always acknowledge that he was chief. Ogres had a complex system of status within the tribes and it was constantly ebbing and flowing. As far as the other ogres were concerned, the wizard was just one of Fist’s hangers on. Useful, perhaps, but basically a nobody.

“The wizard is right, father,” Fist said, trying to give his master a boost in Crag’s eyes. “The sounds are being made by big rats called moonrats.”

“Rats?” the chief scoffed. “Little rats make this noise that hurts me inside?”

This remark surprised Fist. It was the closest he had ever seen his father get to admitting he was frightened. “Big rats,” Fist corrected. “Big rats with eyes that glow in the dark.”

“Rat ghosts?” the idea seemed to frighten the chief even further. “This is Rub’s fault. He eats too many rats.”

“They’re not-,” Locksher began, but Fist nudged him. The human sighed. “Don’t worry, Chief Crag. Our great leader Fist’s magic will protect us from these ghosts. As long as he is here, they cannot hurt us.”

“Oh?” said Crag, a hesitant smile forming on his face. “Is this true, Fist?”

“Yes, Father,” Fist said dully. “I promise that I won’t let these moonrats hurt you.”

“Good!” Crag said, his smile widening even though the chorus of moonrat moans started up again. “I will tell the others.”

The chieftain strode over and announced to the tribe that Fist’s magic would protect them from the rat ghosts. For some reason this proclamation actually worked. The ogres lost their sense of panic. Some of them tried to go back to sleep. The only ones that weren’t mollified were Beard and Glug. The looks they passed Fist were resentful.

“Why did that work?” Fist wondered. “Nothing changed. Why aren’t they scared anymore?”

“You are Fist,” Puj said. She had stuck her head out of her furs and sat up. Squirrel was perched on her shoulder.

You are Fist, Squirrel agreed.

“Why does that matter?” Fist asked. He had been with his people for close to three weeks now and he still didn’t understand why they trusted him. He had left their tribe after all. He had nearly killed Crag and then ran. He had lived with humans and fought against his own kind during the war. “Why do you have so much faith in me?”

“Faif?” Puj asked, unfamiliar with the word.

“Why do you all trust in me?” he asked.

“Crag telled us,” she said matter of factly. “When he picked the ones that got to go get you. He telled us about his dream.”

Fist blinked in surprise and turned back to look at his father. Crag had climbed back under his furs and was instructing the warriors around him to go back to sleep. “Crag had a dream?”

“He telled us,” she said again. A stiff breeze blew across the campsite, causing the fire to flare and Puj pulled her furs more tightly about her. “The night when you telled him not to join the Barldag, after you fighted him and runned away. Crag falled asleep for a long time. Then he had a dream. He seed the big evil coming. A giant speaked to him and sayed that Big Fist will come back one day and save the tribe.”

She ended her tale with a firm nod. Squirrel nodded along with her. You will save them.

He didn’t know what to think of that. “Did you hear that, Master Locksher?”

“Hmm?” said the wizard. He was tapping the ink cylinder against his chin again as he reviewed his notes.

“Never mind,” Fist said. Where did Crag’s dream come from? Was it possible for an ogre without spirit magic to have a dream that told the future? Maybe he would be able to get Maryanne to ask Sarine about it. At the very least, he resolved to talk to Crag about it in the morning.

Maryanne and the two academy warriors arrived back at the camp a few minutes later. They had succeeded in their mission. Qenzic carried one dead moonrat over his shoulders, while Maryanne and Lyramoor struggled with a live one. They had bound each set of legs together and simply lopped off the hand at the end of its tail. Its muzzle was tied shut with rope, but that didn’t keep it from making a constant series of snarling sounds.

Locksher led them a short distance from the rest of the camp and had them lay down their burdens. The living specimen’s eyes glowed a dull green. The dead one’s eyes were not lit, but Fist saw that they had once been green as well.

“Ah! Good job,” Locksher said. He donned his brightly colored scarf and set up a small stand. He placed a light orb on the stand to illuminate the area. He looked the beasts over in the orb’s soft glow. “These shall do nicely.”

“We jumped on a pack of ‘em,” Maryanne announced.

“We didn’t jump,” Lyramoor grumbled. “You shot them.”

“Right,” she said. “It was fun.”

“I hope it’s alright, Locksher,” Qenzic said, still breathing heavily from carrying the heavy beast back to the camp. “You only wanted two, but she killed probably six of them.”

“You only said to bring one alive,” Maryanne said defensively. “I had to kill the rest of the nasty things. They ain’t right. Something’s wrong with ‘em.”

Locksher was kneeling next to the dead one and examining the single small wound between two of its ribs, A heart shot. He gave her an appreciative look. “Tell me, did all of them have green eyes?”

“The pack I killed did,” Maryanne said.

“I saw some others through the trees,” Qenzic said. “They had green eyes too.”

“Interesting. No yellow eyes . . .” the wizard said. “You two had better go retrieve the other ones she killed.”

The two warriors shared exasperated looks. “Are you sure you need them?”

“It never hurts to have more specimens,” the wizard replied. “A broader sample size is best.”

“But . . . They’re heavy,” Lyramoor complained.

“Take the giant with you,” he said with an absent gesture.

They glanced back at the camp and at Charz’s sleeping figure. Neither of them looked excited about approaching the giant and Fist didn’t blame them. It would still be a few hours before daylight and Charz would not take kindly to being woken again.

“I’ll go with you,” he decided. Qenzic gave him a grateful look and Fist shrugged. “I’m not going back to sleep tonight anyway.”

“I suppose that’s fine,” the wizard said, stopping what he was doing long enough to make some notes. “Maryanne, I’ll have to ask you to make sure that none of the ogres come too close to my work. I don’t know how powerful the magic in the beasts is. We don’t need them affected by it.”

“I guess,” she said with a sigh, sitting down cross-legged not far from the wizard. She pulled out a whetstone from a pouch at her waist and began sharpening her knives.

I stay with Puj, Squirrel announced. She had laid back down and he had disappeared into her furs with her where it was nice and warm.

Going to sleep, you mean, Fist replied.

While you not dreaming, Squirrel agreed.

Fist turned to go, but Locksher stopped him. “Fist, it is important that I complete a full study and I can’t do it from horseback. We will need to stay at this site all day tomorrow.”

“Right,” Fist said. It was a decent campsite, close to water, but he doubted that the ogres would want to stay there after the scares that night. “I’ll talk to Crag in the morning.”

It took Fist and the two academy warriors almost two hours to retrieve the rest of the moonrat bodies and haul them back. By the time they dropped them off with Locksher, the sky had started to brighten with the first of morning light.

Fist was about to ask Locksher if he could help when he received a panicked message. Fist! Come! Squirrel sent him an image of Beard and Glug confronting Puj. The two ogres had grabbed her arms and were trying to drag her away.

Fist let out a shout and ran towards the camp, but he could tell by the direction of the bond that Squirrel and Puj weren’t there. The ogress had gone a short distance away to urinate and Burl’s friends had followed her. Shouts rang out from that direction and Fist ran on.

He arrived just in time to see Crag throw a mighty punch that sent Glug sprawling. The chieftain had arrived there first and Burl was with him. Fist’s half brother had a fistful of Beard’s red hair and was holding his sword to the short ogre’s neck. Puj was standing close by, rubbing her arms. Squirrel was standing on her shoulder, patting her face gently.

“Sorry, Chief!” cried Glug as he tried to stand, blood streaming from his nose. Crag had not held back and the ogre was struggling to keep his balance.

Crag sent a mighty kick into Glug’s chest, knocking the ogre back down. “I telled you to leave Fist’s tribe alone!”

“We was just . . . stealing her back,” Glug wheezed. “For our tribe! It was Beard’s idea!”

“The Thunder People do not steal from Fist’s tribe!” Crag cried, sending another heavy kick into the fallen ogre’s abdomen. “I am chief! I gived her to him!”

“Puj, are you hurt?” Fist asked, coming to her side.

She shook her head, hiding her bruised arms behind her back. “Skirl tried to help, but Stinky Chief comed.”

They are strong, but I am fast, Squirrel said.

Fist looked at Beard and saw several scratches on his face. He gave Burl a grateful nod and approached his father. The chief kicked Glug again, causing the ogre to wheeze in pain. “Thank you for helping, Crag.”

Crag’s face was full of rage and embarrassment. “The Thunder People is sorry. Do you want to kill him?”

Fist grit his teeth and looked down at the groaning ogre. He was tempted. But what would it accomplish? Glug was brutish, but not more so than other ogres. He was just stupid. A follower. Fist found himself turning to look at Beard. There was defiance in the shorter ogre’s eyes.

“No. Not him.” Fist walked up to Beard. “Why do you do this? Why won’t you leave Puj alone?”

Beard glared at him. “I want her.”

“She is not yours,” Fist growled.

“She refused me!” Beard said. “She said no to my right as a men!”

“You have no rights!” Fist could feel his power build within him. Unbidden, a ripple of electricity sparked across his skin. He had a strong desire to blast the ogre with a bolt of lightning.

Beard saw the electricity but refused to back down. “I challenge you! I will fight you for Puj!”

Chapter Seventeen

Burl shook his head and pressed his sword tighter against his friend’s neck. “Shut up, Beard.”

Crag laughed. “You? Fight Fist? He will kill you with magics!”

Beard pointed at the ogre mage. The electricity was still crackling along Fist’s skin. “I will fight him! But no magics and no metal skins or weapons.”

Do it, Squirrel said, his little mind full of anger. Fight him.

Crag shook his head dismissively. “You would challenge a ogre mage and tell him not to use his strength?”

“Yes!” barked Beard. “I will fight him for Puj. Ogre fist to ogre fist!”

“Shut up little one!” said Crag, jabbing at Beard’s chest with two thick fingers. “Who is you to ask this thing? You is a good warrior, but your status is little. You is a child, Little Beard!”

The flurry of insults from his chief caused Beard’s face to redden. He hadn’t been called Little Beard in a long time. Crag was putting him in his place. If he argued back, he was close to challenging the chief.

Fist understood what was happening. Crag was goading him intentionally. If Beard challenged the chief, Fist wouldn’t have to fight him. Rebellions against the chieftain required a fight to the death. Beard would be gone and Puj’s problems would be solved. Fist found himself oddly touched by the gesture.

“I want Puj!” Beard shouted, refusing to back down. “I will fight Fist for her. I will prove I am no child!”

They were gaining an audience. The other ogres that were awake had heard the commotion and were gathering around. Beard’s announcement was causing rumblings in the crowd.

“I do not want you any more!” yelled Puj. “Go away! I am Big Fist’s now!”

Fight him, Squirrel demanded, jumping up to Fist’s shoulder and smacking him in the ear.

Beard barked back at Puj. “I will have you! I will show you how strong I am. Then you will not say no to me again!”

“No!” she shouted back. “I do not like Beard! I do not want Beard anymore!”

Fight him! Squirrel said again, his emotions echoed by the crowd as they watched Fist expectantly.

Fist’s jaw was clenched. He wanted to do as Squirrel asked. Beard was the ogre behind Puj’s injuries. He deserved to be beaten. The other ogres knew it. The only thing holding Fist back was Puj. She would see this fight as Fist declaring his intention to take her as a mate.

“Toompa!” shouted Crag. The sound of that word coming from his lips jolted Fist. He had heard it too often in his memories and dreams. But this time the insult was not directed at him. “I telled you no, Little Beard!”

The crowd gasped. If Beard said one more word of defiance, it would be a direct challenge to his chief. He would have to fight Crag.

Beard’s face was pinched with rage and frustration. The wily chief had pinned him down. There was little choice left for him now, he either had to back away or face off against a legend.

For a moment it seemed as if Crag’s plan had worked. Beard’s gaze dropped. His shoulders slumped. Then his eyes moved back to Puj and the hunger overtook him again. He looked back at Crag with a calculating gaze. A sneer formed on his lips.

Fist knew what he was thinking. Crag was old. It was true that he was a legend, but Beard was young. Fist had nearly beat him, after all. What if Beard could? If the ogre fought the chief and killed him, he could take control of the tribe. Beard opened his mouth, but Fist didn’t let him speak.

“I will fight!” Fist shouted. It was probably an unnecessary gesture. The likelihood of Beard beating Crag was slim, but what if he got lucky somehow? Fist couldn’t bear that possibility. Besides, before leaving his people, Fist had been the best warrior in the Thunder People tribe. Despite what the other ogres chose to remember, he had beaten his father. Beard was little threat.

The shorter ogre smiled.

Crag gave Fist a look of surprise. “You will do this, Fist?”

“I will fight him with my own hands. No magic. No weapons or armor,” he verified. Puj came up and linked her arm through his, sending a jeering smile Beard’s way. Fist knew that he would just have to deal with her soon. “I do not need those things to fight Little Beard.”

The ogres roared in approval. Crag laughed and nodded, happy with Fist’s choice. This was the warrior son he remembered. “Good! We will prepare the tribal battle circle!” The ogres roared again and he pointed to Burl. “You bring Glug.”

Burl dropped the sword from his friend’s neck. Beard shoved past him with a growl, then joined the others heading back towards the camp. Shaking his head, Burl sheathed his rusty sword and stomped over to where his second friend lay wheezing on the cold ground.

“Stupid,” he grumbled as he grabbed Glug’s hand. “Get up! I telled you and Beard to leave her alone.” Glug said nothing, but winced as Burl helped him stand. Glug leaned on his friend’s arm, avoiding looking at Fist and Puj.

“Burl,” Fist said, ignoring the way Puj was rubbing her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for helping.”

Fist’s half brother shrugged. “I follow my chief.”

Fist watched the two ogre men head back towards the camp, then pulled from Puj’s grasp and shoved her out at arm’s length. “Why did this happen?”

Puj seemed confused. “I was peeing and they comed and grabbed me.”

“Not this morning. All of it,” Fist said. “I am about to fight Beard and I want to know everything you wouldn’t tell me before.”

What are you doing? Squirrel wondered.

Learning, Fist replied.

She blinked at him. “Wh-what?”

“Those two have been hurting you for awhile now. When did it start?” he asked, keeping his voice firm to show that he expected true answers.

“Beard . . . always liked me. Since I comed to the Thunder People, he would always fight for me,” she said. “He was nice. He only hitted me when I sayed no to him.”

“And Glug?” Fist asked.

She frowned. “Do I have to tell this?”

“I need to know so that I can help you,” Fist said. “You are in my tribe now.”

Puj sighed, but gave him a reluctant nod. “Glug is Beard’s friend. He likes me too. He sometimes grabs me hard,” she said, unconsciously fingering the bruises on her arms. “But he does not hit me. He just laughs when Beard does.”

Kill them, Squirrel decided.

Fist echoed the sentiment. Unfortunately, he couldn’t just kill them. Not unless there was no other way. “I have one more question I need to ask you.”

“One more?” She pouted. “Okay.”

“If you knew they liked to hurt you, why did you go to them?” Fist asked.

“I did not!” She scoffed. “I just went pee and they got me!”

“I’m not talking about this morning,” Fist said again. “Three other times during this journey they hurt you. Once when we stayed by that pond in the forest, once at the forest’s edge when I had to heal your face, and once the day I accepted you into the tribe.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she said nothing.

Fist pressed on. “All three of those times, you snuck away from the camp in the morning and came back hurt. Why did you go out to them? Didn’t you know they would hurt you?”

She looked down, “You is right. It was my fault.”

Fist, stop, Squirrel said reproachfully.

“I’m not saying it was your fault,” Fist said. He reached out and lifted her chin so that her eyes met his. “I just want to know why.”

“I . . .” Her lip quivered. “I liked Beard. When we was in our territory, he only hurt me a little. It was a game. Then when we comed to find you . . . he did not want me to be with you. I-I telled him to stop. I telled him to leave me alone, but . . . and I-.” Puj swallowed and straightened up, pulling away from his hand. Her tone became accusatory. “I was not in your tribe yet. You did not want me. I is a ogre women. Beard is a ogre warrior. He telled me to come talk to him and I goed.”

Fist flinched at the hardness in her voice, but nodded. He accepted some fault in what had happened. “No more. You are a member of the Big and Little People tribe. You don’t have to obey ogre warriors anymore. Not even me.”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t?”

“No! I am not your chief. The Big and Little People have no ogre chieftain to rule us. We are a family,” Fist said. “I know this is a hard word to understand. It was hard for me, too. It means we take care of each other. We protect each other. We fight together.”

“Me? Fight?” she said.

“Yes!” he said. “If any person, male or female, tries to hurt you, you fight! If you need us, we will fight with you.”

Yes! Squirrel said, jumping to her shoulder. She didn’t completely understand the concept yet, but a slight smile curved her lips.

“That is why I am fighting Beard today,” Fist said. “I don’t do it to increase my status. I don’t fight because I want to mate with you. I fight because you are in my tribe and Beard hurt you.” Puj’s smile broadened.

“Fist!” Rub ran through the trees towards them. “Why is you here? Beard is over there. We is waiting.”

“I’m coming,” Fist said.

He followed Rub back to camp, Puj and Squirrel trailing behind him. Fist could hear a low rumble of voices. His name was being chanted over and over again.

The Thunder People were standing in a wide circle, forming the arena. The ground inside the circle was flat and had been cleared away of all debris including sticks or rocks. The ogres wouldn’t let either of them leave until one of them was unconscious or gave up. Fist was planning to end it quickly.

Maryanne saw Fist approach the circle and jogged up to him. “What’s going on?”

“Fist is going to fight Beard,” announced Charz. The giant was standing in the circle with the ogres. He had been wakened by the commotion, but he didn’t seem too perturbed about it. Not once he found out the reason why.

“Oh?” the gnome said.

“He attacked Puj again,” Fist explained.

She arched an eyebrow in response. “Then you plan to kill him, right?”

“Of course,” Charz said with a laugh and Squirrel nodded in agreement.

“No,” Fist said, frowning at them. “But this fight will end it. By ogre rules, the result of the fight is final. He won’t hurt Puj again.”

“Oh,” the gnome said. She shrugged and leaned up against the giant, placing a forearm on his shoulder. “It should be fun to watch at least.”

“Yeah,” Charz agreed. “Where’s Lyramoor and Qenzic at?”

“They went to scout the route ahead,” Maryanne explained. “There’s a village to the northeast they want to check in with.”

“Too bad. The elf’d love this.” Charz said.

Fist edged past Charz to enter the circle. Beard was inside waiting. He grinned at Fist confidently as he hopped from foot to foot. The ogre had stripped off all of his furs except for his waist wraps so that he could show off his bulging muscles. Fist had to admit that he was impressed. Beard’s body had changed quite a bit since he had left the tribe. Beard was only six and a half feet tall, but had a wide and stocky frame for an ogre, very little of which was fat. It was a warrior’s physique.

“Be careful,” Puj said. “He likes to choke and he likes to bite.”

“I will remember that,” Fist said.

He stepped through the crowd to face Beard and a grin of his own formed on his face. It had been a long time since he had faced off against another ogre like this. “I used to fight in the circle all the time,” he told Beard. “Remember? I never lost. You were afraid to fight me.”

“I am stronger now,” Beard said. “What about you?”

Fist snorted. He took off his boots and kicked them to the side, then unbuttoned his long-sleeved shirt. It would only get torn in the fight anyway. He pulled it off and tossed it over to Charz. The giant frowned and threw it at Maryanne, who caught it and hung it over one shoulder.

Fist stretched his arms high over his head and the crowd shouted in approval. Fist knew he was a truly impressive figure. He was enormous for an ogre; over six hundred pounds of muscle and eight feet tall with a huge wingspan. Yet Beard’s smile only faded slightly.

As Fist lowered his arms and looked down at his torso, he thought he knew why. Nearly a year of living at the Mage School had softened him up a bit. His musculature wasn’t as defined as it used to be and there was a slight layer of fat at his midsection. Three weeks of journeying hadn’t changed that as much as he’d hoped.

“Ready!” shouted Crag.

Beard crouched in a fighting stance. Fist shrugged away his doubts. His recent lack of training didn’t matter. This was Beard.

Fist formed a fighting stance of his own, crouching low on the balls of his feet, one leg slightly behind the other. He held both hands up, his finger’s outspread, ready to grab his opponent. With his superior reach, there was little Beard could do.

“Fight!” Crag commanded.

Beard darted forward. Fist reached for him and Beard grabbed Fist’s large hands, interlacing his fingers with his own. The shorter ogre then yanked Fist toward him and leapt, thrusting his right knee upward. Fist was unprepared for this move and the blow struck him underneath his chin, snapping his head back.

The attack was quick and brutal, just the kind of opening blow that Fist himself specialized in. He was momentarily dazed, but had the presence of mind to hold on to Beard’s fingers and not let go. Fist pushed the ogre out at arms length and shook his head, trying to shake the haze from his mind.

Beard kicked out, but could not reach Fist’s torso. The shorter ogre then began launching kicks into Fist’s arms, aiming for pressure points in between his muscles. Each strike sent sharp explosions of pain through Fist’s arms, followed by a numbness that threatened to loosen his grip.

“What are you doing?” Maryanne yelled. “Clobber him!”

With a growl, Fist arched his back and yanked Beard toward him, at the same time shooting a heavy foot forward in a mighty kick. The blow was intended to land on Beard’s chest, but the ogre saw the attack coming and raised his right leg high to absorb the blow.

The force of the kick knocked Beard free from Fist’s hands. The ogre stumbled backward, but caught his balance. He barked out a short laugh. “The little peoples make you weak, Fist!”

Fist shook his head again. This fight wasn’t going to be as easy as he had thought. He hadn’t grappled with anyone in a long while and Beard was well practiced. Also, Beard was faster than him. From the cocky grin on his face, the ogre knew it too.

You will win, Squirrel said from his perch on Puj’s shoulder.

Fist resumed his fighting stance and waited, his arms outstretched. True, Beard was faster, but he was stronger and smarter. This time he would be ready.

“Come, Beard,” he said. “Try that again.”

“You come,” Beard said. The ogre knew that his opening attack was something that would only work once. Fist’s stance was a defensive one, ready for whatever attack he could mete out.

Fist didn’t move. “Come!”

“Do you see, Puj?” Beard laughed, eying Fist warily. He started to circle around Fist, dancing from foot to foot, but Fist matched him step for step, keeping the ogre in front of him. “He is scared of me!”

“Then come, Little Beard!” Fist mocked. “Show her how good you are!”

Beard’s lips twisted into a snarl and he came closer, staying just outside of Fist’s reach. He began sending short kicks up at Fist’s open hands, trying to get the larger ogre to move. Fist understood the ogre’s fighting style better now. Beard was a kicker, an uncommon fighting choice for an ogre.

Fist let him kick his hands to the side a few times, waiting for the right moment. Then Beard kicked at his right arm and this time Fist latched on to him, grabbing Beard by the ankle. He yanked the ogre in and swung his left fist low intending a strike to the groin, but Beard reached down and blocked it.

Fist, still holding on to Beard’s ankle, swung his left leg up in a kick. The ogre took the blow to his chest, but wrapped both arms around Fist’s leg, latching on. When Fist brought his leg back down, he was holding Beard upside down.

Beard kicked up with his free foot, slamming Fist under the chin again. Fist grabbed the ankle of that leg and Beard bit him in the side of the shin. Fist yelled and slammed his right knee up into Beard’s side. The ogre grunted, but he just bit down harder, tearing right through Fist’s pants and deep into his flesh.

Fist kneed the ogre again and again, but Beard refused to let go. Finally, Fist fell forward. He focused the weight of his body onto his knees, crushing the ogre’s torso underneath him.

The move tore Beard’s mouth from Fist’s leg. The ogre twisted and strained, trying to get out from under him. Fist delivered a quick punch to Beard’s groin and ground his knees into the ogre’s flesh.

Beard let out a panicked shout and punched Fist repeatedly in the lower back. Fist didn’t intend to let up, but somehow the ogre arched his back and dislodged Fist enough that he was able to scramble away.

Fist rolled to his feet, breathing heavily. His head rang, his kidneys ached, and his leg burned. He could feel blood running over his left foot and looked down to see that a large chunk of flesh was missing from the side of his leg.

Ouch! said Squirrel sympathetically.

Beard snarled and used the back of his arm to wipe his lips. It made little difference. The whole side of his face still glistened with the red wetness of Fist’s blood. “You do not even taste like ogre!”

There were appreciative murmurs from the crowd. Fist even heard a bark of laughter that could only have come from Charz. He grit his teeth.

This time he went on the offensive. He came at Beard, his hands balled into fists, and swung a massive punch. The smaller ogre sped towards him and ducked under Fist’s heavy blow.

Beard sent two stiff punches into Fist’s midsection. Fist grunted and brought up a knee, but Beard backed out of the way. The ogre laughed. “You was a warrior before. A Thunder People hero! Not now.”

Fist snarled and tried to grab him. Beard pushed his arm out of the way and threw a stunning punch into Fist’s right eye. Fist was rocked back and the shorter ogre sent a kick into his belly, doubling Fist over. He grabbed Fist’s head and slammed it into his upthrust knee, striking Fist’s eye again.

Fist! Cried Squirrel in alarm. Maryanne and Puj echoed him, calling Fist’s name.

Beard slid his right hand in and gripped Fist’s throat. The ogre squeezed. “Now what is you?”

Fist’s vision dimmed. What was happening? Was he actually being beaten? That couldn’t be right.

Fist!

“You? A ogre mage?” Beard spat. “No.”

Beard was right. Fist was fooling himself. What was he doing here anyway? He hadn’t wanted to come. He had been happy at the Mage School. So much to learn . . .

No! Fight! Squirrel shouted.

Fist took strength from his bonded’s insistence. He reached up with both hands and clutched Beard’s forearm, digging into it with his fingers. He tightened the muscles in his thick neck and got his chin down, digging it into the joint behind Beard’s thumb.

The ogre’s grip loosened slightly and Fist was able to draw one ragged breath, but Beard did not let go. He punched Fist’s face repeatedly with his other hand. “You is not a ogre anymore!”

Fist had said the same thing himself. He wasn’t an ogre. He was something else. He was something better. Wasn’t that true? His thoughts were muddled. His vision began to dim again.

The chanting in the circle of ogres around him was now interspersed by worried shouts. Someone called for Fist to give in. It was an oddly comforting thought. Perhaps that was for the best. Maybe if he lost, Crag would stop his insistence that Fist help the tribe. Maybe then he could go home.

“You is human now.” Beard leaned in, his snarling visage glaring right into Fist’s. “Puj needs a ogre man. Like me!”

Fight! Squirrel demanded and a flood of images poured into Fist’s mind through the bond. They started as memories; Puj’s face swollen, her eye socket broken. Puj’s neck bruised. Then the images changed. Fist was gone and Beard had her for himself. Puj was beaten again. An enraged Beard kicked her in the belly, a belly swollen with child . . .

“No!” Fist stood, his hands tightening on Beard’s forearm. Energy flooded his limbs and Fist pulled the ogre’s hand from his throat. He took a deep breath and roared. “You are wrong!”

Worry filled Beard’s face. He kicked Fist in the abdomen. He kicked him in the groin.

Fist barely noticed. He let go of Beard’s arm with one hand and threw a heavy punch. The shorter ogre got his other arm up to block, but the force of Fist’s blow knocked him off his feet.

Fist didn’t let go of his arm. He sent a foot into Beard’s belly, then stood over him and punched down again, this time connecting squarely with the side of Beard’s head.

“I am an ogre!” Fist shouted. He grabbed Beard’s waist wraps and pulled the struggling ogre off of the ground. Beard punched and kicked and scratched, but he had no leverage. Fist strained and lifted the ogre high overhead. “And I’m something more!”

Fist threw Beard to the ground.

Beard landed on his back, the air blasted from his lungs. The ogre rolled over onto his hands and knees and Fist grabbed him again, this time by the neck and one leg. Fist roared again and swung the ogre high over his head slamming him back down again.

Beard’s face rebounded off the cold hard ground and this time he was slower trying to get up. Fist picked him up one last time and raised him up into the air, but instead of simply throwing him down again, he upended the ogre and slammed him into the ground head first. Beard’s neck crumpled and he collapsed.

“You can’t have her!” Fist shouted and the crowd around him erupted into applause.

Beard didn’t move.

“The fight is over!” Crag shouted with glee. “Fist wins!”

Fist looked down at Beard with the one eye that wasn’t swelling shut. The ogre’s face was a swollen mess. Had he killed him? Part of him wanted to make sure, to stomp on Beard repeatedly until there was no doubt. That part of him made Fist sick to his stomach.

Some of the ogres rushed to Beard’s side. “Stay back!” Fist commanded and shoved them, away. He fell to his knees beside the still ogre.

Fist raised one weary arm out over him. He sent magical energies into Beard’s body, assessing the damage. Beard had been knocked unconscious, but he was alive. The ogre’s heart was still beating, but faintly. Fist moved the magic up Beard’s spine and saw the worst injury. That last blow had broken the ogre’s neck.

Beard was lucky. If his head had been twisted another hairsbreadth it could have killed him. As it was, it was an injury that Fist could fix.

For a moment, Fist considered doing nothing at all. All he had to do was step back and stand up. The other ogres would come in and try to wake Beard. That additional movement would likely kill him.

Yes. Let him die, Squirrel urged.

Fist winced. That decision felt wrong to him, I must give him one last chance. Maybe this time he will learn. I won. By law he has to keep away from her.

He won’t, Squirrel replied, his thoughts sure.

There was every chance that Squirrel was right. Beard had been dogged in his pursuit of Puj before, despite the rules in his way. But Fist had made his decision. He poured his magic into the ogre, using fine threads of earth and water to knit Beard’s bones back together.

Once the injury had been repaired, Fist stood and backed up. Beard had two broken ribs and a sprained wrist and multiple contusions in other places, but Fist left those injuries alone. Let the pain be a reminder should Beard ever think about messing with the Big and Little People again.

Fist sent out threads of earth and air, covering his foot with sparks of electric energy. Then he gave Beard a little kick. There was a sharp zap. The ogre gasped and opened his eyes.

Fist glared down at him. “You lost! You would have died, but I healed your neck.” Fist pointed a warning finger. “Leave my tribe alone from now on. Touch any of them again and I will kill you.”

Beard’s eyes blazed with a mix of fear and anger. He moved to sit up, but grimaced in pain and collapsed. He lay still and stared glumly into the sky, all fight gone out of his body. Fist turned and left, hoping that he had made the right decision.

He walked right into a crowd of Thunder People. They congratulated him, clapping him on the back, jostling his injuries and sending sparks of pain throughout his body. Crag was the most enthusiastic, clasping Fist’s arms proudly.

“You made a good fight son! The Thunder People will talk about the way you smashed Beard for a long time!”

“Good,” Fist said, forcing a smile, though doing so hurt his swollen face. “Just make sure Beard and Glug stay away from us from now on.”

Crag smashed his fist into his palm. “They will never touch your tribe again. I promise.”

Fist gave him a firm nod and turned around just in time to be accosted by Puj. The ogress threw her arms around him and squeezed, sending an even larger flare of pain along his bruised back and ribs. “Big Fist, you winned for me!”

“Ah!” Fist fought back a whimper. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Yes. He will not hurt you again. Please l-let go a little.”

Maryanne stepped in to his rescue. “Get off him, ogre girl,” she ordered. “Can’t you see you’re hurting him?”

“Oh!” said Puj. She dropped her and arms stepped back, looking Fist up and down. “You want me to put leaves on it?”

“No!” Fist said hastily. “I should go see Locksher.”

“Here,” Maryanne said. She still had his shirt in her hands. She didn’t bother to get him to try putting it on, but settled it over his shoulders.

“Thanks,” Fist said

“Hey, that was a good fight at the end there,” said Charz’s booming voice. The giant chuckled. “Though from the looks of your face, people’ll think you lost.”

Fist frowned at him. “You’re not a very good friend.”

“What?” Charz said. “I’m glad you won.”

“You laughed when he bit me,” Fist said. “I heard you.”

Charz laughed again. “I’m sorry. It was only funny because I was telling Beard a story the other day. It was about how I won a fight against one of the arena champions by biting a big ol’ hole in his leg. Beard thought it was hilarious!”

“So it was your fault,” Fist said with a glare. The bite on his leg hurt worse than any of his other injuries.

Charz lifted his hands defensively. “Like I said, sorry.”

“Come on, Fist,” Maryanne said, directing him away from the giant. “The wizard’s still looking at the dead rats. Probably doesn’t even know you were fighting.”

Fist limped away from the camp, Maryanne holding one of his arms. Puj was holding onto the other, supporting most of his weight. Despite the pain, he felt pretty happy about how the fight had turned out. Not only had he taught Beard a lesson, Fist had learned something of his own. He couldn’t let himself get complacent. Whether it be his physical training or his magical training, too many people were counting on him.

Squirrel jumped to his shoulder. You did good.

Fist turned his head to look at him. “Really, Squirrel? You aren’t mad at me because I didn’t kill him?”

You are too nice. The squirrel shrugged. You won.

“You helped me,” Fist said. Thank you.

You are my Fist, Squirrel replied.

“Hey Locksher,” Maryanne said. “We need your help here.”

“Huh?” The wizard didn’t look up at them as they approached.

Two pairs of moonrat eyes were laid out on the ground in front of him, one of them had been cut in neat slices. Locksher was wearing a pair of glasses with multiple lenses and had a pipe in his mouth that was belching blue smoke. As usual, he wasn’t inhaling the smoke himself, just using it as a medium to reveal magic in his experiments.

He was peering at the moonrat eyes with intense interest. “Where have you been, Maryanne? And what was all that commotion about? I found it hard to think with all that yammering.”

“Fist was in a fight,” the gnome said. “He’s injured.”

Locksher looked up at the ogre and his jaw dropped, nearly losing the pipe. “What in blazes were you doing? Are we under attack?”

“No, master,” Fist said. “I was fighting the ogre that’s been beating Puj.”

“Ah.” Locksher’s eyes flickered to the ogre female on his arm. “You won, I hope?”

“Yes,” said Puj with a wide grin. “He beated him good.”

“Hmm. Well, come on. Lie down so I can take a look at you.”

Wincing, Fist eased himself to the ground and laid back. He tried not to look at the dissected remains of the dead moonrats nearby.

Locksher extinguished his pipe with a thread of water, then set it aside and bent over Fist. He sent probing injuries into the ogre’s body, starting at his head. “Let’s see, broken nose, various contusions and rupture of minor blood vessels. Damaged cartilage in the throat. My, that would be quite uncomfortable. Hmm, bruised ribs . . . bruised right kidney.” He moved down Fist’s leg and straightened in surprise. “A large . . . chunk has been taken out of your leg.”

“Beard bit him,” Maryanne explained.

Locksher grimaced. “Ah, well, uh, you wouldn’t happen to have the missing piece so that I may reattach it, would you?”

“I think he swallowed it,” Fist said, trying not to think about it too much.

“I see.” The wizard shrugged. “Well, I shan’t be able to grow it back completely. You’ll have an interesting scar to say the least.” He put his hands near the wound and Fist felt the tingle of the wizard’s magic as he knit the flesh back together. “It is quite deep. He actually scraped the bone. My, the ogre’s mouth must have been filthy. Infection has already set in.”

Eww, said Squirrel.

“Can you please stop talking about it, Master?” Fist asked. The description of the damage was making him woozy.

“Fine,” Locksher said, sounding slightly offended. “I merely assumed that you would want to know what I was repairing, that’s all.”

“It’s probably best to know after it’s fixed,” Maryanne suggested.

“As you prefer,” Locksher replied. He finished work on the leg wound and sat back momentarily. “Well, that’s done. I could have perhaps done more with the right elven herbs, but it will have to do. Shall I repair your dislocated toe or would you rather I just said nothing about it?”

Fist blinked. He hadn’t even felt that injury. “Please fix it, Master. I would just rather you talk about something else while you do it.”

“How about the moonrats?” Maryanne said.

“Ah, good idea,” Locksher said. “Aside from Alfred, you are the most well put together gnome warrior I have ever met.”

“Uh, thanks?” From the gnome’s tone, it was easy to tell that she wasn’t sure if that had been a compliment or not.

Locksher went back to work, repairing Fist’s toe and then moving up to focus on his kidney. Fist sucked air in through his teeth as the wizard told them what he had discovered. “My investigation is still in its early stages, but I have some fantastic findings so far. These moonrats are not being controlled by the enemy we are investigating.”

“Really?” Fist said, his voice strained. “How do you know?”

“The eyes of the dead moonrats are . . . well, dead,” Locksher replied. “When Mellinda controlled them the eyes remained a conduit to her power even after the death of their host. The eyes of the unfortunate creatures you brought me last night are mere empty receptacles. They have no spirit magic connection to anything.”

“Then why are they in these mountains?” Maryanne asked.

“That, my dear, was a fine head scratcher,” the wizard said, moving on from the kidneys and focusing on Fist’s ribs. “The answer was the live moonrat you brought me. Loud little thing. I was forced to remove its vocal chords,” he said, making a quick gesture towards the one beast that was still breathing. He had placed a sack over its head to shield its sensitive eyes from the sun.

“What I discovered was that, though it was not projecting any spirit magic, it was sensitive to it. Those eyes of theirs are complex magical instruments and, it’s just a theory mind you, but I believe that they have somehow sensed the ‘evil’ we are chasing after and are gravitating towards it. The changes we have heard in their moans are in reaction to the signals they are receiving.”

“Then the evil in the mountains is not Mellind-ack!” Fist’s question ended in a gurgle because Locksher had left his ribs and started working on the damage to his throat.

“It’s hard to tell,” the wizard replied. “All I can tell you with any certainty is that if she is the one behind this, she no longer has control of her former children.” He shrugged. “I still have some tests to run.”

A short time later, the wizard finished with Fist’s throat and moved on to his face. “In fact, I could use your help with those tests, Fist. Especially if you want me to finish them up today so that we can continue on our journey.”

Actually Fist had hoped to spend the afternoon taking a nap. He’d had little sleep the last several nights and past experience told him that the physical toll of the fight and the healing Locksher was doing were going to wipe him out. But at that moment Locksher was fixing his broken nose and Fist was too busy trying not to sneeze to raise any protests.

“There. That should take care of it,” Locksher said.

“Wow, that was fast,” Marianne said, nodding in appreciation. “Some of the quickest healing I’ve seen.”

Locksher waved away the praise with an absent gesture. “I’m no specialist. But in my position it’s best to have a thorough understanding of anatomy. After that, healing is merely proper application of elemental magic theory.”

“You is all better already, Big Fist?” Puj asked.

Fist sat up, feeling barely a twinge of discomfort in his body. “Yes. Well, mostly,” he said, wincing at the puckered pit of a scar in the side of his left shin.

“It’s not attractive, I know,” Locksher said. “But I told you this would happen. In the future if any part of your body is removed, hold onto it. Scarring is much easier to avoid if the original material is available. Now, stand up and tell me how you feel.”

Fist did as he said. Everything was fine. His leg was stable. “I feel pretty good. Thank you, Master Locksher.” He yawned exaggeratedly. “I’m tired though.”

“Good!” Locksher said. He picked his pipe back up and lit it with a flare of fire magic. He raised an eyebrow. “Now be a good apprentice and bring that moonrat corpse over here.” He pointed. “The one labeled with the number three.”

Fist spent the rest of the afternoon working with the wizard. This mainly involved moving the moonrat corpses around and observing while Locksher performed various experiments. The wizard used him as a sounding board, asking him questions he already knew the answers to. It was as if hearing his theories out loud helped him determine their validity somehow.

Usually, Fist found Locksher’s method of teaching interesting, but his mind kept wandering and by the time evening came around, he was mainly concentrating on trying to stay awake. It didn’t help that Squirrel was in his pouch, snoozing away. The squirrel’s hazy dream thoughts made Fist’s eyes seem even heavier. As far as he was concerned, night couldn’t come quickly enough. Soon as the sun was down, he stumbled over to his bedroll. Puj was waiting for him.

The ogress was holding a large steaming bowl. She held it out to him. “You fighted good today. I maked you food. Just for Big Fist. Winners stew.”

“You did?” he reached out and accepted it from her, doing his best to make his smile seem enthusiastic.

Puj had been the main cook for the journey before the Mage School had supplemented their supplies with magically prepared human food. Now that those rations were mostly gone, the ogress had been taking up her old role again. The results had been mixed.

He looked into the bowl. The liquid inside was a dull red and he saw chunks of meat and roots and something that looked like piece of sponge. To his relief, it smelled quite good. Fist had become so used to the spices and flavors of the more intelligent races’ cooking that going back to ogre food had been difficult.

She nodded at him, urging him and Fist began eating it in the traditional manner. Ogres rarely used utensils, so the eating of stews consisted of picking out the bigger chunks with their fingers, often cursing if the liquid were too hot, then sipping some of the liquid out of the bowl until it was easier to get at the smaller pieces. It was a time honored method and effective enough with the usually tough ingredients ogres tended to eat.

Fist was pleasantly surprised. The meat was tender and only slightly fatty. The roots had been cooked to a soft consistency and the spongy things he saw ended up being pieces of cheese bread left over from the Mage School rations. It was a little light on salt, but the events of the day had left him ravenous. He downed the bowl quickly.

“That was very good, Puj!” he said.

“Good!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Maryanne shooted a big bird for me to use and helped me find the yummy roots.”

“Well. You did a very good job. Thank you,” he said. Fist yawned. “Now I’m going to go to sleep.”

Puj scooted her furs closer to his bedroll. “Is you making that magic light again tonight?”

He opened his mouth to say no, but then he thought about it. He was so tired. Surely Darlan wouldn’t be mad at him for draining his magic just this once. A full night’s sleep without dreams sounded so luxurious. Besides, he was in a tribe surrounded by ogre warriors and had Squirrel to watch over him. Surely there was no danger now that the situation with Beard was taken care of.

“I will be making that light, yes,” he said.

“Oh! I will watch,” she said with a smile.

“Alright, but you know how this makes me very sleepy,” Fist said, climbing into his bedroll. “Stay by me. Beard should leave you alone from now on, but just in case.”

She nodded, scooting closer. “Stay by you. Yes.”

“And don’t go out of the camp, even to pee, unless Maryanne is with you,” he added.

“Only pee with skinny women. Yes,” she said eagerly.

“Okay,” he said, giving her an uncertain look as he laid back onto his pillow. Why was she so enthusiastic about this? But the pillow was so nice and the allure of sleep so heavy in his mind, he shrugged off any questions. “Now keep quiet for a minute while I talk to Justan.”

“Yes,” she said, still watching him and grinning. Puj knew who Justan was. She didn’t quite understand how Fist talked to him when he was so far away, but she was used to the idea.

Fist closed his eyes and almost drifted to sleep right there. It took a great effort to reach through the bond. Justan wasn’t in a position to speak right then, so Fist just told him that he would tell him what happened the next night. He returned to his body and his muscles groaned in protest as he forced himself to sit up again.

“You will make the light now?” Puj asked. The ogress was sitting cross legged on top of her furs with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on her hands.

“Yes,” Fist said, wondering why she was so eager.

He turned to face her and raised his hands in front of him enacting the complex air spell. The ball of light swirled into existence, glowing so brightly at first that it hurt his eyes. Then he poured more magic into it, forcing the ball to shrink and the light to dim. Finally it was the size of a plum and let off just a soft glow. Fist was so tired that he expected the light to wink out almost immediately, but he had used very little of his power that day. It took a while to fizzle.

Puj watched him, the light from the orb reflecting in her eyes. “I like you, Big Fist,” she said softly.

“I . . . like you too, Puj,” Fist said. He was worried that she might read more into his meaning, but her only reaction was a slight widening of her smile. “I’m glad you’re safe now.”

With a sudden pop, the light winked out and Fist felt his body shutting down. He lay back down and rolled to his back. His eyelids drooped and he welcomed the dreamless sleep that would come.

Then Puj was leaning over him. She bent down and he felt her lips close over his. Fist was too tired to resist. After worrying about this for so long, he was surprised to find that he really didn’t mind. It felt good to be kissed.

Puj pulled her furs over his and slid into his bedroll with him. His will to keep her away was gone and when he didn’t try to push her away, she snuggled up close to him, and laid her head on his chest. She wrapped one arm and leg around him. It was quite nice, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“Thank you for fighting,” Puj said softly.

Fist’s eyes closed completely. “You are part of my tribe,” was all he as able to mumble before drifting to sleep.

The next thing Fist was aware of was an explosion of pain against his skull. A high pitched ringing filled his ears.

Fist! Shouted Squirrel’s thoughts. They seemed both close and far away at the same time. Fist help! Puj!

He tried to open his eyes, but a stinging liquid filled them. He willed his body to move but managed only a weak twitch. The air was full of a confusing cacophony of sound and yet was quiet. It was all so fuzzy. He tried to reply. Squirrelllll?

Fist! Fist . . . . Squirrel’s thoughts faded and then there was darkness.

“Fist! Can you hear me?” asked a voice Fist couldn’t quite identify.

“Now-now. Give him a moment. I’ve just finished,” replied a calm male voice. It took a moment, but Fist recognized it. That voice belonged to Locksher.

Fist’s eyes fluttered open to the soft blue of early morning. “Wha? Where?”

“Oh good, you’re awake,” said Maryanne, placing her head on his chest.

“Huh?” Fist turned his head. His face was wet. His pillow drenched in blood. “What happened?”

“Slowly, Fist,” Locksher said. “You’ve had severe head trauma.”

“My head?” Memories of the night before started to come back to him.

“They smashed your head with a boulder,” Maryanne said. She lifted her head from his chest and looked at him. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I thought you were gone.”

“They, who? Beard and Glug?” He tried to sit up. “Where are they? Where is Puj? Where’s Squirrel?”

“We don’t currently know Squirrel’s location,” Locksher began.

“He’s to the north,” Fist said, the bond answering his question. “He’s alive, but . . .” Squirrel’s thoughts were a mask of grief and rage. “Puj?”

“I’m sorry,” Locksher said.

Maryanne sobbed. “She’s dead.”

Chapter Eighteen

“No.” Fist pushed Maryanne away. Squirrel! He climbed to his feet and swayed, nearly passing out. “Where is she?”

“Be careful,” Locksher admonished. “It is not time for jumping about. You had a fractured skull and your brain was seriously damaged. I just finished a rather delicate repair.”

Fist looked around. Half the camp was gone. The few ogres that remained were huddled near the fire wide-eyed and talking furtively. Charz was the only one still sleeping. Fist swayed again and Maryanne helped steady him.

“I’m sorry!” she said. “It happened so quick. We were all caught by surprise.”

“Squirrel!” Fist shouted both aloud and through the bond.

You let them live! was Squirrel’s accusatory reply. Now that Fist was more awake, he could tell that his bonded was some distance away. He wasn’t hurt, but was running fast along the ground. Now Puj is dead!

The accusatory nature of his tone hit Fist like a punch to the stomach. He had to see her. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still time to do something.

He gripped Maryanne’s arm. “Bring me to her.”

“This way,” the gnome said.

“Just a moment,” Locksher said. He waved his arm, sending out a net of air and the blood and grime fell from Fist in a sheet, hitting the ground and leaving the ogre clean. “I’ll go with you. Just be careful. You may be unsteady on your feet for awhile.”

“Here. This’ll help,” Maryanne said, handing Fist a piece of dried meat before she jogged to the northwest of the camp.

Fist shoved the meat into his mouth and chewed as he followed her. The cold ground stung his bare feet, but he didn’t take the time to put on his boots. The meat was uncomfortably spicy and he almost spit it out, but he was too busy focusing on keeping his footing. His legs were weak and his vision swam.

“Are you alright, Fist?” Locksher asked. The human was beside him, glancing at him in concern. “I healed the damage to your brain, but synapses are funny things. They tend to have a long memory for trauma.”

“I’m fine,” Fist growled. He tripped on an uneven bit of ground and nearly fell, but caught himself. His mouth was now afire from the meat he was chewing, but the feeling was somehow invigorating. His mind cleared and his steps became more secure. There must have been something magical in the spice.

Maryanne led them through some large rocks and into a small copse of pine trees before she stopped. A group of ogres were standing together, chanting over Puj’s body. It was a death chant, something usually reserved for important members of the tribe. Crag himself led the dirge, his face grim.

“Stop!” Fist shouted.

Crag’s eyes brightened as he saw Fist approach. “Fist! You are better-.”

“Back away!” Fist snapped, pushing both Rub and Bash aside so that he could kneel next to Puj.

The ogress was lying on her back, her eyes open and unseeing as they reflected the morning sky. The ogres had moved her body into the standard pose for a dead female, with her fingers spread and both hands placed over her womb.

Fist placed his hands over her and sent out his magical energies. He immediately knew that he was far too late. Her body was still warm, but she was no longer breathing and her heart had stopped. There were techniques for getting a heart started again, but he knew it wouldn’t matter.

Elemental magic could do a lot of things. Experienced wizards could fix almost any injury, heal a broken body completely. They could even get the blood flowing in a dead body and keep it breathing. But they could not bring back a soul once it had gone. Wizards had tried different techniques for thousands of years, but without a soul the brain would not function. Without the assistance of magic, the heart would stop and the tissues would die and decay.

Fist had practiced his healing magic on corpses magically preserved in this way many times at the Mage School. The wizards could create whatever wounds they wished and have students repair it over and over again and the body would react in the same way a living one would. But Fist could tell the difference. That absence of a soul was obvious in every cell even if it was technically alive. Those corpses were no longer a person. Just an intricate puzzle made of meat and bone.

Working his magic on those bodies had always been unpleasant for Fist and he got that same feeling when looking inside Puj now. He stopped and leaned back, tears streaming down his face. He reached up and closed her eyes. Doing so wasn’t an ogre tradition, but it was a human one, and Fist found it much more appropriate.

“May I?” asked Locksher. “I haven’t had a chance to examine her yet.”

“You haven’t?” Fist said, turning an angry gaze on the wizard. “Why not? An hour ago you could have saved her!”

The wizard’s eyebrows rose in shock at the anger in Fist’s voice. “You were dying when I came upon you, Fist! There were shards of bone in your brain matter. I was in the middle of delicate repairs to your cerebrum when Maryanne discovered Puj’s corpse.”

Fist’s scowl deepened at the wizard’s casual use of the word corpse. “I was alive then. There might still have been time for her. You might have been able to revive her and come back for me later.”

“You know that healing cannot bring back the dead,” Locksher replied coldly. “Stopping in the middle of what I was doing may have killed you as well. Where would we be then? Now back away, apprentice, and let me examine her!”

Fist didn’t stop scowling, but backed away and gave the wizard room to work. Crag was frowning as he looked from Locksher to Fist. This was the first time the chieftain had seen the human speak that way to his son. The way Fist had given in disturbed him.

Fist wasn’t worried about what Crag thought at that point. He had deserved to be dressed down by his master. Locksher had done the correct thing in acting as he had. Fist’s anger came from guilt. His own mistakes had led to this.

“She was strangled,” Locksher said. “Her larynx was crushed. She fought back, though.”

“She did?” asked Fist.

Locksher lifted one of Puj’s hands. “There is blood and tissue both under her fingernails and in her mouth that do not belong to her. There are also broken bones in her hand consistent with throwing punches.”

“Good for her,” the gnome said.

“How did this happen?” Fist asked, turning his glare on his father. “You promised that they would not touch my tribe again.”

Crag’s face was red with embarrassment. “I do not know. I telled them to stay away or they would be banished.” He looked down. “They waited until we was all asleep.”

They were interrupted as Charz ran up, knocking two ogres aside to stand by Fist. He carried his trident in one hand and his face was grim as he looked down on Puj’s silent form. “I just heard. Why didn’t anyone wake me up?”

Fist ignored the giant. “Who was on watch?”

“Rub and Drog,” Crag said.

“I am sorry, Big Fist!” Rub blurted as Fist’s eyes fell on him. The ugly ogre cowered, his voice filled with fear. “I did not seed them!”

“I will let you beat him later,” Crag said, giving Rub a swift kick. “First you will kill Beard and Glug. Drog and Burl went to hunt them for you.”

Fist sighed, sharing a glance with Maryanne. Those two were terrible trackers. “Squirrel is tracking Beard and Glug right now. They are several miles northwest of us.”

Crag looked in that direction and frowned. “It is a hard way. They will not move fast.”

“Let’s go now then,” Charz said, menace in his voice.

“Just a minute,” Fist closed his eyes and concentrated. Squirrel, have you found them?

Yes, Squirrel replied, his thoughts still full of rage. Fist caught a quick glimpse of the two ogres pointing up at a tree near where Squirrel was standing. Glug looked frightened, while Beard’s gaze was angry and pained. There was blood on the short ogre’s face.

Don’t let them see you! Fist said. I’m coming.

I kill them, Squirrel promised.

No! Wait for me! Fist said, but Squirrel closed off his side of the bond.

Fist growled. “I must go now. Squirrel wants to fight them.”

“We will all go,” Crag said.

“No! I’ll go. Squirrel is my bonded and this is my fight,” Fist said. “The rest of you should continue to the Thunder People territory. Me and Squirrel will meet back up with you along the way.”

“Forget that,” said Maryanne. “I’m going too.”

“No. This is my responsibility!” Fist said.

Maryanne spat. “I don’t care if you’re the leader or not. I’m going! I’m a good tracker and besides, Puj was part of my tribe too.”

Fist pursed his lips, but could not disagree with her argument. “Okay, you can come too, but that’s all. The rest of you go on.”

“Hey! I’m part of the tribe!” Charz said, eager to join the hunt.

“Come here,” Fist said. He pulled Maryanne and the giant to the side and beckoned Locksher over. “Listen, Charz. I need you to stay with Professor Locksher.”

“Why?” the giant grumbled.

“Because you are the only one besides me that the ogres respect,” Fist said. “Crag is not going to listen to Locksher or Qenzic or Lyramoor.”

“He’s right,” Locksher said. “Besides, if all three of you are gone, our party will have no way to keep in contact with the academy or Mage School.”

Charz scowled. “Come on. We wouldn’t be gone that long.”

“Oh, we’ll be done with those two and back with the rest of you by dark,” Maryanne promised.

“Maybe,” Fist said. The bond told him that Squirrel was chasing after the ogres again and as quickly as he had to move, Maryanne’s guarantee seemed like an overly optimistic statement. “But we can’t know for sure, Charz. Just keep everyone moving.”

“Fine,” Charz said. “But I’m gonna beat on Rub and Drog if you ain’t gonna do it.”

“Good,” Fist said. “Master Locksher, would you make sure Puj gets a nice deep grave?”

“Of course,” the wizard said. He could dig one up for her in seconds with his earth magic. “I’ll start on it now.”

Fist walked back over to his father. “I am going and taking Maryanne with me. I am making Charz the leader while I am gone. He will represent my tribe and you are to listen to him.”

“But . . .” Crag’s face was pained. “Why you must go? We need you to fight the evil.”

“This won’t take us long,” Fist promised. “I will catch back up to you as soon as I have hunted Beard and Glug down.”

Fist knelt back down next to Puj. He knew that she was no longer in her body but he kissed her forehead gently anyway. His heart lurched as he thought back to the kiss they had shared the night before. “I am sorry, Puj. I failed you. But I will get them, I promise.”

Fist went back to the camp and put on his boots and breastplate and shield. He looked at his bedroll, but decided against bringing it. The extra gear would just slow him down and he would need every bit of speed he could get. Instead, he grabbed his heavy winter apprentice robes. They would be hot during the day, but if he wasn’t able to make it back to the others by nightfall the warmth would come in handy.

Fist and Maryanne set out at a swift trot, following the trail that Beard and Glug had taken. It was a rarely used path, more of an animal trail, but ogre hunters were adept at finding and taking advantage of these types of trails, and the two experienced ogres had stuck closely to it.

The trail meandered at times, winding around obstacles and detouring next to small creeks or water holes. Maryanne’s keen eyes often found ways for them to skip past these diversions and rejoin the trail further along, helping to cut into the lead that the ogres had on them. Fist spent the time brooding and going over the events leading up to Puj’s murder in his mind.

The guilt threatened to crush him, but he forced himself forward. He wished that he could speak to Justan, tell him what happened. Justan would know what to say, come up with something that would help. Unfortunately that wasn’t possible, not while on the move. Even if they stopped to rest, reaching him at this time of day would be difficult. There were only a few days before Yntri Yni’s funeral and Justan was working hard on preparations with Jhonate’s father and the elves.

The trail led them to a long sloping incline at the base of sheer cliffs. A large part of the cliff face had fallen away at some time in the past creating a boulder field. The air here was filled with a chorus of mournful whistles.

“Hurt’s my ears,” Maryanne said, as she peered out over the path ahead.

It took a moment for Fist to realize where the whistles were coming from. The long years of erosion had caused a unique natural formation. The mountainside funneled wind across the slope and small gaps in the rocks had been worn into smooth round holes. Fist found the sound both eerie and oddly musical. It was as if the wind were using the rocks to sing to them in a language only the elements themselves could understand.

She placed her hands on her hips. “How much ground have we gained on them?”

“A little.” Fist pointed in the direction of his bonded, on the other side of the cliffs. “Squirrel is that way, still a few miles away.”

“Is the little guy still not talking to you?” she asked.

“He shut off the bond,” Fist replied bitterly.

“Well, try and talk to him. See if you can get a better idea of where he is. That could help us,” she gestured at the scattered path before them. “See if he can give you a landmark we’ll be able to see from the top of the ridge, something that we could head straight for and cut into their lead.”

“I’ll try,” Fist said.

They continued up the path and Fist focused his thoughts. He reached out to Squirrel, coming up against the spot where the animal had shut him out. Fist knew that he could push his way through if he wanted, Squirrel’s mind wasn’t powerful enough to hold him back, but Fist also knew that doing so would just make Squirrel angrier.

Instead, he simply yelled. Squirrel, we are closer to you now! Will you talk to me?

The blockage opened up slightly. Mad at you! Fist got the impression that Squirrel was hiding behind a rock. His little heart was beating madly in his chest.

We are coming, Fist said, sending Squirrel an image of himself and Maryanne standing next to the whistling boulders. We need to know how to find you. We can reach you faster if you show me something to look for.

Cautiously, Squirrel skittered to the top of the small boulder he was hiding behind and showed Fist what he could see. Squirrel was standing near the foot of a sheer cliff. In front of him was the exit point of a tiny stream that had sliced the cliff in two, forming a narrow canyon.

I go inside, Squirrel sent. He heard a roar of anger and jumped to the side as a rock skipped across the top of the boulder where he had been standing. Squirrel ducked back behind the rock. They are angry.

Don’t get too close to them. I’m coming, Fist said.

I kill them, Squirrel insisted.

No! You know they’re too big for you to fight, Fist reasoned. Just stay close to them. I’m coming. I’ll kill them.

You won’t! Squirrel said angrily. Fist is too nice.

“I am not!” Fist said both aloud and through the bond, causing Maryanne to look back and arch an eyebrow at him. You know that’s not true. I have killed our enemies many times!

Not like this, Squirrel replied. I kill them! I find a way.

“Wait for me. They are ogres and you are a squirrel!” Fist insisted. I’ll do it.

Then kill this one, Squirrel snapped and closed the bond off again.

Fist groaned in frustration. What did he mean, ‘kill this one’?

“He’s still not listening to you?” the gnome surmised, picking her way through the boulders.

Fist snorted. “He’s angry at me. When I talked to him this morning he wasn’t even relieved that I was alive.”

She shrugged. “Well, he would’ve known if you were dead. And he would have felt Locksher healing you, so I’m sure he wasn’t surprised.”

“Maybe,” Fist said. She was right of course. “But this isn’t like him.”

“Did he show you anything that could help us get to them faster?” Maryanne asked.

Fist told her what Squirrel had shown him, but as they climbed up the narrow curving path through the rocks, he grew quiet, worried that Squirrel would make a mistake and get himself killed.

The next section of the trail was a steep climb up a crumbling slope of loose rock. Finding a firm foothold was difficult and Beard and Glug’s heavy feet had made obvious dents in the gravel on their way up. As Maryanne carefully picked her way up the slope, she broke the silence.

“Why is Squirrel so mad at you?

Fist didn’t respond until they reached the top of the incline. “Squirrel is mad because this is my fault. He tried to warn me.”

“About Beard and Glug?” she asked.

“He told me to kill them and I refused. I could have done it. Instead, I let Glug go and I healed Beard. I healed him!” He growled and kicked a large rock, sending it down the incline. This set off a small rockslide and the sound of tumbling rocks echoed across the mountainside. The kick also smashed his toe and the way it throbbed in his boot did nothing to help him feel better.

“Ohh, I’m so stupid! Squirrel said to kill him and I saved him instead!” The frustration in Fist’s voice grew as he spoke. “Then I drained my magic so I could sleep. Mistress Sherl warned me not to, but I did it anyway.”

“Come on, big guy. You couldn’t have known what would happen,” Maryanne said, trying her best to sound soothing.

“No? Why? I should have known Crag was lying when he said he’d keep them away. He never protected her before!” Fist said. “And I knew, I knew that Beard wouldn’t obey tribal rules. I-I just-!”

“You just figured that he wouldn’t dare try anything with broken ribs,” the gnome said, continuing to lead the way up the path. “You figured that he wouldn’t dare hurt her if she stayed close to you. Those were all reasonable things to assume, Fist. Anyone would have done the same.”

Fist snorted. “Would you?” He grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. “Would you have let Beard live knowing what he had done to her?”

“No,” she said honestly. “If Beard was lying on the ground in front of me and I knew his neck was broke I would have stomped on it and killed him right there. That monster was obsessed with her. I know that look when I see it and I could see it in his eyes.” Maryanne pulled her arm out of his hand and continued up the path. “But you’re a better person than I am. You did exactly the kind of thing Sarine would want me to do. You gave him a chance to change.”

Fist swallowed. It had felt right at the time, but what did that matter? He had been wrong. “Not again. This time he’s dead.”

“Good,” she said. “Because if you let him live, I was gonna kill him anyway.”

The trail took them through a small stand of pine trees and when they came out the other side, a vista opened up in front of them. They had crested the ridge. In front of them was a small valley and beyond that, a mountainside even larger than the one they were on. Trees grew sparser and sparser in this region. It was mostly gray and red rock covered in gravel and scrub brush with a few icy drifts of snow clinging in the shadier spots.

At the end of the valley Fist could see the cliff face and the fissure with the small stream exiting at the base of it. He pointed it out to the gnome. “It’s so far away. How are they still so far ahead of us?”

“They must know we’re hunting them,” Maryanne guessed. “Because they haven’t stopped yet. All they do is keep running.”

“They see Squirrel,” Fist said. “He’s chasing them. He’s letting them see him.”

“Well,” she said, scanning the slope. “We can make up some ground here. We don’t have to stick to the trail. We’ll head straight for that crack.” She rubbed her hands together and smiled. “This will be fun.”

“How?” said Fist.

“We’ll do a hillside run.” She pointed down the slope at a section that was steep, but mostly boulder free. “Just keep going, let your weight pull you towards the bottom, and don’t trip. Easy!”

Fist swallowed. That did not look easy to him. “Wait.”

But she was off. Maryanne left the trail and sped down the slope, her legs a blur. The gnome warrior was so agile, she made it look easy. And fun. He could hear her laughing.

Gritting his teeth, Fist followed. It wasn’t so bad at first. He just had to keep one foot in front of the other and avoid any big obstacles. It was actually quite exhilarating, like when he ran with his mace.

Then the slope steepened. That exhilaration turned to panic. He was no longer propelling himself. It was like he was being pulled down the slope. He had to move his legs faster and faster to keep from tumbling end-over-end as he careened towards the bottom. In desperation, he reached up and yanked his mace from its sheath. The magic kicked into gear and his legs were able to keep up. Still, it was more frightening than fun, and by the time he came to a stop next to the gnome, he was gasping for breath.

He put his mace away and bent over, grasping his knees. “That was too dangerous!”

“Aw, calm down. I knew you could handle it,” she said. The gnome was smiling and seemed barely winded at all.

“No you didn’t!” he said. “You don’t know me that good! I almost fell.”

“But you didn’t,” Maryanne pointed out. “And we’re a lot closer to that cliff.”

The two of them were interrupted by a howl of pain that came from the direction of the fissure. Motioning for silence, Fist took the lead and headed straight for the sound. It echoed out again, an angry outcry of agony. Both of them drew their weapons and the next time they heard it, there was no doubting its source.

“Come back!” shouted a voice that was unmistakably ogre. “Beard! Help me!”

Fist rounded a large rock and Glug came into view. The ogre was sitting close to the base of the cliff, his back resting against a boulder. A large metal device was clamped onto one of his feet and the ground around him was covered in blood.

The ogre was sobbing in pain and when he saw Fist and Maryanne approach, he raised his hands. “No! Ghost of Fist, I did nothing. Beard did it!”

“Liar!” Fist held his mace at the ready and approached, ignoring the ogre’s piteous state.

“Wait!” Glug cried, reaching out to him beseechingly. “Yes! I killed you with the rock. But Beard made me!”

Fist stepped closer, his eyes cold with rage. “Why? He lost! Crag told you to stop. Why couldn’t you leave us alone?”

“Beard would not stay a Thunder People any more. He sayed, ‘Come, Glug. We start a new tribe. Let stupid ones fight the evil. We will go far away and be the Beard People.’” He looked down. “I sayed no! But he maked me go. Then he sayed we needed Puj to be our women. But she was with you, so . . .”

“Then why did you kill Puj?” Fist asked.

“No! Not me! It was Beard,” Glug swore, his face white with fear and loss of blood. “I killed you, but he killed her! I telled him not to!”

“Then why did he do it?” Fist demanded. He swung back his mace. “Why!”

The ogre cowered, raising his arms over his head. “Sh-she fighted us! Puj scratched Beard. Hitted Beard.” He raised his arm to show Fist a wicked set of teeth marks. “She bited me!”

“So you choked her!” Fist shouted.

“No! It was Beard!”

Fist’s hand tightened on the handle of his mace. Glug was probably telling the truth, but Fist couldn’t forget the way Puj had tried to rub away the bruises on her arms. Bruises that Glug had given her.

Maryanne walked past Fist and crouched next to the Glug’s injured leg. She examined the metal mechanism. “It’s a trap for bears. Probably left by a human.”

“Yes.” He had seen such traps before. Fist cocked his head at her. Why was she bringing that up?

“This is a good spot for a trap like this,” the gnome said, looking around. “Smart placement. Along the animal trail and by the stream.”

“It will not come off!” whimpered Glug.

“Squirrel tricked him,” Fist said. He was sure of it. That was why Squirrel had been hopping around on the rocks and letting them see him. “He must have seen the trap and led Glug onto it.”

“It was effective,” she said appreciatively. “This thing’s got him cut down to the bone. Sheared right through his tendons.”

“It hurts!” the ogre agreed.

Maryanne pulled one of her knives. She looked up at Fist. “You want me to take care of this?”

Fist understood now. She was offering him a way to back out. “No. I will do it.”

“Y-you will fix my leg, ghost of Fist? With your magics?” Glug said hopefully. Then he saw Fist swing his mace back and his eyes widened. “No! I will go back to Crag. I will be a good Thunder People now!”

“No you won’t.” Fist swung his mace with all the strength and speed he could muster. The ridged side of the mace struck Glug between the eyes, crushing the ogre’s head against the rock behind him.

Fist wiped the head of his mace off on the ogre’s furs before putting the weapon away. It had not been an honorable way to kill Glug, but it had been necessary. The bite mark on the ogre’s forearm had proved it. If he would fight Puj, he would fight other women.

“It had to be done,” Maryanne agreed, standing up and putting her knife away.

“I know,” Fist replied. “One more.”

He turned and followed the stream into the cliff face. The passage was narrow, but passable. Later in the spring, when the snow in the peaks had melted, the stream would be a torrent, gushing from the fissure. For now the water was little more than a trickle and was covered with a thin sheet of ice. Fist could see where Beard had broken the ice on his way through.

Fist reached through the bond and saw Beard hadn’t stopped after leaving his friend behind. He was still traveling to the north. Squirrel, Glug is dead.

Good, Squirrel replied, but Fist didn’t sense any satisfaction in the creature’s thoughts. Squirrel was scampering along behind Beard, watching as the ogre, breathing heavily and gripping his side, hurried up a twisting trail.

Glug was the one that tried to kill me, Fist added.

I saw it, Squirrel replied.

You did a good job, trapping Glug like that, Fist said. It was smart.

He was stupid, Squirrel said. The part of the mountainside he was in was covered in pine trees. Beard rested against one of them to catch his breath before moving on.

Fist chewed his lip. We are coming. Leave Beard to me.

No, Squirrel said. I do it!

Why? Fist said in frustration.

I saw, Squirrel said and Fist caught a flash of memories; Puj fighting the ogres; Puj yelling Fist’s name; Squirrel jumping on Beard and being swatted away; Squirrel in a panic, unable to do anything while Beard strangled her.

The intensity of the memories caused Fist to stumble. He caught the wall of the fissure to steady himself. It’s not your fault. They were too big. They are ogres and you are a-.

I am not a squirrel anymore, Squirrel said and shut off the connection.

Chapter Nineteen

The stream bed sloped upwards, growing gradually steeper with each step. It was a particularly hard climb towards the end. Maryanne managed it quite easily, but Fist struggled. The weight of the shield on his back dragged on him. His body had been through a lot in the last day and his muscles trembled with exertion. By the time he reached the top, his vision swam.

Fist and Maryanne exited the fissure and found themselves looking up at yet another ridge. The mountainside ahead was covered in pine trees. Fist could see the narrow trail twisting through them. He slumped to the ground, breathing heavily.

“That’s,” he gasped, pointing westward to the top of the incline. “That’s where Squirrel and Beard were.”

“When?” Maryanne asked, peering up at the ridge. She raised her hand to her brow, shading her eyes from the low-hanging sun.

“Just after we left Glug,” Fist said. His head throbbed with every heartbeat. It was all he could do to sit up straight.

“When we were at the bottom of the chasm?” The gnome swore. “Somehow he managed to gain ground on us. Where are they now?”

Fist closed his eyes and concentrated, still breathing heavy. “On the other side. Squirrel’s . . . chasing him. Trying to make him tired. I don’t know why, but Beard’s . . . scared of him.”

“Smart Squirrel. Beard must see him and think we’re right behind him,” Maryanne said. She crouched next to Fist. “You alright?”

“Tired,” Fist said. “My head hurts.”

“Here,” she said. The gnome reached into a pouch at her waist and pulled out another piece of dried meat like she had given him that morning.

Fist took it from her. “That spicy stuff? What is it?”

“Kyrkon’s special trail rations,” she said. “It’s pure life magic. All grown in the Pruball homeland. The meat’s from pigs raised on only elven apples and grain. The spices are from Kyrkon’s own garden. That little piece right there will make wounds heal faster and give you enough energy to last a day.” Maryanne shrugged and added, “That is, if you haven’t been healed from major injuries twice in one day.”

“Thanks,” Fist said. He put the meat in his mouth and chewed. Once again, his mouth was on fire. “Hot!”

She laughed and nodded. “That’s an elf thing. Kyrkon’s crazy for it. Him and old Bill have contests to see who can make their food spicier. If it wasn’t for Sarine’s cooking, I think I’d go crazy. She’s old and can’t take the heat like they can.”

Maryanne watched Fist grimace and chew with a slight smile on her face. She reached out and ruffled Fist’s hair. “You know it’s amazing you’re alive right now after what that ogre did to you.”

Fist swallowed and sucked the cold mountain air in over his tongue. “I had Locksher nearby.”

“No. You don’t understand. I was the one who pulled the rock off you. The side of your head was smashed in. You were so far gone that when Squirrel brought Locksher over, the little guy could barely walk straight. I thought the wizard was gonna say it was too late,” she shook her head. “I’ve seen a lot of injuries healed up in different ways and I tell you, that man worked a miracle bringing you back.”

Fist winced. He had been pretty rude to Locksher when he woke up. “I’ll have to thank him when I see him again.” The food was working already. He felt energy flooding his limbs and his headache had faded to a dull throb. He stood. “We need to keep going.”

The trail ahead was a steep one. Fist couldn’t understand how Beard had managed it with broken ribs. By the time they reached the top, the sun had dipped behind the mountain.

The air grew colder and the wind picked up. The pink sunset sky darkened quickly as a bank of clouds rolled in. They pressed on, heading down the other side until it was so dark Fist could barely see the trail. He nearly tripped on a tree root and had to stop.

“How is your night vision?” Fist asked. “Gnomes see good in the dark, right?”

“I’m not a cat,” Maryanne replied. “Who taught you that? It’s imps that see good in the dark.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Fist said. “I could make us a light with my magic. But Beard would be able to see us coming,”

“Where’s he at now?” she wondered.

“They’re just as far away as before,” Fist said. Beard had already stumbled several times in the dark. Squirrel kept getting close to him and chattering, trying to startle the ogre and make him fall. Now the ogre had put his back to a tree and had a branch in his hand, ready to swing if Squirrel got too close. “But he has stopped moving.”

“What do we do then, Fist? Do we keep going or do we wait out the night and see if we can catch him in the morning?” she asked.

Fist thought about it. He hated to draw this out any longer than he had to, but continuing on in this terrain without light could be dangerous. He could heal Maryanne if she got hurt, but he couldn’t heal himself. He sighed. “We can wait. But I don’t want to risk a fire.”

A stiff cold breeze kicked up, causing Maryanne to shiver. “Let’s find someplace out of the wind then.”

That was easier said than done with the light as far gone as it was, but they got lucky. Not far off of the trail was a place to shelter in. Maryanne called it a cave, though it was actually just a crack in the mountainside that was mostly covered by a huge fallen rock.

The gnome slipped inside first to make sure it was big enough and that it was unoccupied. Moments later, she ducked her head out. “It’s good in here.”

Fist was barely able to squeeze his large frame through the crack. He had to take his shield off of his back so that he would fit, but once inside, the space was a bit better. He wasn’t able to stand up all the way but there was just enough room for both of them to sit.

Fist leaned his shield against the entrance to help keep out more of the wind. Then he scooted up against the rear wall and sat cross-legged, letting the bottom of his winter robes pool out around him. It wasn’t all that uncomfortable. The wall even sloped a bit, allowing him to lean back.

Maryanne sat across from him, her back against the opposite wall, her feet barely touching his knees. They were now out of the wind, but the air was still icy cold. Fist pulled up his hood. The magic of the robes was a fantastic insulator and he was quite comfortable.

Fist closed his eyes and prepared to contact Justan, when he heard a soft rattling sound. It took Fist a moment to identify its source and then he realized that it was the sound of Maryanne’s teeth chattering. “Are you still cold?”

“I figured we’d be back with the others by now,” she said. “My armor keeps me pretty warm when I’m moving around, but now that I’m sitting still . . .”

“My robes are runed to keep out the cold,” Fist said. “They are big enough for you to share with me.”

“Why Fist! Are you asking me to come over there and snuggle?” Maryanne asked, her voice filled with sly amusement.

Fist’s cheeks reddened. Things had seemed so normal between them that he had all but forgotten that she liked him. “I-I can take it off and you can use it.”

“No. Then you would be cold,” she said with a chuckle. “I was just having a little fun with you. Of course I would like to share with you.”

Fist laughed nervously and unbuckled the harnesses he wore over his robes. He set his mace to the side and opened the front of his robe so that she could slide in next to him.

The gnome scooted in close, but paused. “Your breastplate is cold.”

“Oh,” Fist said. He had forgotten that Bettie’s magic that kept the armor from getting too hot or cold only applied to the inside. He unbuckled that as well, and set it to the side.

Maryanne slid in front of him and leaned back against his chest, her legs drawn up in front of her. Fist drew the robe closed around them. It just fit.

She reached up and placed a cold hand against the side of his face. A shudder passed through her slim body. “My you are warm.”

“You’re just really cold,” he said, fighting back a gasp at her icy touch.

She leaned her head back and rested her cheek against the side of his neck. Her face was really cold too. “You’re nervous having me this close to you.”

Fist had no idea how to react to the bluntness of that statement. “I . . . just don’t know you all that well.”

“No. You’ve gotten to know me pretty well over the last couple weeks,” she said. “I think you just don’t know how to act around women.”

“I do too,” Fist said defensively. “I’ve been around lots of women,”

“You were nervous around Puj too,” Maryanne pointed out.

“She was an ogress,” he replied. “She was part of something I didn’t want to be a part of. I mean, she expected things and I didn’t want her to have the wrong idea.”

“I noticed that the two of you had gotten pretty close last night,” the gnome said.

“Well that . . . nothing happened,” Fist felt his heart lurch as he once again remembered how nice it had felt to be held by her, to be kissed by her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I had a talk with her the other day,” Maryanne said. “Puj came right up to me and offered to share you with me.” Fist choked and Maryanne chuckled. “I’m serious. She offered me a deal. We would take turns. Switch off every other day.”

Fist sputtered. “Do you see what I mean? That’s why I didn’t want to put her in my tribe. She expected me to act like any other ogre. I tried to explain it to her, but she just couldn’t understand! We were too different.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” the gnome replied. “I think Puj would’ve understood your ways eventually. Yesterday, when she asked me to help her make you stew, she told me that she liked you. Do you want to know why?”

Fist sighed, pretty sure what she was going to say. “She thought I had a strong butt?”

“Well . . . she did mention that and I had to agree with her,” Maryanne admitted. “But last night, she told me that the reason she liked you was because you were better than the other ogres. ‘Gooder’ is how she put it. It took her awhile to come to understand that, but she did.”

Fist’s lip quivered. He tried to swallow back the knot that swelled in his throat. Tears came unbidden to his eyes. “This is all my fault. She would still be alive if I had been smarter about this.”

“Oh, you sweet man,” Maryanne said, placing her hand against his face again. Her touch wasn’t cold anymore. She looked up at him even though she couldn’t make out his features in the dark. “Stop blaming yourself. You couldn’t have known what would happen. This isn’t on you. This is on Beard. And that’s why we are going to hunt him down.”

Fist nodded in thanks and she removed her hand. He really wanted to speak with Justan right then. He cleared his throat. “I guess we should talk to our bonding wizards, let them know what happened.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She sighed. “Sarine is going to be horrified by what happened.”

“Good luck,” Fist said. He closed his eyes and concentrated, reaching through the bond. It didn’t take long. Justan was waiting.

Fist, are you alright? I’ve felt like something was wrong ever since I woke up this morning. I’ve tried to reach you several times.

Sorry, Fist said. It felt good to know that Justan had somehow been aware that Fist needed him. It’s been a bad day.

Fist told Justan what had happened, starting with the day before and his battle with Beard. He then told him about Puj’s death. He knew that Deathclaw and Gwyrtha were listening in because he felt their shock and dismay.

Poor girl, said Gwyrtha sadly.

Fist, I’m so sorry, Justan said. I wish I could have been there with you.

What happened to the ogres that attacked you? asked Deathclaw. Did you kill them?

They ran away, he said. Me and Maryanne have been chasing them down. We caught up with one, but Beard is still alive. Squirrel is watching him.

Are you okay, Fist? Gwyrtha asked.

I will be fine, Fist said. I’m just tired. So many healings and so little sleep with all those dreams I’ve been having. I have little energy.

Take mine, suggested Gwyrtha.

It took Fist a moment to figure out what she meant. Oh! Thank you, Gwyrtha. But can you do that from way over there?

Justan can, she said enthusiastically. Justan was usually able to transfer some of the rogue horse’s energy to the rest of his bonded when they needed it, but they hadn’t tried it from long distance like this.

Well, it’s a good idea, Justan said. We won’t know unless we try.

The long miles between them stretched the bond so thin that only a small amount of their thoughts were able to pass through. This limited what they could do. Things like healing were all but impossible. Master Coal had taught them that there was nothing that could be done about it, but Fist and Justan bent their wills on widening that connection anyway. The both pushed and at first it seemed as if the wizard had been right. Their efforts made very little difference until Gwyrtha threw the weight of her power behind them.

The bond widened dramatically. Justan was able to slide a large portion of his consciousness through. Not as much as he was able to do when Fist was close by, but enough that he was able to see the traces of the magic that had healed the ogre. Fist could feel his surprise. Locksher did this? Wow. I had no idea he was that good. That was some extensive damage.

Maryanne told me that too, Fist said.

I think I might be able to strengthen the work he did with Gwyrtha’s energy. Justan fed a trickle of power through the bond and Fist felt the last vestiges of his headache fade. His exhaustion melted away. You know, with a repair as extensive as this, Matron Guernfeldt would have made you stay in the infirmary for a week to recuperate before letting you . . . Fist, you’re holding a girl. Justan said in surprise.

A girl? said Gwyrtha.

Oh. Uh, that’s Maryanne. She’s your great grandmother’s bonded, remember? It’s . . . she . . . it was cold, that’s all. She’s sharing my robe.

Justan laughed. Well the whole arrangement seems pretty cozy.

It’s not funny, Justan. I don’t know how to feel about this, Fist said. All of his confused emotions spilled over. Maryanne likes me and I don’t know what I think about that, but Puj died yesterday and the last time I saw her alive she kissed me.

Okay, I can see how that would be a lot to process at one time, Justan said and Fist could feel the depth of his sympathy through the bond. Look, the only thing I can suggest is to stop trying to figure it out for now. If you keep dwelling on these things, you’ll just make yourself crazy. Just push those questions aside and focus on the job in front of you. These kinds of things tend to sort themselves out.

Thank you, Justan, Fist said. That does help.

After that, Justan quickly caught Fist up on events in Malaroo. After they had said goodnight, Fist opened his eyes

Maryanne sensed a change in his movements. “You back?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Justan sent me some energy from Gwyrtha. I feel much better now.”

“That’s good,” said the gnome. “I told Sarine what happened. She’s going to let Wizard Beehn know where we are so that he can get the message passed along to Charz. What’s Squirrel up to?”

“Beard fell asleep,” Fist said, tapping in to Squirrel’s thoughts through the bond. Unlike them, the ogre had been prepared for a long journey. He had his sleeping furs with him. “Squirrel is watching him trying to think of ways to make him miserable.” He shook his head. Squirrel was still so angry it was hard to tell exactly what he was planning. “I think Beard is going to have a hard night.”

“Good,” Maryanne said. She yawned, “Then let’s get some sleep ourselves. I’ll wake you up at first light. Maybe we’ll get started first and catch him early.”

“I hope so,” Fist said. He settled back against the wall, trying to get as comfortable as he could.

Maryanne was asleep within seconds. Fist nearly laughed at how quickly she did it. How was that possible? Was it some kind of gnome warrior trick? He tried to focus on sleeping. He had been so tired before, but that infusion of Gwyrtha’s energy had left him wide awake. Or so he thought. Moments later, he was drifting off as well . . .

“Wake up!”

Fist blinked. He had been dreaming about a great arm, huge and black reaching for him. But he woke to a different hand, thin and pale, and it was pinching his cheek. Hard.

“Ow!” he complained.

“Come on!” Maryanne said, her face filled with frustration. She was standing in front of him, slightly bent over because of the cave’s low ceiling. “It’s light out. Blast it, we overslept! And I never oversleep. I have a sense about it. I always wake up at first light. Always!”

Fist hurriedly began putting on his breastplate and reached through the bond. Squirrel was farther away than he had been the night before. Squirrel! Where are you?

Not a squirrel. I am Deathclaw, Squirrel replied. The little creature was standing at the edge of a ravine, looking down as Beard climbed down a steep cliff face towards the bottom.

You are not Deathclaw, Fist said. He was trying to gauge the exact distance between them but it was difficult.

I’m Deathclaw! Squirrel insisted, grunting as he pushed a fist-sized rock towards the edge. Over it went, tumbling through the air to strike Beard on the shoulder. The ogre didn’t lose his grip, but he did look up and shout at Squirrel. Squirrel shook a tiny fist back at him and squeaked out a chittering threat.

Fist caught a glimpse of Beard’s face. It was marred by scratches. Some of them were wide and long, likely Puj’s work. The others were tiny and jagged, proving that Squirrel had indeed been busy harassing his enemy.

Fist found himself impressed by Squirrel’s ingenuity, though it terrified him how close Squirrel had to be to make all those attacks. All Beard had to do was catch him once.

Just be careful until we can get to you, Fist begged.

He will be dead, Squirrel promised. He selected another rock and began pushing it towards the edge.

“Well?” Maryanne asked.

“Beard was up early,” Fist said, letting go of Squirrel’s thoughts. He strapped his mace’s sheath onto his back and retrieved his shield.

“How far behind are we?” Maryanne asked as they exited the cave.

She handed Fist another strip of dried meat. He popped it into his mouth, wondering how much more of that stuff she had.

He pointed to the northeast. “I don’t know for sure, but I think he’s several miles that way. Squirrel just watched him climb down into a ravine.”

“That gives us something to look for.” She summoned an eager smile. “Let’s go.”

They headed out of the cave and started off at a jog. Fist was relieved to find that all traces of the exhaustion he had felt the previous day were gone. In fact, he felt better than he had in a long while. He and Maryanne made great time, reaching the ravine by noontime.

According to Squirrel, Beard had traveled along the bottom of the ravine for quite some time before finding a favorable place to climb up the far side. Fist and Maryanne walked westward along the edge, looking for a better way to cross, but could not find anything and finally had to make the climb down and up as Beard had.

The rest of the day’s journey was spent racing up game trails in a desperate attempt to catch up with the rogue ogre. Beard, however, ran as if he knew how close they were. Even though he was wounded and had eaten very little, the ogre managed to keep a good lead on them. By the time night came again, he was still a good distance away.

Fist and Maryanne spent that night under a rock overhang huddled inside Fist’s robe as a light snow began to fall. Part way through the night, Fist’s sleep was interrupted by a chorus of moonrat moans. He wondered if this was the same group they had come across days before. Or was it a different pack, also drawn to the mysterious power that was so similar to Mellinda’s?

Maryanne was wakened by the sound as well. The gnome warrior grasped his arms and pulled them tightly around her. Together, they watched the trail of glowing green dots pass through the valley beneath them, visible even through the falling snow.

“Why are they so angry?” she wondered.

“Their mother is dead,” he replied.

“How sad,” she said.

Fist shook his head. “No. She was a terrible mother.”

He didn’t fall back to sleep until the lights had faded from view.

The next thing Fist was aware of was a feeling of complete comfort. He was lying on pillowy softness, the warmth of the sun on his body. But something within him knew that comfort was a lie. He had experienced this before. The comfort never lasted.

As if he had bid it to come, a cold breeze blew across him. Fist forced his eyes open and turned to see Crag running towards him, a dark mass of clouds approaching on his heels. Fear and anger filled the chieftain’s voice as he shouted, “Fist! Fight!”

Fist nodded in understanding. This was his dream. “I will fight.”

Suddenly, Fist was standing, facing the cloud, his mace in one hand. Crag arrived and stood before him breathing heavily. His face was bruised and bloodied.

This time Fist took charge. He reached out and grasped his father’s face, filling it with healing energies. Crag’s wounds disappeared. The ogre chieftain laughed and turned to face the cloud at Fist’s side.

The cloud struck, passing over them. But it wasn’t truly a thundercloud. It was a swarm of flies with green glowing eyes and each one filled with hundreds of eggs. The flies coated him, laying their vile eggs. They tried to crawl up his nose, in his ears.

Fist almost lost control right there, but this time he held onto his awareness of the dream. It wasn’t real. He sent an electric surge along his skin, frying the flies and bursting their eggs.

Crag wasn’t as fortunate. He turned to Fist, his eyes red, maggots crawling in his mouth. “Toompa!”

Crag shoved him off of the cloud and Fist fell. He held onto reality, forcing himself to analyze the dream. Sarine had told him that some things in the dream were unchangeable. No matter what he did, Crag threw him from the clouds. No matter what he did, Crag called him that name, just as he had the day Fist had fled his people.

Was that the clue he was supposed to look for? Did that explain the nature of his dreams? Were they simply telling him the past? If so, he didn’t understand. Why show him that? He already knew that part.

Fist turned his focus to the fact that he was still falling. That was right. There was still more to the dream.

Fist twisted in mid air and looked down. The peaks of the Trafalgan mountains were coming up from below and in their midst was the tiny black dot that was the black lake. Fist thought on what this meant. In his dream, he always fell from the clouds, but the landing never killed him. Either he fell into the lake, or he appeared on the ground as if he hadn’t fallen at all. Why was that? If his dream was telling him the past, why were there two outcomes?

The blackness grew larger beneath him, but Fist did not want to fall in the lake this time. He willed himself to stop falling. He willed the ground to appear under his feet.

Suddenly, he was standing on solid ground. There was a purpose in his mind. He was there to fight. A faceless mass of enemies walked towards him. They approached steadily, hateful evil things.

Fist almost lost himself, but was somehow able to take control once again. This was his dream. Where was he? He looked around and was surprised to see that he was standing on the shore of the black lake. It stretched out behind him, beckoning.

He focused on the enemies. He willed their faces to appear. As he did so, he remembered who they were. These were humans and dwarves and ogres and elves. Good people. Many of their faces were familiar. But those faces were twisted with madness. Their eyes were red, their mouths open in soundless rage.

Fist understood. These were the bodies of the dead, infested with larvae from the black lake. He turned and looked behind him. The Thunder People were at his back. The ogres were helping him fight the dead ones.

What did this mean? This couldn’t be the past. Maybe he was wrong and the dreams were showing him the present. These could be the Thunder People that were fighting the evil right now. Maybe he was supposed to know of the urgent nature of their situation.

Then his field of vision widened and he saw that his other friends were there. Locksher and Charz and Maryanne were fighting alongside the Thunder People. So were Darlan and Faldon and countless others. But the army of evil was much bigger. Their fight was hopeless.

Fist felt a panic rise within him, but he reminded himself that this was his dream. He took charge, sending bolts of lightning down from the sky. Every time a bolt struck, dozens of the infested dead burst in a shower of gore. He battled on and on until he found himself surrounded. He looked around, but none of his friends were in sight. Then he saw the boulder.

It was at least twice as tall as Fist was; a huge rock with a wide flat top, standing high above the evil army. Lying on top of the boulder was Squirrel’s pouch. The enemy was surrounding the boulder, trying to climb it. The bulge in the pouch told Fist that Squirrel was inside fast asleep.

“Squirrel!” Fist shouted. He tried to hold onto the reality that this was his dream, but it was difficult. The enemy around him attacked. Fist was stabbed, bitten, beaten with clubs. He ignored the blows. What did this mean? Why was Squirrel alone? Was this the present? Was this the future?

He cried out in rage and sent arcs of electricity around him in undulating waves, bursting enemies by the hundreds. He cut his way through them until he reached the boulder and climbed to the top.

As he reached for the pouch, Fist remembered something else about this version of the dream. Squirrel wasn’t inside the pouch. Fist turned his head to see that Squirrel was sitting calmly on his shoulder, shelling a nut. The little creature cocked his head at the look on Fist’s face and held the nut out to him.

Fist’s eyes widened and he looked down at the pouch. Against his will, he lifted the flap and looked inside. A huge black hand reached out, grasping Fist’s head.

He woke, gasping just as the sound of a bloodcurdling scream filled the night.

“What was that?” Maryanne said.

She slipped out from under his robe and left the shelter of the overhang to look across the valley below. The snow had stopped falling and the overcast sky was dimly lit by the oncoming dawn. The landscape before them was blanketed in over an inch of whiteness.

Fist edged out from the rock to join her as he buckled on his breastplate. The cry echoed out again, though not as loudly this time.

“It came from the far side of the valley,” she said.

Fist nodded. “Squirrel’s over there.” He reached out for his bonded. Squirrel, what happened? What was that sound?

He received a note of grim satisfaction. Deathclaw, was all Squirrel said before closing off the bond.

“I think that sound was Beard,” Fist said.

“No,” said Maryanne in disbelief.

Fist shook his head slowly. “I think Squirrel did something to him.”

The gnome chuckled. “Let’s go find out.”

They set off into the valley, heading in the direction the sounds had come from. A few hours later, they found the place where Beard had been sleeping. The snow all around the area was disturbed by the ogre’s heavy footprints.

Fist found a half-eaten cheese roll lying on the ground. Beard must have taken it from the party’s rations. Fist picked it up and winced. It smelled like urine and had tiny Squirrel droppings embedded in it.

“I found blood,” said Maryanne. She was crouched beside a long patch of ground that was bare of snow. This would have been where Beard was sleeping. A small puddle of blood was congealing among the pine needles. “What did Squirrel do to him?”

Fist shrugged and held the roll out to her. She wrinkled her nose at it. “Alright, I might have screamed if I bit into that.”

That roll hadn’t been the only food the ogre left behind. As they followed his tracks up the next slope, they found a lot more scattered along the way. Most of it was human food and all of it had been ruined in some way by Squirrel’s antics.

They heard another scream as they crested that ridge. The pattern continued throughout the day and things seemed to grow worse for Beard. By mid-afternoon, tiny droplets of blood were interspersed with the ogre’s tracks. Every once in a while, they would hear a faint roar.

They began to find odd patterns of destruction along the way. Trees were uprooted, branches broken. The patterns seemed random, but Fist was sure that Squirrel was involved. Beard was getting more desperate in his attempts to rid himself of the creature.

Squirrel was unresponsive to Fist’s attempts to contact him. Fist feared for his bonded’s life, but he was grateful for one thing. Squirrel was slowing Beard down. They were making steady progress.

By the time nightfall neared again, they were close. And whatever Squirrel had done to the ogre had gotten worse, because the droplets of blood around Beards tracks were larger and more frequent. So were the ogre’s shouts and fits of destruction. The sounds alternated from rage to pain to desperation.

Once again, Fist and Maryanne debated whether or not to continue into the night. The sky had cleared and the remnants of the previous night’s snowfall were helpful, providing some illumination even before the moon had risen, but with the clear sky came a wind that was even colder than the night before. Maryanne was shivering and they couldn’t share Fist’s robe while on the move.

They took shelter deep within the branches of a fallen conifer. They lay next to the trunk, warm within Fist’s robes and listened to the howling of the wind mixed with the roars of their quarry. His screaming was so frantic and pained that Fist couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

Neither of them thought that they would be able to sleep with all that agony going on nearby. So Fist and Maryanne amused themselves speculating on what Beard was going through. Every scenario they could come up with was either comical or extremely morbid and none of it seemed actually possible.

At some point late into the night, Fist’s eyes fluttered open. He hadn’t even realized that he had fallen asleep. The air was still. The sounds had stopped.

He raised his head slightly to look past Maryanne’s hair and saw a small dark-eyed figure looking back at him. “Squirrel?”

Tired, Squirrel replied.

Fist held open the front flap of the robe and Squirrel darted in, climbing over Maryanne and settling his cold little body in against Fist’s neck. Fist reached up and petted his friend. Are you okay?

Done, Squirrel said, and like that Fist knew that he was forgiven. All anger was gone from Squirrel’s mind. He was happy to be back.

What about Beard?

I am not a squirrel anymore, was the reply.

Fist blinked. Are you still Deathclaw?

No. I am Squirrel, the little creature mumbled before falling asleep.

Fist lay there quietly, with Maryanne tight against him and feeling Squirrel’s little heart beat against his neck, and smiled. He was content to lie that way for quite some time.

Finally, he could bear the suspense no longer. He had to know what had happened. He nudged Maryanne awake and whispered, “Squirrel’s back.”

“Huh? Where?” she asked, turning her head to look back at him. Her eyes widened as she saw Squirrel’s sleeping form curled up on Fist’s neck behind her. “When?”

“Not long ago,” he said.

“What happened?”

“He wouldn’t say,” Fist replied. “The wind has died down. Do you want to go find out?”

She nodded and slid out of his robes. Fist gently transferred the sleeping squirrel into his pouch and stood. Together, they headed towards the spot they last knew Beard to be.

The half moon had risen high in the sky, giving the snowscape an otherworldly brightness. The wind had covered most of the tracks with powder, but it wasn’t too hard to find the place where Beard had stopped. In his rage, the ogre had shredded the area around him, beating the ground, breaking branches and throwing rocks.

Then they saw him. Beard was laying on top of his furs, facing upwards. The snow around him was stained pink with his blood and his chest was still. Nevertheless, as they crept closer, Fist kept his mace at the ready.

Beard’s hands were torn and bloodied by the violence of his tantrums. The skin of his face was covered with angry infected scratches. But none of that explained the amount of blood they had seen.

Maryanne reached out and touched his neck. “He’s dead,” she confirmed. “His skin is still hot to the touch. You think he died from a fever?”

“I don’t think so,” Fist said. Yes, he was covered in scratches, but those were tiny things to an ogre. Fist himself had survived worse.

“Oh! Look!” she said, pointing. The snow under the ogre’s head was dark and wet.

Fist held out his arm and summoned flows of air and earth. A bright ball of light swirled into existence, better illuminating the scene. Fist’s breath caught in his throat as he understood. “Squirrel must have done it that first night while we were sleeping in the cave.”

“What?” she asked.

He brought the orb down closer. “Look.”

The source of the blood pooled beneath Beard’s head became quite evident. Tiny green plants had sprouted from both of the ogre’s ears. At the end of one of them was the opening bud of a beautiful purple flower.

“Honstule seeds,” Fist said. “Squirrel killed him with Honstule seeds.”

Chapter Twenty

Justan awoke from his dream with a wince. He was momentarily disoriented by the web-like pattern of morning light on the ceiling above him until reality settled back in and he remembered that it was caused by the thin fabric mesh that covered the open windows to his room. Justan sat up and stretched, arching his back with a groan.

He had been in the Roo-Tan capital for a month and he was still having difficulty getting used to the grass mattresses that Jhonate’s people were so fond of. They were made of a series of long woven mats stacked on top of each other with layers of a cotton-like fiber stuffed between them. Justan had slept on a lot of different types of bedding in his travels and he would have thought that the grass mats would at least be better than sleeping on the ground, but after long nights tossing and turning, he woke each day sore and irritable. It usually took him several hours before he felt like himself.

He was seemingly the only person having that problem. Jhonate grew up with them and claimed they were far superior to the cotton or down mattresses common in Dremaldria. Poz and Aldie both enjoyed their Roo-Tan beds. Poz was even talking about purchasing one and bringing it back to the academy with him once his mission was over.

Justan sighed and rotated his head, feeling a series of pops in his neck. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and swung his legs out of the bed. His feet only fell two inches before unexpectedly landing on something scaly and warm.

He chuckled. “Good morning, Gwyrtha.”

The rogue horse was lying on her side right next to his bed, her legs pointed towards the door. Gwyrtha lifted her head and looked back at him. Her thoughts were cheerful. She always woke up instantly. Good morning, Justan!

It hadn’t been easy getting Xedrion’s servants to allow the rogue horse to sleep in his apartments with him. They worried that her claws would gouge the floors and that they would constantly have to clean up after her. Justan didn’t blame them for their reluctance. The buildings on Xedrion’s estate were immaculate, with polished wooden floors and white walls that had to be difficult to keep clean.

In the end, Jhonate had bullied them into allowing her inside. The nightbeast could be anywhere and Gwyrtha was the only one who would know for sure if he was approaching. Justan had been pleased that she was allowed, but he hadn’t expected Gwyrtha to be this diligent. Well, at least she wasn’t trying to climb into the bed with him like she had the first few nights.

You didn’t sleep good again, the rogue horse observed.

“Yeah. Bad night.” The mattress wasn’t the whole reason for his tossing and turning. He had been having vivid dreams every night since arriving in Roo-Tan’lan.

Like Fist’s dreams, Justan’s were strange and disturbing. There were several different ones that repeated, but in the dream that stood out the most, he was surrounded by a circle of friends and allies. The circle was wide, hundreds of people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. They all had their backs to him, looking outward while he was standing in the center. It was dark and lonely where he stood.

His bonded were somewhere outside the circle warning Justan of approaching danger. He then heard something coming in from all sides, a clicking noise like the sound of hundreds of insect feet on rock. He yelled out to warn the people surrounding him, but they ignored him, keeping their stiff stance as the threat came closer and closer.

Then Justan realized that the clicking sound was coming from beneath him. He could feel it in his toes. He became sure that whatever it was would rise from the dark soil inside the circle. Justan usually awoke from these dreams as huge chitinous claws burst from the ground and, instead of attacking him, ripped into the unprotected backs of his friends.

Justan shuddered at the memory. He dearly hoped that his great grandmother was wrong about this. If his magic was using his dreams to tell him something, it wasn’t good.

Jhonate comes, said Deathclaw from his position on the roof overhead. Justan’s apartments were located in one of the interior buildings on the palace grounds and the only entrance was from the outside. Since the raptoid disliked sleeping indoors, he preferred this arrangement. This way he could watch everyone’s comings and goings and let Gwyrtha keep track of Justan indoors.

Justan focused on the Jharro ring Jhonate had given him and saw that the raptoid was right. Her thoughts were guarded, but she was coming towards him with purposeful strides. Justan slid across Gwyrtha’s back and headed to the side of the room where his things were stored.

His bedroom was wide and spacious and only sparsely furnished, which matched the attitude of the Leeth’s family. Unlike all the other nobles he had met, they preferred life clean and uncluttered. They didn’t use rugs or tapestries and the furniture itself was plain and functional.

Justan’s clothes were kept in an unusual Roo-Tan convention, something called a closet. Instead of using a wardrobe or chest of drawers, they kept their clothing in a smaller room that was separated from the rest of the bedroom by a thin curtain.

Justan opened the curtain and grabbed his nicest pair of pants off of one of the wood pegs in the closet. He began putting them on as he heard Jhonate open the outer door and enter the sitting room.

That is Jhonate, Gwyrtha verified as she did with any visitors.

“I sensed that you were awake,” Jhonate said both aloud and through the ring. Justan heard her in the other room walking over to the table and setting something down. Gwyrtha smelled oiled leather.

“Just getting dressed!” he replied as he looked through his shirts, trying to decide what to wear. He had several more now than he had when he arrived. Over a dozen of them, in various colors and degrees of finery. Xedrion’s servants brought something new in almost every day. Justan wasn’t quite sure why. No one had ever said anything about it to him. All he knew was that today his selection was important. It was the day of Yntri Yni’s funeral and he needed something appropriate.

He didn’t have time to decide before the door to his bedroom burst open and Jhonate strode in. Justan turned in surprise. She never entered while he was changing.

Jhonate was wearing the Roo-Tan version of a ceremonial warrior uniform. Long deerskin pants studded with clear green river stones and a white blouse whose sleeves were embroidered in swirling green patterns, matching the color of the ribbons in her hair. The breastplate she wore today was different than usual, made of a deep red hide and laced up the front instead of the sides. It had been shaped to fit the contours of her body and painstakingly stamped into it was an intricate scene depicting the Jharro Grove.

As for Justan, he was still only wearing his pants.

Jhonate paused for a moment as her eyes took him in, flickering across his muscles and lingering on the frost rune in the center of his chest. Then she advanced.

Justan wasn’t sure of her intentions until the last moment. She dropped her staff and reached up and grabbed his head, then leapt up and wrapped her legs around Justan’s waist. Her lips locked onto his.

The force of her attack slammed him back into the closet. Justan’s head struck one of the wooden pegs and two more dug into his lower back, but he didn’t care. He grabbed her with both arms and pulled her tightly to him. She let out a low moan and kissed him even harder, her tongue seeking his.

Justan sensed Gwyrtha’s amusement and Deathclaw’s disgust. He shut off the bond, tuning them out. He had learned to live for times like these.

They didn’t come often. Jhonate’s ardor had a slow burn. She spent so much time worried about what was proper and what her father might think that when she finally gave into her feelings, she did so in an intense way. Never before had he been half-dressed when she did it, though.

They slid to the ground, clothes falling down all around and on top of them. Several agonizingly wonderful minutes went by. Finally, Jhonate kissed down his jaw line and bit his ear hard before pulling back from him.

“What got into you?” Justan gasped, trying to dislodge one of his hands that had gotten trapped under her breastplate.

“This is the last day, my love,” she said breathlessly.

“It is?” he replied, yanking his hand free before pulling her back in and kissing her neck.

Jhonate let out a throaty laugh and allowed him a few seconds before pushing him back again. “Yes. Tonight, the nightbeast will attack and we will kill it. The final obstacle between us will be gone.”

“The final obstacle?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. In his mind that seemed a bit optimistic. “I thought that obstacle was the Protector of the Grove.”

Jhonate gave him a chiding look. “Father’s mood has been changing of late. He has been impressed by your attitude and strategic mind as we have planned for this day. Yesterday, in a meeting, I even heard him praise you to the leaders of the other houses.” She stood and, looking down at him, added, “I think he has come to like you.”

“Like me?” Justan laughed, extracting himself from the fallen clothes. “Xedrion bin Leeths?”

Jhonate retrieved her staff and looked into the room’s standing mirror. She examined her hair and began adjusting her clothes. “I believe you have won him over. All you need to do is survive the nightbeast’s attack, preferably by killing him, and father will approve our marriage,” she said as if it were a simple task. “My mother has already begun making plans.”

“Oh, that’s all I have to do?” Justan said. Of course she made it sound easy. That was Jhonate’s way.

The reality of the matter was that they were up against an assassin with over a thousand years of experience. Even with all their preparation, there was a good chance that Vahn would succeed and Justan would die. Oddly, now that the day had arrived, his anxiety level was pretty low. The prospect of his death at the nightbeast’s hands didn’t worry Justan. His only concern was what would happen to his bonded if he were to be killed.

He looked down at the mess in his closet. “I was trying to decide which shirt to wear when you arrived.”

“Choose the light blue one I had sent to you yesterday,” Jhonate said.

Justan moved a couple other shirts aside and picked up the blue one she was talking about. It had a plain front, but its sleeves were embroidered in similar patterns to Jhonate’s. He slipped it on and began buttoning up the front. “So you’re the one sending me all these clothes.”

“Some of them. The more colorful ones were sent by my mother. She is quite fond of color.” Jhonate nodded at her reflection in the mirror and ducked back into the sitting room. When she returned, she was carrying a red leather breastplate stamped in a Jharro tree design similar to the breastplate she was wearing, but it was laced up the sides, and had a solid front.

“I know you shy away from wearing armor, so I had this made for you,” she said, handing it to him. He was surprised to find that it wasn’t made of hardened hide, but was made of supple leather. “My people call it a two-chance vest.”

“Two chance?” Justan asked, looking at the vest dubiously. The reason he didn’t normally wear armor was because of his fighting style. He required a lot of free movement with his swordplay. He had tried several different types over the years, but he hadn’t found any that didn’t get in the way or weigh him down.

“The interior of the leather has been runed with blessing magic,” Jhonate explained. “The magic will absorb one blow of lethal strength before failing. The effects are limited, I know. But it could save your life.”

“Two chances to cheat death,” Justan said. He pulled the vest on over his head and tightened the laces on the side, then twisted his body, miming sword thrusts. “This moves pretty well. Thank you, Jhonate.”

She had her arms folded and was looking at him, chewing her lip. “I should give back the ring you gave me.”

“What?” Justan said, taken aback.

“For just this one night,” Jhonate specified. “The ring has protected me many times. It would do the same for you.”

Justan stepped closer to her and grasped her shoulders. “You keep it. Vahn threatened all those around me. I would feel more secure if you had it.” He smiled. “Hopefully I won’t need to cheat death more than once this night.”

“Hmph,” she said, reaching up to straighten his collar. “Put on your boots. We need to go and meet with my father to go over the last of the preparations.”

Justan retrieved his trail boots from the closet.

“Not those,” Jhonate said. “We are attending a funeral. Wear the boots I sent you last week. They are in much nicer condition and will give you better traction among the Jharro roots.”

Justan grabbed the newer boots and began putting them on even though they weren’t as comfortable. “You said that you were going to start treating me with respect, but, you still never ask me nicely. You just tell me what to do. I’m going to be your husband soon, but you still talk to me as if you were the trainer and I your pupil.”

Her eyes darted towards him and he raised a hand hastily, hoping to stave off an angry retort. “I don’t mind it most of the time, but when you do it in front of your family they give me this pitying look. I guess what I am asking is that you make suggestions from time-to-time instead of demands.”

“I . . . apologize for that. It is a habit,” Jhonate replied, her expression chastened. “My mother noticed this as well. I shall try to improve.”

Justan blinked, surprised by how readily she took that criticism. Her mother must have had quite the talk with her indeed. He belted on his swords and grabbed his bow and quiver. “I’m ready.”

Me too, said Gwyrtha, eager to get outdoors.

They walked into the sitting room and Jhonate grabbed a small bunch of bananas off of the table. She tossed them to Justan. “Here, I ‘suggest’ you eat one. There may not be time for meals until the funeral is over.”

Justan caught the fruit, peering at it glumly. “No apples? Peaches? Eggs would be nice.”

She gave him a dull look. “Not this morning. Might I ‘recommend’ we leave? My father is waiting and I have already delayed.”

Justan sighed. He had never eaten a banana before coming to Malaroo. In Dremaldria they were considered a delicacy, something only nobility could afford to eat. Among Jhonate’s people they were a daily staple. There were so many varieties, some of which were fried or baked others eaten raw.

He had been excited the first few times he had tried them, but Justan had soured on them since. Not only were the peels bitter and had to be removed fully, they were such a finicky fruit. Finding a good banana was all about timing. One day they weren’t ripe enough and the next day they were mushy.

He followed Jhonate out the door and attempted to eat his breakfast as they walked. This bunch had four long fruit. They were yellow with brown splotches just starting at the top and end. This was normally a good sign, but when he went to break off the top of the banana, it just bent, partially smooshing the flesh inside. He was forced to split it long ways and pop the fruit out. He frowned as he ate it. This one was overripe and slightly bitter.

Ooh! I’ll eat it! Gwyrtha offered. As much as Justan had come to dislike the fruit, the rogue horse loved them. He tossed the rest of the bunch to her and she scarfed them down, peel and all.

“Humans eat the strangest things,” observed Deathclaw as he jumped down to join them from the roof above. He was in the middle of his morning meal as well. The raptoid was carrying the bottom half of a small bird loosely in one hand and a gray feather was sticking out the corner of his mouth.

“Good morning, Deathclaw,” Jhonate said, not bothering to turn and look at the raptoid.

“Jhonate,” Deathclaw said and shoved the rest of the bird in his mouth. The crunching noises that ensued were enough to make Justan wince.

“Tell me, Justan,” Jhonate said as they climbed the stone steps to the palace proper. “Did Fist finally catch up with the ogre he was chasing?”

Justan had been keeping her abreast of Fist’s journey. She had become quite involved in the tale. She found the interworkings of the ogre society to be base and disturbing, but was particularly interested in the similarities between Mellinda’s magic and the evil in the mountains.

Justan reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “In a sense he did. Actually he arrived there to find out that Squirrel had killed him.” He filled her in on the details of Beard’s grisly demise. “Fist said that the roots had grown so far into Beard’s brain that they had destroyed the section controlling his breathing. That’s what killed him.”

Deathclaw already knew the story, but let out a hissing laugh at Justan’s description. “An ogre. Killed by a vegetable.”

Jhonate’s brow rose at the description of Squirrel’s brutality, but all she said was, “A fitting end for a beast such as that one. Tell Fist to congratulate Squirrel for me. That is an impressive feat for someone his size.”

“I will,” Justan said. If he survived the night to tell him.

They walked down a long white hallway and soon reached the door to Xedrion’s conference room. Most of the doors in the palace were plain and unadorned, but his was the room where the official business of the Roo-Tan was conducted. The door was made of dead Jharro wood. Carved with loving attention by Yntri’s people themselves, it was a representation of the day that the Roo-Tan dedicated themselves to the grove. A short bald figure with elf ears stood next to a tall woman with braids. In front of them was a faceless man wearing a robe, holding out a scroll and quill.

Jhonate gave the door a soft knock. The door cracked open and a Roo-Tan guard poked his head out. Upon seeing Jhonate, he motioned them in.

The conference room was hexagonal in shape with a domed ceiling. On the far wall were six chairs made of Jharro wood, one to represent each of the Roo-Tan houses. Wicker benches lined the remaining five walls for additional parties to the meetings that might need a place to rest.

The benches were currently empty except for one that was taken up by the lounging of Jhonate’s mother. Jhandra bin Tayl was Xedrion’s favorite and currently very pregnant wife. Justan always saw her wherever the protector went. Jhandra gave Justan an approving nod. Because of his wardrobe choices, he supposed.

In the center of the room was a six sided table covered with maps. This was where everyone else was standing. The others consisted of some of Xedrion’s oldest sons, Hubrin, Sen, and Qurl, along with some of the representatives from the army and one of the grove’s ancient elves. Justan realized that he and Jhonate must have arrived at the end of the meeting because as they entered, the others began filing out.

The Protector of the Grove snagged the lead servant on his way. “Did you hand-select the wine for the feast as I asked?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Twelve of the seventy-year jars, just as you requested. They were delivered to the grove this morning.”

“Thank you, Slen. You are the only one I would trust in that part of my wine house,” he replied.

“Of course. It is an honor, sir,” the servant replied and headed out of the door. Justan idly wondered what seventy-year-old Roo-Tan wine was made from.

Probably more of those bananas, Deathclaw assumed.

Xedrion bin Leeths turned to look at them. The man that faced Justan now was a different person than the man Justan had first met four weeks prior. His gray speckled hair was now neatly braided and though he didn’t look any less imposing, his eyes had lost that permanent sheen of anger.

Xedrion focused his gaze on his daughter. “There you are, Jhonate.” He held out his hand. “You are the last one.”

Jhonate reached for the tip of her Jharro staff and twisted off a small piece. She concentrated and by the time she placed it in her father’s hand, the wood had taken the shape of a ring. “I did not know you would finish so quickly. I was picking up my betrothed.”

“I see that. Good morning, Sir Edge,” Xedrion said. The piercing green eyes that were so much like his daughter’s gave him an assessing look. Xedrion always looked at him like that. It was almost as if he was expecting Justan to break down somehow.

“Good morning, Protector,” Justan said, inclining his head slightly but not breaking eye contact.

Xedrion spun the ring through his fingers, then slipped it onto his right forefinger joining the four other Jharro rings on that hand. He turned his eyes back on Jhonate as if he were instantly aware that the reason she had delayed giving him the ring was because she had desired one last passionate moment with her betrothed before giving her father access to her thoughts. Justan half expected him to say something about it, but Jhonate showed her father no measurable response and he turned away.

“The last of our preparations have been made,” Xedrion said. “The funeral procession will begin shortly. We have guards stationed at every entrance to the grove with testing kits. Even Tolynn is confident that the event will go smoothly.”

The organization of the security for the funeral was impressive. There were five separate groups that were keeping a lookout for Vahn and his basilisks. Each of the groups was headed by a Jharro specialist that had the ability to create a ring with a mind link. Xedrion himself would coordinate everyone’s efforts. He now had a ring made from the Jharro wood of all of the five group heads so that he could communicate with them during the ceremony.

Qurl was in charge of the group of guards that were testing the blood of every attendee to the funeral, while Hubrin was in charge of inspecting all equipment and foodstuffs that were carted in. These precautions should have been plenty, but with Vahn’s experience and reputation it was assumed that the nightbeast would find a way in anyway. What this vetting process did was assure the people attending the event that the people around them were safe.

The real trap for Vahn came with the three other groups. First was Tolynn who had her own ways to connect with the rest of the elves in the grove. The basilisks were one of the grove’s oldest enemies and most of her people knew how to sense them by smell. Beth and Hilt were another group. Beth was able to line the grove with a faint cloud of bewitching and bonding magic, sensing for strange types of thoughts, while Hilt had fought and killed a nightbeast before and knew well what to look for.

Jhonate was the last of the group heads. Her responsibility was Justan and his bonded. Deathclaw was highly sensitive and was confident that he could pick the nightbeast out, while Gwyrtha was the only creature with the proven ability to do so. Justan himself was Vahn’s target and was therefore the likely focal point of any attack.

“Protector, sir,” said Justan. There was something that had been bothering him and he felt like he had to speak up. “I have a concern about today’s events.”

“As well you should,” said Xedrion in what seemed like a rare attempt at humor. It didn’t come out in his voice, though. “Go ahead.”

“Sir, Vahn has already shown that he can get in to the palace grounds whenever he wishes and we have been making these plans for weeks. I think it is likely that he has found a way to listen in on our plans. He could be ready for us.”

“I do not doubt that, Sir Edge,” Xedrion said. He lifted his hand with the five Jharro rings. “But not all of our plans have been discussed verbally. What our preparations have done is set up a framework that gives the assassin very little room for error.” He gave Justan a rare smile. “Tolynn and I have a few wrinkles in mind that should disrupt whatever counter plans he has come up with. Then, when his plans are in disarray, he will make a mistake. That is when we will have him.”

“Of course, sir,” said Justan, giving him a nod of respect. He felt his confidence rising. After all, Xedrion bin Leeths was the only other man known to have survived a direct nightbeast assassination. His life couldn’t be in better hands.

Xedrion walked over to his wife’s side. “Jhandra, love. I need to take Jhonate and Sir Edge on a slight detour before joining the procession. Would you like some help getting to your palanquin?”

“Oh, I can manage it, love,” she replied, patting his cheek sweetly. “I am just pregnant. My legs are not broken.”

With a grunt, she stood up. Xedrion gave the two guards at the door an urging glance and they walked along behind her as she somehow managed a graceful half-waddle towards the door.

Once she had left the room, Xedrion turned back to Justan. “Follow me. I could use your help with something.”

The protector turned and led them towards a door on the other side of the room. Justan was surprised. Xedrion had never asked his help before. He sent a silent message to Jhonate. He wants my help?
What is this about?

I have no idea, she replied.

Xedrion led them down several hallways to a section of the palace that Justan had only seen once before. This was the area where foreign visitors to the palace were taken. The place was nice enough, filled with gardens and comfortable spots to rest, but there was no privacy to be had and guards were everywhere. Some of the Roo-Tan warriors had deposited Justan here upon his arrival at the city. Jhonate had found the placement insulting and raised enough of a stink that, Xedrion had ordered him moved to his current apartments.

Xedrion led them to a narrow walkway behind the walls of one of the palace’s atriums. He stopped behind a taller section of the wall and slid back a tiny metal plate. He pointed at the mesh window within. It was a peep hole, one of several along this wall, a way for the guards to keep track of undesirable guests without their knowledge. Justan and Jhonate took turns peering in and gave each other confused looks.

Deathclaw slid over and looked inside. “A fat elf?”

The man sitting on the bench inside did indeed have the pointed ears of an elf, but was unlike any elf Justan had seen. He was rotund and wore thin robes made of golden silk that were partially soaked through with sweat, which was strange because the morning air was barely warm yet. In one hand, he held a lacy parasol, angled to protect him from the sun’s rays and in the other hand he held open a small book that he was reading from.

“I would like to borrow your rogue horse, if that would be alright with her,” Xedrion said.

“You want to verify that he is what he looks to be,” Justan surmised.

“Exactly,” the protector replied. “I would also like to see his reaction to her. That could tell me more about his nature.”

“Are you okay with that, Gwyrtha?” Justan asked.

She gave Justan a mental shrug and paced along the wall towards the entrance of the atrium. They watched as she entered the atrium, cocking her head and sniffing the air. The mysterious figure was so involved in his reading that he didn’t register her presence.

Gwyrtha let out a low growl and approached the man steadily. Not an elf.

“He’s not an elf,” Justan told the protector.

Xedrion nodded as if expecting that. “What does she think he is?”

The finely dressed figure heard the growl and looked up. His eyes widened and he backed towards the wall. “Guards! Guards there is a beast here!” he said with an aristocratic sounding voice.

She continued her approach and he threw up the pudgy arm that held the book. A shimmering curtain of water coalesced in the air, separating him from Gwyrtha. The rogue horse settled low to the ground, ready to pounce through the shield of water.

Kill it? she asked.

What is he? Justan asked her. She replied by sending Justan an image that he recognized right away as the group of attackers that had helped the Roo-Dan on the day Yntri was killed.

“He’s a merman,” Justan told the protector. “A fat merman.”

Xedrion snorted and turned away from the peep hole. “You can tell her to stand down. I just wanted to be sure that he wasn’t your nightbeast or a disguised wizard.” He started down the walkway grumbling, “Fat merman. What an insult. How dare he retain water as if our people would not be able to provide him water here. He might as well have called us all dry feet!”

You can come back, Gwyrtha, Justan said, turning to follow the protector. Leave the merman be.

Jhonate frowned, keeping pace at Xedrion’s side. “Who is he, father?”

Xedrion scowled. “He calls himself Elder Qelvin. He showed up last night claiming to be an ambassador for the new Mer-Dan Collective. I had your brothers place him here until I decided whether to see him or not.”

“The Mer-Dan Collective?” Jhonate said in disbelief.

“It is ridiculous, isn’t it? He says that the merpeople and the Roo-Dan have joined together and plan to create a new nation encompassing over a third of Malaroo, including most of the coastline,” Xedrion’s hands tightened into fists. “He wants to negotiate a peace treaty with us and begin work on a border agreement.”

“They wish to split Malaroo?” Jhonate said, aghast.

Justan didn’t see why that was a problem. The Roo-Dan and Roo-Tan had split nearly a thousand years ago. The Roo-Tan had settled the land around the Jharro grove and the land westward and southward to the troll swamps. The ‘Dan had spread out into the eastern side of Malaroo and the coastline. Geographically, what would change?

“Would that be such a bad thing, Protector?” Justan asked. “The ‘Dan have always been a thorn in your side. Wouldn’t it be better if they were part of a stable nation? Someone that policed themselves? Someone you could deal with?”

Xedrion gave him that assessing look again. “That is one side of the argument, Sir Edge. There will be strong proponents of this once word gets out. Others will say that this is a very bad idea for us. The Roo-Dan outnumber us by a great deal. Our latest estimates have their numbers as twice ours. As a thousand independent savage villages, they aren’t much of a threat to the grove, but unified? Given advancements in culture by the merpeople?” He shook his head. “Knowing their past hatred for us, that could be very dangerous indeed.”

“You speak of this as if this ambassador’s proposal is legitimate,” Jhonate said, her tone unbelieving. “Yesterday you were planning for war. Your spies said the Roo-Dan were building for an attack.”

“Our preparations haven’t stopped, Jhonate,” Xedrion replied. “But the warnings of attack are old. The only true skirmish we had was on the day you arrived and that was Alexis’ doing. Our spies have been quiet of late. All they speak of are gatherings of villages and the strange disappearances of some of their people. They say that their leaders are waiting for something. Then, without warning, this Elder Qelvin arrives at our gates.”

They left the guest section of the palace grounds and arrived in front of the gates where the rest of the family was gathering in preparation to lead the funeral procession.

“Do you think this merman ambassador is merely a stalling tactic?” Justan suggested as the thought occurred to him. “To keep you mired down in negotiations so that your forces don’t strike until they can gather strength?”

“Perhaps, but . . .” Xedrion waved a weary hand. “Enough talk of the Roo-Dan. Today we have a friend to say goodbye to and an assassin to kill. We can worry about the treachery of our savage cousins tomorrow.”

A short time later, the procession started out from the gates and headed down the main road. They were led by a score of the finest elf-trained guards, followed by the highest ranked members of the six Roo-Tan families living in Roo-Tan’lan. Xedrion and his wives came next, followed by his children and their families.

Jhonate walked next to Justan and his bonded at the tail end of the Leeths family and just before the bulk of the military leaders. Jhonate held his hand and Justan realized that she had been right about her father’s feelings towards him. The fact that he was allowed to walk with the rest of the protector’s family was proof enough.

“I do not like this,” Deathclaw complained as he did every time they entered the city proper. He was receiving a large number of open looks from the solemn crowds, but it was more than that this time. Justan sensed added stress to his thoughts. There are too many possible threats. The nightbeast could attack now and it would be very difficult to protect you.

Lots of smells, Gwyrtha agreed.

Justan looked out at the crowd with a new, chilling, perspective. He hadn’t considered that Vahn might strike during the procession on the way to the funeral. The more he thought about it, the more tempting a target it seemed. If Vahn did know about Xedrion’s plans, this would be the easiest time to do it. How spectacular would it be to kill Justan at this point, right in the middle of the Leeths family and in front of hundreds of spectators?

Just keep as alert as you can, Justan said, feeling terribly exposed. He still doubted that Vahn would decide on arrows shot from afar, but was suddenly grateful for the protection of the vest he was wearing. Perhaps he should have taken Jhonate up on her offer to wear the protective ring. He shrugged off the thought. He was a named warrior and bonding wizard with a powerful set of weapons and skills. This was not the kind of battle he had been trained to fight, but fear was unbecoming.

Do not worry, great grandson, said a cool soft voice. We can protect you for a short time.

Artemus? You are aware today? Justan asked, feeling a sense of relief. With the Scralag’s ice magic available, there would be little Vahn could do. Justan doubted that the nightbeast knew of the elemental’s power.

The wizard’s battle for control over the elemental within him had been marred with its own series of ups and downs over the last several weeks. The nights were the best times to try. After he was finished speaking with Fist, Justan was usually able to coax Artemus out to talk. Sometimes, Artemus was coherent hours at a time, but then something would happen between him and the elemental and Artemus would be silent for days.

We have an agreement in place, Justan, said Artemus’ weathered voice. The elemental and I will help to protect you against this assassin. After all, an end to you would be an end to both of us. However, I should warn you that I fear that the elemental will break our agreement once you are close to the grove. It’s hatred of the magic of the trees is too strong.

I understand, Justan said. Thank you, great grandfather.

That is good, Gwyrtha said, feeling a sense of relief.

Deathclaw wasn’t as impressed. I do not trust that thing. It is too wild for the likes of one old man to control.

You may be right, dragon, replied Artemus to Justan’s surprise. This was the first time he had spoken to one of Justan’s other bonded directly. I will depend on you to help Justan if I should lose my grip.

Deathclaw nodded, attempting unsuccessfully to hide his own surprise. This was my plan.

Me too, Gwyrtha agreed.

Jhonate watched them with searching eyes, unable to completely follow the conversation through the ring’s connection. “The Scralag is with us?”

“For now,” Justan replied. “Though let’s hope he’s not needed.”

Justan’s hope was that his initial assessment of the nightbeast was correct and that Vahn’s pride wouldn’t allow him to strike early. Surely the fact that so many precautions had been made during the funeral would make it a challenge he could not resist.

This nightbeast is a prideful creature, is it? said Artemus thoughtfully.

Yes, Justan said. I don’t know a lot else about him other than that he is over 1500 years old.

Pride is a common weakness, but one a creature as old as this should have learned to overcome by now. I wonder why it still lives?

The further they made it through the city, the more confident Justan got that he had been right about Vahn’s intentions. They made it through the marketplace without incident and soon arrived at the blood testing stations set at all the routes into the grove.

These tests were designed by Xedrion years ago specifically to weed out basilisks. Nightbeasts, like basilisks, did not have blood in the same way as the other species. Their entire body composition was made up of a changeable plasma. Basilisks would not be able to duplicate the consistency of blood. If a nightbeast was able to manage to change some of their plasma to the consistency of blood in order to fool the test, that blood would turn to stone a few seconds after being separated from the rest of its body.

Each station consisted of two Roo-Tan guards and one elf. The elf carried a small Jharro wood knife and a jar of Jharro tree sap. As each person came to the station the elf would pinch the skin of their forearm and make a tiny cut with his knife. A sample of blood would be tested and the elf would smear a dab of sap over the wound. The powerful magic in the sap would stop the bleeding immediately and heal it within minutes.

The procession was slowed down considerably at this point as everyone had to wait for their turn to be tested. Several high ranking members questioned this at first, not being privy to the nightbeast’s threats, until Xedrion stepped up and did it himself. Things went faster after that and soon it was Justan’s turn.

The elf was a young looking female with smooth dark skin. Like the rest of the elves that worked with the Jharro trees every day, her head was hairless. She pinched Justan’s arm and cut him quickly. The Jharro sap tingled as she put it on and the scent of it wafted up, filling Justan’s nose with the heady scent of the grove. He immediately felt a stirring within the frost rune and held his arm out away from his nose.

Be careful, whispered Artemus, his voice strained as he worked to control the Scralag. That scent . . .

Hold on, Justan replied. There is still a short trip ahead before we get to the grove.

Deathclaw was next in line. The elf had some difficulty cutting through his scaled skin, slicing twice to no effect. Deathclaw rolled his eyes. The raptoid lashed out with one sharp claw, cutting a deep gash in his own arm. Blood dribbled onto the ground. “Is that enough, elf?”

The two human guards winced, but the elf’s reaction was unexpected. She laughed and clicked, “You are a funny lizard!” Deathclaw didn’t understand her words, but let out a hissing laugh of his own, pleased that someone understood his humor. It took more than a small dab for the elf to cover his wound, though the raptoid’s body had already stopped the bleeding on its own.

The journey through the forest to get to the grove was a relatively quiet one. Even though it had been a month since Yntri’s death, the mood was solemn. Only a few of the Roo-Tan held conversations above a murmur and those were soon quelled by the shushings of their neighbors. The silence increased and by the time they had arrived at the grove, the intoxicatingly sacred nature of the place combined with it to form an almost tangible weight over them.

Justan reached out to say goodbye to his grandfather then and found that Artemus had already been forced to retreat back into the rune.

The procession moved to the center of the trees and stood among the wide interlocking roots where the funeral would take place. The elves soon appeared, most of them watching from the tree limbs high above or stepping right out of the tree trunks to perch on suddenly formed ledges. The humans milled quietly about for a bit while they waited for direction to come.

Surrounded by the ancient trees, Justan was overwhelmingly aware of just how great a loss Yntri Yni’s death had been. He could feel Jhonate’s sorrow. She had been one of the elf’s pupils. The wise old elf had been the caretaker and defender of this place for two thousand years. He had also been the one to shepherd the Roo-Tan, teaching them the ways of the trees and training hundreds of their young warriors.

“Good afternoon,” Beth said loudly, walking up to them. She was wearing a green lace bodice and a long flowing pair of white baggy trousers with multiple pleats. To Justan it looked like she had taken a fine dress and had split it down the middle, then sewn it back up to make trouser legs. “My, but you all look glum.”

“Listener,” Jhonate replied in a hushed voice, giving her a meaningful look.

“What? Do you think if Yntri was here, he’d be moping around all quiet?” Beth snorted. “No. He’d be walking around clicking at everybody, maybe even clamping his head down on some woman’s chest.”

Jhonate’s face reddened and she looked as if she were about to give the witch an angry retort, but Tolynn arrived. The elf’s body was covered chin-to ankles in seamless Jharro wood that flowed and moved with her

Yntri’s widow placed a hand on Jhonate’s shoulder and smiled as she clicked, “Beth is probably right. Yntri was always loyal to me, but he did prefer to ‘listen’ to the voluptuous ones.”

The elf woman then gestured and one of the great tree roots beneath her feet rose past the others, lifting her high enough that all could see her. Once she was sure that she had everyone’s attention, she announced in a heavily accented version of the common tongue, “My dear husband never chose to speak in the language of men. He always said that this was because our mouths were not made to speak it. I told him he was just lazy. Then I decided to learn to speak it myself just to prove it to him.”

There was a smattering of laughs among the crowd, most of them coming from the elves, who better understood the joke. She continued, “In honor of my husband, we have decided to change venue. We will continue in the garden, one of Yntri’s favorite places in the grove. Please, follow me.”

The root lowered back into its usual place and Tolynn led them towards the eastern side of the grove. There was a bit of mumbling at the highly unordinary change, but everyone followed.

While the commotion was going on, Hilt walked up to Justan, a grin on his face. “So that’s Xedrion’s little surprise. Move the funeral at the last minute.”

Justan nodded. “I like it. Any plans Vahn had to attack from this place have just been ruined. I hope he’s pulling out the parts of him pretending to be hair right now.”

Deathclaw cocked his head and looked around. “Where is Sherl-Ann?”

“We left her with friends,” Hilt replied.

Beth gave Deathclaw a wry smile. “Why? Did you want to hold her?”

“No!” Deathclaw scoffed. “I was merely concerned in case the nightbeast attacked at the funeral today.”

“How sweet,” Beth said, patting the raptoid’s cheek. “When I see her tonight, I’ll make sure and tell her how much her Uncle Deathclaw missed her.”

Deathclaw turned away, grumbling, “As if I would miss a human whelp.”

They followed the rest of the crowd towards the gardens. It was a fascinating area of the grove, one that Justan had only visited once so far. In this place, rich black soil covered the surface of the Jharro roots and fruits and vegetables of multiple exotic and colorful varieties were grown.

As the people arrived, the ground began to move. Somehow without unearthing the delicate plants, the roots of the Jharro trees lifted and moved, carrying wide sections of soil away to make room for the funeral party. The roots then shifted and morphed, forming a terraced half-circle amphitheater. The elves then directed the humans where to stand.

Justan watched the whole scene with amazement. He had no idea how the nightbeast was going to stage an attack in this place. There was nowhere for his basilisks to hide. The elves were stationed all over the place and they knew how to sniff a basilisk out from far away. Even if Vahn was somehow able to sneak in alone and find a way to attack Justan, how would he escape? Every surface in this place was part of a Jharro tree controlled by the mind of an elf.

Justan began to worry that they had perhaps taken too many precautions. If the security was too tight, Vahn might take the wise course and bide his time. Their best chance to trap him might be lost.

What do you think, Gwyrtha? he sent. The rogue horse had been completely silent ever since they entered the grove. She was deep in concentration, her senses extended to their limits. Have you smelled anything?

Just the trees, she replied, her thoughts feeling a bit intoxicated by the power of the grove’s magic. They smell good.

Tolynn moved to the base of the tree facing the amphitheater and Justan realized that this was his tree. He hadn’t been aware that the back side of it faced the garden.

A platform appeared in the side of the tree and the ancient elf woman stepped onto it. Another elf walked up to stand beside her. He was Yntri Yni’s grandson, Kyrn, descended from Yntri’s first wife. Kyrn looked much like his grandfather. He had the same wiry build and the same dark shade of skin, though his skin didn’t hang quite as loose on his frame.

Tolynn gestured and a low mumble came from the crowd on the far side of the amphitheater. Justan had to crane his neck to see what the fuss was about. Walking around the edge of the assembled people, carrying the body of Yntri Yni wrapped in Jharro leaves, was the prophet himself.

Chapter Twenty One

Justan looked at Jhonate. “Did you know the Prophet was coming?”

She shook her head. “Father didn’t even know. It wasn’t part of the plans.”

Justan chewed his lip. Any unexpected visitors were suspicious today. Gwyrtha?

That is John, she confirmed happily and Justan’s shoulders slumped with relief. It was comforting to know that the Prophet was here,

John joined Tolynn and Kyrn on the platform and gently lowered Yntri’s body at his wife’s feet.

Tolynn then spoke, “The Prophet has a few things he would like to tell us.”

John then stepped forward and addressed the assembled crowd of humans and ancient elves. When he spoke, his voice was heard equally by all.

“Yntri Yni is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I met him the week after he was born and I gave him to the very tree we stand before today. Yntri grew strong and wise and fierce. He was a father, a teacher, and a warrior. Without his dedication and constant sacrifice, this sacred place would have been destroyed long ago. Likely that would have meant the darkness and decline of this entire world.”

He gave them all a sad smile. “Yntri’s knowledge and wisdom is imbued in this place and in the spirit of the Roo-Tan nation. Today, his soul will pass on to the next world, but his thoughts and teachings will live on in the hearts and minds of the people he taught and more personally, in the mind of his grandson, Kyrn, who is today, the new treemaster of this tree.”

The Prophet stepped back and Tolyn raised her hands. Softly, she began a murmuring chant in the language of her people. The chant had a rhythmic melody to it that was at the same time mournful and full of joy. The song was gradually taken up by all of the assembled elves, their voices melding together in a blend of harmonies, their accented clicks and whistles providing the accompaniment and percussion.

Justan recognized many elements of the music as being similar to the song Antyni had sung at Qyxal’s funeral. While the song rolled on, Kyrn knelt by the wrapped form of his grandfather and peeled back the leaves that covered Yntri’s wizened face. Kyrn opened a small jar of oil and began to trace a pattern on Yntri’s skin.

The song grew in volume and tempo and with his spirit sight, Justan saw the white form of Yntri’s soul rise from the old elf’s forehead. Kyrn closed his eyes and a wisp of whiteness reached out from his head to intertwine with Yntri’s. The song increased to a triumphant climax and Yntri’s spirit left his body to join with Kyrn’s.

The air grew completely silent and Kyrn stood from his grandfather’s body. He turned to face Tolynn and touched his forehead to hers. Tears streamed down her face and he kissed her gently on each cheek before turning to face the crowd.

Kyrn clicked to them in the ancient elf language, “My grandfather has joined with me now. He has only a short time with us, but would like to speak with many of you.”

Justan expected him then to walk into the crowd and speak to people individually as Antyni had done, but instead, the elf simply reached out one arm. A hundred white strings of spirit magic sprung from his hand and connected to the minds of those he wished to speak to. Justan felt a slight shock as the bond was penetrated just enough for Kyrn’s spirit, boosted by the power of his grandfathers, to touch his mind.

Sir Edge, my grandfather wishes you to know that you are not to blame for his death. He was overconfident and let down his guard. This is one of the problems with being so old, he says.

Please tell him that I am grateful for his teachings and I want him to know that I will do everything in my power to help protect the grove, Justan replied.

There is one more thing, Kyrn said. Yntri has felt the presence of flesh changers nearby. He says the nightbeast is waiting. He asks you to survive this. He needs you to help temper his muskrat.

Then Kyrn’s communication was gone. Justan swallowed. That confirmed it. Today really would be the day Vahn came for him. He looked at Jhonate to find that she was looking back at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

He told me to watch over you, she sent, squeezing his hand. He said that you were my bowman.

Justan smiled back at her. He said that he needed me to temper his muskrat.

A laugh came unbidden to her lips. He told me that he gave me that nickname to humble me.

Yntri’s moment of communication ended. Kyrn slumped to the platform, his burst of magic spent. As if in anticipation, the wood beneath him rose to catch the elf gently and carry him to the side.

The Prophet stepped forward and picked up Yntri’s body. An opening appeared in the trunk of the tree and once again, as he had done when Yntri was a baby, John placed the elf inside the tree. The trunk closed around him and Yntri was gone. The elven portion of the funeral was done.

The roots beneath the feet of the crowd shifted. The ground leveled out beneath their feet and the roots formed a flat surface with raised root benches all along the sides. Xedrion sent orders out through the rings and crates of food were brought in along with a wagon loaded down with wine jars.

Justan’s eyes widened. When Xedrion had instructed his servant to have twelve jars sent, Justan had assumed that the protector had meant regular sized jars. The ceramic jars on the wagon were as tall as a man and just as wide, with huge lids. The jars had been numbered in order and the first one was unloaded from the wagon and the seal was broken. Earthen mugs were passed out and filled with a large ladle lowered into the jar.

“They really expect us all to get drunk,” Justan observed.

Deathclaw hissed in derision. Humans.

“This is . . . father’s way,” Jhonate said, mirroring the same derision in her voice. “It is Roo tradition. He says that the only good time for drinking is after a battle or during a funeral.”

Thus the human portion of the funeral began. Everyone received one mug of wine. In order to receive a refill to their mug, each guest had to give a short speech about the deceased. Xedrion started it off, dedicating the seventy-year-old wine to celebrate the seventy years he had known the elf and telling several tales of Yntri’s bravery.

In the meantime, a second jar was unloaded and carted to the side where the elves could come down from their perches in the trees to partake of it freely, no speeches required.

The speeches started off a bit slow, some of them long and drawn out, but they got faster as time went on and people grew impatient for a refill. After the last of Yntri’s close pupils had spoken, Xedrion lifted the restriction and the real drinking began. Two more barrels had already been unloaded and elves and humans alike were just staring to get tipsy. Justan started to think that maybe all twelve jars were going to be needed after all.

Justan took a mug, but abstained from drinking. Justan’s only experience with alcohol had been horrible and he couldn’t allow his reflexes to be slowed one bit. Besides, the stuff smelled strongly of rotten bananas. Hilt assured him that bananas were only one of the many fruits used in this type of wine, but Justan didn’t care at that point.

Jhonate didn’t drink either and Justan was well aware of a core group that were, like him, just carrying their mugs and keeping alert. These were the people that were part of the group watching for the nightbeast. Xedrion, who had made a show of downing his first mug, now just lightly sipped his second, his mind bent on the information coming in from the five rings he wore.

Justan had to give Xedrion credit for his tactical planning. He had made attacking during the elven ceremony insanely difficult, allowing Yntri to be given back to his tree in peace. Now he was letting it seem as if security had slipped. People were getting louder and more inebriated by the minute. If the nightbeast was still going to strike, this was the ideal time to do it.

There was a distinct pattern to the security. Dispersed amongst the crowd were a ring of sober men looking into the grove beyond them. There were also a large number of elves sitting silently in the trees watching, some of them embedded into the wood until only their face emerged. Hilt, Beth and Jhonate stuck closest to him, while Deathclaw and Gwyrtha generally prowled about, the raptoid in the trees above and the rogue horse on the ground below.

Justan kept an eye out for the Prophet. The man had disappeared soon after the first jar of wine was opened. Kyrn was gone too, so Justan figured that he was somewhere talking to the elf. Justan really wanted to talk to him, but he couldn’t leave the group. Not when Vahn was somewhere out there, waiting.

Soon, the first four jars had been completely emptied and two more were unloaded from the wagon. When the lid of  the next jar was removed, the man holding it grabbed his nose. “We got a bad one here.”

Xedrion frowned. “What a waste. Move on to the next.”

Gwyrtha’s head raised suddenly. Smell!

Justan’s hackles rose as the smell hit his sensitive nose; a harsh chemical tone mixed with an underlying beastly jumble as if the wine contained the scent of a hundred different animals rolled into one.

Basilisk! cried Deathclaw and Gwyrtha at once, recognizing the smell from Justan’s memories.

Tolynn smelled it too. “A flesh changer! In the jar!”

Justan reached for his swords, willing the world to slow around him. So that was Vahn’s plan; seal his basilisks away in jars so that they couldn’t be detected until it was too late. Even worse, this creature had that same acidic smell as the one that had exploded on the road to the Mage School.

A lot of things happened at once. A set of claw-like appendages shot out of the open jar, gashing the neck of the man that had opened it. Stunned gasps echoed through everyone in Xedrion’s network of rings. Orders were shouted out.

More appendages spewed from the jar, forming a tangle of hairy limbs like claw-tipped spider’s legs. These limbs planted themselves into the ground and the basilisk lifted itself out of the jar, the remaining part of its body shaped like the torso of one of Yntri’s people, dangling down under the legs.

To everyone’s credit, they acted swiftly. The crowd of mourners, no matter how tipsy, were Roo-Tan, most of them warriors. They grabbed the bleeding man and backed away, making room for the guards to attack. The first arrow struck the creature within seconds.

Justan expected the beast to come for him, but it had other orders. The upside-down spider-elf thing then began to climb aboard the wagon, its entire body glistening wet as it reached for the lids of the other jars. Justan understood. Vahn’s other basilisks were trapped, sealed away inside containers meant to hold the pressure of years-long fermentation. They couldn’t get out on their own.

Xedrion saw that too. “Don’t let it open those jars!”

There was no hesitation. Arrows filled the air, fired by Roo-Tan archers and elves alike. The basilisk staggered, hit with dozens of arrows at once. Its body shifted, many of its legs lifting to form a shield of sorts while it pried at one lid.

The arrows didn’t really hurt the creature. It only had one weak spot, its brain, and the basilisk could shift the position of its brain anywhere in its body. The odds of striking that point were low, but it only took one lucky shot.

The acidic smell grew. White foam was bubbling where each arrow had struck it. Justan warned his bonded to stay back and cried out. “Wait! It’ll explode.”

Xedrion knew what this meant. When the tale of the exploding basilisk that had nearly killed Jhonate along the journey to Malaroo had reached his ears, the protector had taken the information to the elves. Evidently this hadn’t been the first occurrence.

If the contractor was willing to pay a bounty high enough, a nightbeast could command a basilisk to drink a certain chemical that intermixed with its body chemistry, making it very ill. If the creature were to die while in this state, the process of turning to stone would set off a chain reaction.

Xedrion cursed and held out his fist, commanding the archers to stop. But he was too late. One well-aimed arrow struck the hanging torso of the basilisk just as it managed to pry the first lid open. The arrowhead pierced the hidden brain of the beast.

“Get down!” Justan shouted and dove for Jhonate as he watched the transformation take place. The basilisk jerked. Then its body began to harden. A spider web network of cracks appeared in its flesh. Flames appeared in the cracks.

Justan tackled Jhonate, at the same time instinctively throwing up a shield of air magic around them.

A violent explosion filled the quiet of the grove. The people too close to the epicenter were tossed like rag dolls. Everyone else was simply thrown to the ground. The wine jars and the wagon beneath them were shattered by the blast. Pieces of shrapnel were hurled through the grove, striking any of those unlucky enough to be in their path.

Justan’s shield absorbed most of the shockwave, but he and Jhonate tumbled into the side of a large Jharro root and he felt something heavy strike him in the back. He opened his eyes and looked down into Jhonate’s shocked face. She was pinned underneath him. “Are you alright?”

“Father,” she said in a panic. “Justan, he was standing close. I saw the blast hit him.”

Justan looked over at the place where the wagon had been. Most of it was gone. The parts that remained were burning. Shards of pottery were sticking out of trees. Bloodied forms littered the ground. Huge Jharro leaves were fluttering down from above. He didn’t see the Protector of the Grove.

Justan tried to get up off of Jhonate, but the heavy thing that had struck him was still lying across his back, pinning him down. Jhonate’s mouth opened in shock and Justan twisted and looked over his shoulder. Half of a wine jar was on top of him, a jagged piece of it wedged into the Jharro root behind him. Cupped in the remains of the jar was a black amorphous form, like a half-melted mix of insect and bird.

The basilisk was alive, but stunned. Large pieces of it had been blasted away in the explosion. It moved groggily, but Justan was sure that it wouldn’t take long for the thing to recognize him as its target. Thankfully this one didn’t give off that caustic chemical smell.

Deathclaw! Gwyrtha! Justan squirmed, trying to get out from under it. “Jhonate, help me push!”

He arched his back and she shoved against his chest, but all they managed to do was rock the thing a little. That was enough to get the basilisk’s attention. A bird-like head formed in its flesh, stretching out on a curving neck. Justan could see it reflected in Jhonate’s horrified eyes as it hovered above his unprotected head.

Coming, said Gwyrtha numbly. She had been hurled a good distance and slammed into a tree. Justan didn’t think she was too badly hurt, but he had no time to make sure. The basilisk reared back, its beak hardening as it prepared to strike.

“Don’t move!” shouted a voice and Justan looked over to see Beth standing not far away. Her hair was disheveled, her blouse torn, but she had her viper bow in hand. Justan didn’t see how that would help. Her quiver was empty, her arrows knocked lose during the explosion.

With her free hand, Beth pulled her Jharro dagger from its sheath at her waist. It transformed in her hands, taking the shape of an arrow and in one smooth motion, she fitted it to the string, drew back and fired. For an instant, Justan thought he saw the gray spirit of the snake coil around the arrow as it was released.

As the arrow sunk into the basilisk’s black center mass, the viper struck its soul, stunning the beast. At the same time Beth commanded the arrow to split and spread out, forming a network of root-like branches seeking out the basilisk’s fragile core. A few brief seconds later, the beast shuddered and began turning to stone.

I’m here, Gwyrtha said. The rogue horse put her shoulder against the pottery and together with Beth’s help, tore the shard free from the root. Justan stood on shaky legs. He felt bruised but nothing was broken. The magic of the two-chance vest was spent. Jhonate’s gift saved him from the full force of the impact.

“Thank you, Beth,” he said.

“No problem,” the witch replied, grasping the stubby end of the Jharro arrow that was protruding from the basilisk’s stone remains. It was taking a while for the wood to retract all its parts so that she could pull it free. “I’ve been wanting to try that trick anyway.”

People were starting to stir. Several of them cried out in pain. Those that could stand began filtering back into the garden, helping to tend to the wounded. Most of them were hurt themselves, many of them temporarily deafened by the blast, but they did the best they could.

“Father!” Jhonate shouted.

“He may not be able to hear you,” Justan said. She nodded and ran off in the direction she had last seen him.

Deathclaw! Justan shouted through the bond. The raptoid’s thoughts were muted. He had been up in one of the Jharro trees when the explosion happened and the bond told Justan that he was still up there.

Shouts rang out as two more black forms rose from the ground, taking nightmarish shapes. Justan drew his swords. Peace took away his pain and emotion while his mind whirred. There had been seven unopened jars. How many of them had contained basilisks and how many of them had survived the intensity of the blast?

Then Xedrion appeared. The protector, covered head-to-toe in segmented Jharro armor, charged into one of the basilisks. Blood was leaking from under his open-faced helmet, but if he was severely wounded he didn’t look it. His double-bladed staff was a blur, hacking at the basilisk’s many clawed limbs. Soon Jhonate was at her father’s side. Communicating via Jhonate’s ring, they worked in concert, cutting the basilisk apart piece-by-piece.

Justan ran for the remaining beast. I have this one, Gwyrtha. Make sure there are no remaining basilisks alive.

The basilisk saw his approach and turned to face him. A myriad of clawed arms sprouted from its torso. Justan was ready for it. Rage had been charging ever since Yntri’s death and was yearning to release its power.

He didn’t get the chance. Deathclaw plummeted from the branches high above and struck the beast, leading with his tail and sword. The force of his impact crumpled the basilisk to the ground. Its arms reached for the raptoid.

Justan arrived, and managed to slice a few of its limbs free before the beast shuddered. Deathclaw emerged from its hardening tangle of claws, clutching a pulsating pink lump of flesh in one hand. He tossed it to the side and sheathed his sword.

There was a garish wound in Deathclaw’s forehead caused by a piece of shrapnel, but he had somehow managed to cling to the branch up above until he had regained his senses.

Justan winced at the sight of it. “Let me heal you.”

“Do not waste your time,” Deathclaw hissed. “Stay alert. Last time the nightbeast struck it was right after a battle.” He crept away, sniffing the air, his senses alert in search of danger.

Jhonate returned, looking relieved. “Father is alright. Something struck his neck in the blast, but his armor protected him from the worst of it. The elves are seeing to his wound now.”

“And your mother?” Justan asked. He hadn’t seen the pregnant woman after the elven portion of the funeral.

“Mother is fine. She was napping in her palanquin when it happened. She would not have . . .” Jhonate’s voice trailed off and her hand rose to her mouth. She ran past Justan to the side of a Roo-Tan solder that lay on the ground, curled on his side. “Oh no. Please . . .” She moved closer, bending to look at his face and stumbled, her jaw trembling as she reached out to touch him. “Beltry.”

Justan’s heart lurched. Jhonate’s childhood friend, Beltry bin Hoon, the man who had taught him so much about using his Jharro weapon, lay glassy-eyed, his hands clutching at a large shard of pottery that protruded from his chest.

Justan grasped Jhonate’s shoulder. “Jhonate, I am so sorry.”

“Edge!” said Beth, jogging up to him. “Where is my husband?”

“I-I don’t know,” Justan said, realizing that he hadn’t seen Sir Hilt since the explosion.

“How could you not know? My knife says he should be right-.” Beth’s breath caught in her throat. She stooped down and picked something up from the ground. It was a leather necklace with a Jharro pendant hanging off the end. She straightened up, her eyes darting through the trees. A knowing scowl appeared on her face. “Ooh, he is going to be in so much trouble when I find him!”

Justan turned around, thinking to help her search for the named warrior, when he saw the Prophet at the edge of the gardens, tending to the wounded. Justan frowned and approached him. Where had he been this whole time?

The Prophet was crouching next to an elf woman who was lying in the rich black soil, thrown at the base of one of the trees by the force of the blast. The elf woman was groaning, her teeth clenched in pain as she looked up at the Prophet with pleading eyes. John put his hands on her head and whispered a few words and she calmed, falling to sleep.

“John, sir,” Justan said.

The Prophet sat back on his haunches and looked out over the scene. He rubbed his chin, his kind eyes sad. “She will survive. Unfortunately there are so many that I cannot help.” He reached down and gently patted the shoulder of an unmoving Roo-Tan warrior that was curled up next to the elf, then stood, mumbling something about, ‘losing major players’.

John! said Gwyrtha excitedly, coming up to nudge the man.

“Oh. Hello there, Gwyrtha,” the Prophet replied.

“John, where were you?” Justan pressed.

“I’m sorry for my absence, Sir Edge. My master called me away to tend to something. I returned as soon as I heard the blast.”

“You’re sorry for your absence?” Justan said. “People are dead here.”

Justan, Gwyrtha said, disapproving of Justan’s tone.

Justan sighed. “I’m not saying that it’s your fault, sir, but if you had stayed, you could have done something. People could have been saved.”

The Prophet’s eyes were pained. “It doesn’t work that way. I can only intervene in certain circumstances. There are rules.”

“Rules?” Justan scoffed. “What good is your power if you aren’t allowed to save those that are on your side? These people are elves that tend your master’s sacred grove and humans that defend the grove on your behalf!”

Justan! Gwyrtha said, this time with a tone of outrage. This is John.

I know. The moment that the words had left Justan’s mouth, he’d felt a surge of guilt. He knew that he was being unfair. In truth this was his own fault. These people had died because they were protecting him. It was just like Yntri all over again.

He waited for the Prophet to reprimand him, to point these same things out. But the man simply put his hand on Justan’s shoulder. “I understand why you would feel that way. It is one of my burdens. I wish I had time to explain it to you further, but I must leave.”

“Your leaving?” Justan said, his irritation rising again. “Now?”

“I am afraid so,” John said, his tone apologetic. “There is some place I have to be. It is urgent.”

“But . . . I have things I need to talk to you about. Things I need to ask you,” Justan said.

The Prophet sighed. “There just isn’t . . .” He cocked his head and nodded slowly. “Maybe I do have time. But you would have to come with me. Yes, I think that would be for the best. Follow me.”

He turned and headed out of the gardens, away from the destruction. Confused, Justan followed behind him. “Where are we going?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “Bring Gwyrtha along, if you would.”

Okay! the rogue horse said.

Justan frowned. He said that he had someplace to be and that it was urgent. How could he not be sure where it was yet?

Where are you going? Deathclaw asked. The raptoid was still prowling around the trees searching for a sign that the nightbeast was lurking nearby.

I have no idea, Justan replied.

*          *          *

Vahn watched Sir Edge and the Prophet from afar. The powerful telescopic eye that he had created zoomed in, but he was unable to read their lips. Sir Edge had his back to him, while the prophet’s lips were . . . blurry.

The nightbeast seethed. This whole operation had been a blunder. At every step, his preparations had proved lacking. First he had been forced to wait until his body’s core had healed; spending an agonizing week in his true form. After that, he had snuck into the palace to listen in on Xedrion’s planning. On two separate occasions he had been close enough to Sir Edge to slit his throat, a difficult thing to do with that rogue horse and dragon thing so close by. He had been tempted to kill the man there, but he had been patient.

That Xedrion bin Leeths was a clever tactician. His precautions were effective, his planning intricate. Vahn had found it a delicious challenge.

The most difficult part had been sneaking his basilisks into the grove. The elves were too alert, their senses tuned to the basilisks’ musk. Up to a few days ago he had still been unsure how he would accomplish it, but Xedrion’s request for the wine jars had been a perfect opportunity.

Luckily, the wine house had been one of Vahn’s hiding spots and he was already familiar with the comings and goings of the guards. He smuggled his basilisks inside the night before the funeral. The only difficult part had been disposing of eight jars full of wine without anyone noticing. In the end, he had emptied them into the city’s sewer system.

It had all seemed so perfect. It wasn’t until the procession reached the grove that things had started to go awry. First, the elf woman had changed the venue at the last moment, likely Xedrion’s idea. Vahn had scouted that area out several times, disguised as a Roo-Tan warrior. That had only been a minor disruption, though. He hadn’t planned to kill Sir Edge during the elven part of the ceremony. Yntri Yni had deserved that much respect at least.

Then the Prophet had shown up, further complicating things. Vahn had wanted to sneak down and break the seals on the jars before the human part of the ceremony started, but he had been forced to keep his distance, knowing that if he got too close, the ancient man would sense him. The Prophets were all annoying like that. Instead, Vahn had watched helplessly from afar, hoping that the Prophet would not sense the basilisks. But the Prophet had walked away before the jars were brought out.

Things fell apart after that. The humans opened one jar out of order, releasing the poisoned basilisk first. To its credit, it followed its instructions admirably, working to release its siblings from their jars, but the humans got lucky. Boom!

Vahn had laughed despite the crumbling of his plans. Five of the eight basilisks dead in one explosion, dozens of humans and elves downed. Oh, the chaos! His client would be well pleased.

For a moment he had thought the contract over. Sir Edge had fallen. Vahn hadn’t been able to kill him personally like he had hoped, but all in all not too bad, He had given the Roo-Tan people an event that they would not soon forget!

Then Sir Edge had risen unharmed, even helping to destroy the remaining basilisks. Vahn had been both disappointed and excited. There was still time to sneak in and kill the man during the chaos. He had been prepared to make his next move when Prophet had shown back up again.

That interfering fool! For a moment Vahn pondered the possibility of attempting to kill the old man. Would his client object? He wasn’t sure.

Better not to find out. He would have to go to his backup plan. He would wait until Sir Edge was on the road back to Roo-Tan’lan and kill him there. A tidy ending. A surprise crescendo at the end of a violent day.

Then, to his frustration, Sir Edge walked away. He left his fellow wounded humans and left at the Prophet’s side. How inconsiderate! He prepared to hop down from his perch and follow them.

“You have a fantastic view from up here,” said a human voice from below him, interrupting the nightbeast’s thoughts.

Vahn shut his telescopic eye and held still. His disguise was perfect. He was just another branch in the tree.

“You know, after that explosion happened, I thought to myself, if I were a nightbeast and I wanted to watch the proceedings, where would I be?”

The voice was male and had an aristocratic tone. Vahn tried to decide whether the man truly knew where he was or was just guessing. Very slowly, he created a small multifaceted eye in one of the knots in his perfect disguise. The man turned his head and looked right up at him.

It was one of his target’s allies, that Sir Hilt. Vahn had wondered where he had gone off to. The man hadn’t come out of that explosion unscathed. His clothes were blackened. His right side bloodied.

Sir Hilt continued, “I figured that if it were me, I wouldn’t want to try and hide in the grove itself. That would prove difficult. I couldn’t pretend to be part of a Jharro tree. An elf could notice. Or the tree itself might. No, I would want to get as close as I could while remaining outside. The sudden change of the funeral’s location would have limited my options.” He pointed at Vahn. “This was the only spot. A single tree at the top of the slope, just high enough to see down into the gardens.”

The man waited and when Vahn didn’t respond, he shrugged and drew his swords. “If you want to keep pretending, I could just cut you down from here.”

Vahn formed a mouth in the side of the branch. “Oh very well.” He dropped from the tree, beginning his transformation in mid air. He struck the ground and when he stood, he was wearing his favorite human form, that of a Roo-Tan soldier. This was the same form he had taken when killing Yntri Yni.

He smiled, showing the man a set of sharpened white teeth. It was a nonsensical addition, he knew, but Vahn found that little details like these were the things that humans found most terrifying. “You seem fairly confident, coming up here to confront me on your own.”

“I felt that this was best,” Hilt replied, showing no surprise at Vahn’s appearance. “That way no one else has to get involved. There’s no one for you to threaten or hold hostage so that you can get away.”

“Sensible,” Vahn replied. “But why would I choose to fight you? You are not part of my contract.”

“That didn’t stop you from killing Yntri Yni,” Hilt pointed out. “That didn’t stop you from hurting all those people in the grove.”

“Yes. A sad business, that,” Vahn replied. “The elf was in the way. Regrettable. As for the others . . .” he chuckled. “I asked my client about that. He said, ‘make it hurt’.”

“That sounds like an expensive contract,” Hilt said, his tone unruffled. “Who is this client of yours anyway?”

Vahn shook his head. “That would be unprofessional of me. Nightbeasts don’t give out information about our clients.”

“You already told me that it’s a he,” Hilt pointed out.

Vahn tried not to show his irritation. Why had he let that slip? This was indeed a bad day for him. “So I narrowed the list down to millions of males. You still haven’t told me why I should fight you.”

“For the challenge,” Hilt said, giving him a short bow and twirling his swords with a flourish.

Vahn laughed. “Sir Hilt, you’re wounded.” From the pattern of the blood it was likely the man’s hip that was damaged. “I could slip away from here easily. You couldn’t keep up.”

Hilt’s face hardened. “I’m a named warrior. You aren’t the first nightbeast I’ve faced. I killed the last one.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Vahn, This man had his interest piqued. “I didn’t know the fellow if that’s what you were hoping. But he was young and I have been away for awhile.” The nightbeast stuck out his hand and a sword began to grow out from his palm. “What is this really about? Are you here as Sir Hilt the named warrior trying to protect his pupil? Or are you George Slarr, son of a nobleman, still trying to prove himself? Hoping to add another beast of legend to the notches on your scabbard?”

“You have done your research,” Hilt said, his body in an attack stance. He began pacing around Vahn in a circle.

Vahn matched his movements, noting the man’s slight limp. “I thought it best to know about you. You’ve been in the way enough during this contract. Let’s see. What have I learned? You are Xedrion bin Leeths’ friend and confidant. You’re-.”

Hilt dove forward, sending his swords in a series of slicing and piercing attacks. Vahn parried them expertly, the sword that was an extension of his body as hard as the finest steel. Vahn was irked. He hated being interrupted.

Hilt slashed with his left sword. Vahn stepped back, letting it pass by harmlessly. Vahn’s sensitive eyes caught a flare of golden magic. A thin blade of air extended from the human’s sword tip, passing through Vahn’s wrist. The nightbeast’s hand, and the sword in it, fell to the ground.

“I know who I am,” Hilt said.

Vahn bent to pick up the severed extension of his flesh before it turned to stone. Hilt swiped with his sword’s again, this time sending out a gust of wind that knocked the nightbeast back. Vahn growled as his lost flesh petrified, becoming useless to him.

Hilt smiled. “My question is, who are you?”

Vahn simmered. He had underestimated the magic of the man’s swords. Most runed weapons were limited in their effectiveness, using their magic in the same way at all times. Somehow this Hilt had found a way to control the magic of his swords as he fought.

The loss of his flesh hadn’t hurt him, but it was an inconvenience. It would take his body time to regenerate what was gone. He caused both of his arms to elongate, taking the form of sword blades from the elbow down. It took quite a bit of concentration to keep that much of his body hardened to steel, but he wouldn’t need to do it for long.

“You bore me,” Vahn said, leaping towards the swordsman.

This time Vahn didn’t plan to let him have the opportunity to use his magic. He kept the named warrior on the defensive, swiping and stabbing with his heavy blades, forcing Hilt to block and parry.

Once again, the man surprised him, spinning and executing a sweeping parry that Vahn had never seen before, knocking both of the nightbeast’s sword blades to the side with one of his swords while following through with the other. Once again, there was a flash of gold and a deep wound split in Vahn’s side.

If Vahn had been any other type of creature, this would have been a fatal wound, spilling his guts on the ground. But Vahn didn’t have guts to spill and the slash didn’t come close to touching his vulnerable core. Still, the nightbeast considered his situation. This human had something he found difficult to match; gifted talent honed by decades of single-minded focus. Vahn had over 1500 years of sword fighting experience, but it had not been his sole endeavor.

Vahn could see that it was no longer wise to try to fight the man on his level. It was time to fight like a nightbeast. He leapt at the man, swiping his sword arms down in a powerful attack, forcing Hilt to block with both his swords high. At the same time, a spear-like talon sprung from Vahn’s side and plunged into the man’s injured hip.

Hilt grunted and Vahn swung his head down, bashing the man’s face and staggering him. Then the night beast knocked the man’s swords aside and sliced down, catching Hilt’s left wrist.

The man’s hand and sword fell useless to the ground. Hilt cried out and clutched his wounded arm to his chest, his right sword still gripped in his remaining hand.

“That, I believe, makes us even,” Vahn said. “However, I am not as rude as you. Here. Have your limb back.” The nightbeast speared the human’s severed hand with one of his swords and swept it up off of the ground, slinging it at the man.

Hilt let the hand bounce off his chest, his eyes fixed on the nightbeast in a tight glare. He pointed his remaining sword at Vahn and snarled. A blade of pure air shot forth from the tip, piercing through the center of Vahn’s chest and out the other side, striking deep into the tree behind him.

Vahn’s eyes widened. The blade had not hit his core, but it had come close, just a few inches below it. Once again, he was surprised by this man. Had Hilt known he had this ability? What length could he keep the blade at and how long could he keep it up? It was best not to find out.

The nightbeast’s right arm split, changing into the form of a wicked pincer. He grasped Hilt’s right wrist, keeping the man from moving his air blade further. He squeezed, but his pincer would not cut through the man’s wrist. He supposed that the naming rune was responsible for that. Shrugging, Vahn stepped in close and stabbed his other blade into Hilt’s belly.

“Y-you . . .” Hilt grunted. The blade of air dissipated and he dropped his sword.

Vahn grinned, enjoying the man’s pain. “I think you’ve earned the right to have your question answered. I’ll tell you who I am. My name is Vahn. Killer of a hundred nobles. Murderer of a dozen kings. Assassinator of a priestess, a handful of wizards, and an orc warlord. You, sir, are my third named warrior.”

The nightbeast chuckled. “You are probably wondering why you haven’t heard of me before. Well, my last official contract before taking this one was a thousand years ago. A coalition of royal families hired me to kill the Troll Queen. When I arrived-.”

“I really . . . don’t care,” Hilt interrupted.

Vahn’s smile faded. He slid his blade out of the man’s stomach and eased him to the ground. “Be still now, I missed your vital organs, but your intestines are perforated. Elven magic cannot heal this kind of wound, so this will be a slow death for you. I find it ironic that you chose to spend your final days here, in a country that forbids wizards.”

The nightbeast stood. “Consider it my parting gift. You will have time to say goodbye to your wife and daughter. If they can find you. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a target to track.”

Vahn saluted, then strode off into the forest, leaving the named warrior bleeding on the ground.

Chapter Twenty Two

Justan followed the Prophet to a part of the grove he had not seen before. The Jharro trees here were not as wide as the trees in the center, likely because they weren’t quite as ancient. This allowed other types of foliage to spread out between them, including some thriving berry bushes.

Justan had to increase his stride so that he could keep up. “Do you know where we’re going yet?”

“Almost,” the ancient man replied. “It will come to me.”

“Really?” Justan had a hard time fathoming that. “You spend your days wandering from place to place, not knowing where you’re headed?”

“That isn’t an entirely accurate way to put it,” the Prophet replied. “Although I don’t always understand the reasons why I am traveling from place to place, I don’t wander. There is always a sense of purpose to where I go.”

“I don’t understand,” Justan said.

“I have a large realm of responsibility. The human race is populous and wide spread and all of them go about making choices of their own free will. My job is to guide and shape them, protect them when I can, but I am just one person. There are too many variables and I have no way to know them all. So I have no choice but trust in the guidance of someone who can.”

“The Creator,” Justan said.

“Yes. My master. He directs me in several different ways, sometimes with wide visions showing me possible future events and other times with gentle promptings. Sometimes events occur at the same time. I have to pick and choose my spots; decide where my help will make the most difference.”

“That sounds like an impossible job,” Justan remarked.

“Overwhelmingly so,” John agreed. “The end result is that I usually have a main reason to go from place to place, something I am completely aware of, but things come up along the way that I don’t always see coming. Especially when major players are nearby.”

“Major players?” It wasn’t the first time Justan had heard the Prophet use that term. He had heard Beth use it as well.

Before he could ask about it further the Prophet came to a stop. He put his hands on his hips and exclaimed, “So there you are! I told you not to wander.”

Standing up from behind a large berry bush was a huge cat. Not one of the great cats like a treecat or a desert lion, but an enormous house cat, its shoulders at the same height as Justan’s. Its fur was a thick mix of tan and orange and it had large blue eyes. As it stepped out of the bush towards them, Justan saw that, even more strangely, it had six legs and a chitinous tail that curved up behind it like a scorpion.

Steff! Gwyrtha exclaimed, bounding over to it. The cat squared up its shoulders and the two large beasts tackled each other, growling and clawing playfully.

“That’s a rogue horse,” Justan said, though if Gwyrtha hadn’t been so happy it would have been hard to tell. The only thing horse-like about it was its ears.

“Yes, I often use them as transportation,” the Prophet said. “There is no faster way to get to the places I need to be and it gets them out of the valley for awhile. Besides, they make for good company.”

It was at that point that Deathclaw caught up to them. The wound on his head looked much better already. “I was not yet able to find evidence of the nightbeast’s presence.” He saw Gwyrtha wrestling with the cat and reached for his sword hilt. “What is that . . . oh. One of those.”

“Ah! That makes sense now,” John announced suddenly, clapping his hands together. “I think I have figured out where we’re headed. Come, we must leave right away. It’s a good day’s journey away from here.”

Justan balked. He had thought this was a minor diversion. A quick walk. “But . . . I can’t just travel that far away right now.” He looked back towards the center of the grove. “Not without notice. Not with people in the grove lying there dead or dying because they were protecting me.”

The Prophet gave him an understanding look. “It is your choice, Edge, but the events of today are just the beginning of a much larger battle to come. I have a feeling that accompanying me to the place I go next may help you save many more lives in the future.”

Justan couldn’t argue with that. “But Vahn is still around here somewhere.”

“Do you wish to fight him here in the grove, now while all these people are in danger?” John asked. “Would it not be better to lead him away from this place?”

Justan groaned. “Ohh, Xedrion is going to be furious. Jhonate may well murder me.”

John laughed. “So tell them the Prophet said you should go. What can either of them say to that?”

Justan couldn’t argue with that either. “Alright.” Gwyrtha. Let’s go.

Yes! she said, excited. She gave Steff another playful swipe and came to Justan’s side. Ride!

“Where are we going?” Deathclaw asked.

John leapt onto Steff’s back. Her fur was so fluffy that his legs were barely visible. “He would need to ride with you, Edge. We’ll be keeping a tight pace and won’t be able to wait for him.”

“I can move fast enough,” Deathclaw replied. He didn’t like riding behind Justan. He thought it made him look ridiculous.

Justan had a sudden thought. “Deathclaw, I need you to stay behind.”

The raptoid narrowed his eyes. “Why is this?”

“Because Jhonate and Xedrion don’t know that I’m going. We don’t need them sending a search party or something.” Or just being terribly angry with me, he thought. “I need you to tell them why I’ve gone.”

“Just tell her through your ring,” Deathclaw replied.

“I tried. I can’t reach her from here,” Justan said. “Just tell Jhonate that I have gone somewhere with the Prophet.”

Deathclaw gurgled his displeasure. “Very well. But I am not staying behind. I will catch up to you.”

“I’d rather you stayed. Just in case they need to get a message to me,” Justan said.

“I would rather not,” the raptoid replied. “I am no messenger.”

“It’s time we left,” the Prophet reminded Justan.

Justan climbed onto Gwyrtha’s saddle. “Just consider it. You don’t have to stay at the palace. You could spend time with Beth and Sherl-Ann.”

Deathclaw hissed in irritation and turned away from them, before running back towards the gardens.

The Prophet directed Steff forward and the great cat-like creature headed southwest at a brisk trot. Justan would have thought that the second set of legs would get in her way, but the rogue horse’s gait seemed completely natural. Gwyrtha followed along behind them.

“You have done well with him,” John said, referring to Deathclaw. The Prophet didn’t raise his voice, but Justan found that he could hear him as if they were riding side by side. “When you consider where his life began, it is quite impressive.”

“Yeah, well we have our trials,” Justan replied hoping that whatever magic the Prophet was using to communicate with him went both ways. “I just try to be open with him and understand where he is coming from. He doesn’t often agree with my decisions.”

“And yet he stays with you,” the Prophet replied. “That isn’t always the case with the wilder ones.”

“You make it sound like this happens a lot,” Justan said, thinking of Coal’s bonding with old Honstule and Alfred’s bond with Charz.

“That’s part of the nature of the bond. A pairing requires mutual need and those that are most wild need a calming and steadying influence.” The Prophet sighed. “Unfortunately, people don’t always want the thing that they need. I could give you so many examples of times it hasn’t worked.”

They reached an area where there was a break in the Jharro canopy. The sky opened up to a sight that caused a smile to spread across Justan’s face. This was the newest section of the grove. Widely spaced rows of Jharro saplings, over a hundred strong, were planted here. Each one of them was the size of an apple tree. Justan thought that was an impressive growth rate for two years.

“This place brings joy to my heart,” the Prophet said, grinning widely. “Yntri gave Beth all the credit for finding the seeds, but this is his legacy. When I gave him the quest to bring life back to the grove, it was because he truly understood the trees. He knew what it was like to be ancient and worn out. He had also taught the humans for centuries and knew what it was like to have his life revitalized by an insurgence of youth. Yntri was the only one of his people that could have coaxed these seeds to grow.”

They passed very close to one of the saplings and a branch swept down, smacking Justan across the face. As it struck him, Justan’s mind was filled with melodic laughter.

The Prophet laughed along with it. “Be careful. These are children and much more lively than the adults.”

Justan was forced to duck low in the saddle to avoid being smacked again. He smiled at their playfulness. As soon as they passed the last sapling, Steff sped up. Her trot became a run. They left the grove, and began traveling through regular forest, or the Malaroo version of it anyway; lush and green and hot and humid.

The cat bounded over undergrowth and fallen logs and Gwyrtha followed suit. She felt a twinge of pain at each jolt and Justan realized that he had never gotten around to healing her after the explosion. He held tight to her mane and looked through the bond, checking her for injuries.

Sorry, girl, he said. Gwyrtha had been battered pretty good. There were no major injuries, but she had extensive bruising along her ribs. He set to work soothing her aches. Please, next time, tell me if you’re hurting.

I was fine, she said. Having fun now.

A short time later, they broke free of the forest and into the open fields on the outskirts of Roo-Tan’lan. They hit a road that ran south and west of the city and the rogue horses really picked up the pace.

They went from a run to a full on sprint, attaining speeds that no other land animal could match. Gwyrtha’s happiness surged through the bond. She and Justan had been limited in their riding time and this was the first time in a month that she had really been able to let loose. The rogue horse let out a roar, startling a field full of birds into flight.

“My, they are feeling sprightly, aren’t they?” John said.

Justan held tight to Gwyrtha’s mane and let her lead, his body moving with hers in a way that was only possible because of their extensive experience together. Justan looked up at the Prophet and saw that he was doing the same. “John, how long have you been riding her?”

“I just picked her up from the valley a few weeks back, but this isn’t the first time we’ve ridden together,” the Prophet replied, his voice easy to understand despite the wind whipping past Justan’s ears. “I’ve known Steff for centuries.”

Justan thought about that for a moment. “How many rogue horses are still left?”

“Not many,” John said sadly. “There are several with bonding wizards, but now that I have Steff with me there are only three left in the valley. Other than that, there were a few that managed to stay free on their own, but I discovered that one of them died recently.”

Justan felt a wave of sadness at the thought of the rogue horses dying out. “I don’t understand why Stardeon would create such a beautiful race, just to make them unable to procreate.”

“Stardeon’s priorities weren’t the same as yours or mine,” John said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have created them in the first place.”

The rogue horses continued throughout the afternoon, keeping up their manic pace. Justan’s legs and lower back began to ache and he was reminded of the beating that he himself had taken during the explosion. He was going to be very sore the next day.

As the sky began to darken, the Prophet pulled up at a stream to let the rogue horses drink. Justan slid down from Gwyrtha’s back and groaned, wondering how he was going to be able to continue. His whole body felt stiff. Was he going to have to try and hold onto Peace the whole way?

He was trying to think of the logistics of trying to hold on to his sword while Gwyrtha galloped at full speed when John walked up and placed a hand on his shoulder. Justan’s weariness instantly melted away.

He gave the Prophet a grateful smile. “What kind of magic did you just use on me?” He hadn’t felt the invasive tingle that came from elemental magic.

“What I just did would be considered blessing magic. I was able to tell your body that it was tougher than it thought and it believed me,” John replied. “Now get a drink. We still have a few hours ride ahead of us.”

Justan knelt by the stream and drank his fill, then closed his eyes and reached out to Deathclaw. How are things going? Is Jhonate upset with me?

The raptoid’s response was quick and unsettling. We just found Hilt. He fought the nightbeast on his own.

“He what?” Justan exclaimed aloud and through the bond. From Deathclaw’s tone Justan knew Hilt hadn’t won. He felt John’s hand grip on his shoulder again.

Hilt was close to death when we found him. The nightbeast cut off his hand and gave him a belly wound, Deathclaw replied. The elves are trying to help him now. He seems somewhat better, but I have smelled wounds like that before. It is not good.

The raptoid’s emotions were confused. He was feeling fear and sorrow in a way he hadn’t felt before. Justan knew that feeling. Deathclaw was already mourning his friend.

Poor Hilt, Gwyrtha said, listening in.

Justan tried to reassure Deathclaw. He’s not dead yet. Surely there is something the elves can do. Their magic can heal most anything,

The words felt hollow in his mind. Could the elves really heal a wound like that? Even if they could, they couldn’t reattach a hand. He tried to imagine how a warrior like Hilt would be able to handle life with one hand. The thought made him sick to his stomach. What Hilt needed was a wizard.

There is something else, Deathclaw said. Hilt cut a piece of his enemy free. The fool nightbeast left it behind.

A piece that had turned to stone? Deathclaw seemed excited by this, but Justan couldn’t understand why.

Yes, but there is a scent left behind in the stone, Deathclaw said. It is faint, but once I knew what to look for I also smelled it on a tree nearby.

Are you telling me you have a way to track him? Justan said.

Yes! Deathclaw replied. I have already followed it a short ways. He changes his sent often, taking on odors of things nearby. But always this trace odor remains.

Good! Hold on to that scent, but do not track him down on your own! Justan said.

Deathclaw glowered. Why? This Vahn will not be able to defeat me.

He defeated Hilt! Justan reminded him. Wait until I return and we will hunt him down together. You, Gwyrtha, and I.

Yes. We will track him, Gwyrtha agreed.

The scent may fade by then, Deathclaw said and Justan knew that he planned to do it alone anyway.

Listen. Please. Okay, if it has to be done now, go to Xedrion. Tell him what you have found. Let him get together a group of men to go with you.

I will think on it, Deathclaw replied.

Promise me! Justan demanded.

The raptoid hissed. Very well.

Justan dropped the connection and looked up at the Prophet. “You heard?”

John nodded, his brow twisted with concern.

“I have to go back,” Justan said. He stood up and walked to Gwyrtha’s side.

“How will that help?” John asked. “Can you heal Sir Hilt?”

“No,” Justan admitted. “But I can’t let Deathclaw go after Vahn alone.”

“He won’t be alone,” John assured him.

“So I should sit back and wait here safe with you while others are in danger?” Justan shook his head. “This is my fight!”

“Is it now?” John asked. “Did you start it?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. I don’t even know who sent him. But he is after me. That makes him my responsibility.” Justan jumped into Gwyrtha’s saddle.

The Prophet placed his hand on Justan’s leg. “Do you trust me?”

Justan gritted his teeth. Oh, how those words sounded like a trap. “Yes.”

“Then hear me,” John said. “The most effective place for you to be is where I’m going.”

Justan’s hands tightened on Gwyrtha’s mane. He wanted to ignore the Prophet’s words. He wanted to charge back to the grove and find that nightbeast and blast it to pieces.

You should listen to John, boy, said the dusty voice of Artemus, speaking up for the first time in hours. He knows best.

Justan let out a roar of impotent rage. “I’m tired of feeling useless!”

“Useless?” said the Prophet. “You?”

“Yes!” he said. “I have all these powers and abilities, but I rarely get to use them. Why? Because I know that fighting alone puts my bonded at risk. Deathclaw won’t let me forget it. Any time I want to do anything the least bit reckless, he complains until I back down.”

“I see,” John said, removing his hand from Justan’s leg. “This is about more than the nightbeast.”

“He’s just part of it,” Justan replied. “Even before that, my bonded were over protective.”

That’s because we love you, Gwyrtha said.

Justan ignored her. “Vahn being after me has just made it worse. Not only has Deathclaw been watching my every step, I’ve had others do it too. I’m a named warrior! I have powerful weapons and I have worked diligently to improve my skills. But what good are those skills? I have spent the last four weeks like a bird in a cage, surrounded by people trying to protect me.” His voice shook. “Then today, all I could do was watch them die.”

The moment Justan finished his tirade, he felt foolish once again. The feelings were real, but now that he had said them out loud, they seemed incredibly self-centered. He waited for the Prophet to reprimand him, but he didn’t get the response he expected.

“You have the burden of leadership,” John said. He snapped his fingers and Steff padded over to him. The rogue horse crouched while he climbed onto her furry back. “It’s a tale as old as the concept of having kings. When a warrior is exceptional enough, those around him put him into power. His life is given value. It is now his responsibility to lead those weaker than him and inevitably watch them die in his name. It’s an uncomfortable feeling for someone who knows they could fight just as well or better on their own. How do you think your father feels when danger comes and he has to stay back and send other men to fight it?”

Steff began trotting away. She hopped over the stream and Justan urged Gwyrtha to follow.

“Well . . . that’s different,” Justan said. “That’s his job. I’m sure father misses being on the front lines, sometimes. But it is his responsibility to oversee the battlefield. He knows that. He embraces it.”

The Prophet nodded. “That’s right. He understands the importance of his position. He knows that the way he can best serve his men is by finding the best tactical advantage for them to use. His men are looking to him for that help and he knows that if he were to go out there on the front lines and be killed, his whole army could fall apart.”

Justan frowned. “This isn’t quite the same thing as what I’m going through, tactically speaking. And the academy doesn’t usually function as an army-.”

“Don’t skip past the validity of my point,” John said, chuckling. “The burden of leadership is part of what it means to be a bonding wizard. Yes, you are formidable in your own right. That is a good thing. Your bonded need you to be able to fight with and for them. However, you have to look at the big picture. Your greatest power isn’t your skill. It isn’t the weapons you wield and it most definitely isn’t your name. Your greatest power is your ability to lead them.”

The Prophet paused for a moment to allow Justan to absorb that information. “Think on it. You are a bonding wizard because the Creator himself chose you. He saw these qualities inside of you. Not only did he see your tactical mind, he saw your open heart and your willingness to let others in.”

Justan winced at that last part.

It’s true! Gwyrtha said.

“That wasn’t the case when I was chosen,” Justan replied. “Before I bonded to Gwyrtha, I let no one in. I was self-centered and stubborn.”

“Nonsense! You were merely a teenager,” John said. “Why, you are still young. How old are you now?”

“I’ll be twenty one at the end of summer,” Justan said.

“Amazing. Think of where you are at that age! Dual-named and bonded to four powerful people,” the Prophet said. “It’s no wonder the people around you give your life value.”

Justan didn’t know how to respond to that logic.

“Understand, Edge, I don’t point this out to stroke your ego. I doubt you need that. But you should know your place in things,” John said. He looked up as he rode and closed his eyes. “Now be quiet for a while and think on what I said. I need to concentrate.”

Steff picked up speed and Gwyrtha followed suit. Soon, they were rushing through darkening skies. The land gradually sloped downwards and Justan could see a wide basin spreading out to the east of them, containing a multitude of streams and rivers. The whole area was shrouded in mist and highlighted by the pink light of the setting sun. Somewhere out there were the troll swamps, the ancestral lands of the Roo people.

But Justan didn’t spend too much time thinking about the scenery. He was brooding inwardly about what John had said regarding his purpose. He couldn’t refute the man’s insight. After all, he was the Prophet. Still, it hadn’t been what he wanted to hear.

Growing up, all Justan had wanted was to be a great warrior. He idolized powerful men who could single-handedly overcome great obstacles. Men like Sir Hilt.

Justan’s father was a man who, in his youth, was that exact ideal. Roaming the countryside, adventuring, defeating monsters and villains and building a reputation. Faldon had left that life behind when he had joined the academy. Now that Justan thought about it, that was when he had become a leader. No longer did he fight solo battles. He had become part of a team.

Currently Faldon trained special groups; small teams of highly trained fighters that, with a strong leader, could accomplish tasks that a large army or an individual warrior could not. Justan smiled in understanding. Those groups were much like his own.

We are better, Gwyrtha corrected.

They continued into the night, branching off onto roads seldom used. A bright moon had risen early, casting a soft blue glow over the lush wilderness. The throbbing rhythm of frogs and cicadas filled the air. Once the road became little more than an overgrown trail, John pulled Steff to a stop.

The Prophet slid down from the rogue horse’s back. “Steff and Gwyrtha will have to stay here. You and I will continue on foot.”

But why? Gwyrtha complained to Justan. I want to go with you.

Evidently Steff had similar complaints because John rolled his eyes. “This will give the two of you time to play together. Won’t that be fun? It has been years.”

The two rogue horses looked at each other and Steff got down close to the ground, squaring her shoulders. Okay! Gwyrtha said and darted to the side, avoiding the cat-like beast’s pounce.

“This way,” the Prophet said and led Justan into the trees.

“So we’re near our destination?” Justan asked, using the moonlight to pick his way through the undergrowth. This was good. If they were done quickly, he could head back with Gwyrtha and hopefully get to the grove before Deathclaw tracked Vahn down.

“Close,” John said. “Do you hear that sound?”

“Insects,” Justan replied.

“Beyond that,” John replied.

Justan paused a moment and listened closer, calling upon the enhancement to his senses that his bond with Deathclaw gave him. “Rushing water. A waterfall?”

“That is our destination,” John said. “I’m taking you to meet a man that very few humans have ever met.”

“A hermit?” Justan asked.

John laughed. “That is a valid description. His name is Matthew and he is one of the prophets.”

Chapter Twenty Three

“One of the prophets?” Justan asked, stumbling in the darkness. As far as he was aware, there were only two; John and the Dark Prophet. “Please tell me you are going to elaborate.”

“You will need to know in order to understand the coming events.” He started to climb over a fallen log, but stopped and turned to face Justan. “The things I am about to tell you are not common knowledge. They used to be, but truths are often lost to time. This particular truth is there for people who search hard enough to find it, but most of the histories are incomplete.”

“Are you saying you want me to keep this secret?” Justan asked.

“I just want you to understand the importance of what I am about to tell you,” John replied. The moonlight gave his skin an otherworldly glow and as he continued, Justan could almost see the weight of the ages on the man. “When the Creator first called the prophets, the races were much smaller in number and wilder. They were constantly at war with one another and it was evident that, without guidance, some of them would not survive. The Creator decided that these people needed shepherds.

“There were four of us chosen by my master. I was given the responsibility to shepherd the race of man, with the secondary responsibility of caring for the sacred items and places in the land. Because man was the most populous and diverse race to deal with, he also gave me help in the form of the bonding wizards.

“David was given the task of shepherding the goblinoid races. They were less numerous than mankind, but aggressive and he was chosen because he was the one of us who was the most charismatic and best at diffusing anger.”

“Wait,” Justan interrupted. “Then David is the Dark Prophet?”

“He didn’t start out that way. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the Prophet said. “Matthew was the third of us chosen and his job was perhaps the most complicated. He was given responsibility over the blood magic races and the demon races. They were much smaller in number at the time, but very powerful and had the greatest potential to either grow numerous and conquer the world or die out altogether.”

“That’s a big job,” Justan observed. “Eight races for one man.”

The Prophet chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, Mathew was a very smart man and had fantastic organizational skills. I remember he came prepared that day. He had an elaborate plan for helping those races work together to form a full, well rounded society. It was a fantastic plan, by the way. I wish he had stuck to it.”

“What about the fourth prophet? What races were left?” Justan was trying to figure it out. Trolls? Giants and ogres maybe? It seemed like an unlikely pairing.

“The fourth? Well . . .” John looked uncomfortable. “She isn’t important for you to know about. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned her in the first place.”

He cleared his throat. “So the three of us went out into the known lands to fulfill our tasks. It went quite well, at first. David had the goblinoids talking. Matthew had his races working together. I was the one having the most difficulty, but this tale isn’t about me.

“The first century was a booming one for everyone. Then David started to struggle. He had found a way for the goblinoids to work together. It wasn’t perhaps the kindest solution, but they were a rough people. The problem he had was that they worked together a little too well. They took pride in who they were and sneered at the other races. They wanted to fight. They wanted to conquer. He struggled to keep them under control and they began fighting with the other races. His solution was understandable at the time, but it proved to be his ruin.”

“He became their god,” Justan realized.

“They called him the Barldag,” John said. “Which in their tongue meant, ‘Black God’. And his methods were so ruthless and terrible that the rest of the world came to know him as the Dark Prophet. The tale of his descent into that role is a long one and not what I wanted to talk about. Tonight, the discussion is about Matthew.

“Matthew held strong to his plan for a good while longer than David. The eight races were thriving under his plan. The one thing that was a constant source of frustration for them was that their races were simply incompatible.”

“Incompatible,” Justan said. “You mean they didn’t like each other.”

“No. That wasn’t the problem. They liked each other a great deal. The issue was that they were physically incompatible with each other. Unlike humans, who could have reproduced with all of the different races . . .” He frowned. “Well, except with perhaps dragons and bandhams. Just . . . the logistics of that are problematic. Anyway, the demon races and the blood magic races began to intermix anyway, pairing off, but unable to procreate outside of their individual races.

“This caused a lot of pain and divisiveness between their peoples. Their populations began to decline. Matthew, being a logically minded man, found the entire situation incredibly hard to deal with. For awhile, he outlawed interspecies pairings. This caused a revolt.”

“People will love who they love,” Justan said, thinking of Lenny and Bettie.

“Indeed,” the Prophet said. “He was forced to abandon that solution. Instead, he used his powers to increase the fertility of all his races. The result was that the females who married within their race were always pregnant. This stabilized the population issue, but caused its own problems as the regular couples and the interspecies couples resented each other.

“In the end, his solution was drastic. Matthew, tired of dealing with the emotional issues of the races in his charge, abandoned his plan altogether. He created a new plan, one which would keep all of the races under control and one which he could monitor far more easily. He split the races into six different kingdoms.”

“What about the dragons and bandhams?” Justan asked.

“I forgot to mention that,” John said. “Though their races were important and their magic crucial for balance, they were for the most part unintelligent and violent towards each other. He had sent them off into otherwise uninhabited parts of the land and had already been supervising their populations from a distance for years.”

“Oh.” Justan said. That actually made sense. He had been trying to figure out how they had fit into the equation.

The Prophet rubbed his chin. “Let’s see, where was I? Right, Matthew had split the races under his charge. At that point, he had a lot of backers among the leadership of the races. There was some clamoring and griping, but that faded after he gave all the mixed couples their own city.

“This didn’t stop all of his problems, however. People came to him with grievances daily and he began delegating more and more authority to the leaders of the different kingdoms, until one day, he abandoned his daily duties altogether and left, content to monitor them from afar. Eventually enmity between the races under his charge grew. Their societal structure broke down and the races split. The blood magic races and demon races began an ongoing cycle of hatred.”

John turned and looked in the direction of the waterfall. “This worked fine for Matthew. He was able to stop seeing them as people and start looking at them as numbers. He still does it today. For thousands of years, he has been sitting back and using his powers to monitor them from afar.”

“How does he do that?” Justan asks.

“He keeps a balance by controlling their fertility. He watches, using promptings from the master to make sure that no one race becomes too warlike. If they do so or if they try to use their powers to conquer, he decreases the fertility of their women. In extreme circumstances, he increases the fertility of their enemies and sends out a couple spies to encourage some fighting to get the offending race to heel.”

Justan grimaced. “I understand the tactical reasons behind such a system, but treating entire races like that . . . seems awfully cold.”

“It isn’t the way I would have done it,” John agreed. “So, most of the world has forgotten about Matthew. Even the races he has responsibility over have forgotten his name. They know him only as, The Stranger. As far as they are concerned, his purposes are cloaked in mystery.”

Justan rubbed his neck. Did he really want to meet this man? What purpose was this supposed to serve? “There is something about this that bothers me, John.”

The Prophet smiled. “I am not surprised. Go ahead. What is it?

“Your master, the Creator. Everything I know about him . . . he seems like a god of goodness,” Justan said hesitantly.

“He is,” John said.

“Then why does he let this go on?” Justan asked. “If the others are his servants like you are, then why does he allow the Dark Prophet and this man, the Stranger, to do the things they do?”

John sighed. “When the Creator gave us these responsibilities, he told us to shepherd the races. We were given freedom to do this in whatever way we thought best. Well every shepherd has different techniques. My master is patient and for the most part lets us work these things out. He doesn’t step in unless he senses that there is no other way. The Dark Prophet abandoned his responsibilities and he was punished. As for Matthew . . . Well, that is part of the reason we are here tonight.”

*          *          *

“Now stay in there until they’re gone,” Matthew said, closing and latching the basement door. He wished he’d had more warning that his visitors were coming, but then promptings had been slow to come lately. His servants didn’t like being locked away.

“Will you not need our help?” the first one asked.

“Not until they’re gone,” he replied.

“But I wasn’t done, master man!” the other servant complained. “I’m still huungry!”

He slammed his fist against the door. “Keep quiet! Just . . . play cards or something. I’ll let you know when you can come out.”

“Ooh! Cards!” He could hear the two of them climb down the steps.

Matthew, known by the blood magic races and the demons as the Stranger, walked back into his parlor. He pulled the stew pot out of the coals and stacked the servants’ bowls on the mantle. Then he threw a couple logs in and stoked the fire.

Malaroo was a hot country, but living in a cave dug into the side of a hill and behind a waterfall made his home cool all year round. Matthew enjoyed the cool except for in the evenings. Then a fire was always welcome.

He looked around the parlor, making sure it was presentable. Of course it was. Matthew was an orderly man, everything in its place. From the inside, you would never know that this was a cave. The floors and walls were all solid wood, hand polished. The ceiling had been carved into a mosaic design and painted so that it looked more like tilework than rock. He also had a small table, a comfortable couch and a lounge chair.

The Stranger moved his chair so that it faced the couch and sat down, pulling out his pipe. He was fond of this place. It had been his home for several centuries now and he could think of no reasons to move. He had everything he needed. Besides his cozy parlor, he had a lavish bedroom, an extensive library, a fully stocked kitchen, and a basement larder filled with enough food and wine that he could live there for a year without ever having to leave home.

He lit his pipe and waited for the knock that would come. This was a strange evening. He didn’t often have visitors. Not many knew where he was. Yet he was positive that he was going to have two separate visitations before the night was out.

The knock came moments later. He cleared his throat. “Come in, but leave your boots inside the door!”

The knob on the door twisted and the door opened. In walked his old friend John and a young man Matthew wasn’t familiar with. He was a strapping lad, tall and muscular. Powerful. This man was a champion and well armed, obviously one of John’s bonding wizards. Snakelike ropes of spirit magic leapt from the man’s chest, flicking around the room as if looking for something. That was going to be annoying. Matthew flexed his power and the man’s magic fled back into his chest.

“Matthew!” John said, stepping into the room and extending his hand.

“Boots!” the Stranger reminded, pointing with his pipe. He waited for them to take off their boots and set them by the door before motioning them in. He clasped John’s hand. He could feel the master’s approval radiating from the man. It was grating. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand up to greet you. I have had quite a tiresome day.”

“Of course,” John said, smiling kindly. He always smiled kindly, that one. To make it worse, it was hard to hate him for it because he was genuine. John walked over to the hearth. “My, this smells good. Is it your old stew recipe?”

“It’s a constant work in progress, you know that,” Matthew replied.

John lifted the lid. “My, but that is a lot of stew for one man.”

“I like leftovers,” Matthew said.

“Did you know we were coming?” asked the young man, looking at the two bowls stacked on the mantle.

Matthew repressed a wince, wishing he had taken the time to place the bowls in the kitchen. He hadn’t meant to seem this welcoming. “Of course I knew, young uh . . .” He motioned at the man. “Show me your rune.”

The young man held out the palm of his left hand and the back of his right hand. Matthew almost dropped his pipe. A twice-named. He read the runes. “Sir Edge, is it?”

“Uh, yes sir,” the young man said.

The master’s approval shone around this one too. Thank goodness the lad wasn’t too strikingly handsome or Matthew would have hated him. As it was, he was mostly curious. “Go ahead and grab a bowl if you’re hungry.”

“Why thank you, Matthew,” John said. “We have ridden hard most of the day to get here.” He picked up the bowls and looked inside them. “These bowls seem to have been used.”

“Oh right,” Matthew said, once again wishing he had known about the visit further in advance. “I was feeling particularly peckish tonight. The kitchen’s on the right. There are clean bowls and spoons in the cupboard. Just take those two bowls in with you. Leave them in the sink.”

John smiled and nodded and walked into the kitchen. Matthew returned his gaze to the young man. Sir Edge looked around uncomfortably for a moment before saying. “I like your home. It looks . . . cozy.”

“That it is,” Matthew replied, chewing the end of his pipe in contemplation. “You can have a seat. There’s a couch right there behind you.”

“Thank you,” the man said, sitting slowly on the edge of the seat. He was probably afraid to scoot back because of all the weapons strapped across his back. “Um, nice robes.”

Matthew looked down at his finely embroidered silk robes and noticed the furry slippers peaking out from the bottom of the hem. His face colored and he tucked his feet back under the robe. He scowled. “Well, I wasn’t expecting royalty!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense,” the young man said. “They are just really nice robes is all.”

To edge’s relief, the Prophet re-entered the room, two bowls in his hands. “So, Matthew, did you get, uh . . .” John’s eyes flickered towards the young man. “The packages I sent you?”

“Yes I did,” Matthew replied. Interesting. So John didn’t want this Sir Edge to know about his little gift. “They have their quirks, but I must say that they are the first useful things you have sent me in a while.”

“Good,” John said with a quick smile. He returned his attention to the young man. “You are in for a treat, Edge. Matthew is a wonderful cook. He looks at it like a science, you see. He is exacting in his measurements, blending in the perfect mix of ingredients.” He ladled out some of the thick stew into a bowl and handed it out to Edge. “What’s in it, this time, Matthew?”

“Yak and potatoes,” Matthew said, narrowing his eyes. John was acting even more polite than usual this time. Matthew leaned back and took a slow draw on his pipe, watching as the young Sir Edge took a hesitant bite.

Matthew took some pleasure in the way the bonding wizard’s eyes lit up. There was something about him that was hard not to like. Matthew wondered if that was why John had brought the man along.

“I must say that this is the best yak I’ve ever eaten,” Edge said.

“Amazing!” John added. “Every bite is like pure gravy.” The young man nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, well I didn’t feel like making bread tonight. I almost . . .” Matthew grew suddenly tired of the pretense. “Why the hell are you here, John?”

The Prophet didn’t even bat an eye at his exclamation. He bit into a particularly large chunk of meat. “Well.” He chewed a couple times. “You are under condemnation.”

“You think I hadn’t noticed?” Matthew snapped. His powers were still working, but he hadn’t received much guidance from the Creator in decades. The end result was that he was working blind. He had a couple of spies feeding him information and he had been weighing the races’ birth rates off of that. “He’ll forgive me. He always does.”

“That’s good to know.” John chewed a couple more times and swallowed. “Does that mean you plan on changing the way you’re doing things?”

“What do you mean? I have a process. It’s worked for ages.”

“Is that so?” John said. He took another bite. “Do you know what’s going on in Alberri right now?”

“I understand there is a scuffle between the dark wizards and the government,” Matthew replied. In fact he had a strong sense that it was worse than that. He just couldn’t see it.

John snorted. “A scuffle? It is full out war. Many influential gnome scholars have been killed.” He took another bite and pointed his spoon at Matthew. “I’m beginning to fear that you have a gnome warlord on your hands.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Matthew said, letting out a nervous laugh. He thought back over how many centuries it had been since the last occurrence. He’d have to do some calculations. Maybe another one was due. “I would know.”

“I’m here to serve you a warning, Stranger,” John said, causing Matthew to wince. John never called him that. “If you don’t modify your behavior, your condemnation could become worse.”

“That never happens,” Matthew said. “I’ll take a quick trip over to Alberri and clear this up and things will return to normal again.”

“It’s not going to be that easy for you this time,” the Prophet said, his tone turning deadly serious.

“Just a minute,” Matthew said, standing up out of his chair. “That’s a threat! What are you saying? Are you planning to come back and kill me like you did David?”

A look of pain flashed across John’s features. “That was different. Your crime is slothfulness. David didn’t just shirk his duty. He tried to become a god. He was going to conquer all the known lands if I didn’t stop him.”

“Come on, John. We are gods!” Matthew snapped. “So he crossed lines, meddled with the other races. You’re not so innocent of that yourself!”

John stood to face him. “You know there is no comparison. I have done nothing that the master would condemn me for. Also, David isn’t truly dead. You should know that too. He is searching for ways to inhabit a new body and it is only a matter of time before he succeeds. You need to get right with the master before he returns, because I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop him by myself this time.”

Matthew laughed bitterly. “I’ve never gotten involved in your squabbles before and I’m not about to start now. You two can beat each other bloody for eternity as far as I care! I stick to my own responsibilities,”

“Is that so?” John set his empty bowl on the mantle and Edge hurriedly stood to do the same. “Then why don’t you know about the army of demons marching here right now? Isn’t that something you’re supposed to prevent from happening?”

Matthew closed his eyes and reached out to his master, begging him for more information. What was going on that he couldn’t see? But there was no response. The Creator had turned his back on him.

“He never turns his back,” the Prophet said, sensing Matthew’s thoughts. He walked over and began pulling on his boots, motioning for Edge to follow suit. “Like I said, I am your warning. Not your first or your second. The Creator tried, but you ignored those. This is the last one you get.” He opened the door, allowing the sound of the waterfall to crash into the room.

“Wait. John,” Matthew said, reaching out towards his old friend. “How many demons are in this army?”

“Too many,” the Prophet replied and he walked out.

The Stranger stood in stunned silence for a few seconds before he realized that Sir Edge was still standing in the doorway. He blinked. “What is it?”

“I have a question,” the bonding wizard said. “What ever happened to that city of interspecies couples? Is it still around?”

“John told you about Finn’s Landing?” He chewed on the end of his pipe, his hand shaking. “They died out like I thought they would. It took awhile. My races live long lives, you know. The place has never been completely deserted, though. That kind of mixing never completely stopped. Last I checked, there were still folk living there.”

Sir Edge nodded slowly. “I hope you still have it in you to change,” he said, then left, shutting the door behind him.

Matthew stared at the door for quite some time, his mind calculating the odds that he could fix this. He chuckled. “You hope I can change, huh?”

He puffed on his pipe again, but discovered that it had guttered out. He shook his head and tapped out the ashes in the fireplace, then walked over and unlatched the basement door. His servants were standing there, waiting.

“You heard all that, I suppose,” he said.

“We heared,” said Durza, looking ridiculous as always in her frilly human dress. Today the gorc witch was wearing a blond wig and an unseemly amount of eye shadow. She wasn’t exactly within his realm of responsibility, but she was so useful that he hadn’t been able to turn her away. “You’s in trouble, master man?”

“Nothing that can’t be remedied,” he assured her.

“That wass John. The Prophetss,” said Talon from within the cowl of the black robe he had given her.

She was the most interesting of the two servants; a dragon broken and given intelligence by an evil human wizard. Talon had changed a lot in the last four months since showing up and begging him to fix her. Still she had a way to go.

“And Ssir Edge. He wantss to kill me.” She looked towards the door with a mix of unease and excitement. “Sshall I go to him? Let him killss me?”

“No, Talon,” Matthew said. “I have other duties for the two of you tonight.”

He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out one of the white orbs that the raptoid had given to him when she arrived. It was a powerful item of positive spirit magic and Matthew had been surprised that John had let her bring it to him.

He held it out to her. “Take this down to the village.”

“The one where the weirdies live?” Durza asked.

He sighed, but didn’t correct her. “That’s the place. I want you to put this on their altar.”

“There iss a thing there already,” Talon reminded. “A wooden ball.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied. “Don’t let them see you, but take that out and put this in its place. You can keep the wood ball thing if you want.”

“Why do I put this there?” Talon asked, reluctant to take the orb from him.

He found himself smiling. The raptoid always was the one to ask questions. “Just do it. I modified it a bit so that it will help keep those new kinds of trolls out of the village.”

“The squishy ones with cat heads?” Durza asked.

“They don’t all have catss headss,” Talon said.

“Those are the ones,” Matthew said, placing the orb in her taloned hand. “Just go now and hurry.” If his calculations were right, he could very soon lose his ability to protect the village on his own.

Talon put the orb away in her robe and walked towards the door. She stopped and looked back at him. She cocked her head and her cat-like eyes gleamed in the fire light. “They ssaid an armiess iss coming.”

“I will be fine,” he assured her. “Do me a favor and stay at the village for a few days. I want you to protect them just in case the orb can’t keep the stronger trolls out.”

She hissed and he knew that she had sensed the lie in his voice. But she didn’t question him this time. “Yess, Masster. Come Durza. We go.”

Once Matthew was sure that they had gone, he darted into the bedroom to remove his ridiculous slippers and change into attire that better fit his current plans. He selected his robes bound with the wolf spirit and his favorite road boots. He slipped a few things into hidden pockets within the robes, then returned to his parlor to refill his pipe.

Matthew sat and lit the pipe, his mind busily going through calculations as he waited for his next visitor. He had a feeling this visit wouldn’t be as pleasant.

Chapter Twenty Four

Justan followed the Prophet back to the rogue horses in silence, disturbed by the events of the evening. The Stranger had called the prophets gods and in a sense they were. They were immortals with enough power to influence or subjugate entire races. Yet at the same time, they were just men, imbued with the same personalities and foibles of everyone else.

Above the prophets, towering over everything, was this Creator. It was something that seemed so strange and foreign to him. Something so great that these three prophets called it master? A being so great and powerful that it had the ability to see and understand all?

Justan had never put much stock in religion. He knew a lot of people that believed in gods, and he didn’t discount their beliefs, but he had put his belief in the power of a person’s will. Even after meeting the Prophet and first hearing of the Creator, he had kept his mind focused on the kinds of things he could control.

Tonight his eyes had been opened and the world seemed a lot bigger now than it had been before. In this bigger world, his place seemed very small and that was a chilling thought. He thought about the Stranger’s attitude and the way he looked at the races under his charge. They were just numbers to him.

If someone like him could think that way, Justan wondered how much something as powerful and all seeing as the Creator could care about an individual man like him? Did his role as a bonding wizard give him any particular status or was he just a tool in the Creator’s arsenal, something that could be used up and replaced?

When they arrived back at the rogue horses, Gwyrtha sensed his mood.

Are you sick, Justan?

No, he said. I’m just thinking.

“Well, I learned some things tonight that I was not prepared to deal with,” John said. He groaned and rubbed his hand over his face. “An army of demons . . . I have so much to do. I’m afraid that we need to part at this point, Edge.”

Justan had expected as much. But he couldn’t just let the Prophet go like that. “John, how many bonding wizards are there?”

“Currently? Well, let’s see . . .” The Prophet began counting them off in his mind. “There’s you, Alfred, Tolivar, Fist, Mandra, Stolz, Benny, Lissa, uh . . . you know about Sarine I understand?”

“Fist told me,” Justan said. “She showed up at the Mage School a few weeks ago.”

“Well, there was nothing we could do about that.” John continued his count, this time silently. “That makes fourteen overall. Spread all across the known lands.”

“Huh.” That was more than he expected. It made him feel even smaller. “And how much do we even matter?”

John’s brow rose. “That’s a heavy question. What do you mean?”

“I mean, in the big plan of your master, how much does one of us matter? Even if you were to lose one, it seems like you still have a full quiver.”

“That’s nonsense. Every one of you is important. The loss of just one is a great blow.” He paused. “Where are you going with this, Edge?”

“I’d like to get a promise from you,” Justan said.

“I see,” the Prophet said. He folded his arms and leaned against Steff’s side. “That may be a difficult request. Promises are added responsibilities and I have too many responsibilities as it is.”

“Well this is important,” Justan said. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought lately and you are the only that can help me.”

“Go on,” John replied.

“If I should die, I want your word that you’ll transfer my bonds onto someone else,” Justan said. John blinked in surprise and Justan rushed on, “Fist would be the best choice since he is already a bonding wizard, but I was thinking perhaps Jhonate-.”

“Edge, I’m sorry. I can’t promise that,” John said, cutting him off.

“What?” Justan said. “But why? Aren’t they your responsibility?”

“Everyone that’s bonded, no matter their race, is part of it, yes,” John replied. “But I don’t know the time and place of your death. There’s too much choice involved with that. If I find out about the upcoming death of someone, there is usually very little time to spare. If I could know such things ahead of time, I would have tried to save Yntri.”

“You had no way to help?” Justan asked.

The Prophet looked down, his expression pained. “When I learned about Yntri I was weeks away, even on a rogue horse. All I had was hours. There was nothing I could do. I saw the possibility coming up in my mind, if the likely events fell into place the nightbeast would shove his blade up under Yntri’s chin. It hadn’t happened yet, but there was no way I could warn him. All I could do was hope that things went differently.”

Justan grew quiet. He had built up a lot of hope for this in his mind and the Prophet’s answer had been particularly deflating.

“That being said,” John continued. “Whenever someone as important as a bonding wizard is about to fall, my master does warn me. I will promise you this. If I receive such a prompting and there is any way under my power that I can help to save you or your bonded, I will.”

Justan let out a slow breath. “Thank you. At least I know that they have a chance.”

“Yet that really doesn’t make you feel better.” John observed. “Does it?”

“No. It doesn’t,” Justan admitted.

John walked over and put an arm around Justan’s shoulder. Justan was physically taller than the man, but it felt like when he was a young boy and his father had done the same thing. The Prophet looked up the sky.

“When my mind was first opened and my master showed me a glimpse of all creation, it was the most humbling experience of my life. I felt so insignificant.” He chuckled to himself. “But that isn’t a viewpoint that man was meant to grasp. We don’t have the capacity for that level of understanding.”

He dropped his arm from Justan’s shoulder and climbed onto Steff’s back. “We have to keep our focus on the things we can control. Don’t spend so much time looking upward, that you miss what’s happening around you.” He spun the rogue horse around until she was facing eastward. “Right now your focus should be on getting back to Roo-Tan’lan. I don’t know how much of a threat this army is, but you should let Xedrion know.”

Steff leapt off the trail and the Prophet disappeared into the trees. Justan stared after him for a moment, his mind working over everything he had learned. What John had suggested was easier said, than done. The world still felt small to him, like little mattered.

This is why people can’t usually stay in John’s presence for long. Artemus said. His voice sounded weaker than usual. It is sad. He is such a lonely man.

Are you alright? Justan asked.

Very tired. The elemental has been difficult, the old wizard said. It did not like the Stranger. I must retire for a time.

Justan wasn’t ready for him to leave. How did you handle being around the Prophet so long?

I looked at him as a friend. Not a god. he whispered. And when I started to feel small . . . I focused on . . . life.

Artemus’ voice faded and Justan frowned. Focus on life? How was he supposed to do that?

Ride? Gwyrtha suggested.

“That is a very good idea,” Justan replied. He hopped onto her saddle and leaned forward gripping her mane. “Make it fast.”

Yes! was her pleased reply.

His stomach gave a slight lurch as she launched herself forward. He focused on the wind that whipped past him and the sounds of the night. Then he dove into the bond, slipping into his connection with Gwyrtha. He opened himself up to her senses. Everything was heightened. She could hear each individual insect and pick out the direction of their chirping. She could smell the somewhat fishy scent of the frogs that hid in the darkness, see the different shades of the plants in the moonlight.

Gwyrtha experienced all these things and processed them at once. For a moment Justan had a glimpse of what it might like to be all knowing, to see everything. This was reality, Justan reminded himself. The minutiae of life.

Feeling a bit better, he reached out through the bond. Deathclaw, we are finished with the Prophet’s errand. We are on our way back to you.

Good, the raptoid replied.

Justan realized that Deathclaw wasn’t in Roo-Tan’lan. He wasn’t in the grove either. He was somewhere closer. Where are you? Are you tracking the nightbeast? You promised you wouldn’t go alone.

I did not, Deathclaw said. Jhonate is with me.

Just the two of you? Justan said. You were supposed to tell Xedrion.

Jhonate said that he was busy mourning Hilt and his other fallen people, Deathclaw said.

Then . . . Hilt is dead? Justan said, feeling a surge of sadness.

When we left, he was still breathing, Deathclaw assured him. The elves have been keeping him alive enough to speak, but they doubt he will live more than another day at the most.

Justan swallowed. Then there was still hope he would be able to return in time to thank him. Wait, Xedrion wouldn’t have sent just the two of you.

Deathclaw hissed. He had hoped Justan would look past that part. This was Jhonate’s idea. But do not worry. She is a capable warrior. She will not be in the way while I am defeating him.

That wasn’t good. Both of them were known for charging into difficult fights. Justan tried to think the situation through. Alright, how much of a lead does he have on you?

Perhaps two hours, but we are gaining ground. He has stopped several times, which has made it easier. He is too confident, Deathclaw hissed in amusement. He does not know we can track him.

Is he alone? Justan asked.

Deathclaw paused for a moment, unwilling to answer.

How many basilisks does he have with him? Justan pressed.

Only two, Deathclaw said. It will not be a problem.

Listen, Justan replied. Keep tracking them but do not fight them. Gwyrtha and I will head straight towards you. We will fight them together.

Deathclaw’s reply was a sullen grumble.

We are a pack, are we not? Justan reminded him.

Yes, the raptoid admitted.

Good, then tell Jhonate our plan. Gwyrtha and I are hurrying towards you, but it will probably be morning before we can catch up. Now which direction is he going?

Right towards you, Deathclaw replied.

A smile appeared on Justan’s face. So Vahn was following his trail from earlier that day. He would have no idea that Justan was on his way back along the same trail. This was their turn to ambush him.

Good. Keep me informed. We will pinch him between us. He won’t be able to escape.

An acceptable plan, Deathclaw replied after a moment. I will tell her.

Justan continued into the night, knowing it would be several hours before he was able to come up against the assassin. The rogue horse’s stores of energy were still very deep, so he pulled some for himself and sent some to Deathclaw. It had been an arduous day and they would need all the strength they could get.

He entered the bond and reached out to Fist. The ogre responded right away. He was lying down in a small cave. Another snowstorm had hit and Maryanne and Squirrel were huddling with him under his robe. Fist was the only one of them awake. Justan sensed that he was growing quite fond of the situation.

Justan! You’re okay! Fist said in excitement. Did the nightbeast attack at the funeral?

Justan sighed. It is a long story.

Justan relayed everything that had happened and told the ogre what he had learned, unburdening himself of all the turmoil that each event had brought him. Fist listened intently and made Justan feel better as only Fist could, sharing in his grief over Beltry and Hilt and asking insightful questions at the just the perfect moments of the tale.

We should meet up with him in a few hours, Justan said. Then I can finally make this end.

I wish I could be there and fight him with you, Fist said. For Hilt and for everyone else he killed.

So do I, Justan agreed.

I don’t have much to tell you about my day, the ogre said. We have just been traveling north towards the Thunder People territory. It is not the best route. The climbs were hard and the weather has been bad. But Mistress Sarine gave Maryanne a message for me to pass along to you. It’s about Vahn.

Really? That was something he hadn’t expected. What did she say?

She has been researching his name, trying to find any records of him from the past, Fist replied. Today she found something. It was in a book on great villains through the ages. Vincent found it actually. He overheard her discussing Vahn and remembered the reference.

Good old Vincent, Justan said, smiling.

The chapter he found it in was actually about Mellinda. Fist noted Justan’s stunned silence. I was surprised too. Evidently while Mellinda was at the height of her power, she had gone on a rampage through the kingdoms, finding anyone or anything with powers and stealing them. Then once word got out that she had driven the Roo people out of their home and raised an army of trolls, the leaders of the different countries panicked, thinking they might be next.

They found the most skilled and talented assassin that they could, a famous man named Vahn who used basilisks to help him in his attacks. Mistress Sarine says the scholar that wrote the book listed him as ‘rumored to be a nightbeast’. The leaders hired him to kill Mellinda, who I guess was then calling herself the Troll Queen.

I wonder what happened there? Justan said.

It’s actually kind of funny, Fist said. The book says that Vahn started by sending basilisks at her. The story says that twenty of them were sent. Sarine isn’t too sure about that number though, because the man that wrote it seemed to think that basilisks could fly and that they roamed in packs of twenty.

Alright, so he sent a ‘lot’ of basilisks, Justan replied. Then what?

She killed them all. None of their disguises worked and she forced them to take whatever shapes she wanted, then ripped their brains out so that they became statues. Maryanne said that Mellinda turned one of them into a big vase and kept flowers in it.

Justan couldn’t help but laugh at that.

Finally, Vahn decided to attack her himself. She captured him and used her magic to break his will. According to the story she kept him around as a toy, showing him off to people and making him change shapes to amuse her.

The visuals that brought in to Justan’s mind had him laughing even harder. That is . . . the best thing I have heard in a long time.

I thought so too, Fist said laughing along with him. But this is also kind of scary. That is the last time Vahn is mentioned. The book went on to tell how Mellinda was destroyed. It got some of those details wrong, though.

So we don’t know what happened to him after that, Justan said. We know she didn’t kill him, but that’s it?

This is why it’s scary, Fist said. The last time he was seen was with her. Then he isn’t heard from for hundreds of years. But this thing in the mountains acts an awful lot like Mellinda. It drew the moonrats to it. What if it really is her up here? What if she sent him?

A chill went up Justan’s back. Is that was Sarine thinks? What about Locksher? Does he think that the evil up there is Mellinda?

He still isn’t sure, Fist said. But he hopes to know soon. He will make it to the Thunder People territory before we do. Wizard Beehn told Sarine that they should be there tomorrow.

Justan let out a slow breath. By then this should be over.

Good luck, Fist said. Please be safe.

You too, Justan said.

Justan opened his eyes. The moon had gone down a long time ago and the stars were starting to fade as the sky lightened with the oncoming dawn. Gwyrtha, did you hear that story?

I hope she made him turn into a poop, Gwyrtha said with a snort. Justan doubled over with laughter. He had to contact Deathclaw and share the story again.

They rode on and, as the sky brightened, Justan found some of the area familiar from the day before. Deathclaw and Jhonate were only a few miles away straight ahead of him. He knew they had to be getting close.

Just a few minutes later, Gwyrtha slowed. Basilisks. Upwind.

Justan’s heart thumped in anticipation. They were heading up a long slope. Vahn was likely on top. Deathclaw was still at least a mile away so he would have to modify his plan slightly. Okay, we have the element of surprise here. We circle around them. We’ll meet up with Deathclaw and Jhonate. Then we can come back and fight him together.

Yes, Gwyrtha agreed. The rogue horse sped back up and headed off of the road preparing to make a circuit around the monsters

Deathclaw, Justan sent. Vahn is just ahead of us. We are heading around him and coming to meet up with y-!

The ground in front of Gwyrtha rose suddenly, becoming a thick wall. She saw it at the last second and tried to go around it, but it happened too fast. The rogue horse crashed into the barrier at full speed.

Justan was launched from her saddle. The world slowed down. He saw each moment with clarity, but was unable to do anything about it. The barrier appeared to be made of stone, but from the thickness of it, had to be made up of two basilisks working together.

Justan watched the barrier split with the force of the impact. He felt a brief moment of shock and pain from Gwyrtha, then silence. As he flipped up over the wall, he saw something that appeared to be part Roo man and part stone behind the wall, bracing up against it. There was a wide smile on the man’s face. Vahn.

Justan tried to stick his legs out and brace for landing, but he couldn’t move fast enough. His legs buckled and his face smacked into the thick grassy hillside. He felt a series of small pops in his neck and continued to tumble through the grass for what seemed like ages, before he came to a stop.

Justan lay there, looking straight up at the sky, dazed as the shock of what just happened rolled over him. He had to get up. He knew he had to move. Vahn could be approaching right now. Any moment, the assassin’s head could appear right over him.

Justan! cried Deathclaw through the bond.

Justan forced himself to roll to his knees. His face was numb. He probably had a broken nose. Also, it was hard to lift his head, but he forced his body to stand.

Vahn was there, just a few yards away, smiling and clapping. He was wearing the same form he had worn on the day he had killed Yntri. “Amazing acrobatics. You could join a dwarf menagerie with those skills!”

Gwyrtha! Justan shouted, but the rogue horse didn’t answer. He reached for his swords. His hand clamped down on Peace.

The pain and shock left him, sucked away by the power of the sword. His mind flickered through the bond, searching for Gwyrtha’s presence. She was alive. Her ribcage was shattered, her right lung punctured, but she lived.

He pawed for the hilt of his right sword, but his hand came up empty. Rage was missing. It must have flown out of his scabbard while he was flipping through the air.

“Looking for this?” Vahn said, bending down and grasping the hilt of the sword. He held it away from his body, carefully raising it into the air. “Awfully heavy, don’t you think?”

“Thank you for picking that up,” Justan said and released the full amount of the sword’s pent up energy, right through the handle.

Vahn’s arm disappeared up to the shoulder, vaporized by the force of the blast. The shockwave threw the nightbeast into the grass, tumbling just as Justan had.

Justan knew that hadn’t killed Vahn. It did give him a little room to breathe, however. He slowed the world even further and quickly sent his thoughts back through the bond to heal Gwyrtha. He worked by instinct, hardly thinking as he forced his magic to seal the hole in Gwyrtha’s lung. He began knitting the broken ribs back together as fast as he was able. She also had a large contusion on her head and a concussion. There was little he could do to ease it before Vahn stood.

The nightbeast was remarkably resilient. He came back to his feet, his arm regrowing in seconds.

Justan headed for his sword.

“Stop!” Vahn commanded. “Or they kill her.”

The two basilisks that had made up the barrier had reformed into monstrous insect-like creatures and stood over the rogue horse with spear-like limbs pointed towards her.

“I don’t like that sword,” Vahn continued. “I say we fight without it.”

“You look shorter,” Justan remarked. He took a moment to probe his own body for injuries. The results weren’t promising. He had a sprained ankle, a few hairline fractures along his ribs, a sprained neck, and a long gash across the bridge of his nose. It was a good thing he had Peace to take his pain away because he probably wouldn’t be able to move much otherwise.

A ripple of anger rolled across the nightbeast’s face, but he played it off with a chuckle. “A minor setback. I was not aware that you could discharge your weapon from the handle.”

Deathclaw! Justan called.

Coming, the raptoid said, but he and Jhonate were still a good distance away.

Justan still had his Jharro bow strapped across his back. He wondered how many arrows Ma’am could put into the nightbeast before he got too close, but one more quick swipe over his shoulder told Justan that his arrows were also scattered across the hillside.

“Just the one sword will do, I think,” said Vahn. He reached out his hand and formed a sword of his own.

The nightbeast was now a good foot shorter than he was, but Justan knew that this wasn’t the kind of battle where size was going to make much of a difference. He pointed Peace at the nightbeast and wondered how he was possibly going to defeat Vahn when Hilt hadn’t been able to.

“Alright, Vahn,” Justan said. He had to keep him talking while he came up with a plan. “I’m down to one sword. You’re down to the size of a twelve-year-old. That should make us about even.”

“You truly are amusing,” Vahn said, not bothering to fake a laugh this time. “Your friend Sir Hilt didn’t find it quite so funny, when I killed him yesterday.”

This time Justan forced a smile. “I think you’re mistaken. Hilt made a full recovery. The elves even reattached his hand. You really should make sure people are dead before you walk away.”

Vahn raised an eyebrow. “I see. So that’s where your other bonded is. You left him back at the grove and he told you about the named warrior’s mortal wound. That’s good. The dragon’s absence makes things easier for me. Besides, I know you’re lying. Elves can’t heal a wound like that.”

“Of course they can. Elven magic has improved quite a lot in the last few centuries,” Justan cocked his head, ignoring the popping sound his neck made. “You would know that if you were around. Where has the Troll Queen been keeping you stashed all these years?”

This time the nightbeast’s laugh was genuine. “I have no idea where you have gotten this information, but it is wildly inaccurate.”

“I wonder what kind of shapes she made you take?” Justan pressed, sensing that something was wrong in his story, but still trying to find the right button to push. “A chair? No that would be too nice for her tastes. A footstool maybe? A chamber pot?”

“Where did you hear that? That’s old information. That’s . . . You’re stalling,” Vahn said in understanding. “You’re stalling while you think up a plan. I shouldn’t be underestimating you. I think it’s time I killed you now.”

Justan? Gwyrtha said, stirring from unconsciousness.

Faster, harder, stronger, Justan suggested.

What? she said, still groggy, but noticing the two basilisks standing over her.

Faster, harder, stronger, he said again.

No, she said. Bigger.

“Come on, then, nightbeast,” Justan said and Vahn sprung at him. Justan met him sword against sword.

Justan observed the combat in slow motion and learned several things about Vahn during those first few attacks. First of all, he was an accomplished swordsman. Vahn’s attacks were quick and precise even though he wasn’t fighting with a real sword. This struck Justan as odd, because sword fighting was an unnecessary skill for a creature like him. His whole body was a weapon.

Second, there was no way that he had beat Hilt through skill alone. Justan had fought against the dual sword master enough times to know that. This meant that Vahn was a cheater. He was going to try something as soon as he decided that Justan could match him.

Third, Justan knew that he had to win soon, because despite Peace’s magic and the blessing magic that the Prophet had used on him earlier, his body was losing its strength. Sooner or later, it would shut down and he would be helpless.

Fourth, Gwyrtha had gotten really big. The rogue horse had expended the majority of her energy, increasing her size until she towered over the basilisks. The creatures showed no fear, though, one of them jumped onto her back while the other stabbed at her belly from below.

Her roar was just the distraction Justan needed, Vahn turned his head slightly to look back at them and Justan kicked out with his foot, knocking the nightbeast’s knee inward. Vahn didn’t fall, but it put him just off balance enough that Justan was able to get Peace under his guard and stab him through the belly.

The moment his blade pierced the nightbeast’s flesh, Justan saw into his mind. Vahn was desperate. He had assassinated hundreds of people without a single mistake, but his last two assassinations in a row had been failures. He had been imprisoned for centuries and this was his first contract since gaining his freedom. That freedom had come with a price, but it had also come with a-.

“NO,” said a voice deep and terrible.

Vahn’s flesh had closed around Peace’s blade. The voice startled Justan so much, that he was unable to react as the nightbeast spun and twisted, tearing the sword from Justan’s hand.

Gwyrtha roared again as one of the basilisks stabbed into her back. She reached back and grabbed it with her teeth, tossing it to the ground and slashing at it with her claws. The second basilisk was slashing at her belly, but she had somehow managed to harden her scales enough that it did little damage.

“Nice trick,” Vahn said, tearing the sword free and throwing it to the ground. He shivered. Having his emotion sucked away had been a disturbing experience. “But you’re powerless, now.”

Justan backed away from the nightbeast, trying to decide what to do. His body’s pains had rushed back in on him. There was no way he could put up much of a fight. He could run, but in his current state, Vahn would catch him easily.

His hands trembling, Justan pulled Ma’am off of his shoulder and pointed her at the nightbeast. “Stay back.”

“Your bow?” Vahn laughed and approached him steadily. “If you were a Roo-Tan warrior, maybe that would be a threat, but I have watched you with it. You can barely get it to speed up an arrow.”

Justan backed up another step, slowing time as far as he could. “You’re wrong.”

Vahn sneered and lunged towards him, leading with his sword. Justan sidestepped the attack and made a lunge of his own. As he did so, he willed Ma’am to drop her bowstring and straighten, forming a spear-like tip.

The Jharro wood penetrated Vahn’s flesh at the top of his torso and split, forming a cage-like network of roots that surrounded the nightbeast’s core. It was right in the place he liked to keep it, just below the base of his neck. This was another thing that Justan had learned when his sword had pierced the beast.

“I have had three weeks to practice with my bow since the last time you saw me,” Justan said.

Vahn’s eyes bulged. His body started to transform, forming weapons.

“Don’t move!” Justan warned. “No matter how fast you think you are, all it will take is a single thought for me to crush your core.”

“Then why don’t you? I killed the elf. I killed your friend.”

“I want to know who sent you,” Justan said. “If it wasn’t Mellinda, then who?”

The nightbeast sneered. “If I tell you, then what? You’ll let me go?”

“If you promise to leave me alone,” Justan lied. Of course there was no way he was letting him go.

Vahn laughed bitterly. “Fine. He might even find it amusing. Switch to spirit sight and I’ll show you.” Vahn lifted his left arm and black spirit magic swirled across the back of his hand, forming a naming rune. It was on the opposite hand from a warrior rune. Vahn had been named at the Dark Bowl. “Do you understand now? You heard his voice earlier.”

Justan swallowed. “The Dark Prophet sent you? How?”

“Your previous information was only partially right. The Troll Queen did ensnare me.” Vahn snarled at the memory. “Made me her toy. When she tired of me, she had one more bit of fun. She commanded me to go and kill her old lover. The Dark Prophet.

“I got close. Far closer than any being in history. As a reward he sealed me away.” He smiled evilly. “Until a few months ago. When Vriil was killed and Mellinda destroyed, he wakened me. You were the first target on his mind.”

“Why?” Justan said. “Why would he send a resource as valuable as you just to kill me?”

“That rune on your chest. He fears it,” Vahn said, then grimaced suddenly. “Ah! Went too far with that one. Ouch, that made him mad. Time to stop playing.”

There was a snapping sound and Justan felt the Jharro wood jerk in his hand. Justan looked down and saw that Vahn had formed a razor sharp beak around the wood. It had snapped shut, biting through the bow. Justan jumped back, narrowly avoiding the piercing lunge of a claw that had grown from the nightbeast’s side.

“You should have killed me right away,” Vahn said. “Now your last trick is used up.”

Justan folded his arms even though it hurt to do so. “Not really. I have one left.”

Vahn’s form rippled. His eyes turned red, his teeth became needles, his skin blackened, and his voice a screech. “How can you be so confident?”

“Because I’m not just a solo fighter,” Justan said. “Base of the neck.”

Vahn’s eyes widened as he tried to move his brain, but the end of Justan’s bow still surrounded it like a cage. Deathclaw’s sword stabbed into Vahn’s body from behind, striking where Justan directed, piercing through the Jharro cage inside him, destroying the nightbeast’s brain.

“I’m a bonding wizard,” Justan finished as the nightbeast’s unbelieving face turned to stone.

“I told you I would kill him,” Deathclaw said and jerked his sword free to go and help Gwyrtha.

The rogue horse had torn one of the basilisks completely apart, finding its core in the process. The other one had proved more problematic, climbing onto her back and managing to stay out of the reach of her teeth.  Deathclaw solved this problem by climbing her body and tackling the thing. His teeth and claws were tearing into it before they hit the ground.

“Justan!” Jhonate said, cresting the hill. She rushed toward him, breathing heavily. She looked at Vahn’s statue and frowned. “I am sorry. Deathclaw was faster than me.”

“He’s faster than most people,” Justan said with a wince. His whole body hurt now. “Can you . . . hand me my sword? It’s on the ground right there.”

Jhonate picked Peace up and handed it to him, doing her best not to react to its magic. “You look like you are in a lot of pain.”

Justan sighed as his hand closed around Peace’s handle and the pain was swept away. “It’s going to take me awhile to recover from this,” he admitted.

He walked over and picked up his other sword just in time to see Deathclaw tear the remaining basilisk’s core from its torso. The raptoid screeched in triumph. Both he and Gwyrtha were covered in wounds again.

“I’m going to have to heal them,” Justan said, turning back to Jhonate. “But first . . .”

He walked back to Vahn’s petrified body and swung Rage, blasting the statue to pieces. Justan bent and retrieved the piece of Ma’am that had been severed, Vahn’s pierced core still clutched in the end. He showed Jhonate the bitten-off end of his Jharro bow. “Can you teach me how to put this back together?”

Chapter Twenty Five

“Justan could be fighting the nightbeast right now.” Fist said unhappily, leading the way as he trudged through snow thigh deep. “There’s nothing I can do to help. All I can do is spend another day climbing this stupid mountain.”

I would kill it, Squirrel said confidently from the ogre’s shoulder.

“I doubt honstule seeds would work on a nightbeast, Squirrel,” Fist replied.

“Stop worrying about your bonding wizard,” Maryanne said from behind him. The gnome was staying in the furrow he left behind. “There’s nothing you can do about it. If he does die, you’ll pass out and we’ll know.”

“That’s not a nice way to say it,” Fist grumbled.

Both of them were out of sorts this morning. Not only had Fist gotten very little sleep the night before, but these mountain trails were getting even harder to find than before. The path they were on now had led them into a narrow canyon that was partially blocked by snow. They had been traveling within its confining walls for hours now.

Fist led the way, forging a path, but the wind blew in from behind them, chilling the gnome warrior to the bone. To make things worse, they had eaten the last pieces of Maryanne’s trail rations the night before and they hadn’t seen any game they could kill.

“I hope there is a demon army coming to the Stranger’s door,” Maryanne muttered, shivering despite her attempts to stay in Fist’s tracks and out of the snow. The gnome warrior had not been happy about Justan’s revelations regarding the Stranger. There had been so much about the story she hadn’t known. “I hope they cut off his head and parade it through Alberri on a pike!”

Fist found that statement a bit harsh. “He is still one of the prophets. Even if he did make mistakes.”

“Oh? He’s one of the prophets is he? Don’t be an idiot, Fist! Barldag was one of the prophets too,” the gnome griped. Fist winced and he felt her hand on his back. “I’m sorry. This whole thing has just made me so mad and I don’t think you understand. The Stranger is like the Barldag for the blood magic races. They tell tales to scare the women saying, ‘if you don’t stay in line, the Stranger will come and make you barren’.”

“I guess I didn’t think of it like that,” Fist replied.

She sighed. “Let’s just get out of this canyon and I’ll feel better.”

A few minutes latter, the wind changed, rushing toward them from the far end of the canyon. The air was warm and moist and carried a foul stench as if the canyon were clogged with rotting corpses.

“Ugh! Blast my nose, what’s that smell?” Maryanne said.

Stinks! Squirrel exclaimed.

Fist suddenly felt very uneasy about what was on the far side of this canyon. “It’s the evil.”

“We’re that close to it?” she asked.

“I guess so,” Fist said, pulling a corner of his robe around his face and trying not to breathe it in. “I didn’t expect it to be this close to the Thunder People territory.”

They trudged on, the smell growing fouler as they went. Fist saw something strange ahead. The snow looked gray. When they got closer, Fist saw what it was. Flies. Thousands of dead flies intermixed with the powdery snow.

Yuck, said Squirrel

“That is disgusting,” Maryanne said, the dead insects piling around her feet as Fist pushed through them.

“Yeah,” Fist said, thinking about what Locksher had said. The winter was the only thing holding this evil back.

The sound of a roar echoed down the canyon walls, the vibration of it shaking more snow loose from above. Fist sighed. “We are definitely getting close.”

The canyon opened up ahead, and the path disappeared. Fist couldn’t see where it went. When the ogre reached the end, he stopped, his stomach sinking. He stood on the edge of a precipice. Fifty feet below him, boxed on three sides by cliff walls, was the black lake. It gave off a dull heat, filling the air with a hazy mist.

Maryanne moved up next to him and stared down upon it. Her face paled. “That’s much bigger than I expected.”

“It’s just like in my dream,” Fist said numbly. He hadn’t expected the dreams to be so accurate. When he was falling from up above, there was always a point where the lake rushed up to meet him and this was the scene he had seen. The lake hugged the cliff face below and stretched off to a single shoreline in the distance. The few rocky spires and skeletal treetops poking up out of the blackness told them just how deep it was. There was something else about the place that tickled his mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“That’s the thing you’re supposed to destroy, huh?” Maryanne asked.

“I am not going to be able to do this myself. We might need the whole Mage School.” He took a few steps backward. The lake seemed like it was beckoning to him. The ground under his feet seemed unstable. Was it just his imagination, or was the ledge sloped towards the lake? “We should go back the way we came. Find another way to the territory.”

“But why?” Maryanne asked. “The trail continues along the ledge.”

She pointed and Fist saw that she was right. The trail narrowed, but it hugged the cliff face to the left and the warm air here had kept it free of snow and ice. The ledge curved along the wall for perhaps a hundred feet before widening and climbing up towards the top of the canyon wall.

“It’s not that far, Fist,” Maryanne said, looking at him. Her brow furrowed in concern. “Are you alright?”

Okay, Fist? Squirrel asked.

Fist swallowed, realizing that he had backed up against the canyon wall. Why did he feel so fearful? He was certain it wasn’t the influence of the maggots below. They were still too far away and the bond would have told him if he were under attack.

“We shouldn’t go that way,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. We need to head back the way we came.”

“But that took us hours,” she replied. A look of comprehension dawned on her face. “If you’re afraid of how high up we are, don’t worry. It’s a short trip. Just don’t look down. If you want, you can keep your eyes closed and I can guide you-.”

“No!” Fist said. Going across that ledge with his eyes closed was a horrible idea. “I’m from these mountains. I’m not afraid of being up high. It’s . . . It’s my dream! It’s been telling me the future.” Understanding came to him as he spoke. “I’ve been doing like Mistress Sarine said and trying to take control of the dream. Every night, when I get to a certain part of the dream, I have a choice. Either fall in the lake or walk along the shore. If we go along that ledge, I know I will fall in.”

She looked out at the lake and pointed to the shoreline far below. “The shore is way out there. There’s not a way down there from here.”

“There has to be,” Fist insisted. “This is what my dream was telling me. I’m sure about it.”

“But that ledge is so easy,” Maryanne said, her face pained.

Easy, Squirrel agreed.

“Easy for a gnome warrior, maybe. But I’m wider than you and there are places where the wall bulges out. Also, look.” He pointed along the cliff ledge where hundreds of little black specks clung. “See those black dots? Those are flies. They will try to make us fall.”

“The bond will protect us, though,” she pressed.

“If we go that way, I will fall,” Fist repeated. “I have seen it. I will land in the lake and the worms will get inside me and I will attack my friends. I’ve seen it. Please, Maryanne,” Fist grasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes, pleading. “Believe me. There is another way.”

The hesitation fell from her face and she smiled. “Okay, big guy. Lead on.”

The moment she said that, another roar echoed through the canyon and Fist looked out towards the shoreline. A large winged figure walked into view. It was partially obscured by the mist, but it looked like a dragon.

“Are you still sure about this?” Maryanne said.

“We don’t have to fight that thing,” the ogre replied, hoping he was telling the truth. “At least it wasn’t in my dream. We just need to find another way to the Thunder People territory.”

Fist turned around and led them back the way they had come. It went a lot faster this time since the path had already been cleared. In an hours time, they were back at the canyon’s end. They headed eastward, looking for an alternate path. As it turned out, they didn’t have far to go.

A half hour’s travel across the frozen mountainside led them to a second canyon-like pass, this one wider and with a downward slope. Though Fist didn’t recognize it at the time, he had been through this pass once before in the first few weeks after meeting Squirrel. They had made it through without incident, but this trail was used mainly by goblinoid tribes during their major hunts.

At the moment, it looked quite inviting. The blanket of snow over the trail was much thinner than in the previous pass, only calf deep on the ogre. Fist grew confident that this was the right way. This path would lead them down to the shoreline. The smell coming through the pass seemed to confirm that belief, though the air wasn’t warm like it had been in the higher pass.

“Something about this isn’t right,” Maryanne said as they made their way down the gentle sloping trail. “It seems too easy.”

“Why?” Fist asked, beginning to have a similar feeling, but not wanting to believe it. “Why does it need to be hard?”

She shook her head. “We’re heading right down to the source of the evil. If the trail was this easy, why haven’t monsters infested with those larvae just walked up and out of there and spread all over the mountainside?”

“That’s a good question,” Fist admitted as they came around a bend in the pass. “Maybe . . . oh.”

In front of them, reaching half way up the canyon wall, was a cave-in. A section of the cliff face had collapsed inward during the heaviest of the winter months, bringing tons of ice and snow down with it. Fist walked down to the base of it and looked up.

“Do you want to try climbing it?” he asked

Maryanne pursed her lips as she sized it up. “It’s fairly steep, but not worse than some of the other climbs we’ve made. The only question is how stable it is. Only some of this is rock. If we knock the wrong thing loose, we could collapse it on top of us.”

“We also don’t know what’s on the other side,” Fist added.

I will see, said Squirrel excitedly. I am a scout.

“You’re volunteering to do this?” Fist asked. In the past, when wanting Squirrel to do something that required extra effort, he’d had to beg and plead.

I will see, Squirrel repeated. He leapt from the ogre’s shoulder and began scampering up the blockage.

“Squirrel is going up to see,” he said to Maryanne with a shrug. In the meantime, Fist got down on one knee and plunged one large hand into the snow, placing his palm on the solid earth underneath.

He closed his eyes and sent his magic energies through, probing the rock. Darlan’s focus in her work with him had been war spells, but Fist had also taken classes with other earth magic students. One of the first things they had been taught was to look into the rock, see what useful elements were within.

In this case, Fist sent his magic under the cave-in and upward, traveling from rock to rock to see how stable it was. As far as he could tell the side of the blockage closest to the right wall was mostly boulders that had come down in the initial collapse. Everything to the left was snow and ice and on the far side . . .

Dead bodies, Squirrel announced from his new perch far above. Fist grimaced and stood, having guessed much the same thing.

“What did you find?” Maryanne asked.

“We are on the right path,” Fist said trying to sound positive. “If we stay to the right, we can climb the cave-in safely.”

“Then why do you look like you just bit into a live snail?” she asked dubiously.

“The far side is packed with dead bodies,” he said with a sigh.

She squinted at him. “What do you mean packed?”

“I think it was like you said. A bunch of people infested with the worms-.”

Goblins and orcs, Squirrel reported, still sitting atop the blockage, shelling a seed as he looked down.

“Mainly goblinoids,” Fist continued. “Tried to leave through the pass. It looks like they froze while trying to climb it.”

“So you’re saying we can climb to the top, but on the way down, we’ll be climbing over a bunch of dead goblinoids.” The gnome laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Sounds like a dream I had once. Let’s go.”

She began to climb, her nimble movements taking her halfway up the pile before Fist had climbed more than a few feet. Fist grit his teeth and climbed after her, much more careful with his movements since his six-hundred-pound frame was much more likely to pull the whole thing down on top of himself.

When he reached the apex, Maryanne was sitting next to Squirrel with her elbows on her knees as she looked onto the scene below. “I sure hope they are as frozen as they look.”

Leaning against the bottom of the pile, their arms reaching upwards, were dozens of the creatures, all frozen in some state of decay. Beyond them were many more that were simply lying on the ground, unmoving.

Fist scratched his head. “I guess I’ll go down first. I can use lightning to fight them if I need to. If they start moving, just be ready to shoot them.”

“You got it,” she said eagerly, stringing her bow and selecting an arrow.

Fist slowly climbed down the stack, watching for movement. He had made it half way down without an incident, when a roar echoed up the pass. A smaller roar followed it and the bodies lying on the ground stirred weakly.

Fist looked back up at Maryanne. “How many arrows do you have?”

“Twenty,” the gnome replied. “But only six of them are shock arrows.”

“Then just be smart about the way you use them,” Fist said. “Space them out so that you’ll get one back when you need it.”

Maryanne frowned at him. “Never tell a gnome warrior how to fight. Go on. I’m right behind you.” She stood and began hopping agilely down the rocks, using only her feet, keeping an arrow notched at all times.

Fist slid the last few feet, kicking aside the frozen goblinoids at the bottom. A few of the corpses stirred again. One of them struggled to sit up until an arrow struck it between the eyes. There was an audible electric zap. The larvae inside the corpse’s body burst and it fell still.

Maryanne dropped down at his side, drawing another arrow from her quiver. Squirrel leapt to Fist’s shoulder. Go!

More of the bodies began to move.

“Go,” Fist agreed and they ran down the path, dodging sluggish half-frozen bodies as they went. They rounded a bend and found more bodies lying on the ground. They must have been close to nearing the end of the passage, because it was warmer here. The bodies weren’t frozen at all. They began moving immediately.

“When this melts in the springtime, they’re going to come pouring out of here,” Maryanne commented, firing another arrow and dropping another corpse, an orc that had only half a face.

“You’re right,” Fist realized and slowed to a stop. He reached out and put both hands against one of the cliff walls.

“What are you doing?” the gnome said worriedly, firing again.

“Just give me a second.” Fist sent his energies into the wall, looking for any small fissures he could exploit, widening tiny cracks here and there. Satisfied, he moved to the other wall.

A steady stream of infested dead goblinoids were approaching from the way Fist and Maryanne had come, wakened by their passage. Fist threw up a hand. A jagged column of rock rose from the ground in front of the oncoming corpses. It was only waist high, but Fist just needed to slow them down and didn’t want to use too much energy.

Another roar echoed from up ahead, but Fist ignored it, focusing on the second wall. He sent his energy through, widening cracks here and there. His plan was to back up a good ways and set the whole thing off from a distance, but he was just a little overzealous. A huge section of the cliff face split and began to sway inward.

Fist’s eyes widened and he turned, grabbing Maryanne’s arm. “Run!” The two of them did so, shoving past the slow moving dead.

The wall behind them fell forward, slamming into the opposite side, which Fist had already destabilized. A twenty-foot-wide section of the cliff crumbled, sending a plume of dust and snow and debris blasting past the ogre and gnome, knocking them forward. Maryanne kept her balance, allowing the force of the plume to push her faster.

Fist stumbled and tripped over a body that was just awakening. He crashed to the ground, chest first, his mace and shield pulling free from his harness and sliding across the ground ahead of him. Squirrel, thinking ahead, had jumped onto Maryanne’s shoulder as soon as he realized what Fist was up to and had come out of the situation unscathed.

Fist’s breastplate absorbed the fall and he quickly pushed himself up to his knees. Hands grabbed his leg and he felt pressure on his ankle as the dead gorc he had tripped over tried to bite through his boot. Grunting in surprise, Fist sent a surge of electricity down his leg and shocked the corpse still.

He grabbed his shield and mace off the ground and looked back at the blockage of rock that was his handiwork. He smiled, pleased with himself. “They won’t be getting through that in the spring.”

“I guess that means we can’t go back the way we came in then,” said Maryanne, her voice numb.

Fist turned to see that the gnome had walked several yards further down the passage and was staring around the bend, wide-eyed. Squirrel, on her shoulder, stared with her, his tiny mouth agape. Uh-oh.

Grimacing with trepidation, Fist stepped forward and followed their gaze.

Stretching out before them were the shores of the black lake. The larvae-filled sludge that made up its waters didn’t move like the waters of a normal lake, but sat there, shuddering like a black pudding. The lake gave off a wave of unpleasant warmth and the air was filled with mist and swirling swarms of flies.

The rocky shores themselves were littered with the bodies of the dead, infested, but resting with no instructions to carry out. They were mainly made up of goblinoids, but scattered throughout were humans, ogres, and even a couple giants. Hundreds of them had raised their heads at the sound of the passage’s collapse and were now looking in Fist’s direction.

“Okay, that may have been a mistake,” the ogre admitted.

A few hundred yards down the beach, its back to them, was the beast they had seen earlier. It was a great black dragon, its shoulders twice Fist’s height. Its wings were shredded and useless, one of them broken, and the back half of its tail hung limp. It hadn’t been in that bad of shape when Fist had seen it from above.

As he watched, its head was rocked back and it roared again, causing the reclining dead to look back in its direction. Fist realized what was going on. This dragon was still alive, which was why it was able to roar, but it was infested with larvae, which was why the dead weren’t attacking it. It was, however, doing battle with something else that he couldn’t see. The fact that the dead around them weren’t helping with the battle told Fist that whatever it was fighting was infested too.

“We should run,” Fist said pointing northward, away from the lake. Beyond the beach was a sloping rocky hillside and above that, not many miles in the distance, Fist could see the familiar mountainside territory of the Thunder People. “That’s the safest route.” The ground in that direction was also littered with corpses, but fewer in number.

“Why are we standing here, then?” Maryanne asked. The corpses lining the beach were looking back in their direction again and many of them were beginning to rise.

“Good question,” Fist said. He set up a field of electricity around his shield and ran, his mace enhancing his speed.

It wasn’t a straight shot. There was a rocky ledge directly in front of them and they were forced to run parallel to the lake for a short distance before there was a climbable stretch of the hillside. Fist took the lead, weaving past clusters of corpses and blasting aside those individuals that stood in the way.

Maryanne was right behind him, every once in a while firing a shock arrow at a dead thing that came too close. Fortunately, the bodies controlled by the larvae shambled towards them slowly, their limbs jerking almost as if pulled by strings.

The dragon on the beach ahead of them, however, was moving fluidly as it battled its foe. Fist rushed forward, hoping to be able to climb the hill before it noticed them, but the quickest route to the slope took him just within its range of vision.

The dragon didn’t seem to be doing too well against its opponent. Its long snake-like head would dart forward, only to be battered aside. Fist finally reached the bottom of the slope, just as the dragon’s opponent came into view.

It was big and fierce and dangerous. It was the creature from Fist’s dreams; the one that had attacked him from within Squirrel’s pouch.

The creature was half the height of the dragon and stood on all fours. Its front end was thick and muscular with silvery black fur, bulging arms and huge hands. Its rear end was that of a huge mountain lion with powerful legs and a tan coat. While Fist watched, it reared up on its back legs and beat its chest with its fists. Its massive black face was full of anger and it opened its mouth to show square teeth bordered by large fangs as it let out a mighty roar.

His heart jumping, Fist turned and started up the hillside. He took one step before a searing pain flashed through his head. For a moment, the ogre saw double. He saw the hillside ahead of him, dotted with corpses climbing to their feet and he saw the toothy visage of the dragon swaying above him, full of anger and poised to strike.

Hurts! cried Squirrel, clutching onto Maryanne’s shoulder.

Fist stumbled and fell to his knees. He closed his eyes and all he saw was the dragon. Rage and fear poured through his mind. Fist’s thoughts blurred as if taken over by rage. It hurt. His whole body hurt. It was the dragon’s fault. He wanted to kill the dragon. He also wanted to drink the black lake. He knew he shouldn’t. The black lake stank. It wasn’t good for him. But he wanted to drink it anyway. Kill the dragon! Drink the black. Kill the dragon! Drink the black.

“What are you doing?” Maryanne said, depositing a swift kick in the ogre’s posterior. “Keep moving! I’ve got one shock arrow left and it will be a few seconds before Chester brings any back.”

“Th-the beast!” Fist said, twisting and pointing his mace at it.

“Yeah, that thing’s weird.” Maryanne said, tugging at his collar. “It’s like a huge gorilla with cat feet. Let’s go before it sees us.”

“No!” Fist said blinking his eyes. The images faded away, but the thoughts were still there. Drink the black. Kill the dragon!

Fist stood again and looked up the hillside to the left. There it was, just like in his dream. A boulder, fifteen feet high and just as wide with a flat top. “There!” he said and stumbled towards it.

“What the hell’re you-? Blast it!” Maryanne said and chased after him, firing two regular arrows along the way.

Descending the hillside was a ten-foot-tall female giant. Its lips were rotting away, its teeth full of larvae. Maryanne’s arrows sprouted from its knees, locking the joints. The giantess jerked and tumbled forward, rolling down the hill and taking several shambling dead down with her.

Fist reached the boulder. “Come on! Climb up!”

“Why? That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard!” she said. “We’ll just get surrounded!”

“We’re supposed to go up there,” the ogre said. He began climbing up, trying to ignore his splitting headache and sort out the rush of foreign thoughts in his mind. “It’s from my dream!”

Kill the dragon. Drink the black. No! KILL THE DRAGON!

“Your dreams are crap!” the gnome shouted, but climbed quickly, arriving on top before him and reaching down to help him up. “Now what?”

Fist stood and looked back down at the angry beast below. “I think I need to help him.”

“That thing?” she said in disbelief. Some of the corpses had arrived at the base of the boulder. They were reaching upwards, their mouths open in silent hunger.

“It’s not a thing. It’s a him,” Fist said. He set down his mace and shield and grasped his head. “His name’s . . . Rufus. I think he’s a rogue horse.”

Like Gwyrtha? Squirrel muttered.

Maryanne slapped her forehead. “By the great hairy pits of the gods, you’ve bonded!”

“I think you’re right,” Fist said in realization. Of course that was it. That made so much sense. “I didn’t think I could. I thought my magic was too weak.”

Head hurts! said Squirrel.

“Darn rogue horses will bond to anything,” Maryanne complained. She saw a huge dead orc slowly climbing the boulder. One of her shock arrows finally reappeared and she fired down at it. There was an electric pop and it fell backwards, landing on top of the dead below it. “You would have to pick the worst possible time to do this!”

“We’ve got to help him,” Fist said, sending a crackle of electricity down his leg and kicking the head of a climbing ogre corpse. “There are maggots inside his body and the lake is pulling at him, but somehow he’s fighting them off.”

“Well, what do we do about it now?” Maryanne replied. “We’re stuck up here.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Fist said. “But first we need to get Rufus over to us.”

“How?” she asked. Waiting for another shock arrow to return, she drew a long knife with her free hand and began slicing off the fingers of any dead thing that climbed high enough to grab the top of the boulder.

“Shoot the dragon,” Fist said.

“Fine. It’ll be a few more seconds before Chester brings me a shock arrow,” she said, reaching for her quiver. “But I got plenty regular ones.”

Drink the black. Kill the dragon!

Fist understood. The command to kill the dragon was Rufus’ way to fight the compulsion of the larvae. Instead of listening to the evil’s demands, he was funneling the anger at the dragon. The dragon was the enemy.

Yes, Rufus! Fist urged. Kill the dragon!

The dragon reared back, its front claws raking at Rufus, but the rogue horse hopped back out of the way. An arrow burst one of the dragon’s eyes. It jerked in surprise. Another arrow struck its shoulder. One pierced its neck.

If the dragon had been fully dead, these attacks wouldn’t have mattered. But the creature, though driven mad and controlled by the evil compulsions of the larvae, still felt pain. It let out an ear-splitting roar.

Finally, Maryanne’s quiver did its job. A shock arrow reappeared and Maryanne shot it right into the dragon’s open mouth.

The dragon was a massive creature, but the electric energy contained in the arrow was enough to kill the majority of the larvae in its body. It swung its head around in pain and confusion and Rufus saw the opening he wanted.

Kill the dragon! The powerful rogue horse leapt up and wrapped both arms around the dragon’s long neck. He squeezed and twisted and bit its neck with his two large fangs, while he raked at its body with the powerful claws on his rear legs. Hot blood poured from the stunned dragon. Then with a final crack, Rufus snapped its neck and it fell lifeless to the ground.

“Kill!” Rufus roared and slammed the dead dragon with his mighty fists over and over again until the urge had passed. There was only one compulsion left. Drink the lake.

“No!” Fist shouted aloud and through the bond. Come here, Rufus! Come to me! I am Fist! I will help you!

The rogue horse turned his enraged gaze onto the boulder and the large figure standing on top of it. Kill the ogre!

This wasn’t exactly what Fist had in mind. He shoved feelings of kindness through the bond. Come here Rufus. Don’t kill me, though.

“Kill ogre!” Rufus roared. He reared back and beat his chest, then ran towards the boulder, using his powerful rear legs and the knuckles on his hands to propel him forward. He was fast.

“He looks mad,” Maryanne warned.

“I’m nice! Nice Fist!” Fist exclaimed as the rogue horse pounded up the hillside, reaching the boulder in seconds.

“Kill ogre!” Rufus swatted aside the corpses in his way and leapt, his huge hands gripping the lip of the rock and pulling him up.

“What do I do?” Maryanne asked.

“Just fight the dead,” Fist said, and found himself on his back. Rufus was on top of him, the rogue horse’s rear claws digging into the ogres legs. Rufus reared back, his massive arms raised in the air, his fists ready to pound.

Sorry Rufus, Fist said and sent threads of air and earth through the bond, shocking the rogue horse from within.

Rufus jerked and collapsed on top of Fist, his weight pinning the ogre to the rock. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Fist said to the unconscious beast, patting him gently.

“Uh, we’re in trouble, here,” said Maryanne. Having fired all her arrows, shock and regular, she was back to slicing fingers with her knives. “There’s too many! I could use some help!”

“I need to heal him,” Fist said, trying to work his way out form under Rufus without getting too close to the boulder’s edge. “Grab my mace. It’ll make you faster.”

Maryanne snorted. “It would have to make me a lot faster.” She grasped the handle of the mace and swung her knife with wicked speed. A giggle escaped her lips. “That could do it.” The gnome warrior darted around the boulder, laughing as she sliced off the grasping digits of any creature that climbed close enough.

Fist gave up on getting out from under Rufus and closed his eyes, entering the bond, checking the rogue horse’s injuries. He was immediately overwhelmed by the flood of colorful magic coursing through Rufus’ every cell. So this is what Justan saw when he looked inside Gwyrtha. By everything Fist could see, Rufus should just fall apart, but somehow a balance had been struck in the magic.

Fist forced himself to look past the colors. Rufus had several minor puncture wounds and one long gash along his side, which was how the larvae had gotten inside his body. Those were easy enough for Fist to heal. The difficult part was discerning what to do about the remains of the dead larvae in his system. It was too complicated for him to figure out. Fist had no choice to leave them alone and hope that the rogue horse’s body would flush them out on its own.

He withdrew his thoughts from the rogue horse’s body and called out to him. “Rufus! Wake up!”

Rufus stirred. The rogue horse raised his head and looked around. “Ooh!”

“Um, as fun as this is, I’m getting tired here,” Maryanne said. “Please tell me you’re done, Fist!”

The wide boulder was now surrounded by hundreds of grasping dead, wanting noting more than to reach the people on top. Maryanne’s work had made this difficult for them though, because those in the front of the press no longer had fingers to climb with. Nevertheless, stronger and bigger creatures were pushing their way towards the front. To make things worse, the dead dragon had now risen and was making its slow way up the hillside towards them.

Rufus rose on all fours and looked down at the ogre. “Ooh! Ooh! You!” the rogue horse said. He reached out and touched Fist’s face and a wide smile split his huge mouth. “Ooh! Fist!”

“That’s right,” Fist said, smiling back at him.

The rogue horse grabbed the front of Fist’s breastplate and pulled him to his feet. “Okay?” Rufus asked and Fist saw that Squirrel was already sitting on top of the rogue horse’s head.

“If we can survive this,” Fist said, looking at the dangers that surrounded them.

“Here,” Maryanne said, gasping as she handed the ogre back his mace. “Please tell me you have a great plan to save us that doesn’t require me to do anything else.”

Fist shrugged at her and looked down at the milling mass beneath them. “I think I do. I’m going to try that cloud lightning spell.”

“Didn’t you kill yourself doing that last time?” the gnome asked, her voice concerned. She stomped on the fingers of one corpse and kicked it back into the crowd.

“Yes, but it wasn’t permanent.” He gave her a playful smile. “I’d rather have you bring me back than Charz.”

She smiled back. “Not funny.”

“It’s the only thing we can do,” Fist said.

He sent a swirling gust of wind around the boulder, kicking up dust. Then he reached out and sent a web of water into the air. A cloud of mist began form around the boulder. Fist focused, pushing the cloud outward. Sweat began to bead on his brow. This was going to be harder than he thought. He’d spent a lot of energy bringing down the rock wall and healing the rogue horse. If he released the spell as tired as he was now, he wouldn’t be able to ground himself. Squirrel and Rufus would die too.

“Me!” said Rufus, tapping his chest with his fingertips. He pointed at Fist. “You!”

“Yes, Rufus?” Fist said, confused at first. “Oh! Right! You’re a rogue horse and I can do that now! Good idea.” Fist reached through the bond and tried to duplicate the way Justan did it, tapping into the rogue horse’s energy reserves and pulling them into his own body.

Suddenly he was filled with energy. Too much energy! His hands were shaking. His teeth chattering.

Hurriedly, he threw out another web of water magic. The mist around the boulder thickened and spread along the ground, covering the hillside and a good portion of the shoreline. Fist turned his head and smilled back at Maryanne. “This is going to work.”

Fist picked up his shield and mace and faced the mist. He started threads of air and earth crackling around his body. The thick cloud obscured everything making it seem so peaceful here, almost as if the four of them were alone atop the boulder high up in the sky. Then the dragon’s head rose out of the mist and reared back, its broken neck bent oddly.

Fist jumped off of the boulder, leading with his shield. He crashed through the milling mass of dead, and stood, raising a thick barrier of earth magic over his skin, before pushing everything else he had into the crackling field of energy around him.

Hands reached for him. Biting jaws. He could feel the pressing anger of the maggots all around him against the bond.

With a primal roar, he sent the vibrating and crackling threads of magic away from his body in a violent burst. The cloud he had created filled with light, electricity passing through every droplet of water vapor.

Fist grit his teeth, waiting for the energy to slice through the barrier he had put up. But the energy was gone. The mist faded. The hillside was covered with the bodies of the unmoving dead.

Fist leaned back against the boulder and laughed. “It worked!

Maryanne and Rufus climbed down and stood by the ogre, looking out over the black lake. The spell hadn’t touched everything. The dead at the edge of its range started to stand. The surface of the black lake rippled, misshapen forms rising from the depths and making their way towards the shore.

“Well, Fist?” Maryanne said. “You ready to go now?”

“We’d better,” Fist said. “Locksher will want to know what we found. They should be in the Thunder People territory by now.” He looked up past the hilltop at the familiar mountainside in the distance and sighed. “It’s going to be a long walk.”

“Ride?” Rufus asked hopefully.

Chapter Twenty Six

Justan paused outside the palace infirmary, Peace clutched in his hand. It was strange. His emotions were being taken away by the sword, but the thought that his friend and mentor was in there, dying, paralyzed him. Justan had thought about what to say to Hilt the whole ride there. Nothing seemed quite right.

“Just go in,” Deathclaw complained.

Jhonate placed her hand on Justan’s shoulder. “Tell him that Vahn is dead. Yntri is avenged. That is all he’ll want to know.”

Justan nodded. He sheathed his sword, accepting all the pain that rushed over him. He couldn’t let the sword help him hide from this. He reached out and grasped the door handle, then pushed. The doorway opened and Justan saw Hilt.

The named warrior was sitting on the edge of one of the grass mat beds, holding his daughter Sherl-Ann in one arm. She was grabbing his ear, tugging on it, and he was smiling. He looked fine. He wasn’t even bandaged! Beth was sitting next to her husband, her arm around his waist.

“Hilt!” Justan exclaimed, forgetting about the pain in his body as he pushed his way through the door.

“Edge, you’re back,” the named warrior said, looking at him with concern. “What happened to you?”

“I thought you were dying,” Justan said, limping in further. “Deathclaw said your wound was mortal.”

Jhonate pushed in past him, a smile on her face. “You survived!”

“It ends up there was a mage in Xedrion’s prison,” Beth said, nodding her head towards the right side of the room. “I had to convince your father to release her.”

Justan turned to see who Beth was referring to. His mouth dropped open in shock. “Vannya!”

“Sir Edge,” said the beautiful mage. Her long blond hair was disheveled and her normally pristine robes were bunched and wrinkled. She looked quite put out. “You were supposed to set this up before I got here. I was grabbed off of the road by soldiers. Manhandled-!”

Justan rushed forward and wrapped her in a tight embrace. “Thank you! Thank you for being here. I’m so sorry. So much was going on, I forgot that Fist had mentioned you might come.”

“I . . . I’m glad I was able to do something in time.” Her hands hesitantly rose and she embraced him back. Justan was so happy that she was there that he didn’t mind the way his ribs cried out. Despite her ragged appearance, the mage still had that pleasant smell.

Jhonate cleared her throat. “You deserve all of our thanks, Mage Vannya.”

Justan let go of her and stepped back, his face coloring. “It’s really a miracle.”

“I just wish I had been able to do more with his hand,” she said.

Justan looked over at the named warrior. Hilt raised his left arm and gave him a wan smile. The flesh around his wrist was puffy and red and covered with scar tissue. His fingers were curled inwards. Hilt strained and was able to get them to straighten slightly. “It least she was able to put it back on.”

“It had been too many hours since he lost it,” Vannya said apologetically. “I used every flesh restoration technique I knew, but there was extensive nerve damage. If he works hard enough at it, he should be able to get most of his movement back, but it may never be completely the same.”

Deathclaw approached the named warrior and clutched his maimed hand. “Do not fear. You will kill many with this hand yet.”

Hilt chuckled in surprise. “Why, thank you, Deathclaw.”

Sherl-Ann noticed the raptoid and cried out, reaching for him. Sighing, the raptoid took her from her father, his expression stoic as the baby giggled and smacked his face repeatedly.

“Where is father?” Jhonate asked. “I had assumed he would be here.”

“He went back to the prison,” Beth said. “Evidently Mage Vannya wasn’t our only recent visitor.”

“Um, Sir Edge? May I heal that wound on your face?” Vannya said, giving Jhonate a hesitant look. “It’s driving me crazy that you haven’t asked yet.”

“Please. Would you?” Justan replied with a sigh. This was going to be so much better than long days of soreness.  “And take a look at my neck and ankle too.”

Vannya waited for Jhonate to give her a nod of acquiescence. Then the mage reached up and grasped Justan’s head, sending her magical energies into his body. The mage’s eyes widened. “It looks like you took a serious fall! How are you still moving?”

“My s-sword,” Justan explained, gasping as Vannya used a complex mix of water, earth, and air to repair the damage all over his body. “H-how long were you in the prison?”

“Hours!” she complained. “They threw me in a cell and gave me nothing to eat but bananas! One guard kept a bow trained on me the whole time like, just because I can use magic, I was going to go around throwing fireballs at people or something.”

“I apologize for their behavior,” Jhonate said. “The distrust for wizards runs deep among my people.”

“So what happened to the three of you?” Beth blurted. “We keep chatting, but you’ve been gone for a long time! Did you track the nightbeast down?”

“He’s dead,” Justan confirmed through gritted teeth. Vannya was finished with the main injuries and was now working on the more minor bruising, something that tickled terribly.

“I dealt the death blow,” Deathclaw added.

“Fantastic! I hope you made it hurt,” Beth said, gripping the raptoid’s arm proudly.

Justan grunted. “I f-found out who sent Vahn after me.”

“Who?” Hilt asked.

“The Dark Prophet,” Justan replied, trying not to react to what Vannya was doing. “Vahn had a rune from the Dark Bowl.”

“Done,” Vannya announced, releasing her magical energies and letting go of him.

“Thank you,” Justan sighed. He felt immensely better, though now he was so tired he was ready to collapse. “Vahn said that he’s scared of the Scralag inside me.”

“That means he knows about Artemus and the prophecy he was given,” Beth mused.

“I’m wondering how close he is to coming back,” Hilt said, rubbing his damaged hand and trying to stretch the fingers out. “John seemed to think we had years.”

“I’m not so sure,” Justan replied. “And right now I’m wondering if this is over. Will he just keep sending more assassins?”

The door to the infirmary swung in again and Xedrion strode in. He grasped Jhonate’s arm, his expression worried. “I heard you had returned.” He looked to Justan. “Is it done?”

“Yes,” Justan said. “The nightbeast is dead.”

Some of the tension left the protector’s shoulders. “That is good. Come, there are some people waiting outside that I think you know.”

Xedrion went back outside and Justan followed. Standing outside and surrounded by Roo-Tan guards were two familiar figures. Justan smiled in surprise.

“Willum? What are you doing here?” Justan asked, reaching out to clasp his friend’s hand.

“We brought a message,” Willum replied. “We-uh, actually didn’t know you were here until the Protector of the Grove mentioned it.”

Justan looked over at the second visitor. “And Jerry the Looker, what are you doing wearing Lenny’s armor?”

The well-groomed dwarf was dressed in his uncle’s famous platemail, the helmet clasped under one arm. “He loaned it to me when he heard about our mission.”

Justan folded his arms. “And what mission is that? Did the academy send you?”

“Not exactly,” Djeri said.

“They inform me that an army of demons is coming our way,” Xedrion said.

“Right,” Justan said. “The Prophet said that something was coming. I didn’t get the chance to mention it to you yet. I don’t have any other details, though.”

“Well, we can tell you all about it,” Willum said.

“We can,” said Djeri, raising a qualifying finger. “But first, we need to take you to see Tarah Woodblade.”

*          *          *

The Troll King sat on his throne and waited anxiously, the claws of his trollish left hand tapped against the crumbling stone. The throne was a thousand-years-old and had once been lavish and beautiful, covered in precious stones imbued with spirit magic. The cushions had rotted away centuries ago and the stones were long gone, taken by the Roo people when they abandoned their great city.

His throne room was in the Axis Palace, once the seat of power among all the Roo. The palace had housed thirty high priestesses over the years, but up until a month ago, it had been infested by muskrats. Vines still stretched in through the gaping hole where the palace doors had been.

The once great city of KhanzaRoo had been reclaimed by the swamps. All the wooden buildings had rotted. All the bridges were gone. The only structures remaining were the stone buildings. The great palaces and libraries. But these were covered in vines and overgrowth. Trees had carved roots into their very foundations.

The Trollkin were still hard at work clearing the buildings so that they could be used again. Some of them were even building new structures from the wood of the trees that were removed. The Troll King’s people had been born with so many great talents and they were still being discovered.

The king sat up in his throne as he heard the approach of heavy feet coming up the outer steps. He knew it was Murtha before her squat form appeared. The part-dwarf had been monitoring the situation for him.

“She is here!” said Murtha, her snarl showing her multiple rows of needle-like teeth. She was short for a trollkin at just under six feet, but was intelligent and observant. She was his most trusted servant and had become his right hand. “The invader c-comes!”

“Come,” said the Troll King, beckoning his part-dwarf subject forward. “Attend me.”

She hurried to stand at his side and he leaned back, steepling the fingers of his two very different hands together. This was a crucial moment. The future of his people could be decided right here.

Two large trollkin, his palace guards rushed in and stood at attention at the open doorway. One of them was Khurley, a hulking part-man with a small misshapen head. The other was Recks, a part-elf with nearly handsome features, razor-like claws on his hands, and skin that produced an overabundance of non-flammmable slime that practically poured from his body.

The invader appeared in the doorway. She was a human woman, voluptuous, with brown skin and striking green eyes. Curly black hair cascaded from her head with a single blond lock dangling at her forehead. Her movements were sensuous, almost snakelike as if the bones in her legs were an afterthought.

The woman smiled as she entered, her full lips parting to show even white teeth. “Look at this place! It’s falling apart, but oh how I’ve missed it!

“Announce yourself!” Murtha demanded. “You stand before the Troll K-king!”

“Pardon me, oh great king,” she said, giving the king a flowing curtsey. “My name is Mellinda. I am here at this time of your people’s infancy to offer you my services.”

The king lifted his left hand and pointed one taloned finger at her. “Mellinda, you say? My people claim that you were using a different name when you first showed up in our swamps. You called yourself the Troll Queen.”

Her smile froze for a fraction of a second and then she let out a low throaty laugh. “I must apologize for that. I have been gone for such a very long time that I forgot my place.”

The woman had been in the swamps for a week now, roaming around. She had first gone to the original location of the Mother’s womb. She had used some sort of magic to force one of the trollkin there to answer questions. Since then, she had been wandering around and accosting his people, alternating from making demands to making promises. A few of them had tried to kill her, but she had simply paralyzed them with spells and moved on.

“My people have no queen,” the Troll King said. “There is only me, their king, and the Mother.”

The woman gave him a contrite look. It looked unnatural on her face. “Once again, I am sorry. I am here on behalf of the Troll Mother herself, of course. I have known her for a long time. In fact, I was there centuries ago when she made her first children. I was there to serve her then, to help her bring them into the world. Now I return to help her new children at your side, oh great king. I would be an advisor to you. If you’ll let me.”

The king nodded slowly. This was as he had expected so far. “I spoke to the Mother this morning. She warned me that you were coming.”

“Warned?” said Mellinda, placing a sinuous hand against her chest. Gemstones sparkled on the back of each finger. She cocked her head. “Whatever did she say?”

“She said that she knew you well,” the king replied, his eyes intense. “The Mother said that you were once very nearly a goddess yourself.”

“How flattering,” Mellinda said. “She remembers me.”

The human side of the king’s mouth smiled. “But she has been watching you since you entered her swamp. Now she says that you are just a snake.”

The woman’s smile slipped. “My feelings are hurt, oh king.”

“Why should you be hurt?” he asked. “Some snakes have their use. The Mother told me so. The question I have is, what kind of snake are you?”

“I don’t like being compared to a snake,” Mellinda muttered, irritation flashing in her eyes. She turned her voice sultry. “As for my uses, I have many.”

The king watched this alluring creature and knew that she was dangerous. The Mother told him not to trust her. However . . . “Show me one of your uses, snake woman. How can you help the Troll Mother? Why should I let you serve me?”

She swayed over to the doorway and reached out to Khurley, beckoning him with a writhing finger. The guard looked at the king questioningly and the king gave him a nod. He stepped forward and she placed a hand on the thick muscles of his chest.

“The ‘Mother’, praise her name, has done an admirable job in creating her children. Strong. Fierce. Hardy.” She reached up and the guard bent so that she could easily reach his misshapen face. She caressed the lumpy side of his head. “There are, nonetheless, some deficiencies. Through no fault of her own, of course. That is where I can help.”

She took a step back from the guard and reached out her hands. Her fingers writhed bonelessly and Khurley cried out. His skull swelled and shifted, his features smoothing out. The process took several seconds and when she dropped her hands, the guard gripped his head with unbelieving fingers.

His head was now proportionate with his body. His face was still a mix of troll and man, but it was a good mix, his beady eyes were spaced evenly. His human mouth was no longer crooked.

“Look at me!” Khurley exclaimed, tears in his eyes. “What do I look like?”

“You are beautiful!” Mellinda exclaimed.

The Troll King watched with grim fascination, finding her process both disturbing and fascinating. Could this be the answer to his problems? “Can you do it again?”

“Of course, my king,” Mellinda purred.

She beckoned the other guard. Moments later, the part-elf ran his hands down a body that now only shimmered with a slight sheen of slime.

The king smiled. It was as he had hoped. In the vision his goddess had given him, this woman had used similar power. He grew eager to see just how much she could accomplish. How many of the Mother’s children could be saved?

The woman looked back at the king and approached him with that same swaying step. She placed a foot on the first stair of the throne and Murtha growled. “Get back-k from the k-king!”

The woman paused and gave her a pitying look. “Poor thing. May I fix that mouth of yours?”

“No!” the part-dwarf snarled.

“It is alright, Murtha,” said the king. “She may approach me.”

Mellinda stepped right up the stairs of the throne and leaned in, looking him in both eyes. There was no trepidation in them. No disgust at his appearance. “And how might I serve you?”

The Troll King felt an unexpected stirring within his chest, but he pushed it away. “Perhaps I do have need of someone like you.” He stood. “Come with me, snake woman. I would take you to the Mother’s womb.”

*          *          *

Matthew was so focused on his mental calculations that he was startled by the expected knock at his door. He took a slow breath to compose himself and leaned back in his chair as he shouted, “Come in! Just leave your boots inside the door!”

The door swung open and a tall gnome stepped inside. “Greetings. Do I have the pleasure of speaking with the Stranger?”

“Do I look strange to you?” Matthew asked. Usually, he would have identified the gnome by now. His master would have filled his mind with the things he needed to know about his visitor. This time, he heard nothing. Matthew was forced to use experience to size him up.

The gnome had a youthful look about him. He had a full head of black hair that he wore slicked back and his large ears only drooped slightly. He wore fine scholar’s robes, but he didn’t stand with the usual hunch of the scholar. This gnome stood with the straight backed posture and easy grace of a warrior. This was the warlord that John had warned him about.

The gnome let out an amused chuckle and clasped his hands together. “It was not an easy thing, finding your domicile.”

“I don’t send out invitations,” Matthew replied. He took a long draw on his pipe. “So what do you want, warlord?”

The gnome’s smile grew thin. “I am Scholar Aloysius, from house Mur. I am here to make a request.”

“A request?” Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Folks don’t usually bring an army with them just to make a request.”

“They do when they want to request something from a god,” Aloysius said and two men entered the room. They were human stewards, wearing white robes with red sashes. “Stranger, I would like you to meet Shade and Andrew.”

“You need to bring thugs with you to make this request?” Matthew replied. He folded his arms in front of him. “Oh I can’t wait to hear what it is.”

“Ah, I suppose I should get right to the point, then.” He smiled again and this time it was genuine. He snapped his fingers and the two men walked towards Matthew and grasped his arms.

“Stop!” Matthew said, calling on the power of his authority. Nothing happened. They should not have been unable to resist that command. It was worse than he thought.

“I have been waiting for this moment for a long time, Stranger,” Aloysius said. “I have been watching the signs. I have been stretching my legs, building power, waiting to see if you would respond. When you didn’t, I knew the day had finally come.”

He reached into his scholars’ robes and withdrew a thin, polished blade from a sheath hidden inside. “You have lost favor with your master.”

“And what do you think you’re going to do with that?” Matthew asked. The sword shone with the glow of spirit magic. It was etched with bewitching runes. He swallowed. He knew which sword that was. How did this gnome get hold of it?

“You’re wondering if I am planning to kill you,” Aloysius said. He twirled the blade through his fingers with practiced dexterity. “I considered it. Two questions popped into my mind. First, would your master allow it? I had my doubts. Then I wondered, if he did allow it, if I managed to slay the Stranger, what would happen? Would our population controls be released? Or would things worsen? Worse yet, would your master simply appoint an unknown replacement? Too risky.”

Aloysius stepped closer and lifted the sword up over Matthew’s head. He pressed the sword tip against his left shoulder blade. “Finally I decided that there was only one acceptable solution.” In one smooth motion, he stabbed down diagonally with the sword, sliding the blade under the skin of the Stranger’s back, starting at his left shoulder and ending at his right hip. “I would just have to take control.”

Matthew was so shocked that he didn’t even feel the pain. The Creator had allowed him to be stabbed. The magic of the sword had penetrated his defenses. A wave of compulsion came over him and for the first time in thousands of years, he felt fear.

The gnome warlord smiled at his reaction. “Stranger, I am here on behalf of the blood magic and demon races. It’s time that you set us free.”

The Bowl of Souls series will continue in

The Jharro Grove Saga: Book Four

The Troll King

Coming 2015

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six