 
Flying Toasters

The DeadPixel Tales

By DeadPixel Publications

Copyright 2013 DeadPixel Publications

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

www.deadpixelpublications.com

v 1.1

Copyright 2013

DeadPixel Publications

Brian L. Braden

Robert Brumm

Thomas Cardin

Hanna Elizabeth

John Gregory Hancock

C.M. Saunders

Steve Wetherell

Cover Design by Thomas Cardin
In 2013 a group of independent authors gathered together with one goal in mind: to release a collection of short stories and unleash it onto the unsuspecting public. Thus, Flying Toasters – The DeadPixel Tales was born. What you hold in your hands is the result of that vision.

Shortly after Flying Toasters was released, the authors mysteriously vanished and were never heard from again.*

* Okay, I totally made that part up. All the authors of DeadPixel Publications are alive and well and can be found on the web and Facebook.
Table of Contents

The Man Upstairs

Hanna Elizabeth

The Cave

Brian L. Braden

My Dead Friend Nancy

Robert Brumm

The Lightgiver

Thomas Cardin

Altitude Sickness

C.M. Saunders

Prism

John Gregory Hancock

The Ballad of Azron Berzon

Steven Wetherell

The Man Upstairs

By Hanna Elizabeth

Hanna Elizabeth is a writer, philosopher, reader, and an artist. She was born among the Blue Grass and Horse Farms of Kentucky but spent the majority of her life in Ohio, until finding the place her heart calls home, in South Coastal Texas.

Always one to have her head in the clouds, Hanna enjoys daydreaming and pondering life's many mysteries. She loves nature and can often be found at the beach or meditating under the stars. She loves to travel and does so often with her family, including her Boxer Sierra, and her cat Sophie-kitty

In 2005 she completed her first novel, which she swears will never see the light of day. She's had numerous articles published in the Body, Mind and Soul section of LUX Magazine. VISIONS of WOOL is her first published work of fiction. But not her last.

One

John paced the attic, his feet never touching the floor. He eavesdropped on the couple arguing downstairs. This fight was a doozy. John was just waiting for the day when the neighbors called the police. So far, it hadn't happened. Although their fights never came to blows, he wouldn't be surprised if that woman ended up attacking Matthew. She was a vile creature who did nothing but squat in his house and mooch off him.

Matthew bought John's house seven years prior to this latest incident and it had been one bad relationship after another. Not just Matthew's love interests either. Oh, no. His friends took advantage of his kind soul as well. John knew he needed to help remove this wretched woman because the boy certainly wasn't having any luck, despite trying to dislodge her himself on numerous occasions. John wasn't sure what method to use. Yet.

He'd extracted more than a few leeches from Matthew, but Kirsten was different. She fancied herself a witch and invaded his space in the attic more than once with her altars and rituals. Not that he didn't believe in such things. He had been a 33rd Degree Freemason in his day and participated in more than a few rituals. Back when the Masons were more than just a sorority for drunken bastards. But the only thing this woman attracted was negative energy, and lurkers he then had to fight off. She wasn't making Matthew happy either and in fact, was hurting him with her careless disregard of life—both her own and his.

No. He'd have to do something to drive her out. Give her a not-so-friendly heave-ho. So he paced and planned and plotted her imminent departure. Meanwhile the fighting downstairs died down and the sounds of crying and pleading filled the air.

"Trying to get rid of another one, are we?" A voice echoed around him in the tight space of the attic. John spun around and came face-to-heel with his best friend in the afterlife, Charlie. Even after all of these years, Charlie had a terrible time manifesting in the right place. He'd often materialize like he did now, with the roof bisecting his body. John reached up and pulled his friend's ankle until he was all the way inside. Charlie sat cross-legged, bobbing like a helium balloon along the ceiling, despite the fact that he could easily manifest again if he chose.

"I'm telling you, this one is a real piece of work. She treats that boy like manure, and then makes him feel guilty for standing up to her," John resumed his pacing. "If only I could figure out a way to scare her away. None of my usual tricks work on this one."

"Sounds like you're going to have to step up your game."

"But how? This woman doesn't scare easy. She conjured some mighty terrible things since she's been here and just goes right on like nothing happened. Hell, I had to get rid of a succubus last week!"

"Maybe she didn't realize anything had happened." Charlie suggested, resting his thick hands across his Buddha-belly.

"Oh, no. She's aware. She just seems to think they're all as friendly as a litter of kittens."

"Sounds like she's a few bricks shy of a wall."

"Oh aye. She is."

"So, what are you going to do?"

Irritated, John stopped pacing and leveled his best, don't-piss-me-off stare at his friend, "Would you quit bobbing like that. You're making me sick."

"You can't get sick."

"Just stop it, would you?"

"I was just trying to help." Charlie shrugged, floating across the ceiling to the wall, where pretty baubles were displayed on a shelf with incense and candles. He picked up a crystal ball and tossed it high into the air where it hit the ceiling and crashed to the carpeted floor with a muffled thump.

John took no note of his friend's antics. "Ha! You'd love it if I failed. It would mean staying here on this plane of existence with you forever!"

"Now John, you know that's not true. I want you to succeed, but you gotta admit we have a lot of fun."

"Ha! Fun? Name one thing that's fun about being bound to earth when you're dead."

Charlie put this hand up and started ticking items off one at a time, "One: scaring people; Two: traveling anywhere we want in a blink of an eye; Three: floating; Four: flying without wings."

Squeezing the bridge of his nose, John's face grew red, "Stop. Just stop. Those things were fun for a while, but after sixty-five years those 'perks' starts to lose their luster."

"You know what your problem is, John? You never relax."

"Relax?" John boomed, "I'm dead, you fool! I can't get much more relaxed than that!"

A smile lit up Charlie's face an instant before his hearty laughter filled the small space. John wanted nothing more than to keep sulking, but realizing the ridiculousness of their argument he couldn't help joining in. Soon, he was doubled over holding his ribs and cackling like the old fool he was.

Charlie wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. When he managed to control himself, he said, "Now that, my friend, is how to relax!"

Two

Matthew learned to tune out most of what Kirsten said when her pitch became like a litter of squealing pigs, but she played dirty. All too often he found himself going head-to-head with her over some petty thing.

Today, however, was different. He had money go missing from his wallet and he was pretty sure she'd taken it, since no one else had been around. When he confronted her, she'd given a whole new meaning to going ballistic. He told her to get out and she threw an empty pill bottle at his head that he managed to dodge at the last second. Still, she sat rooted to her spot on the couch screaming like a banshee and cursing him up one side and down the other. He didn't really think she was aware of what she was saying half the time, but her words still cut like a knife.

When her temper-tantrum abated, the waterworks started. He rolled his eyes. Big crocodile tears streamed down her face, making her dark mascara and thick eyeliner smear and run until she looked like an abused clown. He stood there detached, watching this scene play out. Wondering, not for the first time, how the hell to get rid of her. He'd done everything short of changing the locks on the doors and he couldn't do that because she rarely left the house.

She was worse than a hive of angry bees when disturbed, and he sensed just as deadly. It hadn't always been this way. They used to have fun. They used to go out and do "couple stuff", but Kirsten had health problems and became dependent on pain pills. Things went south soon after her diagnosis. Still, it wasn't always hostile and derisive. Sometimes they still had fun together, but those times were few and far between. Their passion burned bright at first, but now barely an ember remained. As much as he had wished for companionship, now he just wished for solitude.

A loud thump emanated from upstairs, distracting Kirsten from her meltdown and Matthew from his thoughts. In unison, they looked toward the ceiling where the noise had come from, listening and waiting for some other noise to reach their ears. When nothing was forthcoming, Matthew looked around for Kirsten's cats. Both were sneaky beasts who could easily have found their way upstairs. When he didn't see them in their usual haunts, he walked out of the living room into the hallway, and to the stairs that led to the attic. The door was closed. He opened it slightly to make sure neither cat had gotten stuck up there but nothing leaped out at him. He took this as a sign that they were asleep somewhere else and closed the door.

Turning around, he nearly ran into Kirsten. "What the hell?" He exclaimed, his hand immediately covering his heart. Kirsten took a step back, her eyes red, puffy, and ringed by black smudges. She burst into fit of laughter. It was a loud, cackling laugh that set his teeth on edge. Her blonde curls bounced along with her melodramatic display. Matthew's heart threatened to pound out of his chest. He didn't see anything amusing about the situation. He brushed past her and entered his office, hoping she wouldn't follow. Just in case, he shut the door behind him and engaged the lock with a soft click.

He stood by the door, taking deep breaths and soothing the lump that had formed in his chest where his heart thumped wildly. He listened as she walked past his door and into the bedroom where he figured she'd lay down and take a nap—her main purpose in life. They fought often, and he regretted putting more strain on her already precarious health. He didn't love her, but he didn't want to hurt her either. He often wondered why she would want to stay somewhere that made her feel worse, but stay she did. He went over to his desk and flopped down in his chair. Turning on his computer, he tried to lose himself in a world outside his own.

Three

Charlie was off searching for more immediate entertainment. Matthew had retreated to his office and the Harpy was taking a nap. He knew it wasn't very generous of him to think of her in such terms, but he hadn't lived in a generous time, and he didn't have a very generous spirit. Not for people who take advantage of others. To John's reasoning, it was the perfect time for him to come up with ways to torture her into leaving.

He figured he needed to up his game. Last time Matthew had gotten himself into a similar mess, John had basically made a pest of himself by moving things around and making noises. It worked. That one left scared half out of her mind. This one believed in spirits so her feathers never seemed to get ruffled. He hated to do it, but he didn't see another choice. He was going to have to make whatever he did look like it had been Matthew.

He warred with himself as he paced the attic. Throwing Matthew under the bus wasn't exactly the way he wanted it to go down, but did he really have a choice? Was using Matthew in this way, any different than the way Kirsten used Matthew? Was he hurting him by trying to save him from the same mistakes he'd made in his youth? "After all," he reasoned, "Matthew isn't a child. He may be young in comparison to my advanced years, but then again, who isn't?"

Shaking his head to clear it, he admitted to himself that although he would be using Matthew, he was doing it for the boy's own good. If left unchecked, Kirsten would suck the life right out of him, leaving a tattered and withered soul in place of the vibrant spirit John knew Matthew possessed. "Emotional Vampires are nothing to mess around with." He told the empty room, "I should know, I was married to one for twenty-five miserable years."

With that settled, John allowed himself to rise up and out of the house. He needed to influence a few people so he'd have freer reign over the house. Not that he couldn't be invisible, but it was much more fun to fully materialize.

With a thought, he could be at his destination, but decided to take the long way. It was a beautiful sunny day, the kind he remembered from his childhood. Little puffy clouds painted the bright blue sky. Clouds he could fly through, if he wished. Birds flew alongside him, while others sung from the branches of trees far below, heralding his passing. Zipping through the air, he pretended to ride air currents. Since he was dead, the currents were pointless to his flight, but it felt good to pretend for a minute. He just wanted to clear the cobwebs from his mind and this little jaunt was just what he needed.

His first destination came into view and he dipped down out of the clouds, coming to a stop above the roof. It was six stories of red brick and mortar. He liked that the architecture reminded him of buildings from his generation. It was classic, without being ostentatious. It made him miss his life before death.

Sighing, he glided along, passing each window until he came to the office where Matthew's boss sat basking in the artificial light of his computer. The light from his window was obscured by a dark tint. The man was rail thin, lanky with tanned skin. Not the artificial tan that John saw so often from men nowadays, but the kind you get from being outside. Stress rose off the man in waves like heat off asphalt in the summer.

John slipped in through the window and went around the desk. Taking a look at the screen, John could see he was reading an email. He took a moment to read over the man's shoulder and then went back around the desk and took a seat in the chair opposite Matthew's boss.

It didn't surprise John that the man didn't see him, nor feel the whisper of cold air that always accompanied John's arrival. For the most part, the living were oblivious to everything around them. They didn't look deeply at anything, not even to the little miracles nature routinely made, let alone a dead man. It had been John's experience that people were so wrapped up in their own affairs that they rarely made room for anything else. They had too many distractions to notice any small variances in their reality. Perception was truly everything, John thought, as he began talking to Matthew's boss. It was a conversation the man would never hear.

When John was done, he sat back and waited for the man's mind to catch the stray thoughts John had introduced to him. He saw the moment the man realized what he thought was his brilliant plan, which would provide a solution to a problem he hadn't even realized he had. Before the man could think twice, he picked up the black receiver from its perch, punched a button for an outside line and dialed. John listened to one side of the conversation, as Matthew's boss insisted he work from home for the next couple of weeks. He told Matthew not to worry, that it was just due to restructuring in the office, physical changes and nothing more. He added that Matthew could expect a little surprise in his next pay check. John smiled at this last bit. Proud of his guile. John stood up readying to leave, but turned back once more. He complimented the man on his powerful mind, suggested he see a doctor for the dark spot on his forehead and then left the same way he had entered.

Four

Instead of taking the long route, John decided to expedite his travel. He thought about the Harpy and focused on the place where she worked. Within a blink he was standing in the waiting area of a dinky law office. The tacky pictures, worn furniture, and musty smell of mold all screamed Ambulance Chaser. John went over to a wall that held a plexiglass window and saw a mousy-looking girl sitting in the room behind a large desk that seemed to swallow her whole. A smarmy-looking fellow with slicked back, much-too-black-to-be-real hair came sidling up to the girl. Suggestively, he squeezed her shoulder and leaned over to whisper in her ear. John thought he saw her grimace but the look was there one minute and gone the next. John felt his dander rise up as he watched the exchange. The girl couldn't have been more than twenty. The man was old enough to be her father. The girl merely nodded and followed the man to a room down the hall. John glided through the door to the left of the receptionist area and followed them down the short hallway. He heard a soft click as the door closed in his face and another slightly louder click when the lock was engaged.

John stood in front of the closed door, his anger mounting, and his ears burning. He wondered what he could do to stop what he suspected to be more than just routine secretarial duties. Then it hit him. He was sure he could kill two birds with one stone. He strode through the door and sure enough, the mousy girl was on her knees in front of the man, her blouse buttons undone, her bra pulled down baring one firm breast. John didn't stop to watch. He went right to her, bent down beside her and with all of the force he could muster commanded, "Bite him." The mousy girl's spine straightened and without hesitation, she did as she was told. John grimaced as the man yelled and the girl pulled back startled at what she'd just done.

Understandably, the man was livid. He spewed hateful words at the girl as he inspected himself for damage. The girl sat frozen staring at the blood slowly dripping onto the floor, muttering "sorry" over and over again. John realized she was in trouble before she did. "Run" he told her and watched as she pulled her bra back into place and fumbled the buttons. "Run," he demanded again. Like a scared rabbit she leaped up and ran the short distance to the door. She tried to open it, but it was locked. She collapsed into it, but John was there to urge her on. Behind them, the man was returning to his senses, the obscenities slowing. John recognized the coming danger. She had to get the door unlocked before her boss could recover, but the girl was panicked. John watched her hand shake as she managed to flip the lock and open the door, while holding her gaping blouse closed against her chest with the other. The man realized a moment too late what she was doing and hurried to tuck himself back into his pants. A cry of pain emanated from his paled lips, changing into raw anger. "You're fired," he bellowed as he doubled over again in pain.

That was music to John's ears as he followed the girl into the receptionist area. He knew the man would live, the bite hadn't been that bad, but maybe, just maybe, he would think twice before taking advantage of someone like that again. John watched as she packed up her things through tear-filled eyes. He suspected this wasn't the first time the girl had been abused and decided to give her a gift. He told her all the things he would have told his daughter had he ever had one – about self-worth, self-respect and how she deserved better. He could see his words flowing over her and he knew he was making a difference. John watched as her tears dried and her shoulders squared. He thought she walked a little taller when she finally rounded the receptionist area and walked out the front door, allowing it to bang in defiance behind her. For once, John knew he had truly helped someone and it felt good.

His work done, he followed the girl out and watched as she put her belongings in her car. He marveled at what had just happened. Never had he influenced someone so directly before, and he wasn't sure it would be possible again. He wondered at what caused her to be easier to influence. Being dead for so long, he'd learned to channel his energy when he wanted to influence someone but never had anyone reacted without at least some thought first. Some people, like Kirsten, didn't respond at all. As he watched the girl get in her car, he wondered if maybe a part of her was angry for being used like that and wanted to act out against her employer. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that was probably the case. If not, it would call into question Free Will and the thought of what that might mean, shook him to his very core.

He watched as the girl drove off. Only then, did he think "home" and faded from the sidewalk.

Five

Dust motes spun lazily in the rays of sun filtering through the mini-blinds as John manifested in the attic. Although he knew others thought of it as an attic, the room spanned the entire house and had been his bedroom and sitting area after he'd built the house. The roof-line came in on each side and he had built storage spaces to give the room a more square appearance. He had handcrafted a built-in dresser and bookcases along one side. For energetic protection from outside sources, he'd added pieces of turquoise, hematite, and other stones above door frames and inside walls during construction.

He and Charlie had ruminated that maybe all those personal touches had stranded him here. Since there was very little input (none to be exact) from any 'higher ups' regarding his extended stay, he had chosen to believe that for a long time. It was only after Matthew had looked at the house that John realized he might have been wrong. Death was much like life, you don't get a set of instructions or how-to guides when you arrive; you have to figure out your purpose on your own. Especially when you get stuck between exits like he had. Other than his friends at the Lodge, when John died, he didn't have anyone who mourned him, or who needed watching over. There wasn't any reason for him to get stuck—at least not that he could reckon. For all he knew, this way-point is normal, or maybe there isn't anything 'beyond' this at all. Maybe this is all there is to the after-life. Heaven or Hell, maybe it really is happening right here, right now.

There had been times he felt like this was Hell. The torture of always being the observer, never interacting with the living world, or worse yet, the darkness of a sleep-like state that only the dead can appreciate, where you're nowhere and everywhere at the same time. He had passed many a decade in that state. He supposed one could stay there forever if you chose to ignore the glimmer of the physical world. But John knew firsthand that your purpose would pull you out of that state and into the Now, the minute you were needed. That's what had happened to him when Matthew arrived that day seven years ago to look at the house. One minute John was nowhere and the next, he was here. Again.

John heard a song play downstairs, and knowing it was one of those newfangled phones ringing, went to eavesdrop. He blinked out and back in and found himself in what had once been the formal dining room. Much to his dismay, it had been converted to a bedroom by the previous owners. In fact, that's why he'd decided to take a nice long nap. He had been so irritated with the little old ladies who were changing his house, and not taking any of his hints to stop, that he finally gave up and floated into the darkness. Although, even he had to admit that the current layout probably suited this generation better. As it was now, the single bathroom was easily accessible to both bedrooms and the rest of the living space. Of course, there was less living space, but for a generation who didn't cook often or even entertain in the same way his generation had, it seemed to work.

The little rectangle phone lay on the bedside table, lit up and playing a song John found especially annoying. The Harpy snored softly as he went over and looked at the display. WORK flashed in bold letters across it's face. Knowing he inspired this call, he mustered his energy and poked the cat sleeping beside Kirsten. It screeched and jumped, waking Kirsten. She bolted upright and looked around the room. Rubbing her face, she swiped her curls aside before answering. John breathed a sigh of relief when he heard her agree to work full-time until they could find a replacement for Haley. John hadn't known the mousey-girl's name until that moment and he filed the information away. Maybe someday he'd look in on her and see how her life had changed; he really hoped it had.

Six

The next morning, birds were just beginning to sing when John heard the first stirrings of life downstairs. Heavy steps padded from the bedroom to the kitchen, where he knew coffee was being made. He hadn't decided where to start his assault until yesterday, when he watched Kirsten's cats' reaction.

"I heard a rumor about you," said a voice from the rafters.

"Oh did ya now?" John said, nonplussed at Charlie's arrival.

"I heard you got a girl fired yesterday."

"Where'd you hear such an egregious rumor?" John was always interested in where Charlie went when he wasn't bugging him. This only added to his suspicions.

"Don't get me wrong. You did the right thing. You just went about it in the wrong way."

"I wasn't aware there was a 'wrong' way." John said as he reached up and pulled Charlie down into the house. "I didn't injure anyone."

"But you had that girl injure someone." Charlie argued.

"Aye, maybe so."

Charlie sighed and then said, "I know you were just trying to help the little duck out of a bad situation, but good god man; you had her bite his penis!"

"My only regret is that you weren't there to see his face." John said, deadpan.

Charlie burst out in a fit of laughter, slapping his knee, "That's a twisted sense of humor you have there, my friend. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

When he'd finally composed himself, he asked, "So, what's on the agenda today, old man?"

"Today," John smiled up at his friend, rubbing his hands together, "the fun really begins."

"That sounds truly mischievous. How can I help?" At the macabre grin John gave him, Charlie was almost sorry he asked. A shiver ran up and down his spine. "That's truly terrifying, John. Maybe you should just smile like that at Kirsten. I bet she'd run outta here screaming"

John harrumphed. Waving a dismissive hand at Charlie he walked over to the window and looked down on the driveway. Kirsten's car was still there so he resigned himself to the wait.

Seven

When Kirsten finally left for work an hour and a half later, John ushered Charlie downstairs. They waited patiently in the living room until Matthew had gone into this office and signed into work on his computer.

John slapped Charlie on the shoulder and said, "Lets wrangle us some cats."

"Does it matter which one?" Charlie asked.

John thought for a minute and then, shaking his head said, "I don't think so, none of them care for us all that much." Pausing, he added, "Just one more thing." He went into the bedroom and looked around, it was in even worse shape than it had been the night before. There were clothes strewn all around the room, some still on hangers where Kirsten had decided against wearing them at the last minute. Many of these were hanging off the edge of the bed. It took very little effort for him to knock them down onto the floor. "Now, we're ready," he said, leading Charlie out of the room.

They moved silently through each room. If any living person had been around, they might have noticed a slight temperature drop as they passed. The door to the sun porch was open and the cats were fast asleep on a settee under the window, basking in the early morning rays. John felt a pang of regret for scaring the little beasts, but dismissed it out of hand. This was a necessary evil. John whispered to Charlie to stay just outside the door, blocking access to the basement, acting as a barrier so the cats wouldn't go in the wrong direction.

Matthew and Kirsten had a blended cat family, each having two girls prior to the relationship. It wasn't any surprise that there had been issues when Kirsten and her Siamese cats moved in. The only time they got along was when they were sleeping, like now. All four cats were sprawled out in the sun. Matthew's cats were on the settee, while Kirsten's cats were on the floor below. It was unusual for the Siamese cats not to have taken up a spot in one of the window sills, but John figured it was probably due to Kirsten having just left. It didn't really matter to him except that they were in a better position to scare.

John faded out and rematerialized directly beside the unsuspecting cats, knocking over a planter on the table beside them. Between the commotion and his presence, all four cats jumped up, arched their backs, and hissed. All but one bolted out the door. Spazz, the fat black and white cat was disoriented and ran toward him. She managed to scatter the dirt that he'd spilled in a wide arc and losing her balance in it, she flopped onto her side and slid to a stop at John's feet. Shaking her head, she labored to get up. Standing again, she arched her back and hissed once more for good measure before toddling out of the room. John shook his head as he watched her go. Of all the cats, Spazz was his favorite. He'd watched Matthew's cats grow up from kittens. If names dictated behavior, then Spazz was aptly named.

The other three cats had run out the door, one blindly ran between Charlie's legs while the other two took off toward the front of the house. Charlie took up the chase while John had been watching the train-wreck that is Spazz.

John thought about Charlie and materialized beside him. He found himself in the hallway that led to the bedroom. Charlie had managed to get two of the cats into the bedroom and was baring their exit. Although neither cat seemed to be interested in doing more than hiding. One of the Siamese cats, (John couldn't tell them apart) was in the far corner cowering, and the other, a Tabby named Sass, was hiding under the bed. Of all of the cats, he figured Sass would be the easiest to get to do his bidding.

John said to Charlie, "I'll scare Sass out from under the bed and I need you to scare her really good when she gets to the clothes. And whatever you do, don't let her get past you!"

Charlie nodded and moved into the room. John dematerialized and rematerialized an instant later beside Sass, the bed bisecting his body. Sass screeched and high-tailed it toward the end of the bed. Close on her heels, John pursued her relentlessly. Charlie advanced at that exact moment, and as Sass emerged from under the bed, Charlie greeted her. Realizing she was trapped, Sass hissed and lost control of her bladder.

Thinking it was time to make a break for it, the Siamese skirted the edge of the dresser and ran out of the room. Just then, Matthew appeared in the doorway. "What the hell?" he gasped as Kirsten's cat ran past him. He rushed in and scooped Sass up into his arms and carried her down the hall into his office.

John could hear him soothing Sass, telling her that everything was alright and asking her what that mean kitty had done to her. Luckily, Matthew didn't realize that Sass had just had an accident all over Kirsten's clothes. That realization would come later and John hoped Kirsten was the first to find it.

"Well, that was traumatic. Do you think Sass is alright?" Charlie asked.

"She'll be fine," John waved away Charlie's concern, "Cats have nine lives, remember?"

"I'm not so sure. And even if they do, I'm pretty sure we just shaved off a few."

"Even so, it was for a good cause."

"If you say so. I'm not sure how well this is going to work. I mean, Kirsten doesn't seem the type to leave due to a few piss-soaked clothes."

"True. But by the time I'm done with my list, she'll feel completely unwelcome. Which, if you'll remember, is the point."

"You have a list?"

"I do. It's all up here," John said, pointing to his temple.

"Well, where else would it be? You can't exactly write stuff down."

"Thanks Charlie. It's always nice to be reminded of my limitations." John teased as he left the room. Sass hissed as he moved past Matthew's office, and John felt a twinge of guilt for terrorizing her, but dismissed the thought as being sentimental. Maybe it was best to just leave her alone. Not that he was going to seek her out again. He realized he was relieved that today's activities were over. Maybe I'm getting maudlin in my old age, he thought. He burst into laughter at the thought. He wasn't aging. Not anymore. He was dead. Sometimes, he thought, even the dead forget they're dead.

Eight

As far as John was concerned, the rest of the week had gone well. He'd taken to turning the oven up or down whenever Kirsten decided to cook; resulting in many meals either burned beyond recognition or taking twice as long to cook. The former was especially funny on Matthew's nights to cook when the oven or stove worked just fine, leading him to accuse her of purposely sabotaging dinner so that they'd have to order takeout, and her accusing him of messing with the dials when she wasn't looking. The fact that it was driving Kirsten nuts was a bonus as far as John was concerned.

Anytime Kirsten took a shower, John would turn the hot water heater off, leaving nothing but cold water for the last half of her shower, turning it back on when she was done.

The best had been when he'd knocked her shower products into the tub—he couldn't help it if they had been open at the time.

It was the busiest week he'd had in a long time. It seemed he was always up to no good whether he was hiding her things or moving them around. Turning lights on after she'd left the room, or turning them off when she'd just turned them on.

"It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt," Charlie reminded him one afternoon when he'd popped in to see what progress was being made. He left soon after, which John thought was strange.

It was late in the week, John wasn't sure what day. He was up to his usual pranks when Kirsten stormed out of the kitchen and into Matthew's office. "I've had it!" She proclaimed, "This house is haunted!"

John had followed her and he entered the office in time for Matthew to turn in his chair, "You're only just now realizing that? I told you I had a ghost when you moved in."

"I think we should consider an exorcist."

Matthew laughed, "Exorcists are for when people are possessed."

"Whatever. We need to get rid of it. I'm sick and tired of feeling like I'm always being watched and having the hot water go cold and the lights go on when I want them off, or off when I want them on!"

She was really working herself up into a tizzy now, John thought chuckling to himself.

"It tried to trip me!" she yelled.

John felt the anger boil up. "I've done no such thing!" he said to the room. Of course, no one heard him.

"Trip you?" Matthew asked, turning back to his computer. "I highly doubt your inability to walk a straight line is due to the ghost."

Kirsten huffed in indignation, "If you won't do anything about it, then I will!" She stormed out of the room. A few seconds later, a door slammed.

"She's off her rocker now," Matthew muttered and then added, "Ghost, if you can hear me, you'd better hide. I wouldn't want to be in her sights, if I were you."

Nine

Stunned by Matthew's warning, John retreated to the attic to think. Was he really concerned over what some witch wanna-be might try? He dismissed the thought. She might have been something to reckon with had she not been distracted with pills, and ultimately, herself. As it was, she was more like a whiny child who threatened to run away if they didn't get their way. They may scream and throw a fit, but they won't really leave. Hell, that's the whole point, he thought, I need her to leave and she won't!

"How goes the war?" Charlie asked from the head of the stairs.

"I don't know," John admitted, "she's threatening to exorcise me."

At Charlie's laughter, John bristled, "I'm not kidding. The Harpy thinks she can get rid of me." After a long, uncomfortable silence, John asked, "She can't do that, can she?"

Instead of answering, Charlie said, "It's become imperative that we dislodge her from Matthew's life. She's overstayed her welcome here. Things must move forward."

"What do you think I've been trying to do?"

"I think you've reached the end of trying, and have progressed to the conclusion. It's either her or you."

Deflated, John sat down on the futon. "Are you telling me she really could get rid of me?"

"I'm telling you that it's now or never, John. There are more things going on here than just one woman's refusal to leave."

"I don't understand."

"No. I know you don't. For now you don't need to understand, you only need to do."

"Do what?" John demanded. He was getting angry again. He'd always suspected that Charlie knew more about the after-life then he let on, but now John was beginning to question just how much. When he thought about their friendship, he couldn't even remember when it began. He realized he didn't really know anything about Charlie. Where did he go? Did Charlie have someplace he was attached to, like he did? Where did Charlie get the information he always seemed to have at just the right time?

"Now John, I know what you're thinking," Charlie began.

Does he really know what I'm thinking, John wondered?

"You're thinking that you've done everything you can think of, and none of it's made any difference. And I'm telling you that you have made a difference. She's on the edge, man. You only need to push her over."

That reminded John of what Kirsten had told Matthew. "Were you listening when she threatened to have me exorcised?"

"What?" Charlie asked, his brows drawn together in frown, "No John. I wasn't listening."

"Then how do you know any of the things you know?" John demanded, "How do you know that it's either her or me?"

"John, John, John," Charlie sighed, "if I told you that, I'd have to kill you." Charlie's laugh burst into the room like a popped balloon—a loud "Ha" followed by a series of wheezes and harrumphs.

John wasn't in the mood for Charlie's jokes. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. He didn't think it was fair to task him with getting rid of someone like Kirsten and then announce all of the sudden that he had to do it now or... or what?! What did it mean to be taken from Death? Would he lose his attachment to this house? Would he cease to exist at all? Would he end up in Hell—he didn't think he'd been that bad of a person either alive or dead, but what did he know?

The fact that Charlie knew, and wouldn't tell him, galled him to no end. He turned to say as much and found himself alone again.

"That tears it!"

Ten

John wasn't sure where Charlie's information came from, but he felt the quickening in his chest where his heart should be. He felt the pressure that comes with a task undone. The anxiety had been mounting and was at it's peak. He couldn't take it anymore. He knew Charlie was right, no matter where the information had come from, it was now or never but he felt impotent to affect the situation.

After another failed meal Matthew took Kirsten out for dinner, so John had the house to himself. Sometimes he wondered what he had in common with Charlie, other than being dead. If that was all, he didn't know if it was enough. John was frustrated as he stalked around the attic. He was mad at Kirsten, at the life he'd only barely enjoyed, the countless years spent twiddling his thumbs while accomplishing nothing of any use. Of the life he'd lived without true love. He knew that Matthew was better off without the wretched woman, but he was damned if he could figure out what would make her finally loosen her grip on the boy.

Agitated, John went over to what Kirsten referred to as her 'altar' and in one purposeful movement, wiped everything off onto the floor. With a resounding crash, picture frames shattered, little figurines broke, and wood split. John looked at the mess on the floor and felt exhilarated. He'd never been one to break things in anger before and he had to admit, it felt wonderful. He glided over to the shelves that he had built with his own two hands ages ago, and one after another he cleared them of her junk. If he couldn't get rid of her, at least maybe he could break a few of her favorite things. When he was done breaking things, he ripped pillows and tossed blankets on the floor, overturning a small coffee table from in front of the futon that they never used.

When his energy was flagging, he turned to survey the damage. If he had a heart, he figured it would be raging, and his lungs probably would have been burning. As it was, he felt nothing. It was becoming harder and harder to remain in the world of the living. He could feel the darkness enveloping him and as much as he feared it, perversely he welcomed it. He reasoned it might be the end for him, he may have failed whatever test he'd been sent here to pass, but he didn't care anymore. He felt deflated, defeated, and empty. Some rest, even if eternal, was needed and so he allowed the darkness to consume him. It filled him, completed him, and soon, his thoughts were no more.

He didn't know how long he'd drifted in the darkness when all of the sudden he found himself right back where he had been. Except there was a lot of screaming and yelling coming from downstairs. He looked around and found that the mess he'd made remained. Inching closer to the stairs, he strained to hear what all of the fuss was about.

He caught snatches of conversation here and there, the decibel levels were the highest they'd ever been. Kirsten was accusing Matthew of doing something on purpose. Matthew was defending himself, saying he hadn't been home. Kirsten wasn't listening. Instead she kept yelling, her voice a high-pitched squeal.

"How very poltergeist of you." Charlie said as he materialized beside John, gesturing to the destruction.

Arching an eyebrow, John stated, "You had a little do with it." John turned to face his friend. Charlie stood in front of him, all pretense of jolly-Buddha gone, "I see you didn't get stuck in the ceiling this time."

Ignoring John's last comment, Charlie said, "I'm sure I did have a little something to do with it, but you're the one who did the dirty work."

John gestured down the stairs, "It's not over yet."

"Oh, but it is, my friend. It is. While you were sleeping, she's been packing. She'll be gone before the weekend is out. You should be proud of yourself."

John's laugh was dry and hollow, "Just think, it only took breaking her precious things to send her packing."

Charlie turned on John then, "Why are you being so sour? You did exactly what you needed to do. That boy would thank you if he knew what was good for him."

"Maybe. It still doesn't feel right. I did all of this," John gestured at the mess he'd created, "out of anger, not for some noble cause."

Putting his hand on John's shoulder Charlie said, "But the results are the same."

The End

(Maybe..)

In loving memory of Spazz-Kitty

The Cave

By Brian L. Braden

Brian Braden has been a corporate executive, an intelligence officer, a combat helicopter pilot, and a freelance columnist. His articles have been featured in a variety of defense magazines and websites. He is also a founder, editor and writer for Underground Book Reviews. His debut novel, BLACK SEA GODS, is the first installment of an epic fantasy series. It is currently a semifinalist for Kindle Book Reviews Fantasy Book of the Year. The sequel, TEARS OF THE DEAD, is due for release Spring 2014.

\---1---

The man in black leaned against the porch railing, patiently contemplating the purpose of his summons. Twirling his handlebar moustache, he admired the late spring maelstrom raging high above on Pikes Peak. Snow erupted off the upwind slope in sun-gilded plumes, blending into rolling clouds above the summit. The turmoil above contrasted to the calm where he stood a mile below. He understood the illusion of tranquility, of how quickly death could descend and deliver an unexpected blow.

Squinting against the morning sun, deep creases etched his weathered face with shadows as dark as his drover coat and broad hat. The man in black seemed to soak the light from the morning air, testifying to the civilized world here stood a man of consequence, a man of purpose. He merely thought of himself as a man of duty.

Duty drew him to the eastern Rockies, the slopes just coming back to life after a bitter winter. Most of the snow across the plains had already melted, transforming the streets of Colorado Springs into mud, confounding wagons and soiling the finest petticoats.

He noticed quite a few petticoats and top hats, strangely out of place in a new frontier town. English tourists and English money saturated the city, driving prices as high as Pikes Peak. As the fresh scars of the Civil War began to heal, gentlemen and ladies from the finest eastern families and European nobility came west, deposited in Denver by the Kansas-Pacific Railroad. They journeyed the rest of the way courtesy of General Palmer's Denver and Rio Grande Railway. Some came to see the vanishing frontier and gaze upon the majestic Rockies. Others came to hunt the plentiful trophy game in the high country.

The one thing not plentiful here was liquor. General Palmer didn't tolerate alcohol in his new town. He harbored deep respect for his former commander, but still brought enough good rye to keep him warm during his stay. He had some fine tobacco in his hotel, too. As bad as he wanted for a cigarette, he supposed this would be a bad place to roll one.

The covered porch wrapped around a spacious whitewashed building, which could have been mistaken for a fine resort hotel. Perched between worlds, the majestic mountains formed the hospital's backdrop and the plains fell before it like an endless gown.

Frail, wispy figures clad in white robes surrounded the man in black like morning fog encircles a granite peak. They, too, existed between worlds; living ghosts slumped in wheelchairs across the porch. Nurses drifted among the pale figures carrying blankets and hot tea. Occasional coughing spasms racked the silence. The patients deflected their gazes away from him. Perhaps he'd dealt death for so long, he'd come to resemble it.

During the war, General Palmer once confided why he always kept him by his side. Palmer believed the man in black could sense when death lingered nearby, attributing this gift for keeping the General's feet firmly planted in this world. He told the General it wasn't a gift. When you got the smell of death deep in your lungs day in and day out, it eventually stuck there like molasses on the inside of a barrel. After a while, you could smell it coming. Just when a man thought he'd exorcised death from his mind for good he'd get a whiff of it again, strong and fresh.

Most men who fought the war, like the General, spent the rest of their lives trying to avoid death. Thinking it a fool's errand, the man in black quit trying long ago. In fact, he'd gotten so damn good at smelling death coming he made it his profession.

Death permeated the clean, crisp mountain air. It wasn't the hot, violent smell of the battlefield or a gunfight, but the cool, sterile odor of antiseptic decay. While expensive and beautiful, this place wasn't a fine resort hotel and these weren't English tourists. The patients came for a second chance at life and hoped to find it here at Craigmor Sanitarium. Neither stricken with consumption, or visiting a patient, he had an appointment with his former commander General William Jackson Palmer.

Palmer's personal secretary, a small man with a penchant for small details, emerged onto the porch and whispered to the man in black, "Mr. Knight, the General will be out shortly."

Silas H. Knight nodded and resumed chewing on a toothpick as the little man scurried off. A few moments later, a group of well-dressed men emerged onto the porch, Palmer at their center.

"Gentlemen," the General addressed them. "I feel certain I've laid to rest any doubts this grand institution, nestled here amidst our Lord's natural beauty, is at the forefront of modern medicine. I am confident this glorious place of healing can only prosper and thrive under the stewardship of such a distinguished board of trustees. Now, if you will please excuse me, I must attend to other matters. I leave you in the hands of Doctor Edwin Solly, with whom you are already acquainted, to field any further questions."

He shook hands with each and bid them thanks and farewell. His smile cooled as he turned and made his way across the porch to Knight.

"Sergeant, it does please me to see you again."

"General." Knight touched the brim of his hat in a ghost of a salute.

"How was your journey? Are you hungry? The kitchen staff here is excellent."

"No thank you, sir. The hotel has a fine breakfast, even if it is a bit rich for an old soldier."

"Ah, yes," Palmer agreed. "The Antlers is the finest hotel west of St. Louis. I hope you find it agreeable."

"Most certainly."

Palmer motioned off the porch. "Well then, Sergeant, will you do me the honor of accompanying me in a stroll across the grounds while we discuss why I asked you here?"

The two men made no small talk as they strolled in silence down the hill, past the garden toward the open prairie. Palmer stopped and surveyed the wide-open rolling grasslands stretching east, interrupted only by the distant town nestled among the foothills. A gust of wind stirred the late morning calm as the mountain storm behind them began to draw energy from the warming grasslands.

Knight watched his former commander out of the corner of his eye. The steely look on Palmer's face transported him back to battlefields long ago, and a thousand miles away. He knew deep inside that Palmer still fought the war. The general would fight for the rest of his life to purge the smell of death from his nostrils.

"Silas, I trust you are in good health and your constitution is as firm as ever." Palmer looked him up and down and nodded.

"Yes sir, still fit enough."

"If my telegram was sufficient to lure you here then I can rest assured Kansas City holds no special bond for you?"

Knight nodded. He had no bonds, other than to some inner code of honor he shared with a few men. Palmer was and would forever be his commander, loyalty bought and paid for with blood.

Palmer nodded quickly and grinned. "Excellent."

Palmer stretched his arm across the open grasslands, the way he did when he surveyed battlefields. Knight followed him, because unlike most Union generals, Palmer was a man of thought and action. A spy, the commander of the 15th Calvary Regiment, a former prisoner of war, and nemesis of General Lee, he was the most daring man Knight had ever encountered.

"Colorado Springs is going to be the next St. Louis. I'm building railroads, but not out west, Silas. No, that is already happening." He turned and motioned toward the giant peaks. "Instead, I'm building narrow gauge lines throughout the Rockies from Mexico to Canada. Not around them, mind you, but through them! In Washington, they see these great mountains as obstacles to uniting the continent. I see them as a source of wealth, the very backbone of the continent."

Knight listened as Palmer went on, detailing his plans for the Denver and Rio Grand Railway. To his former commander, it was simply a matter of breathing life into events already played out in his mind a thousand times. An engineer, the General visualized the end-state, and then applied scientific principles to make his vision reality. Now Palmer visualized pushing the American Empire across a virgin continent.

"Science now allows us to engineer railways in places the ancients couldn't have scraped a goat path. I have work camps scattered up and down the Rockies. These are lawless places, beyond territorial justice. If I can't keep order, I can't build the railroad."

Knight now understood why he'd been summoned.

Palmer continued, "The camps are filled primarily with Mexicans, but there are some white men, mostly foremen and engineers mind you, at each location. There is liquor and whoring, I can't prevent that. However, I can't have these vices inducing strife with the local indians. The tribes, especially in New Mexico territory, are very different than those across the plains. They're generally passive unless stirred to trouble. That, my old friend, is why I requested your services. Are you equal to the task?"

"I understand, sir." Sergeant Silas H. Knight, former scout of the 15th Pennsylvania Calvary Regiment would ride forth once again at the bidding of his general.

"Very good. I knew I could count on you. I'll pay well above what you earned in Kansas City. My personal secretary will handle the details."

"Yes, sir." Ordinarily a hard man when it came to contract negotiations, Knight simply accepted his former commander's word.

"I hope your instincts are as sharp as ever, for I must request that you depart immediately. I received word this morning of trouble near the railhead in Espanola, in northern New Mexico. There is a territorial marshal there, a certain Thomas Wellsby, but he is a drunkard and a liar. I'm making you a deputized agent of the railroad. Under territorial law you'll have jurisdiction in all matters regarding the Denver and Rio Grande Railway." Palmer leaned toward Knight in confidence. "Espanola is the lynchpin for the Chili Line, the railroad stretching from Raton across northern New Mexico. Therefore, all matters in Espanola are in some regard the jurisdiction of this railroad."

"Will Wellsby be a problem?" Knight inquired.

"He'll see your mettle and likely stay out of your way. However, he is not above backstabbing, so tread carefully. Ascertain the situation in Espanola and, if he is involved, deal with him as necessary. And I suspect he is involved.

"I want law and order established there, one way or another. When you are through in Espanola, move north or south along the rail line from Santa Fe as you deem fit. Let your reputation move ahead of you, if you take my meaning." Palmer gestured to the well-worn grips of Knight's .44 caliber Colt pistols.

A cold gust of wind suddenly blew from the west, rocking Palmer slightly. Knight's heavy black oilskin drover barely ruffled. The general turned and looked back at the sanitarium and the gray mountains beyond. The storm slowly descended onto the plains, darkening the blue morning sky and casting a shadow over Palmer's face.

"I have enemies. Not just the railroad barons in Denver, but in Washington. They want to see my narrow gauge railway fail. Lackeys in Congress try to block me and I suspect the work camps are filled with saboteurs. I believe Wellsby is one of them.

"I fear the old world is here, its sins and demons have followed us to the New World. The war showed us that, Sergeant. We must shine the light of freedom and faith into the all the dark corners. We must not let those demons gain a foothold in this clean, bountiful land."

Knight did what he always did when his general waxed philosophically: nodded and kept quiet. He'd never been to the Old World, but he knew people were the same, whether white, negro, indian, or Mexican. Most were bad, few were good.

And some were damned.

\---2---

The horse drank by the mountain stream while Knight slept in the saddle. Late afternoon sunlight danced off the last of the cold snowmelt. Soon, the first snows would seal the mountains to the north and east, barring his way back to Colorado. It didn't matter; he wasn't coming back this way until next summer.

For now, however, the only thing falling was the leaves from the cottonwoods and aspens. A breath of cool, dry mountain air woke him. He looked up and around.

The sun shines harder here.

Mountains capped with strips of old snow stood boldly against the pale blue sky in the west and north. Knight gently spurred his horse. They ambled down the mountain, following the golden trail of cottonwoods into the fertile Chama Valley.

The setting sun blazed orange as he entered Espanola, a collection of low adobe huts, shacks, and tents. Children played in the dusty haze kicked up by wagons packed with railroad workers. Zuni Indian women sat cross-legged against southern facing walls. Wrapped in brightly colored blankets, their shadows lay crisp on white adobe.

He found himself before a two-story adobe inn across from an old mission. A Mexican boy gladly accepted a U.S. nickel to feed and care for his horse. Outside the inn, several squat Zuni women in long dresses tended two hornos, adobe ovens. They took loaves of fresh bread, tortillas and steaming goat meat into the main kitchen though a side door.

He stepped out of the cooling twilight into a warm main chamber packed with men crowded along several long tables. White men and Mexicans hunched over their mugs, eating with barely a word. Except for a crackling fire in the corner, an odd silence hung over the tavern.

Knight made his way to an open bench. A plump indian girl ran a wet rag across the rough table in front of him.

"You are not a worker," she said matter-of-factly.

"No, but my money is good. Now bring me something to eat."

She eyed him suspiciously and hurried off to the kitchen. Around the room, hardened gazes assessed Knight before going back to their business. After a few minutes, a sweaty man emerged from the kitchen, nervously wiping his hands on a dirty apron.

"Señor Knight? Are you Señor Knight from the railroad?"

Knight stood, towering above the elderly man with the refined Spanish accent. With bloodshot eyes, the Spaniard's shoulders slumped as if under some invisible weight.

Knight extended his hand. "I take it you are Señor Amado Lucero?"

The Spaniard offered a weak smile and unsteady handshake. "Welcome to my establishment! Please, sit. Isobella, get our guest some warm bread and tequila. Please, sit my friend."

"Thank you." Knight tipped his hat and sat back down.

Patrons eyed Knight with renewed interest, perhaps wondering who merited Amado's finest hospitality.

"Isobella will take care of you," Amado motioned to the plump indian girl. "I must tend to the kitchens. Once my patrons depart, if you are not too exhausted from your journey, we will discuss business. My daughter is preparing a room for you even now."

"Thank you kindly. General Palmer spoke highly of you and your dear family."

Amado winced, then smiled tightly and nodded. He curtly begged Knight's pardon and disappeared into the kitchen.

In a few minutes, Isobella placed a steaming plate of corn tortillas and shredded goat meat before him. The green and red chili spices didn't sit too well with Knight's bland Protestant palate, but it was hot with ample cool water to wash it down. Anyway, mountain air made a man plain hungry. He ate as quickly as the spicy food permitted, all the while observing the room around him.

As the sun set outside, the fire cast long shadows across the mud walls and danced off the low-slung ceiling beams. Hard men, exhausted from their day's labors, sat in near silence. They nursed whiskey or warm beer, but lacked spirit. More men streamed in, but few left. Soon, the serving girls lit lamps, banishing the shadows to the corners.

Knight wiped his mouth and washed down the last of his meal. He'd seen this before. When men gather in fear, they are either overly boisterous or deathly quiet. Men are loud in the face of dangers they understand, but fall silent in the shadow of the unknown.

He beckoned Isobella. "Bring me a whisky. I'll take it on the porch. Tell Señor Amado he can meet me there when his business is complete." Stares followed him as he departed.

Knight stepped onto the front porch and leaned up against a post. He breathed in deeply, letting the night fill his lungs.

A man could live on air this sweet.

He struck a match, lit a freshly rolled Carolina tobacco cigarette and watched the blue smoke waft into the starry night. For a brief moment, he caught a whiff of something sickly sweet, but it vanished quickly on the breeze.

Knight turned, and experienced the disturbingly rare sensation of being surprised. Dark almond eyes studied him intently from the edge of the porch. Never taking her gaze off of him, she emerged into the ruddy light. Stray tendrils of midnight hair, untouched by grey, escaped a bun and fell across perfect olive skin. She wore a kitchen apron over a blue velvet dress common for ladies in these parts. A brilliant turquoise crucifix on a silver necklace hung from her graceful neck.

He cleared his throat and tipped his hat. "Ma'am. I didn't mean to disturb you, I thought I was alone."

She slid onto the porch uncomfortably close to Knight, never releasing him from her stare. Her expression overflowed with goodness and sadness and a life fully lived. Finally, as if pitying Knight, she released him from her gaze and stared into the night.

So this is the Spanish Lady.

Along his journey the railway workers spoke reverently of the beautiful enchantress, a lady of noble Spanish blood who gave her heart to a lowly commoner, a simple innkeeper. For her, they fondly named this settlement Espanola. Even in a kitchen apron, her beauty surpassed any woman he'd ever seen, seemingly lighting the darkness around her.

She finally spoke in a voice of satin and honey, "We came here when I was only a little girl. My father told me this place held old magic, a kind of magic the Church did not want to acknowledge. It's old and pagan, as beautiful and terrible as a summer monsoon over the mesa. It's in the air and you drink it like wine. I see it in the stars and in the sunrise over the mountains. When my father arranged my betrothal to a gentleman from Toledo, I pleaded with him not to separate me from this beautiful, enchanted land. I draw my strength from it, and fear I would wither if gone too long. I think this is why I married my dear Amado." She smiled and drifted to a different place and time.

Knight had seen hell so many times that a glimpse of grace stole his breath. Her voice poured over his soul like a spring Baptism, washing away a lifetime of blood and gunsmoke. Silas would have gladly spent the rest of his life in this moment, willingly trapped in the Spanish Lady's power. He would do anything for her, she need only ask. She turned again to look upon Knight, but he could not hold her gaze. He looked down at his boots as the moment passed.

"Forgive me, I have been working too long in the hot kitchens. Sometimes I get carried away. We are most grateful you arrived here safely. I am Josefita, Amado's wife. Our daughter has prepared our finest room for your stay."

Finding his senses, Knight nodded and removed his hat. He searched for the right words and briefly thought about how her apron was strangely clean and white for someone working in the kitchens all day.

He cleared his throat. "Of course, Señorita. General Palmer spoke glowingly of the hospitality of the house of Lucero. He sends his regards."

"I wish we could accommodate an agent of the railroad with a more gracious reception, but we have many mouths to feed. If Amado can be of any service, please do not hesitate to ask."

"Ahm...uh, yes ma'am. I most certainly will."

Suddenly, she stepped even closer to him and placed a hand on his arm. The coolness of her touch took him aback; the intensity shining from her face bewitched him yet again.

"Dark tidings have befallen us. I don't know what General Palmer told you before you came here, but what stirs in this valley is ancient sin brought to life. I know you are an earthly man, but you possess the gift to see what is unseen." Her eyes bore deeper into him. "I fear you will need that gift... more than even fire and steel," she whispered.

Then, without another word, she turned and vanished around the corner. For a moment, he caught the sickly sweet odor yet again.

Clouds now covered the stars as the night turned pitch black. A few ruddy lanterns spilled feeble puddles of light onto the dusty street. Alone again, he leaned against a post and blew out a long breath.

\---3---

The serving wench hadn't brought his whisky. He turned to go back inside when the sound of drunken singing, clear and hollow, echoed out of the night. Without thinking, Knight placed his right hand on the butt of his revolver and slowly turned.

The singing drew closer.

When logs about the house are stack'd,

And next year's hose is knit,

And tales are told and jokes are crack'd,

And faggots blaze and spit;

Death sits down in the ingle-nook,

Sits down and doth not speak:

But he puts his arm round the maid that's warm,

And she tingles in the cheek.

Death! Death!

Death is master of lord and clown;

Shovel the clay in, tread it down.

Death is master of lord and clown,

CLOSE THE COFFIN, HAMMER IT DOWN!

The refrain repeated as the smell of rye, stale and rotten, floated from the darkness. The form materialized, leading a donkey and cart. As the shadow drew closer, light streaming from the windows illuminated a fat, bloated face covered with stubble.

"Good evening to you, kind sir!" The portly man bellowed with a slight Irish brogue. He removed his top hat and bowed deeply, revealing a few thin strands of hair over a bald pate.

"Mr. Nesbitt Carl at your service."

Knight nodded but kept a hand close to his revolver.

"If I may be so bold, you must be the railroad agent Amado spoke of, sent here by the General himself to put this fair village back in order. Mr. Knight, I presume?" He thrust forward a meaty hand.

"The same." Knight nodded, but didn't accept Nesbitt's hand.

Nesbitt withdrew his hand and smiled. "I see, a man of few words; a man of action and justice." He lifted his finger and waved it vigorously. "I salute you, Mr. Knight. The General is most serious and must be determined in his resolutions to send a man such as yourself. I, too, am a man of action and recognize a kindred spirit. Men like us are driving the American Empire to the Pacific and taming the red savage. I, for my part, soothe and give comfort to tired working men with my assortment of tonics and spirits." He motioned to the cart pulled by a dead-eyed donkey.

Knight first took the crates for coffins, but a second look revealed whisky crates. The man he took for an undertaker was nothing more than a carpetbagger, probably driven west when the spoils of war dried up. He sensed something very wrong in this village, something beyond the influence a common rapscallion like Nesbitt Carl could bring.

Knight held scavengers like Nesbitt Carl in disdain, but such cowardly creatures had their uses. He would deal with Nesbitt later, but for now he would keep an eye on him.

"I take it, Mr. Carl, you have business here with Señor Lucero?"

"I come this way every few months. He has a good eye for fine liquor and his patrons expect only the best. I must ensure my customers have enough inventory to last them through the brutal territorial winter. In fact...!" Nesbitt's eyes grew wide as a smile sprung to his face. He bounced to the back of the cart to retrieve a fresh bottle of whisky.

"As a distinguished representative of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, please accept this complimentary bottle of my finest wares. It's Kentucky sour mash, only the highest quality. I reserve this for my white customers, being too strong for the weak constitutions of the red race. Only a few drinks and they become delirious." Nesbitt leaned in and tapped his head. "Tenderizes the savage brain, you know. Amado tells me it's fit for the tables of the Spanish court. Please take it with my best regards, Mr. Knight."

"Much obliged," he said and took the bottle of amber fluid. "You said you come this way every few months. What other towns do you frequent throughout the territory?"

Nesbitt's eyes darted left and right. "Well, as a businessman I must keep a wide variety of customers stocked. If I tarry too long my competitors, numerous and not known as scrupulous men, will swoop in and prey upon my clientele. This is why I am a man who moves..."

The front door opened, spilling light and noise onto the porch. Isobella emerged holding a shot glass and a half-full bottle and placed them on the rail next to Knight.

"I am sorry, but we are running low...Señor Carl! The cellar is almost empty; take your wares around to the kitchen. Miguel will see to your cart and donkey."

"Sweet Isobella, I have a better idea. YOU take my cart and ass to the back. This is Amado's entire order. I will join the patrons in the saloon presently. Mr. Knight, I must see to my customers. Perhaps you will join me in the inn for a drink and a conversation?"

"It would be a pleasure." He began to roll another cigarette. "I'm going to take in the night air for a spell longer, then I will be in directly."

"As you wish," Nesbitt handed the reins to a reluctant Isobella, lifted a few bottles of whisky from one of his cases, and entered the inn. Muttering curses under her breath, the girl led the donkey and cart around the corner. Knight heard a few men cheer as the vendor entered the room. Laughter penetrated the walls and carried across into the night. Knight found himself alone again on the porch, pondering the events of the evening.

\---4---

He placed the fresh bottle on the rail and filled the shot glass from the bottle of rye Isobella brought. A mystery formed in his mind, fed by the look of desolation in Amado's eyes and the fear festering inside the inn. He wanted to talk further with Josefita, somehow sensing she held the key to this mystery. First, he would hear what Amado had to say, and then seek out Wellsby. Something in Espanola spelled trouble for General Palmer's ambitions.

He nursed the whisky and waited for the inn to empty.

As midnight approached, he heard Nesbitt laughing and lifting the spirits of the gloomy crowd with raunchy jokes and bawdy songs. Eventually, men drifted away, but never alone. Once they stumbled into the darkness, silence and sobriety fell upon them. They scurried away like children racing to the outhouse at midnight, their need barely outweighing their fear of what lurked in the shadows.

Knight slipped back inside carrying both bottles of whisky. Only a few men remained at the long tables. He found a dark corner and sat with his boots up on the table. A few women cleaned up, but Josefita had yet to reemerge from the kitchen. He poured another shot from the near empty bottle of rye and continued to nurse it. Nesbitt laughed loudly with two Mexicans almost too drunk stand. Knight watched him closely. Nesbitt caught his gaze and smiled back with large yellow teeth that reminded Knight of a coyote.

Amado emerged from the kitchen, sweaty and obviously exhausted. He wiped his hands on his apron and approached a group of men drinking near the fireplace. Amado nodded and motioned over to Knight. A stocky, Dutch-looking cowboy with a red beard, scowled over his shoulder at Knight.

Perhaps this fellow is Wellsby.

He looked younger than expected, perhaps only in his early 20's. Amado and the bearded man approached. The cowboy glanced side to side, not meeting Knight's steady gaze. A Colt hung awkwardly by the man's side.

"Señor Knight, thank you for waiting so long. The matters at hand will not wait for morning. Let me introduce Sheriff Townsend."

Knight put his boots down and leaned forward. "I was expecting to meet the acquaintance of a Mr. Wellsby."

"Let us sit and talk. Much has transpired since the General dispatched you." Amado called for more whiskey.

Townsend immediately poured a shot of whiskey and downed it, then poured another. What Knight first took for cockiness, he now recognized as fear.

Whatever is going on here, Townsend wears the badge reluctantly.

"A few weeks after snows cleared from the lower passes to Santa Fe, the crews resumed work on the rail line. It was shortly thereafter when people started vanishing," Amado began. "Indians, mostly."

Townsend spoke up, "Strong backs are hard to come by 'round here. Injuns are poor workers...if and when they show up. They come 'round when they're hungry or want liquor and vanish as fast as they're paid. Some foremen won't use 'em, claim they steal more than their worth."

Amado looked irritated at Townsend's interruption, but continued, "I am on good terms with the chiefs from the various pueblos. They came to me first. They did not trust Wellsby, perhaps for good measure. At first..." his voice broke and he looked away. "At first I thought it was simply a matter of intoxicated indians wandering away. Sometimes they mix strong drink with peyote in their kivas and are overtaken by madness; but after a few weeks there were too many men missing for this to be the only explanation. I knew some of them, young Zuni and Navajo men. Good men, fathers and sons. Some were my friends. Yes, maybe they drank too much, but that is the curse the white man brought upon them."

"How many indians are we talking about here?" Knight asked.

Amado paused and took a drink, his hands shaking. Townsend stared at his glass and remained silent.

"By the time the monsoons came, I counted two dozen indian men vanished. Maybe more, it's difficult because the indians soon ceased leaving the pueblos."

"When Wellsby found out, he told me it was indian business as long as it didn't interfere with the railroad. It became railroad business when the chiefs forbade their men to work on the railroad. Wellsby rode out to the pueblos to strong arm the chiefs to release their men back to the lines. I believe he knew you were coming and he didn't want the problem to get back to General Palmer before he could resolve it."

"He asked me to ride out with him that day, along with Richard here." He nodded at Townsend. "We also took Father Garza from San Marcos and rode twenty miles northwest, along the Chama, to the Zuni settlement on the river. They were the first to refuse workers."

"Father Garza came, I think, not to convince the chiefs, but to protect them from Wellsby. They are a proud but peaceful people. Not like the southern Apache or bloodthirsty Comanche. They protect themselves with desolation, high on the mesas or deep in the malpais, the badlands. They thrive where others only find death. Death is their friend because he takes care of their enemies before their enemies can find them."

Amado paused and rubbed his eyes. "Wellsby...Wellsby," he smiled and wagged his finger. "The indians did not trust him. Wellsby threatened the tribes. Father Garza always tried to mediate, but Wellsby only made the indians more stubborn." He shrugged. "I could not blame them, Wellsby was a hard man."

Townsend nodded.

Was?

Knight continued to listen, poker face firmly set, unsure where this tale would end. He wanted to like Amado, obviously a shepherd of a man and the center of this community. This inn reflected his spirit, a light on the edge of a dark frontier. He also saw turmoil swimming in innkeeper's haggard gaze.

Townsend took false solace in the iron strapped to his side, not from any inherent mettle in his spirit. Knight knew Townsend's gun would more likely get him killed than save his life.

"So we rode out that morning, before the sun," Amado continued. "We wanted to get as far as possible before the late season monsoons rose above the mesas. I sent young Miguel ahead to inform chief Lai-lun-kia of our arrival. The chief is wise and patient, but I feared Wellsby's arrogance would test him. I wanted him prepared for our arrival. Garza is especially trusted in that pueblo."

Amado took a long drink of whiskey and wiped his mouth.

"We rode up the Chama till mid-morning. It was hot, very hot. Not a breath of air stirred. We started up into the high country when we saw him."

He paused and shivered.

Something is terribly wrong here.

"Gentlemen!" Nesbitt boomed from behind. He slapped Amado and Townsend on the back. Knight didn't notice his approach from the other side of the room, and that fact chafed his mind like a sandbur in his boot.

Knight looked about and realized, save Isobella, the patrons and barmaids were gone. She sat quietly in a rocking chair beside the fire. All the lamps were extinguished, leaving only the fireplace to cast long shadows across the room.

Amado rose and shook Nesbitt's hand. "My friend, did Isobella see to your payment?"

Nesbitt smiled widely and grasped Amado's shoulder. "Of course, all our accounts are settled. As usual, your hospitality and generosity are without equal."

Amado stood with rigid formality, an honorable old world man. Nesbitt, however, gushed over Amado the way sycophants do.

Nesbitt removed his hat and bowed low. "Gentlemen, the night is no longer young and neither am I. There is much business to attend to on the 'morrow. I bid you goodnight!" As he turned to go, Knight saw something in the liquor monger's eye, something sharp like an unexpected shard of glass. Nesbitt's eye lingered too long on Knight, sizing him up.

"Amado, how long has Mr. Carl been in your acquaintance?"

"He came with the melting snows. His prices are fair and the customers like him, especially in these dark days. He is quick with a joke and is very generous with the samples."

"I see," Knight replied. "Continue your account. Who did you see?"

Amado took another drink and continued, "We saw a frightened young boy from the pueblo, running north up the riverbank as if being chased by the devil himself."

Stone faced, Knight listened to Amado's tale into the early morning. When he finished, only the lamp at their table lit grim faces. Isobella had long ago retired to bed. Orange embers popped and floated out of the dying fireplace. Knight remained silent for what seemed an eternity.

"Townsend, I want you to accompany me to this place first thing tomorrow. We leave with the sun."

Ashen, Townsend stood. "Then I best be getting along. I'll meet you here at sun-up."

Knight stood as Amado grasped his hand. "Thank you. I hope you understand why I cannot accompany you, I must tend to the inn."

Knight almost opened his mouth to inquire if Josefita could keep an eye on things while Amado accompanied them. She struck him as an intelligent and competent woman, but instinct held his tongue. Experience taught Knight when in doubt, remain silent lest you unintentionally reveal a weakness to an unknown enemy.

"Amado, I must clarify one more detail regarding your account. You said Wellsby returned with you to Espanola, then vanished the day after your return. How many days now has he been missing, and have you or Mr. Townsend told anyone this account except for me?"

"It will be two weeks tomorrow since he vanished. Townsend and I made a pact to tell no one until your arrival. Trust is a hard commodity these days." In that moment, Knight sensed Amado wanted to tell him something else. Instead, the innkeeper blew out the lamp, slumped into a chair next to the dying fire, and bowed his head.

"Goodnight, Señor Knight."

Silas Knight lay in bed, boots on and Colt by his side. His thoughts lingered on the beautiful Spanish Lady before he fell into a soldier's sleep. Branches scraped a dry rattle against the window as muted sobs floated down the hall from the tavern chamber.

\---5---

"It's there, in the cliff face on the east side of the river." Townsend pointed down to a sharp bend in the river about half a mile north of their vantage point on the cliff.

Knight lowered his hat against the naked sun and followed Townsend's finger to an overhang in the opposite cliff. There, the river had carved out a hollow in the soft yellow clay. In the stark midday shadows, he couldn't be sure how far it penetrated the cliff. With monsoon season nearly over and the Brazos Mountains snow pack almost gone, the Chama shriveled to a trickle. The challenge would be finding a way down the cliff to the streambed.

"I see it. How do we get down there?"

"The cliff descends in another mile north."

"Something is moving down there, just south of the cave," Knight pointed to a dark speck trotting out from the cave's shadow.

Townsend shielded his eyes from the sun and sat higher in the saddle, wiping sweat from his brow every few minutes.

"That there's a cay-yote-aye, maybe a mangy wolf. Hard to tell from here, I didn't see any sign of a..." Townsend jumped in his saddle as Knight's Colt thundered inches from his ear.

"SON OF A BITCH! I'm gonna be deaf in that ear for a week, you..."

Ignoring Townsend, Knight calmly replaced the revolver in his holster, and rode through the blue smoke. Townsend rubbed his ringing ear and looked where Knight shot. Far below, the animal lay motionless on the riverbank.

"It had something in its mouth. I want to see it."

"Jesus Christ," he mumbled and spurred his horse after Knight.

As Townsend promised, the cliff soon descended to the sandy streambed. Knight stopped just short of the river and trotted back and forth, looking intently at the ground as Townsend caught up.

"Hell of a shot back there. Musta been three hundred yards. Never saw a revolver shot like..."

"What's east of here?" Knight interrupted, pointing to a wisp of black smoke on the horizon.

"That's Foreman McGhee's railhead camp, maybe four miles. The line stays north of the river until it enters the mountains." Townsend took off his hat and wiped his head with a rag. "Looks like ole' McGhee's making good progress all things considered."

"Answer me this, and answer carefully." Knight turned and directed his gaze squarely on Townsend. "Have you told anyone what Amado spoke of last night? Does anyone in town, other than you and Amado know of this place?"

Townsend shook his head. "Only the kid from the pueblo and Father Garza."

"I ain't worried about the boy. If what Amado told me is true, there isn't a red skin alive who'll come near this place."

Knight galloped about fifty yards downstream and halted, studying the sandy bank. Warily, Townsend trailed a few yards behind. Knight suddenly wheeled about, pulled his gun and pointed it squarely at Townsend.

"The boy, did he accompany you and Amado back to the cave?"

Townsend slowly raised his hands. "Hey, I ain't done nothing to you or any of those poor souls!"

Knight cocked the hammer. "Answer my question."

"No, he was too afraid. Stayed upstream 'til we came back fer him."

"Father Garza...when did he leave you and Amado and head back to the Espanola?" Knight asked.

Townsend looked confused. "I don't understand."

"It's important you answer my question, Mr. Townsend. Otherwise, it's going to go bad for you."

"Last night, neither of you told me what happened after you found the cave. Tell me what happened to Father Garza after you left the cave."

Sweat poured down Townsend's face. "He took the boy north, to the pueblo. Don't rightly know what became of them since. I suspect Garza made his way back to San Marcos."

"And Wellsby?"

"He went back with us, I know Amado told you as much."

"We'll see. Turn around and ride north ahead of me."

"Are you gunna tell me what the hell's going on? I ain't done wrong by you or anyone."

"Maybe," Knight replied casually from behind. "There's what you tell me and what the tracks tell me. I'll find out soon enough who's telling the truth."

They rode several hundred yards north toward the distant railhead, until the terrain flattened and sand gave way to scrub and thistle. He commanded Townsend to stop, but stay on the horse. "Keep your hands were I can see them."

Knight dismounted and walked through the scrub, once again studying the ground, Colt always pointed in Townsend's general direction. He bent down and examined the dirt.

"Wellsby vanished, just like that?" Knight inquired.

"It ain't no damn different than like we told you," frustration rising in the sheriff's tone. "We got back just before dark. Wellsby told us to keep quiet and he was gunna wire back to Colorado Springs what we found. He never met us the next morning, like he said he would. Ain't seen him since. Amado said we should keep quiet until you showed up. That's the truth, I swear. Hey, if we were lying, why would I bring you up here?"

Knight remounted his horse. "Because this would be a good place to dump the body of an agent of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Now, turn your horse around and ride back to the river."

Townsend spit. "You planning on killing me?"

"Should I?"

They returned to where the cliffs enclosed both sides of the river. The horses splashed up to their hooves in the muddy water as they rounded the bend and the cave came into view.

"Dismount," Knight ordered.

The railroad agent dismounted and cut an "X" in the sand with his boot heel next to the stream.

"Stand here. Don't move until I see if what you and Amado told me is true. Most of what you said lines up with the tracks going in and out of this canyon. If I see tracks newer than two weeks old coming from the south, I'll know someone lied. And if I don't find what you described in the cave, I'll still know someone lied."

"We weren't lying, Knight."

"We'll see. If you move off that 'X' I'll kill you before you mount your horse, understand? Even if my back is turned, I'll still hear you. And if I can't hear you, I'll smell you. If I find what I should in there, then me and you, we're okay."

Townsend remained silent as he tied his horse to a piece of scrub and stood on the X.

"Ain't you gunna take my gun?"

"If I thought you knew how to use it, I would."

Townsend's cheeks turned red. He jerked his hat low and crossed his arms with a huff.

Knight tied off his horse and crossed the sluggish current, barely getting his boots wet in the process. As he walked down the canyon the cliffs rose higher and the breeze abandoned him to the New Mexico sun.

Overhead, buzzards dragged their shadows over the creature lying next to the streambed. It turned out to be a mangy coyote with a mottled coat and sore-covered skin. Jutting ribs and bulging eyes spoke of a creature already dying of hunger. A human femur, partially covered with dried flesh, lay beside its head. He nudged it with his boot, revealing blood-soaked sand under its chest.

Lung shot.

Knight stepped over the coyote, not bothering to look back at Townsend, knowing he hadn't moved.

The cave waited.
\---6---

Formed by successive floods, heaps of gray scrub oak and rotting pinion formed a wall guarding the cave's mouth like ragged teeth. Death lurked in there, every bit as grim as Amado and Townsend described.

Josefita's words came back to him...you will need more than fire and steel.

Knight cocked the Colt's hammer.

Fire and steel will have to do.

He stepped gingerly over the woodpile looking for the telltale sign where men had repeatedly transversed the heap. Knight quickly found a path of flattened sticks and followed it.

Immediately after clearing the woodpile, Knight spotted the first bones. Covered with tattered flesh, they formed a scattered trail stretching into the dark recesses. Then the hot, putrid reek of rotting flesh assaulted him, along with the deafening buzz of a million flies.

Knight pulled a flask of rye from his coat and took a long pull. He poured some over his bandana and tied it over his face. Returning the flask in his pocket, he knelt down examined the cave floor.

Once again, the tracks told the story. Knight slipped deeper into the cave until the sloping roof forced him to stoop. That's where he found the pile, exactly as Amado and Townsend described it.

Clouds of black flies ebbed so thick they partially obscured the flesh mound. Arms, legs and bloodstained indian garb poked out from sheets of squirming maggots. Fighting an overpowering urge to vomit, his nostrils rebelled against an unholy stench the bandana did little to curb.

Knight wasn't familiar with the local savages, but he felt confident these weren't white men. The corpses weren't piled as much as stuffed into the back of the cave, new corpses tossed atop the old ones instead of spreading the pile out in the ample cave.

The pile looks compressed. It's been arranged.

Beyond the scene's sheer horror, that fact puzzled him.

Knight glanced back at the bright entrance. The bone trail leading to the cave's mouth obviously came from the older bodies near the bottom.

Four men have been here.

Amado's, Townsend's, and perhaps Wellsby's tracks were several weeks old and easy to spot: straight in, straight out and close to one another like frightened creatures. The fourth set of boot tracks cut fresh and deep and bold across the cave floor, proclaiming the predator's lair.

The only scavenger tracks were those of the freshly killed coyote, and its tracks only meekly penetrated beyond the woodpile.

It snatched the first scrap it found and high tailed out.

Every critter for miles around should have been in here, feasting and dragging the carcasses up and down the riverbed. The only buzzards he saw were freshly arrived and circling over the dead coyote outside. From First Manassas to Gettysburg, Knight had witnessed fields of blood and carnage. Nature wasted no time feeding on war's grim bounty, but here only flies reported for duty. The evil that repelled the scavengers began to seep into his bones. As bad as he wanted to run, grim duty kept his boots planted in the cave.

If the bone trail leads from the center of the pile, it means someone needed to make room.

Knight returned to the woodpile, thankful for the fresh air. He removed his drover coat and pulled a pair of leather gloves from its inner pocket. He laid the coat over the pile, rolled up his sleeves, and donned the gloves. That's when a thought occurred to him.

He looked back at the cave floor, and blew out a long breath of air between his teeth. There weren't any signs of bodies being dragged, either inside or outside the cave.

That's why the killer's tracks are so deep. He carried them, perhaps for miles.

Returning to the corpses, Knight pulled on a rotted leg protruding midway down the pile. At first it didn't budge, but his efforts released a fresh wave of foulness along with a cloud of flies. Knight coughed and fought for breath as he pulled again. The body slid out with a wet sucking sound.

On a hundred battlefields Knight had never seen a corpse like this. The indian, perhaps in his late teens, had been here over a week, but wasn't as stiff and bloated as would be expected. All the dead grow pale, but even a red savage wouldn't be this eerily white, even after a week. Then he saw how the indian died.

The man's blood had been drained through a long gash ripped into his neck. Knight looked around, but there was no evidence of mass bloodletting anywhere in the cave.

He wasn't killed here.

He pulled another corpse from the pile, this time an older man. He died the same way. Another older, badly decomposed body told the same story. He examined their necks more closely, trying to deduce the weapon that inflicted the killing wounds.

"Knight, you alright in there?" came Townsend's voice from beyond the cave.

"I'm alright," he yelled back. "But I reckon you won't be if you don't high-tail it back to that 'X'."

"I ain't moved, Mr. Knight." Townsend responded a moment later in a fainter, more distant voice.

Knight leaned closer over the dead. No other wounds were apparent, only the gashes which delivered the killing stroke.

Too jagged for a knife...maybe a saw?

He peered closer at the necrotizing flesh, occasionally flicking away a maggot. Knight couldn't believe what his eyes told him, but the dead don't lie.

Chew marks. Bites.

"Poor bastards."

As a deputy in Kansas City, he once investigated a prostitute's murder. Something about these bodies reminded him of that brutal violation.

He examined the rest of the three corpses and discovered bruises around their wrists. Someone very powerful pinned them down, ripped open their necks and drained every ounce of blood from their dying bodies. They didn't struggle much, and that he didn't understand. They all looked to have been strong bucks.

Shaking, Knight stood and took several deep breaths. He placed his hand on the holstered Colt until the trembling ceased.

Looking back at the cave entrance, the light slowly dimmed as the day wore on.

The tracks in and around the cave gave Knight confidence Townsend wasn't responsible for this atrocity. The evil here wasn't indian handiwork, either. Even the monstrous Comanche had never done anything like this before. Knight battled the urge to bolt, but an unseen force held him. He glanced back at the pile and saw black fabric poking from beneath an indian leg.

Knight shoved the leg aside and discovered a hand and arm wearing a white man's coat. Knight grabbed the sleeve and tugged at the body buried deep inside the pile. Initially, it wouldn't budge. Knight dug in his heels and turned his head against the hellish fume rising from the heart of the pile. The body broke free as corpses tumbled right and left, leaving a stinking valley in the death mound.

Knight gasped for air and took a long pull from his flask before examining the new corpse, two holstered pistols strapped to its hips.

"Wellsby."

He'd never met the man, but felt sure it was him. A tin star topped Wellsby's black overcoat, his white shirt now stained with rot from his new companions.

Wellsby died differently from the rest. His mustachioed face was purple and bloated, his body stiff with rigor mortis. Bruises encircled the lawman's throat, but the neck wasn't ripped open.

Someone snapped Wellsby's neck with bare hands before the sheriff could even draw, carried the big man here, and then stuffed him deep inside the pile like a rag doll.

Probably a hard man, Knight knew someone like Wellsby didn't have his neck snapped easily. Still leaning down, Knight caught a faint scent hiding beneath the blanket of rot and decay.

A familiar scent.

Knight pulled down the whisky soaked bandana, closed his eyes, and whiffed the air. At first, the putrid rot overwhelmed his senses, but then he caught it again. Wincing, he filled his lungs again and again, leaning over the pile like a chef taking in the aroma of the day's soup.

Whisky. This wasn't the hard-edged old rye soaking his bandana, but a sweeter, more refined aroma of Kentucky sour-mash.

\---7---

A grim calm settled over the dark man as he straightened and turned toward the entrance. He had his answer, but the answer didn't make sense.

The sun peeked under the top lip of the cave. He rolled down his sleeves and donned his coat. Before he stepped over the woodpile, something made him look back. He didn't know why, because he didn't want to. During the war the same inner voice made him duck right before a bullet whizzed by, or compelled him to advise General Palmer contrary to sound intelligence reports, thereby saving the division. Sunset now bathed the back of the cave in crimson light, highlighting every fly with crystal clarity. A ray of orange sunlight settled onto the gap in the pile where he removed Wellsby's body. Something twinkled like starlight amongst ghoulish arms, legs and bones.

Leave, his heart told him. Go see, something else whispered.

The stink of rot and sour mash whisky enveloped him as he returned to the pile once more, careful not to block the sunlight from the sparkling place.

Tangled black hair spilled over the body's face, and Knight hoped he'd uncovered a freshly slain indian at the bottom of the pile. But the shade of black wasn't quite right, and a few strands of gray stood out in the ruddy light. He kicked away another body to reveal white cotton and blue velvet. A silver chain wrapped around a delicate hand, which grasped a turquoise crucifix.

As if watching someone else, he removed one glove and gently brushed away the black hair, uncovering pale, olive skin.

Knight reeled backwards and fled the cave.

Cleansing sunlight warmed his shoulders as he fell to his knees beside the stream. Knight stripped off his coat and splashed water over his face and arms. He kept scouring his forearms with water and sand until they bled, sucking in breath after breath, trying to purge death from his lungs.

Townsend meekly approached. "Mr. Knight, are you okay?"

Knight rinsed the bandana and folded it neatly in his pocket. He donned his coat, adjusted his hat and collected himself.

"It's just like Amado and I told you, isn't it? Like something from hell," Townsend said.

Knight snapped his Colt up into Townsend's forehead and shoved him against the ravine wall.

"Where is Josefita Lucero?" He screamed into Townsend's face.

"You crazy som'bitch! Put that damn thing away!"

Knight grabbed Townsend's face and raised him off the ground with one arm. He shoved the black Colt up against the sheriff's temple. "Tell me where Josefita Lucero is or I'll shoot you dead now!"

"Amado sent her to Santa Fe three days before you showed up! She went on the weekly coach. When we came back from the cave he said he was scared and didn't want her 'round. Yesterday he got word the carriage never made it. Amado was organizing a search party this morning."

Knight dropped Townsend into a dusty heap, turned and walked to his horse.

"Señorita Lucero is in the cave, dead by two days near as I figure. Wellsby is in there, too. He's been dead longer."

Townsend sat in the sand, face in his hands.

Knight mounted up. He wasn't going to tell Townsend, or anyone else, about his encounter with the Spanish Lady last night.

"You still think I had something to do with this, don't you?"

Knight reached into this saddlebag and pulled out the unopened bottle of sour mash whisky. He cracked the seal, pulled the cork and took a whiff. Knight grimaced before his face solidified into a mask of determination.

"There's not a man alive with enough evil in his soul to do this. If there was, you ain't him. The poor souls had their blood drained. They were feasted upon."

Townsend shuddered. "Probably some damned redskin."

Knight remembered General Palmer's words: I fear, Silas, the old world is here, its sins and demons have followed us to the New World.

"Get on your horse and ride hard back the way we came. Get back before sundown. I'm circling north via the rail line."

"Hell, I'd have to kill my horse to get back that fast!"

"Then kill it. What did this knows we're out here. If he catches you before you get to Espanola, you'll end up stuffed under that pile with Wellsby and Amado's wife."

"Well, tell me who done it. I'm the sheriff, and I'll take care of 'em!"

"I suspect Wellsby left here with a good idea, too. I think he kept his suspicions to himself until he could confirm them. He underestimated this enemy and paid for it. I suspect the Lady Lucero knew who did this, though I don't know how."

Knight reeled his horse around. "A good deal of what's transpired here remains a mystery, but my gut tells me Father Garza may be dead, too. The faster you get back, the better the chances are you'll find Amado still alive.

"Now this is important, so listen carefully. When you get back, organize a party of about five men to come back at first light. Drag all that timber into the cave, soak it with kerosene and burn it to ashes. Then dynamite the cave and collapse the bank. As for tonight, stay at the tavern.

"Don't be alone, not even for a minute. If Amado hasn't gone off looking for his wife yet, then.... well, tell him what I saw in there. I, for one, think he already suspects as much. Watch over each other, or you may not live to see the dawn."

Townsend swallowed hard. "I'll bring the padre to bless the grave."

"If it makes you feel better, but this ground is cursed...deeply and forever."

"Are you going after who did this?"

Knight jiggled the bottle. "I'm going to drink this, all of it till I can't feel or smell anything else. I'll see you back at the tavern. Tell everyone I plan on being mean and drunk, so stay the hell out of my way. In the morning, I'll ride for the monster did who this."

"Who's gunna watch your back?"

Knight patted his Colt and rode off to the north without another word. He followed the cart tracks he scouted when they arrived at the river. He didn't tell Townsend about the tracks, the less he knew the better.

\---8---

As darkness crept across the high desert, the wind howled up the Chama Valley. By the time Knight darkened the tavern door, the wind switched from the north, carrying flurries foretelling the season's first storm.

He swayed as the wind blew out the oil lamps. His glazed eyes swept the room until they fell upon Townsend. The lawman and the aborted search party sat quietly in the tavern, somberly nursing beer and whisky. Stumbling in, he slammed the empty whisky bottle on a table. The railroad agent raised his head and squinted at the wailing drifting from the upper rooms.

"I take it Amado and his daughter know," Knight slurred.

Townsend nodded. "I caught 'em just before he set out for Santa Fe with the search party."

"You did everything I asked?"

Townsend nodded again.

"I'm going to bed. There's killing needs doing come dawn. Wake me before first light."

With that, Knight stumbled to his room and slammed the door shut. A barmaid closed the tavern door, but not before another slipped in unnoticed from the windswept darkness.

Knight lay fully clothed, boots on, on top of the sagging mattress. Motionless and eyes closed, he breathed deep and ragged like a passed-out drunk. Townsend and his men's muffled voices floated down the hallway and mixed with the branches rattling the window.

Something slinked across the floor in the pitch-black room.

Alert and cold sober; Knight's senses were fully engaged. Eyes closed, breathing unchanged, he knew hell shuffled only a few feet from the end of his bed.

He smelled the cave in the cramped space between the bed and the washstand.

It's deciding whether or not I'm really asleep.

Like a spider, the enemy needed to ensure the venom was fully engaged before it wrapped the fly.

Suddenly, the dark presence seemed to expand.

The Colt blasted from under Knight's right leg. In the muzzle flash, Knight saw a man slam against the opposite wall. Knight sprang up and discharged another cartridge where he calculated the body fell. Through the ringing in his ears he heard a groan.

Townsend and his men exploded into the room brandishing guns and lanterns. Through oily gun smoke and dingy light Knight saw the motionless form of Nesbitt Carl against the shattered washstand.
\---9---

(One week later)

Covered in a dusting of snow, the gallows stood ready for three days. But the village elders couldn't decide whether to send for a territorial judge or let Townsend try the case as the justice of the peace.

"No witnesses, nothing to tie Carl to the cave or the bodies, no confession, and no wounds," Knight told the elders. "I shot him point blank. Townsend, you saw the wounds and the blood. Now, there he sits in shackles, fit as a rattlesnake on a hot day, and laughing. If you send for a territorial judge you might as well release him now."

The townsmen agreed, but the elders, accustomed to the days of centralized rule from Mexico City, took more convincing. Amado's pleas, not Knight's, eventually brought them around.

They held the trial in the tavern. Shackled, Nesbitt hunkered in a dark corner like a rat. Knight had no words, no frame of reference for the beast known as Nesbitt Carl. He beat him only by abandoning all logic and relying on instinct. Now logic and reason were losing badly against Nesbitt Carl.

A railroad bookkeeper with a back-east education represented Nesbitt. The young man correctly stated nothing could tie Carl to the scene of the crime, which Townsend and his party had already destroyed. Carl's only possible crime was being in Knight's room, uninvited but unarmed.

Knight knew Nesbitt didn't play by the rules in the bookkeeper's back-east law book. They needed a frontier trial, were evidence carried less weight than fear.

Amado beseeched the pueblo chiefs to come and testify, but none did. One sent a messenger to beg the court to appease the demon Nesbitt, lest he devour them all.

"The injun is the only one talking sense!" Nesbitt cackled from his irons. "I hereby absolve the red savages from my terrible vengeance."

To Knight's relief, Townsend quickly found Nesbitt Carl guilty of the murders of Sheriff Jackson Wellsby and the Lady Josefita Lucero, as well as twenty six counts of the unlawful death of an indian.

During sentencing, Knight shocked the gallery when he spoke in favor of burning. This statement received Nesbitt's full attention.

"I'd rather take my chances out there with the savages instead of you 'civilized men'! Bloody Americans, no better than the French," Nesbitt protested, visibly shaken.

The bookkeeper stood and tapped his law book. "This, gentlemen, is the U.S. Constitution as well as the territorial charter of New Mexico. It's enough this is a sham trial, based on superstition and..." he waved his finger at Knight. "...blind fear! My client is right. We are no better than the primitives we're supposedly here to show the light of reason, law, and Christian love. The legally proscribed form of capital punishment in this territory is death by hanging or firing squad. For all that is right and merciful, at least do this. Or we might as well all live in Texas."

The bookkeeper carried the day. Nesbitt grinned smugly as they dragged him into the cold sun and onto the gallows in the town square.

In anticipation, a crowd gathered under the bare aspens surrounding the gantry. The fact the disappearances stopped once Knight apprehended Nesbitt didn't go unnoticed by the villagers.

A gasp went out among the crowd. Villagers crossed themselves with cries of, "El Diablo!" as women turned away. Knight made his way through the spectators to see what the commotion was about.

Nesbitt's skin darkened and turned purplish-black. It began to split and bleed. Blood trickled from his eyes like perverse tears.

Townsend inched forward. "Nesbitt Carl, you have been found guilty of the murders of Jackson Wellsby and Josefita Lucero. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?"

Nesbitt looked left and right over the crowd. "Knight! Where's Knight?"

The railroad agent stepped forward.

"Ah, there he is. I have but one request for my new friend." The crowd fell silent as Nesbitt leaned over as far as his chains allowed, blood and pus dripping onto the freshly cut planks.

"Before I snapped her neck she told me you were coming. Seer of the unseen, she said. The bitch cursed ya, Knight! Cursed ya with old magic, deep magic, and you don't even know it. So you better bury me deep, old boy. BURY ME DEEP!"

Knight stepped back, hand seeking the reassurance of his pistol grip.

A woman screamed and fainted. Trembling, a young priest from the mission stepped forward. "Do you want me.... do...you...want me to read from the Holy Scripture?" he stuttered.

Nesbitt rolled his eyes and grinned. Black blood oozed from between his teeth.

"If it will get that hood on me, you bet your ass, laddie! Why don't you read Daniel 9:9, that one is always short and entertaining in times like these."

The priest fumbled though the pages. "The Lord our God is merciful and forgiving, even though we have rebelled against him."

Nesbitt issued a deep, gurgling laugh. "Say, padre, could you bring that a wee closer so I can read it myself? My eyes are a bit watery right now."

The priest held the Bible closer to Nesbitt, who promptly spit a wad of black juice on its pages.

"Damn you to hell!" the priest recoiled.

"Too late. That forgiveness shit didn't play too well in my case," Nesbitt chortled as Townsend placed the hood over his boiling, disfigured face.

"Ahh, that feels so much better!" With a cackle, Nesbitt broke into song.

"Death is master of lord and clown;

Shovel the clay in, tread it down.

CLOSE THE COFFIN, HAMMER IT DOWN!"

Snarling, Townsend yanked the lever and the trapdoor fell away, sending Nesbitt to a sudden jerk three feet above the New Mexico clay. Nesbitt's feet kicked wildly.

His neck didn't snap.

Knight had seen enough hangings to know when they would linger. He pulled a Colt and fired one bullet into the hood and one into the abdomen. Nesbitt ceased struggling.

The bookkeeper looked up at the body in horror and disbelief. Knight bumped him as he turned to walk back into the tavern.

"I guess he gets a hanging and a firing squad today," Knight said. "I figure justice must be plum happy 'bout that."

\---10---

(Two days later)

"You were right, we should have burned him. Will he come after us?" Amado asked.

Knight chewed on a piece of grass, and kicked at splintered planks surrounding the grave, which was now a gaping hole dug from the coffin up. It reeked of sour mash whisky.

"Maybe not today or tomorrow, but he'll come," Knight answered.

"I fear Nesbitt Carl, whatever spawn of hell he may be, is too big, too strong for us to fight," Amado said.

"I'll find out what he is and I'll find a way to kill him," Knight replied, Nesbitt's final words clouding in his mind like hot gunsmoke.

For several minutes they contemplated the empty grave in silence.

"I wish I could have met your wife, Amado."

Surprised, Amado looked up at Knight. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Why do you say this?"

Knight looked upon the distant mountains ringing the Valles Caldera, the season's first snow lightly brushing its rim. Even against a slate gray sky, they were vivid and beautiful.

"A beautiful woman once told me there was magic in this land. I didn't know what she meant at the time, but now I do. She said it was old magic, bigger than us, bigger than Nesbitt."

Amado shook his head. "I don't understand."

Knight looked him in the eye. "She said fire and steel won't serve us against this enemy." He spit the piece of grass into the disemboweled grave. "But in the end, fire and steel is all I got."

Knight removed the turquoise crucifix and silver chain from his pocket.

"Townsend brought this back from the cave. He thought you'd want it."

Amado extended a trembling hand, and then pulled back.

"Her precious memory will live with me forever, in our home, in our tavern...and in the village she was so loved. In this respect, I will always be a wealthy man. I'm not sure why, my friend, but I think she would want you to have it. Perhaps it will give you more than fire and steel."

Knight nodded in thanks and shook Amado's hand. Silas Knight, railroad agent, soldier, and man of consequence and purpose, rode south and never looked back.

He spent the rest of his days trying to forget the smell of the cave.
Epilogue

The bobby trailed the big man since spotting him entering the Whitechapel an hour earlier. He wore a long trench coat and a wide brimmed hat. The stranger's boots sounded oddly foreign on the London cobblestone. These slums were the domain of dregs and destitutes. This man, neither beggar nor gentlemen, didn't belong here.

The stranger slipped through the fog with purpose, but without obvious direction.

This bloke is looking for something, and I suspect that something is trouble.

Trouble plagued the East End these days and the policeman wasn't about to let this stranger cause any more. He picked up his pace, determined not to lose the big man in the foggy darkness.

The big man turned the corner at Miller's Court, followed by the bobby a few moments later.

And then he vanished.

The bobby ducked into the side alleys, searching each in detail, unwilling to believe this stranger could give him the slip on his own turf.

Yet, that's exactly what happened. After ten minutes jogging up and down the nearly empty streets, the bobby gave up. He briefly considered blowing his whistle for reinforcements, but decided against it.

He'd keep an eye open for the big man tomorrow night. He walked backed to Whitechapel Station, his shift almost over.

The big man materialized out of the fog and watched the bobby turn the corner. He held a crumpled copy of The Penny Illustrated Paper and Illustrated Times, which detailed the recent murder of a local prostitute, Miss Catherine Eddowes.

The bobby was right; the man in black was looking for something. He smelled the cave in London's East End, and came with fire and steel to put a stop to it.

He opened his black oilskin drover, revealing two Colt .44 pistols. Each black as night, one he named Consequence, the other Purpose. But he knew they weren't enough to stop the evil he followed across the Atlantic. He needed more.

The street lamps shone down upon his chest, reflecting off a turquoise cross hung from a silver chain.

The End

My Dead Friend Nancy

By Robert Brumm

Robert Brumm lives in Southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children. He can be found during the day slaving over a hot server as a systems administrator. At night, if he's not drinking beer in front of the television or taking his puggle for a walk, you just might find him writing in the basement.

So I decided to name her Nancy. The short list consisted of Sara, Nancy, Beth, Ellen, and Vicky. Out of those names I picked Nancy as the final winner just because she looks like a Nancy. Yesterday I tried hard to make a mental list of all the Nancy's I'd know over the years and could only come up with four. Seems hard to believe, but that's it.

Now when I say four, I'm not counting my Nancy, the Nancy currently drifting through space about thirty feet away from me. Before the accident we'd never met, pretty sure anyway, and there's a good chance her name isn't Nancy. So she doesn't count.

Ever notice how just about any word starts to sound weird if you repeat it enough?

Nancy.

Nancy.

Nancy.

Sorry, I'm getting off track here. Obviously, I've had a lot of time to study her since there aren't many other ways to pass the time these days. Based on her uniform, she was in a non-combat service or support role. Could have been food service or custodial. She's probably five six or so, hundred and fifty pounds. Pale white complexion. Brown hair. She sort of reminds me of a nurse I hooked up with in France back in World War Two. Or was it World War One? I was in France both times but I banged a nurse only once. I can't recall her name but I know it wasn't one of my four Nancy's.

This Nancy thirty feet away is tumbling at a pretty steady clip ass over heels so I only get a glimpse of her face every second or so. That's only when I'm facing her myself, which is only every twenty four seconds. Yeah, I can crane my neck and take a peek over my shoulder, but what's the point? I only have to wait twenty-four seconds before she's facing me again.

That's probably one of the most annoying things I've found about drifting through space. No matter what I've tried, I can't adjust my course or heading or even to stop myself from spinning. I've flapped my arms, kicked my feet, tried swimming, you name it. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have things to look at as a reference. In space there is no upside down or right side up. And nobody can hear you scream, which sounds much catchier on a movie poster.

Ahead of me is nothing but empty space. A whole lot of stars and nothing else. Behind me (I know, there's no in front or behind in space either. Shut up.) is what's left of the USS Ares after it was blown to all hell. Besides Nancy and a few recognizable body parts, the rest is just a bunch of junk. Pretty much what you would expect to see after a destroyer class vessel gets ripped apart by a nuke reactor catastrophic failure. Twisted sheet metal. Bits of hull. Lots of electronic and mechanical thingies I won't pretend to know what they are.

For the life of me, I can't figure out how I ended up on the very edge of the debris field. My only guess is when the accident happened I was walking in the outer corridor, right up against the outer hull by the engine room. The explosion launched me and Nancy out past just about everything else and here we are. She doesn't have a scratch on her, by the way. Must have died once she hit the vacuum of space. Hell of a way to go, I imagine.

So my life has boiled down to two options and both of them aren't so great. Option A is floating through space for a long time. A really long time. Those stars I mentioned earlier? The closest one is probably about two light years away. I have no idea how fast I'm floating but I did a little dirty math the other day. Based on the average cruising speed of the Ares, and assuming the explosion gave me a tick or two when I was launched from it, I should get within spitting distance of one of those stars in 1523 years. Give or take.

After all this time, if there's one thing that might possibly kill me, it's getting engulfed by the ridiculous heat and pressure of a star. Two problems with this. I'm assuming I'm on a direct collision course with one of those stars and most likely I'm not. Problem two, in 1523 years I'm going to be bat shit crazy. It's only been about two months since the Ares was destroyed and I'm already starting to feel loony. Space is really, really, really boring.

Option B is getting discovered by another ship, either good guys or bad guys, and getting picked up. That's not very likely, since the Ares wasn't in any registered shipping lanes when it blew. We were on a secret mission, real hush-hush. The kind where if you get caught, the government denies any acknowledgement of your existence and that's exactly what will happen. Even if the Feds had a reason to launch a rescue mission, they couldn't. Doing so would admit we broke the treaty and were operating in a no fly zone.

And even if by some remote chance I did get discovered and picked up I would have whole lot of explaining to do. You know, the little detail of how I'm still alive. Not sure if that's worth the hassle.

So yeah. Looks like I've got some time on my hands.

Time. Time is the real enemy when you're immortal. At first it was great. Never in a rush to get anything done. A procrastinator's wet dream. But then the mundane sets in. I suppose that's why I originally got into the military in the first place, because the rush of combat got to be the only thing that got me excited anymore.

In all the battles I've been in over the years, even though I knew I couldn't be killed, there still isn't anything close to the all-out assault of the senses that is war. And I've tried 'em all. Skydiving, cliff jumping, space walking. I even dabbled in the asteroid field racing scene but since nobody was shooting at my ship it just didn't do it for me.

I should be grateful, I suppose. As far as I know, I'm the only immortal person in the world and I received the gift of generations worth of experiences. The thing is, I never asked for it and if I had to do it all over again I would have preferred to die. Even if you don't count my current dilemma, there are a lot of downsides to being immortal.

Juan Ponce de León. I blame him. He's not the one who discovered that stagnant pond that changed my life, but he was the whole reason we were there. Fountain of youth, fountain of youth. The guy never shut up about it. I signed on for the trip along with the rest of the crew for the only reason that made sense. Money. Seems pretty stupid now, but back in the old days everybody believed the new world was overflowing with riches for the taking. All we had to do was sail over there and snatch it.

Even I couldn't help pass the time on the long journey by imagining bronzed skinned natives with big tits greeting us on beaches made of gold dust and diamonds. That was the whole pitch Juan gave the king to get the journey funded. But as soon as the shores of Spain disappeared behind us, he let the crew know his true intentions, and that was to find the fountain of youth.

The crew and I humored him at the time since the guy was a little off and seemed harmless. We figured once the spices, gold, and land we grabbed for the king started rolling in, he'd forget about the fountain and get his act together.

The problem was, once we hit the shores on what would be Florida after three months on a stinking wooden ship, things quickly went downhill. Instead of getting greeted by horny native women we were welcomed by mosquitos, biting flies, ants, and snakes. The jungle was so thick it took hours of hacking through with machetes just to move a few feet.

After a week of rain-soaked insect-bitten misery, Juan was still yapping about the fountain of youth. The boys and I were losing our patience. He may have been the leader of the expedition but we considered it might be time for him to have an "accident," cut our losses, and get the hell out of there and sail for home.

That's when they attacked. Turns out the local population wasn't too keen on strange white men traipsing through their jungle, so they ambushed us one evening after we made camp. I just happened to be on my own on the edge of camp trying take a dump when we were hit. All I had on me was a dagger in case I needed to dispose of a snake while I was doing my business. Once I saw three or four of my fellow explorers hit the dirt with arrows sticking from their chests, I rushed to their aid. And by rush to their aid, I mean hiking up my pants and running as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

A couple of the Indians saw me take off and ran after. The particular patch of jungle we were in at the time was relativity thin, so I could run at a good pace. But so could they. They closed the distance between them and me and I knew I was seconds away from getting a blade in the back.

Night falls pretty quickly in the jungle and I could barely see where I was going. I guess that explains how one minute I was sprinting at full speed and a second later I was tumbling through a sinkhole in the ground. Before I even had a chance to comprehend what was going, I hit the bottom.

After that, I can only guess what happened because I must have been knocked out. When I woke up the next morning I had a splitting headache and bump on my noggin courtesy of landing on something not designed to make contact with the human head.

I was lying on my back in six inches of stagnant water. Morning daylight filtered through the small gap I fell through above and I was able to take in my surroundings. I was in a small cave with foul smelling water and that was about it. It was a strange place, though. I remember feeling like something wasn't right about it. As if the air had a strange metallic taste to it or I felt an odd buzzing in my ears or something. I didn't have much time to dwell on it since shortly after sitting up I realized my dagger was buried in my ribcage right up the handle.

I probably would have freaked out or screamed if I hadn't been so confused by what I was seeing. By all accounts I should have been dead or at least very uncomfortable from the twelve inch blade embedded in my body cavity. I must have fallen on it when I hit the water.

Actually, scratch that. It did hurt, just like my head hurt, but it felt...different. Just like how I couldn't put my finger on why the cave felt odd, the dagger hurt, only just in a way that I was able to register but not feel bothered by it. To this day I still have a hard time describing what pain is like for me since I barely understand it myself.

I grabbed the dagger handle and before I could change my mind, pulled it out of my body. The blade was covered in blood and the gash it left behind was nasty – until it healed over right in front of my eyes. Within seconds the odd pain was gone and I rubbed my hand over perfectly normal skin where a cut was just moments before.

That's when it hit me. Ponce de León wasn't crazy. Just annoying. I found his fountain of youth and had become immortal.

It took me almost an hour to finally crawl up the muddy, slippery walls of the sinkhole. Once top side, I studied the opening in the earth. Nothing special about it. No markers from ancient civilizations or signs of it being a sacred place. Just a six foot hole in the ground surrounded by trees. I doubted even the natives knew it was there until the two chasing me saw me fall in. They probably figured I broke my neck down there and went back to their buddies.

As far as I know, nobody else ever came across the fountain until it was probably swallowed up by modern civilization years later. It probably was filled in by a bulldozer as Jacksonville expanded into suburbs hundreds of years later.

I tried to find my way back to where we had camped the night before, but became hopelessly lost. I wandered the jungle for days pondering just how much I'd transformed. After working up the courage to stab myself again and watch the wound heal, I was completely convinced I couldn't die. I also soon realized I no longer needed food or water to survive. The hunger was there, just different. Like the pain no longer felt like pain. It was as if my body was saying, "Yeah, it's not a bad idea to get something to eat. After all, you'd enjoy it, but don't worry about it if you can't."

After a few days my bowels stopped moving and I didn't need to piss anymore. And I felt great. I was completely alone wandering aimlessly through the jungle but I had all the energy in the world. I still got tired at the end of the day and needed to sleep at night so who knows what's up with that. Even us superheroes need a nap, I guess.

I never did find the rest of my landing party but I made it back to the coast after a week or two. Looking back at it now, this was one of the hardest times in my immortal life. Mostly because I was so lonely. I wandered the Florida peninsula for years. At first I tried to make friendly contact with the natives so I had some kind of human contact, but it never turned out well. You have to remember, these folks never saw a white man before, so they almost always attacked me out of fear.

It didn't take long for the legend of the pale skinned god who walked the earth unharmed by mortal weapons to spread. After a while, in the rare event I did come across anybody, they just took off running in the opposite direction, convinced I would devour their soul or some crazy shit like that.

Fortunately for me, the rest of the busy bodies in Europe kept their foot on the colonization gas pedal and St. Augustine was founded. I was there from day one, quietly slipping in as the town grew and lived there for decades.

I kept my head down and my immortality to myself. I worked normal jobs, ate and drank like everybody else, and made a big show of cursing and yelling if I accidentally hit my thumb with a hammer.

I even met a girl and started a family. For a while, I enjoyed a nice and normal life. But I knew it couldn't last. As my wife and kids grew older they couldn't help notice that I wasn't. You can shrug that off for a while, but your forty year old wife is going to start wondering why you still look the same age as your twenty year old son.

Everything went downhill in a hurry one day when practically half the town saw me survive a horrific accident and walk away without a scratch.

I was out one night at the local watering hole (didn't have to fake my buzz, alcohol still did it's duty), when I got into a scuffle with some guy. Can't remember what it was we started arguing about, but I should have known better. Getting into a fight was a stupid thing to do because if it became more serious than a couple of punches, people might start asking questions why I could take such a beating and keep ticking. But I was hammered and had no time for such clear thoughts.

We were on the second floor and instead of taking it outside to the street, we went to the balcony instead. We traded a few blows while a handful of our intoxicated associates cheered us on. The guy was bigger than me and much more experienced in the art of drunken bare-knuckle boxing. It was soon clear to me and everybody watching that I was getting my ass whipped. I should have taken a dive and let it end there but like I said, I wasn't thinking clearly.

I think by this time my opponent was getting frustrated by my remarkable ability to absorb his punches and he'd had enough. He grabbed me by the front of my shirt and squared up for the final knockout punch that would put me out of commission and get him back to his pint of ale.

I had my back to the balcony railing when the punch came and the rickety construction did little to stop me as I hurtled backward. Before I even knew what was happening I was airborne and falling to the street below.

You know that scene in every B action movie where the bad guy falls on to the pointy top of a fence post or something and gets impaled? The good guy cringes and rips off a one liner like, "That's going to leave a mark?" That's pretty much what happened to me. Somebody had parked a wagon out front full of logs sharpened at the end like a pencil for the fort they were building down by the water front. I landed perfectly on top of one.

At least two dozen people on the balcony and the street below shrieked in horror when they thought they saw a guy die in front of them. I'm sure the dude that punched me shit in his pants instead of searching for the perfect line to provide some comedy relief.

After a few beats my head cleared and I realized what had happened. The bloody wooden spear protruding from my chest helped me put two and two together. For a second I didn't know what to do. I could pretend to be dead but that would only work for so long. Eventually somebody would do the obligatory check for a pulse and realize I was still going. That would cause a big scene involving doctors and police and practically the entire town.

So I panicked and did something that would guarantee a big scene. It wasn't easy to get myself off that log considering the awkward position I was in, but I managed to get myself free in front of the growing crowd around me.

They all watched as the bloody hole in my chest cavity magically healed over and I hopped to the ground. Before anybody had a chance to gather up torches and pitchforks to take on the demon/warlock/heretic that stood before them, I ran.

I ran straight out of town, away from my wife and kids. Away from my job and my friends. Away from the life I'd known for years. I finally stopped to rest on the edge of a murky swamp as dawn broke over the horizon. That night was definitely a low point in my life. I realized the mistake I'd made trying to live a normal life and what it cost me. I'd never be able to see my family again and I vowed then and there I would never allow myself to get close to another person for the rest of my existence.

I spent the next few years wandering aimlessly from town to town. A drifter. I worked odd jobs to earn enough money with just one goal in mind – get stinking drunk. I followed this pathetic path for almost thirty years before I finally received a wakeup call.

It was while I was lying in bed after an uninspiring tryst with a prostitute in Savannah when my life took a turn. She was chatting me up while getting dressed, as I stared at the ceiling and tried hard not to throw up. She'd mentioned her current profession was only temporary since she was saving money to go to university.

She left my room and her words got me thinking (after I puked into the chamber pot next to the bed). Like it or not, I stumbled into a unique and incredible opportunity that I was wasting. What's the one excuse you hear from people more than anything? Time. Work out? Can't find the time. Go back to school? No time. Write a book? I would if I could just find the...you know.

Time was the one thing I had a boat load of and my life's mission at that point became clear. I started hitting the books and read everything I could get my hands on. I was constantly on the lookout for new skills to master, languages to learn, hobbies to pass the time.

Over the decades I moved from town to town, city to city. I changed my identity when I grew bored of the last one and spoke with different accents. Invented different backstories. I moved west with the settlers, lived the life of a cowboy, a businessman, explorer, artist, musician. I dabbled in politics, earned fortunes, and lost just as many. I was on a constant mission to experience everything and waste nothing.

It worked for a while, but eventually I grew bored. Like I said earlier, I often volunteered for the military whenever a skirmish happened to break out. French and Indian war, American Revolution, War of 1812, Civil War. I fought in them all. Seems pretty sadistic I know, I mean nobody likes war. And even though I couldn't get killed or injured, war really is hell, just like they say.

Despite all that, it was the only time I felt truly alive. The brotherhood of combat, fighting alongside your comrades, the sights and sounds and smells – it's sensory overload. And I was hooked.

Yes, I fought in them all. The world wars, Vietnam, gulf wars, Iran, China, Korea the first time and Korea the second time. When the battles took to the heavens as we fought over dusty colonies across the stars I was right there too. From firing a single shot musket to piloting a Mark II Star Fighter. Now that's range.

Much like falling onto a wagon full of spears all those years ago there were plenty of instances over the centuries where I had a hard time explaining surviving gruesome injuries. After so many years of fighting I was good, I must admit. Damn good, one of the best soldiers in the world. But even I got hit from time to time. It pains me to admit it, but there have been a few times where I needed to make a witness or two disappear after they saw my head explode and I got up a minute later. Too many questions.

Seems like a waste now. Here I am floating in space with my dead friend Nancy and the only thing I've accomplished over the past 600 years is becoming an excellent soldier for my own selfish reasons. I could have been a scientist or a doctor. Cure diseases and improve the quality of life for everybody. I mean, think of how many PHDs I could have after my last name by now.

None of that matters now anyway. Another disadvantage to being immortal is to witness how far we've come as a species and still manage to fuck it all up. Believe me, there's no place I'd like to be right now than back on good old Earth. Back when it was pure and untainted. Back in my old life, my original life, before I fell into that damn cave. The air was clean, water was fresh – the whole planet teemed with life. The last time I saw Earth was from orbit – charred and smoking. Practically glowing from radiation. A spider web of nuke clouds and fire, ash and decay. Floating in space is lonely, but believe me, I'd be just as alone back on my home planet. It's a barren wasteland ruled by cockroaches. Yep. Turns out they really can survive a nuclear holocaust.

Scratch that whole PHD thing. Instead of honing my fighting skills all these years I should have been working on world peace. I should have seen the writing on the wall. I should have tried to convince the handful of survivors to knock it the hell off and just get along already. Isn't it enough that we trashed our planet? Why are we fighting over crumbling space stations and dusty colony outposts?

Nancy. Oh, how I envy Nancy. She'll keep floating for eternity but she's blissfully unaware of it. She's either playing poker with Abraham Lincoln in heaven or she's just done, her existence snuffed out depending on what you believe in. What do I believe? After all these years I'm really not sure. In my quest for knowledge I dabbled in all the major religions. Despite all their differences the main core in their beliefs boiled down to one thing: be a good person and life everlasting will be your reward after you die.

Call me a cynic, but that just seems like us dealing with our fear of death. We want to believe there is something else out there after we kick the bucket. Suddenly stopping, suddenly existing no more is...well, it stinks. Nobody likes to think about it.

The joke's on me. I've found everlasting life, but it's a far cry from floating on a cloud, strumming a harp. Just me and my girl Nancy. Drifting year after year, century after century, for all eternity.

Just me and my dead friend Nancy.

The End

The Lightgiver

By Thomas Cardin

I was born in 1963. Started reading fantasy and science fiction with the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs when I was 7. As I grew I added more and more authors to my list, Isaac Asimov, E.E. Doc Smith, Tolkien, etc. Every book with a cover by Frank Frazetta was soon in my collection.

In high school I made friends who introduced me to Dungeons and Dragons, a brand new game at the time. Now I could both READ and PLAY out the adventures I loved so much.

A lot of my desire to write comes from playing dungeons and dragons and inventing worlds to play in since about 1978. My friends and I would sit around to ponder and question the mysteries of magic, dragons, and other planes of existence in fantasy worlds.

We came up with our own answers and those are at the core of my fantasy writing.

The upper half of the Lightgiver's tower thrust up like a black spike from the center of the vast, starlit courtyard. Before the tower, a line of fourteen thin, naked men waited. Rossler stood third in line, close enough to the man ahead and the muttering man behind to smell their bitter stink of fear. He waited for the door to the Chamber of Renewal to open, they all did.

He kept his shaven head bowed, as was proper. His eyes gazed down on the polished mirror of black marble that paved the ground. The reflections of the stars glittered. At his chest dangled his lumen stone, fitfully glowing its last dim red cycles.

The reflections of the men were limned in starlight and the red glimmers of the lumen stones that likewise hung from their necks.

At last, a long, bone-rattling horn blast sounded from the heights of the Lightgiver's tower. The cycle of renewal had begun. The men flinched into deeper bows, some reaching up to cover their lumen stones. As the tone faded, a soft murmur passed from man to man, "May you renew."

The narrow door to the Chamber of Renewal slid upward with a hollow groan of stone on stone. White light spilled from beneath, dazzling Rossler's eyes. The luminance grew until a tall rectangle pierced the tower. The man at the head of the line hunched his boney shoulders and entered.

The men shuffled one position forward. Rossler's calloused feet landed in the precious wedge of radiance spilling from the doorway. It tingled across his pale skin like a thousand drops of radiant warmth. Most of the light fell upon the man ahead, who halted just outside the door to quiver and moan.

"Cover your lumen in the presence of a Lightgiver or lose an eye." The one-eyed man behind Rossler spoke the Second Caution in a shaky whisper.

Rossler ignored him and rose on the balls of his feet to expose them to as much of the bright luminance as he could. He took care, however, to keep his maimed hands flat to his belly and his head bowed to the stars. To gaze upon the stars violated the Sixth Caution, and in the first luma of his service it had cost him the little finger of both hands.

The narrow door ground back down and the wedge of light receded. Darkness numbed Rossler's feet again. The walls and doors of the Lightgiver's tower cut off all sensation of light. Every man's lumen in the warrens bellow touched on his skin, but within the tower he sensed nothing. With a sigh, he switched his focus to the tickle of the stars upon his back.

The stars always touched him.

Rossler's missing fingers twitched. It had been the third renewal of his lumen stone when he had raised his face to the sky. He had arrived late to a line of grown men that stretched to the exit of the warrens. The men, most well into their tenth and twentieth lumas of service, towered over him. In his haste, he had bumped into the man before him, and looked up in fear of being struck. He knew all the Cautions; the women of the Temple of Life had drilled the children by rote. He had looked up in reflex, and his hands may yet be whole if he had bowed his head in the next instant, but he had not.

The stars splashed across a sky so black it seemed blue. They shone white, like the lumen of a Lightgiver. Their warmth brushed across his skin like a thousand subtle fingertips. Directly overhead, the brightest of them all glistened, a small dot fringed with blue where all others were the tiniest of points.

The man he bumped had turned to him and given a wordless cry. He slapped his big hand across Rossler's unblinking gaze. Then he bent Rossler's shaven head down, but the act came too late. The Lightgivers see everything, hear everything. The man gave a single, choked sob.

Rossler had violated the Sixth Caution.

"The cost of gazing upon the stars is the little finger of each hand," the man said to him.

Other men in line heard the Sixth Caution uttered and they repeated it in a murmur of whispers. The man kept a hand on his shoulder, but his grip was soft and gentle. That small comfort endured through the entire procession until the door of the Chamber of Renewal separated them. Rossler held fast to the memory of that touch while the Mistress took his little fingers with two quick strokes of her blade.

For the following two luma, his service had been the endless polishing of the marble plain beneath the very stars, from one end of the Mistress's walled domain to the other. He polished with stone, brush, oil, and rag until the reflections of the forbidden stars gleamed. The cycles spent with his back bent to his scrubbing allowed the real stars to touch him with their subtle warmth. Though he could not look directly upon them, they were with him.

Every renewal afterwards he studied their wheeling reflections, praising those times when the polishers had taken as much pride in their service as he had done. The stars traced their paths on his skin. For every lumen of his thirty-one luma of service, his skin marked their slowly shifting pattern. Now, except for the great star overhead, they were far out of place from that first and only direct glimpse.

The door rose with its tireless grind, and Rossler set aside his contemplation of the wheeling stars. He lifted one hand to cover the red glow of his lumen as the light from within stretched out. The man ahead did likewise, then stepped into the Chamber of Renewal.

"May you renew," Rossler murmured before the white radiance swallowed the man whole. Not all men exited again.

Rossler sighed as the Mistress's light bathed him from shaved pate to toe. Then the narrow door slid shut and red-tinged, numbing darkness returned. Only fourteen men had lined up for renewal this cycle, a small fraction of the long lines during his early lumas of service.

Their faces reflected back at him from the polished ground. All younger in their service than he, but none had seen less than ten luma. Seemingly countless boys had been among the women and girls of the Temple of Life when Rossler had passed forever beyond its iron doors. All of those boys had grown and entered service. So few now remained, and no new boys joined their ranks. In the last ten luma, the iron door of the Temple of Life had not opened to thrust any more boys into their first lumen of service.

He turned from the bright memories of his childhood and focused his mind on the tower before him. The seams of the door were near invisible in the darkness. The Lightgiver's tower that housed the Chamber of Renewal stood alone, a black obelisk of unknown height. Its reflection showed only the silhouette of a long, tapering needle against the stars.

"Cover your lumen in the presence of a Lightgiver or lose an eye," said the man from behind, louder now. He spoke volumes in those repeated words. They were no reminder against losing his other eye. Through the words, he cried out in fear. A fear many of the older men shared. Whether he feared the ending of his service or another lumen spent working in the pump rooms, as sores on his legs attested to, Rossler could not say.

Rossler kept his own voice silent. This, too, was proper. What went through his mind did not constitute one of the Cautions, nor a blessing of renewal to another. Thirty luma measured most men's service from first lumen renewal to last. He had counted men through every renewal. Some men were allowed to serve the Mistress longer, some far less. There were six lumen stone renewals to a luma. Rossler's service measured thirty-one luma and two lumen—longer than any other man. He prayed only that this renewal would see him exit the far side of the tower one more time, the lumen stone hanging from his neck shining the bright blue of a new lumen of service.

Late in their twenty-ninth luma, some men fled with their newly renewed lumen stone. They fled to the depths far below the warrens until their lumen stone faded from blue to green, then yellow, and finally red before winking out a few cycles later. Some returned, crawling their way upward in total darkness to stand once more in this line during the cycle of renewal, their lumen stones black. Their hunger for the Mistress's white light shone as a mad fever in their eyes. Those men did not renew. They did not exit the Chamber of Renewal. They knew they would not, but the fever for her light could not be denied.

Those men were brave. They held out as long as they could.

Some men were strong as well as brave, and never returned. They lost themselves in the deepest dark, prey to the creatures that prowled in the absence of all light.

The deepest dark held horrors. The women told every boy of nameless creatures that ate man flesh. Before leaving the light and safety of the Temple of Life, all were warned. In his eighth luma of service, he had discovered an additional terror the deep held. A numbing terror he could taste. He had been tasked with the tending of the rock eater breeding chamber for three lumen. A dozen levels below the warrens, well past the depth where he could no longer feel the light of the stars on his skin, the foul, wet cavern seemed to suck the light from his lumen stone. It had been only three lumen of service, yet he'd had to climb to the surface six times for renewals instead of only once per lumen.

Rossler's thirtieth luma came and went with him among the first in line at each renewal. The Mistress could have ended his service at any time with the blade that had taken his fingers, but her light would pour over him when she did so. He would not die in darkness.

The door slid up again, bathing him in radiance. His turn had come.

He stepped forward. No one forced him. He entered the light of the Chamber of Renewal without hesitation and the door ground down behind him. Water beaded the white tile floor that angled slightly toward a heavy iron grate in the center. No blood flowed in wispy trails, but only two men had been ahead of Rossler during this cycle of renewal. Numerous silver spouts lined the tiled walls, dripping water. The only other feature of the chamber rose from the floor to the left of the entry, the pedestal of renewal, a waist-high column of smooth black marble.

The Mistress stood near the closed exit on the opposite wall. Her flawless indigo skin glistened with perspiration. Her eyes were large and slanted, with gleaming whites and grey irises. Her nose tapered to a fine point above a mouth with plump, violet lips. A wild shock of white hair crowned her head and hung in a cascade to her hips. She appeared as ageless as the first time he stepped before her. She looked no older than twenty luma, yet she ruled all the other Lightgivers of her domain.

White silk wrapped her pert breasts and round hips. She wore a white lumen at the back of each wrist. They were set within jeweled bracelets of silver that directed their light so that her long fingers cast the strongest shadows in the chamber. The tooled leather sheathe of her long, curved blade, the same that had taken his fingers, hung from a silver buckled belt at her waist.

The Chamber smelled of salt, sweat, and copper. The previous men had been among the youngest of those still in service. She had collected their seed.

She tossed her mane of white hair and spoke in her breathy drawl, "Place your lumen in the pedestal, Rossler."

He bowed, then turned to the marble pedestal, lifting the gold chain of his lumen over his head. With deliberate care, he slipped the dangling lumen stone into the thumb sized hole in the pedestal's top.

"Release the chain and approach me."

Every muscle down his back bunched up tight, and the gold chain in his hand rattled with the sudden quiver of his arm. He took a deep breath then uncurled his fingers from the chain as he exhaled. For the first time since it had been placed in his possession on the cycle he left the Temple of Life, she commanded him to release it from his grasp. His service was at its end.

He turned from the pedestal and stepped to within range of her fine edged blade. He closed his eyes and focused only on the exquisite tingle of her light on his skin.

"Are you not frightened?"

To feel in his heart violated the Seventh Caution. He turned his head side to side, letting her intense light shine on his cheeks as he denied his fear.

"Open your eyes to me, Rossler. I grant you permission to speak. Tell me what you feel."

He opened his eyes and raised them to meet her dark gaze. "I feel your light upon me, Blessed Mistress."

She narrowed her eyes and nodded. "Of course you do, but what do you feel in your heart?"

A ropey muscle along his inner thigh quivered. He grit his teeth behind closed lips and tried to fight down the cramp while keeping his face blank. As a man, he was unworthy of a heart. The Seventh Caution said 'bear no feeling in your heart or you shall bear scars on your breast'.

"I bear no feeling in my heart, Blessed Mistress."

The Mistress laughed and drew her blade. The steel swept up with a hollow whisper to flash before his eyes. Rossler swallowed on a dry throat. The Mistress's lips stretched in a feral grin. "You would rather lose a hand by disobeying the Third Caution? You would lie to a Lightgiver? I release you from the Seventh Caution. Tell me what you feel in your heart."

The Mistress's slightest utterance created immutable law. Rossler struggled to prevent his mouth from dropping open. "Blessed Mistress?"

With a flicker of light on steel, her blade pressed against his throat, bitter cold. "You heard me, Rossler. I hereby unbind you from the Seventh Caution, all others still stand."

His fear tumbled out in a single breath, "I am very much afraid, Blessed Mistress. I remain strong. The men are few. I can serve for many more luma to come."

Her blade returned to its sheath with a slight whisper. "Holy Daughter, there exists a mind within this man-thing," she said. "You have been counting, and observing. How would you serve, Rossler?"

"In any capacity I may, Blessed Mistress."

"Speak the First Caution."

He blinked and his missing little fingers twitched. No man spoke the First Caution; the women who taught it to him hesitated to speak it because they did not understand. That made it a thing to be feared. He furrowed his brow, but obeyed. "To dream of dawn is death, Blessed Mistress."

She raised her hands and the cold shadows of her splayed fingers played across his chest. "Do you comprehend the First Caution, Rossler?"

He shook his head. "No, Blessed Mistress."

The shadows of her fingers clutched him tight and lifted him into the air, squeezing the very breath from his lungs. "What part do you not comprehend?"

He extended his toes toward the floor, but he hung wholly in her grip, struggling for air. "I do not know what 'dawn' is, Blessed Mistress," he managed to croak out.

She dropped her hands and Rossler fell to the floor with a keening gasp. She had held him with her shadow when she cut off his little fingers. The pain of that memory flooded back to him as he staggered to his feet and clasped his shaking hands flat to his belly. The cold of her shadow touch drained him of all the warmth he had gained from her radiant lumen, leaving his insides hollow. In his youth, when she had collected his seed, she used her shadow touch as well. The sensation then had been hot and arousing followed by an immediate and uncontrolled release. Both forms of her shadow touch left him equally hollow.

"You may serve me until you do comprehend," she said, pacing before him. "You will serve until you have such a dream, or until the trials of your service claim your life. Your service is to tend a rock eater in the deepest depths. You will drive it downward toward the eater of light." She waved a hand toward the pedestal. "Retrieve your new lumen, Rossler."

Her words doomed him from her light. Only in the upper reaches could he feel a hint of the stars. To go to the deepest depths condemned him to darkness. If he sought out the eater of light, he would die in complete darkness. Rossler dropped to his knees and bowed his head to the tiles. "Please, Blessed Mistress, end my service."

"Terror, Rossler?"

He rolled his forehead on the tiles and sobbed.

"Speak, Rossler."

Her lumen bathed his back in tingling radiance, bringing a sigh to his lips. He held his tongue, disobeying her command. He braced himself for the cold kiss of her blade while soaking in the last taste of her light.

"Speak, Rossler," she repeated the command.

Another voice spoke from above, the stern bark of another Lightgiver female, "You have failed, Zellisandrei."

"Silence, fool! You dare force my hand, Matisharo?" the Mistress growled toward the chamber's ceiling.

Zellisandrei. The Mistress's name echoed in his mind. His tongue moved in his mouth to shape the strange sounds, but he did not utter them. That he had heard it at all must be forbidden. He tensed for the stroke of her blade.

As an unnamed boy he had stood in this chamber. A pair of Lightgiver males had entered the Temple of Life and collected him. Saying nothing, they had prodded him through the iron door and up through the dark warren to the Chamber of Renewal. He met the Mistress with his head bowed and his eyes downcast as the women had instructed. He dared not look up toward the Mistress as she circled him, tapping her black fingernails on the silver buckles of her sword belt. The sensation of her lumen on his skin for the first time dazed him. He focused on not wavering on his feet.

"Rossler. I give you a name and it is Rossler," she had said at last. "It is your only possession, but utter it and it will be lost forever. Only I may speak your name. Do you understand, Rossler?"

He had nodded to her.

"Speak, that I may know you are capable," she had barked.

"Only you may speak my name, Blessed Mistress." He addressed her as the women of the Temple of Life instructed.

"In a moment you will take up the lumen stone from the pedestal. You may use it until your service ends. It is mine, as are all things other than your name. Even your flesh is mine. Your only worth to me is measured in your service. Do you understand, Rossler?"

"My only worth is measured in my service to you, Blessed Mistress."

"Take up the lumen stone. Lose it, and your service ends as does your life." She went on to set him to his first lumen of service, hauling man-waste from the warrens to the fungus cavern.

Who was this Matisharo that she could utter the Mistress's name? Before he could ponder the significance, the Mistress—Zellisandrei—spoke again.

"He is one," she said toward the unseen Lightgiver. "By the Daughter's Shadow, I know he is."

"You must prove this," Matisharo said.

"I shall, watch."

Rossler's eyes were shut, but he saw the light of the Mistress's lumen through the thin barrier of red-veined flesh, and he felt their radiance dripping over his back. However, something more tickled his skin, a ponderous warmth that rose up from below. It had a taste to it like a massive lumen, but weak at the same time, red, about to flicker out. It passed up and through him, moving toward the Mistress.

"Zeet Nachat!" she said, and at the utterance of the strange words the tickle ceased. Her white lumen winked out. Their warmth vanished. For an instant he believed himself dead, his head severed so clean there had been no other sensation. Then the Mistress spoke in the pitch black, "This is the darkness of death. Is this what you wish, Rossler? You cannot feel my lumen any longer. Do you truly wish never to feel my light again?"

"No, Blessed Mistress," he said as his fingertips clutched at the rough grout between the tiles of the floor, as though to confirm the continued substance of the world.

"Will you brave the depths to feel it again? Will you do as I command, or will you submit to this unfeeling darkness for eternity?"

White flashed behind his eyes from squeezing his eyelids tight. "I will do as you command, Blessed Mistress."

She said nothing, but her footsteps tapped across the wet tile, followed by a whisper of shifting stone. When she spoke at last, her voice came from the same place in the air that Matisharo's had. "The only light in this chamber is from your new lumen, trapped within the pedestal. Grope your way to it, Rossler. Feel it."

He knelt alone in the Chamber of Renewal, but the Mistress watched. He opened his eyes on darkness and rose into a crouch. A slight warmth pricked at his back. He turned to feel it on his face. With outstretched hands, he slid a step closer. Another two steps and his fingers brushed the lip of the pedestal. He patted his hands across the top until his fingers clenched about the cold metal links of his lumen chain. With an upward tug, he plucked the lumen stone from its hole.

Lavender light burst forth and he gasped. It shone with the strength of a fresh lumen stone, but in a color like none he had ever seen. A renewed stone shone blue. This seemed to combine the blue with the red of one near the end of its cycle. He hastened to cover its light, lest he be mistaken about the Mistress's presence in the chamber and its light fall upon her. The strange lumen puffed a breath of air into his fingers. He gasped and his hand flinched away. It had pulsed like a living thing. In reflex, he snatched it up before it could fall, cupping the glowing round stone despite the air whispering between his fingers. Whatever may come, it was his lumen now, his mark of continued life.

He looped the chain over his head, then held the strange lumen stone tight to his chest with both hands. More than enough light slipped through to show that he stood alone in the chamber.

The exit door grated upwards, revealing a darker rectangle in the far wall.

The Mistress's voice came again from a point near the center of the ceiling, "You may thank me, Rossler."

He fell to his knees and dropped his head low. "Thank you, Blessed Mistress, but I do not understand this lumen."

"Nor do you need to. You will not be returning for renewal. Return only if you find the eater of light. Only then may you feel my lumen again."

Rossler rose and scuttled for the exit. His hands concealed the full light of his new lumen. Its warmth pulsed to a slow rhythm with the air it breathed out.

Rossler greeted the return of the stars' touch with a bowed head. He did not halt. It was not proper to linger beneath the vault of night once a man had completed his renewal. He kept his pace as slow as he dared, savoring each moment of the stars' direct presence on his skin.

His mind stumbled through the events of this renewal like one lost in the scarab maze. Every question seemed to end in a deep pit, forcing him back to try a different tunnel. None seemed to lead toward understanding. Who was Matisharo? Could she be a Mistress from another domain? He could not imagine a subordinate Lightgiver daring to speak to the Mistress so, nor could he comprehend how their names could be shared. How had his Mistress failed when he had begged for death? In what way had Matisharo force her hand?

What was he one of? He served the same as any other man, except perhaps for being one of the eldest. His Mistress's words marked him as something different, as though she separated him from other men. Why did she challenge him to find his new lumen in the dark? It was a simple thing to feel its light, even if he had been turned around from the pedestal. Any man would have done the same.

His questioning gleaned him nothing. If there were answers, they were beyond his comprehension. A man performed his service and followed the Cautions. The reward for service hung from every man's neck, light. His reward would be to feel the Mistress's light once more. He focused on that as his goal, and let the unanswerable questions slip away.

The arched entry to the warrens loomed before him too soon, a black aperture angling downward. This entry and the exit on the opposite side of the Lightgiver's tower were the only features that broke the flat surface of the polished marble ground. A hundred strides beyond, the surrounding wall reared high, separating the Mistress's domain from all others.

He took a deep breath and savored the direct touch of the stars one last time. His fingers uncurled from his strange, lavender lumen stone so that he could see the steep steps beyond the arch. Its light cast the dark, black-veined marble into the semblance of flesh.

Rossler shuddered, then began his descent. He could not escape the feeling of entering some great beast's gullet. The walls to either side were close enough to touch with outstretched hands, but he kept one hand near his lumen and the other on his hollow belly. He had no choice but to descend to the deepest depths and pray that his strange lumen stone endured in that darkest place.

Several switchbacks of the stair brought him to the upper levels of the warrens. Halls of long empty sleeping chambers radiated outward around the central cavern. Buttresses of ornate stonework arched and interwove from the wall toward the center of the cavern to support the lower half of the Lightgiver's tower. Its black marble girth tapered to a narrow point before penetrating the surface of the cistern pool far below.

His lavender light threw back strange reflections, transforming a long familiar place into one alien. The carvings of Lightgivers on the buttresses twisted and shifted with each step he took. They seemed to lean toward him from the winged mounts they rode to leer and snarl. He bowed his head low to escape the unsettling images and hurried downwards.

Chisels had rounded out the cavern in the distant past to a perfect shaft. The stair opened and the steps became shallow as they spiraled around the outer wall of the shaft. The tread of the countless men who came before him had rounded the bare steps, each passing footstep taking away a minute grain of stone. Rossler could not comprehend the depths of time this must have required, but their repair was an ongoing process. Until this cycle's renewal, he had been a part of the crew carving out new steps.

A quarter turn of the stair below, three lumen stones made a patch of light in the otherwise lightless cavern. Earlier this cycle it had been four lumen, one faded red. That had been his, and this was his former crew he approached.

Their tapping and chipping ceased when he drew near. At the sight of his strange lumen stone they clutched their tools to their breasts and turned away. If he returned at all, it should have been with a renewed lumen stone glowing brilliant blue. They knew at a glance he would not be rejoining their crew. His lavender light marked him as something different and unknown.

One man covered his eyes and cried out the Fifth Caution in a voice that cracked, "Speak only the Cautions, the instructions of a task, or the wishes of renewal to another man or have your tongue cut from your mouth."

Spoken in this manner, the Fifth Caution became a form of farewell. Beneath the spoken words were the unspoken, forbidden words that lamented of never speaking to him again. Rossler covered his lumen stone and slunk past. To his former crew, its light made him an outcast. The man who spoke had been the one to instruct him in the use of the chisel and hammer. He had taught Rossler the angle of the cut and the force of the strike.

Rossler's heart hammered in his chest and his breath caught in his throat. The darkness ahead seemed to thicken. He halted after a dozen steps and turned back toward his former crew. He removed his hand from his lavender light and said, "Perform your service to the very best measure or lose your ear. Bear no feeling in your heart or you shall bear scars on your breast."

The Fourth Caution, mentioning service, told them he followed a new task the Mistress set before him. He spoke it with as much regret in his voice as he could muster. To then tell them the Seventh Caution bid them not to sorrow for him. The Mistress had set his fate and named his service; he could do nothing else if he wished to ever feel her light again.

The men did not lift their heads nor did they make any sign that they had heard. In their minds, his existence would slip away. No man shared their name, their only possession, as a means to be remembered. Rossler hung his head and turned to continue his descent.

Three full turns about the cavern brought him to the iron door of the Temple of Life. He slowed and silenced his steps as he always did when passing. He hoped to catch a sound he had not heard in thirty-one long luma—the sound of children. He heard the resumed tick-tick-tick of the crew above. He also heard his heartbeat and the plink-plop of water dripping into the black pool below. Beyond the iron door lived only silence.

He leaned his cheek toward the door and felt a tickle of the light on the other side. None wore lumen stones within the Temple of Life. They had no need, for within its center nestled a vault of luminance. Immense crystals thrust up from clear pools of steaming water, blue and green glows in their hearts. Unlike the lumen stones, their light never faded.

About the lip of the pools, red algae grew. The thick and spongy stuff fed the temple well. With its nourishment the children grew fast, boys so they could exit into the warrens and serve the Mistress, and girls so they could instruct and birth. Some of the girls would be taken away by Lightgivers, even as the boys were, but they did not exit through the iron door into the warrens. They were taken through a narrow red door that the women shunned and would not speak of. The girls were instructed to enjoy the warmth, light, and food of the vault of luminance while they may.

He met no one else on the stairs of the warren. Another half turn past the Temple of Life, the stair cut back into the rock, leaving the central cavern at a point well above the level of the cistern pool. The stair wound and twisted, following a long gone vein of ore that gave the tight walls a patina of green. His strange light turned the green into a rusty brown.

As a boy, new to service, he had borne a yoke across his shoulders with an iron bucket at either end to haul man-waste from the warrens to the fungus cavern. Spilling a bucket meant cycles of work with rags of dried algae to scrub the steps clean. Mastering this descent with the yoke had been difficult. One sharp corner had been his particular nemesis. It bore the permanent stains of many spills—both his own, and the previous men who had borne the yoke. Those stains now appeared blood red in the light of his breathing lumen.

The narrow steps opened at last into the enormous fungus cavern. At many times during his luma of service, the Mistress had placed him on the crew tending to the crop of pale-capped mushrooms. They stood taller than a man's head, their frilled caps spreading wide and flat. One out of every three mushrooms were ground up and mixed with the man-waste, countless luma of which formed the floor of the vast cavern. However, that was when he was young and man-waste abounded, now the tenders used every other mushroom just to maintain compost rich enough for more to grow.

The air tasted foul, but alive, thicker with the sharp tang of the drifting mushroom spoors than the stench of the man-waste

He hid his strange lumen stone again while passing through the vaulted cavern. He had no wish to repeat his encounter with his former work crew. He slipped through at the furthest reaches of the tenders' lumen stones, a pale stick figure among the pale mushrooms.

Before leaving the cover of the last mushroom, Rossler tore a long strip from the cap and draped it over a shoulder. It would be enough food for several sleep cycles. He paused, straining his senses to feel the last slight tickles of the stars. Below this point, only the great star could be felt, and then only when it swung overhead during the cycle of renewal.

The half dozen lumen stones of the fungus tenders also touched on him, like light brushes of a fingertip. From below came the lumen touches of the men who turned the pump room fans. Rossler could skirt past them as well. They tread great wheels, turning the iron shafts of the fan blades. The fans drew up the warm air of the steam cavern below, providing heat to the fungus cavern. Few men spent more than one lumen at a stretch at the task. The close spaced blades brushed and tore at the flesh of their legs in their slow sweeps.

Below the level of the pumps, the stairs circled one large air shaft in the same manner that they did in the central shaft of the warrens. The shaft widened as it descended until becoming the walls of the steam cavern. Rossler hid his strange light again as he drew within range of the lone algae tender's orange lumen stone. Within a few more cycles, this man too would have to climb to the surface for his renewal.

The tender paused in his work among the many deep pools and stared at Rossler with his single remaining eye. Scars crossed over his breast, and his hands were missing their little fingers.

The Mistress's blade had taken the man's tongue as well. He hastened forward saying, "Mo, mo," and gesturing toward Rossler's covered lumen stone. He twined his hands together then opened them wide. "Mo, mo."

Rossler spread his hands and revealed the lavender light of his lumen. The algae tender bared his teeth in a smile and began to spin and dance. Rossler narrowed his eyes at the man. He had expected more rejection, not mad joy. Not all men held to their sanity though their lumas of service.

"May you renew," Rossler said, dismissing the man. He then stepped around to continue his descent, but the tender stopped dancing and clasped Rossler's arm in a strong grip.

The algae tender opened his mouth and displayed his ruined tongue. He had spoken forbidden words, violating the Fifth Caution and. The man then released Rossler's arm to hold up his maimed hands. He too had gazed upon the stars. Then he traced the scars on his breast with a somber nod. He had expressed the feelings in his heart. Lastly, he shrugged and pointed to his missing eye. He had shown disrespect to the Lightgivers by not covering his lumen stone in their presence.

Rossler shook his head at each of the man's Caution violations, but then the man held up a palm and shook his own head. He pointed to his intact ears, showing that he had always performed his service to the best of his ability. Then he tapped each wrist to show that he had never lost a hand for disobeying a Lightgiver's command.

Rossler nodded his understanding as the man traced the scars on his breast again. His heart alone had cost him his fingers, tongue, and eye.

Rossler drew a circle over the unblemished skin of his own chest. "I bear feelings in my heart, but no scars on my breast," he whispered. Speaking such words broke the Fifth Caution, but he wanted to express that he had been released from the Seventh Caution. His heart had been freed.

The algae tender nodded and put a finger to his lips, he would not tell.

He took Rossler's hand in one of his and turned it palm up. With his other hand, he tapped Rossler's palm twice then pointed to his missing eye. Then he tapped it six times and held up his hand, remaining fingers spread. He listed the Cautions by number. Rossler nodded in understanding.

The tender smiled then tapped his palm once. Rossler waited for more taps but the man drew his hand away. He listed the First Caution.

"To dream of dawn is death," Rossler said, his voice rising at the end in uncertainty.

The tender nodded and pointed to himself before he dropped Rossler's hand. Rossler stared hard at the algae tender. He admitted to violating the First Caution? Had he had this dream that warranted death?

The man nodded again as though hearing Rossler's thoughts. He held one arm out in front of him, palm flat. Then slowly he raised his arm and turned up his hand with his fingers splayed wide. As he did this his remaining eye closed and he smiled wide toward his hand, tilting his head to follow its motion upward.

The gesture carried no meaning. When the man looked back at him, Rossler shrugged and shook his head.

The smile dropped from the tenders face and his lips and eye drooped in sadness. Without any further gestures, the algae tender lifted the chain of his orange lumen stone from his shoulders and tossed it far out into the steam pools. Its glow sunk into the depths and dimmed away.

Rossler looked back at the man with his mouth agape. Why would the tender do such a thing? The man stood straight, with his scared chest thrust out in defiance. Illuminated only in lavender light, he took Rossler's hand again and tapped it three times.

"Obey the Lightgivers' commands or the cost is your hand," Rossler said as his eyes lingered on the deep steam pool. His skin traced the progress of the tender's lumen stone till it came to rest in the unseen bottom. The man disregarded the most primal need of all men. He had cast away his light.

The tender reached forward and tapped Rossler in the chest three times. "Mo, mo."

Did the man ask him to throw his lumen stone away as well? Rossler stepped back and shook his head. "Perform your service to the very best measure or lose your ear."

The man condemned himself to die twice over, by throwing his lumen stone away and admitting to violating the First Caution. Rossler stretched out his senses to detect the white lumen of any Lightgivers, but there were none. The lumen of the crew working the pumps far overhead tickled his bare shoulder and far below he sensed a single lumen of the man who must be tending the rock eater breeding grounds. Nevertheless, he felt something more, right before him, the slightest tingle, and it radiated from the algae tender, not the lumen he had discarded. While the lumen rode the man's breast, Rossler would never have sensed the tickle.

"I feel you," Rossler whispered. He grasped the man by the shoulders and pressed his cheek to his chest. He heard the man's heartbeat and deep within, he felt steady warmth. Almost like a star. "I feel a light within you."

The algae tender pushed Rossler back, but not in rejection. He repeated his curious hand gesture, raising his arm with his palm up and fingers spread.

"The light inside you is dawn?"

The man held up a single finger, nodded and then shook his head.

"It is and it is not?"

The algae tender took Rossler's face in both his hands and nodded. "Mo, mo."

Rossler returned the man's wide smile. He could not yet comprehend dawn, but as forbidden as it was, he yearned to understand. He relaxed and focused only on the tingle of his skin. The man's light tasted of warm gold. He had to understand how a man could have a light within him.

He grabbed the algae tender in sudden alarm. Six white lumen had appeared in the warrens above and were descending. "They know. The Lightgivers come. To dream of dawn is death."

The tender pushed Rossler away from him and pointed toward the tunnel that continued to descend. "Mo, mo."

Rossler would lose his tongue for violating the Fifth Caution. The algae tender would lose his life and the light within him would be extinguished. The Mistress had given him permission to feel in his heart. His heart said to take this man and flee.

"Come with me, you have no lumen stone, they will kill you." He held up his lavender lumen. "This is to take me into the deepest dark, come with me."

The algae tender stood still, doubt in his eye. The Lightgivers' lumens were descending the central cavern of the warrens. Their tingle circled around his shoulders even as they must be circling down the open stair. Rossler took several steps toward the steam cavern's lower exit and held out his hand to the hesitating algae tender.

"Do you not feel them?"

The man shook his head, but he did step forward and take Rossler's hand. He would come. First he pulled Rossler over to where he had collected and shaped several mats of the moist red algae, which he threw over his shoulder. Food and drink they would need. Within a few heartbeats they gathered what they could carry and dashed from the cavern.

Rossler would lose more than his tongue if the Lightgivers caught them. He had been ready to die during his renewal. That readiness had not left him, but this man held a secret within him that he had to understand first. In his mind, he and this man would find a new steam cavern somewhere in the deepest dark and there they would stay. He would long for the feel of the Mistress's lumen, and for the feel of the stars, but he knew in his heart that these things were already denied to him.

Rossler led the one-eyed man down the descending tunnel at a run.

It pained his heart to refer to the algae tender by his task, or by the maiming of his violations. The Mistress had given him a name, could he not do the same? "I need to call you something."

The man gave a grunt of acceptance.

They entered a region where deposits of salt crystals made deep horizontal cuts in the grey stone. Extensive caverns had been cut into the larger deposits. His lumen light turned the crystals into grottos of blue and red gems.

"I will call you Momo. Is that an acceptable name?"

"Mo, mo!"

"I think if we can reach the deepest dark, Momo, we will be beyond their reach."

Past the empty salt caverns, their descent took them through the scarab maze, a network of natural clefts and tunnels in a layer of black rock that broke and chipped into edges so sharp that they cut flesh. His lumen's light broke into hundreds of lavender reflections. In some places the light fell upon the white bones of men who had fallen into one of the many pits beside the winding stair. The fist-sized scarab beetles were almost indistinguishable from the shiny black stone until they moved.

Once per luma, the Mistress set a crew of men to the task of destroying the beetles to prevent their swarming. They could not be completely eradicated because many of the crevices where they thrived were inaccessible. Very few men returned from the lumen spent on the task without nasty cuts from the stone or bites from the scarabs. The beetles would burrow into the flesh and kill a man if they could not be wrenched free fast enough.

The scarabs' ceaseless clicking and skittering echoed up from the cracks and voids. He imagined the occasional hollow clack to be the dislodging of a man's bones, long ago picked clean.

Rossler only gave thought to dropping through the maze as quick as possible. He looked back at Momo often, but the man had no trouble keeping up; despite his maiming, he ran swift and strong. In addition, he had to be younger than Rossler by several luma.

Below the scarab maze, the passage leveled out. In some distant past, men had chased a vein of ore through the stone. They left thick columns of stone intact to shore up the roof, and carved them into shapes that resembled the mushrooms of the fungus cavern. Their stalks were rough, however, and as they rose, they split into several more stalks that spread outward to support their spherical caps.

After their passage through the columns, the tunnel began a steep spiral descent. The tickle of the Lightgivers' lumen stones had passed the fungus cavern and were drawing circles on his skin again, winding down toward the steam pools.

"They are almost to the steam cavern, Momo. They move swiftly, and will probably move faster still when they see we are no longer there."

Momo gave a grunt of acknowledgement as their bare feet slapped down on the smoothed stone.

Rossler's calves, knees, and lower back were beginning to weaken from their grueling pace. They were not far above the rock eater breeding grounds, the deepest of the regions frequented by men. Below that, the deepest dark began.

The spiral tightened and steepened into a cut of stairs. The stone of the walls and ceiling wept trickles of putrid water, making each step slippery. They were forced to slow their pace. Over countless luma, the water had carved a deep grove through the center of the stairs. Their breath became ragged and labored in the thin, noxious air.

Eventually the stairs cut through the high roof of the rock eater cavern and the wall on the outside of the spiral fell away to a gulf of empty space. The stair carved a narrow trail around the outside of a massive dripstone column, one of the many supporting pillars for the cavern's roof. Chain, suspended from iron rods driven into the outer edge of the stairs, provided the only barrier between them and a drop into darkness. In places, the dripstone had partially engulfed the chain and rods like a disfiguring growth. Small dripstone cones grew on each step, waiting to impale any misplaced footfall.

Crews like that which worked the stairs of the warrens would have to be dispatched soon to chisel away at the steps before the dripstone completely reclaimed them.

The air worsened. Gas vents in the floor of the cavern bubbled up among the favorite nesting spots of the rock eaters. Barely breathable, it tasted of rust and rot.

They circled downward within his sphere of lavender light. It glimmered back from the neighboring dripstone columns where it caught the water weeping down their sides. Beyond the sphere of light, a black void swallowed all but the echoes of their wet, slapping footfalls.

Drops of water struck Rossler on the head and bare shoulder to run down his skin. The tickle of the water confused his light sense, making it impossible to track the progress of the Lightgivers.

"I can't tell where they are, Momo," he gasped out, "but they must be past the scarab maze. They are moving faster than us."

He imagined the Lightgivers' slender, well-muscled bodies racing through the twisting tunnels. Their indigo to violet skin a stark contrast to their white hair and white lumen as their pumping legs ate up the distance separating them. They would bear long, slightly curved blades at their hips as the Mistress did, but their shadows were far deadlier weapons.

"If their shadows land on us, we are finished," he said. His heart, free from the Seventh Caution, bade him to speak. Speaking to Momo violated the Fifth Caution, but pleased his heart. Though it raced in his chest, his heart radiated strength and warmth.

Momo set a hand on his shoulder, but did not attempt to say anything between his own panting breaths. They fled together, their thin, knobby legs locked in step like a single creature with four legs, if such a thing could exist.

They staggered and fell to the cold wet floor of the cavern when the stairs ended. Rossler strained his eyes upward. In the solid black came a glimmer of white, like a mote of dust seen at the limit of his lumen stone's light. He covered his light in reflex, almost muttering the Second Caution.

Momo's head turned to follow his gaze upward and he jumped up, hauling Rossler to his feet. "Mo, mo," he said, pointing off into the darkness.

"Yes, we have to keep going," Rossler said. He let only enough light slip between his fingers to see where to place his feet. Momo lifted the slab of mushroom to his own shoulder and took hold of Rossler's other hand.

They splashed through shallow pools of murky, rusty-smelling water. Thick bubbles oozed up and burst, releasing more of the rotten flesh smell into the air. A rock eater nest rose up before them, a wide mound of layers upon layers of mineral excretions. Rossler ascended the lip and slid down into the central depression. Momo followed. Crushed eggs the size of his chest showed that the man tending the breeding grounds performed his task well.

Only a few rock eaters were allowed to grow to maturity each generation. This Rossler had learned from his brief time spent as a tender here. Once a pair mated, and the female laid her clutches of eggs, she died. The male of that pairing would then begin tunneling. He would not mate again, but he would return to the breeding ground several times during the lumas that followed to disgorge his excretions for the growing rock eaters to devour. At any given time, only two tunneling males were allowed to live.

"We have to get a gaff and find one of the tunneling males," Rossler said as they climbed out the other side of the nest.

Momo pointed to a distant green glow, the lumen of the breeding ground tender.

"Yes, he will be near the tunneling males to guide them."

They splashed in the direction of the glow. The green shimmered in the shallow pools like a line to guide them. Beyond that reflected shimmer, the cavern remained a void of darkness. The breeding grounds were vast. Over the lumas, the tunneling males had extended the size of the cavern to monumental proportions. The main task of the tender was to limit the rock eater tunneling as much as possible, and keep them from disappearing into the ancient tunnels of the deepest dark that their ancestors had dug while they flourished.

Rossler did not look back toward the pursuing Lightgivers. Their lumens were close enough now to be felt regardless of the chill water dripping down his back. They were already halfway down to the cavern floor.

"They are going to reach us before we can get a rock eater into the deepest dark," Rossler said. "We should just flee into the tunnels now."

Momo shook his head and tugged him toward the green lumen glow. "Mo, mo," he said then pinched his nose.

"The smell will slow them?"

Momo nodded and slapped at the knee deep water they slogged through. "Mo, mo."

"And the water. Very well." Rossler peered hard into the darkness as they ran on. "I am not sure where the nearest tunnel to the deepest dark may be in any case."

Momo pointed toward the green light ahead.

"Yes, the tender will know."

The lumen stone of the breeding ground tender illuminated the two huge male tunnelers before Rossler could see the man himself. The rock eaters' long bodies were half again thicker than the height of a man and tapered at their rear. Stone-like carapace covered each of their dozen ringed segments. They had no eyes or sense organs to speak of, but they could feel. The entire front end of the rock eater was covered in short, fleshy tentacles dripping slime. The slime dissolved stone, reducing it to a slurry that the huge male slurped up with its many spiked feet as it moved forward. The tender drove them about by jabbing at their tapering rear with a hooked iron gaff.

As they drew near, splashing up out of another murky pool, the tender raised his lumen stone to better see them. The tender stood tall, one of the younger men, less than fifteen luma into his service. His left arm ended in a stump well above the wrist. He had disobeyed a Lightgiver's command, violating the Third Caution and paid the price.

He had both of the large males idle on a raised clumping of shattered nests. Beyond his position loomed one creased and rippled wall of the vast cavern.

Rossler kept his own stone covered, letting it puff its strange breaths into his palm. Momo hung back, cupping a hand at his chest where his lumen stone should be.

The tender let his own stone dangle and picked up his iron gaff. "Perform your service to the very best measure or lose your ear."

Rossler nodded and smiled while sucking in a few breaths of the foul air. "I speak the instructions of our task. The Mistress has commanded us to drive a rock eater into the deepest dark." He did not mention seeking the eater of light. "We will seek out a new steam cave."

The tender craned his head toward Momo who leaned forward and opened his mouth wide. "Mo, mo."

"I hear," the tender said. "Do you require instruction to perform your task?"

Rossler nodded his head. "I require a gaff and direction to the nearest tunnel." He gestured toward the two hulking males. "Which of them is hungriest?"

The young man tapped the larger of the two then handed Rossler his own gaff. He then pointed toward the wall and off into the darkness to their right. When he turned back, his eyes went wide. Six points of white light danced in his pupils

He clapped his hand over his lumen stone. "Cover your lumen in the presence of a Lightgiver or lose an eye," he said in a harsh whisper.

Rossler furrowed his brow at the tender. How could the man not have felt the Lightgivers' approach? His skin told him that they had gained the floor of the cavern—their lumens blazed into his back. He prayed Momo was right about the water and stink slowing them down.

Momo looked behind and snatched the gaff out of Rossler's hand. Then he jumped to the rear of the larger rock eater. "Mo, mo," he called as he swung the gaff and got the big male undulating into motion.

"May you renew," Rossler said to the rock eater tender with a nod.

The young man looked back at him with eyes gone round and wide and shook his head. "To dream of dawn is death," he said over the avalanche of crashing noise a rock eater in motion made.

This man as well had dreamed of dawn? Was that the reason so few men remained? Were the Lightgivers killing all who violated the First Caution? Could they see into every man's dreams? Rossler cast the questions aside and took hold of the young man's shoulder. He released the lavender light of his lumen stone. "Come with us. They will kill you."

The young tender stared hard at Rossler's lumen stone. "Sp-speak only the Cautions-," the young tender began the Fifth Caution, but Rossler slapped him across the face.

"The cautions no longer matter, we have already earned death. Flee with us or stay here and die."

The young tender nodded and swallowed hard before violating the Fifth Caution himself, "I hear. I will flee."

Rossler turned the man toward the wake of the lumbering rock eater. Instead of fleeing, however, the young tender slid down into one of the wide nests and picked out a bowl shaped fragment of shell. He held it up toward Rossler. "Take up one like this," he said.

"Why? We must flee."

He pointed with the stump of his arm back toward the white lumens. "Yes, but they must not follow. I have served here for two luma. Rock eater slime does not dissolve the shells or their hide, but it does everything else."

Rossler jumped down into the nest without waiting to hear more. Among the shell fragments he located a heavy half-shell and lifted it with both hands.

The young tender nodded and ran past Momo toward the front of the rock eater. Rossler followed, careful of the creature's many churning feet. At its front of the creature, the tentacles, thick around as Rossler's thigh, groped forward. They glistened with thick, green mucus.

Stretching to the limits of his one-handed reach, the tender scraped his shell along one tentacle as he trotted alongside. It retracted into the body of the rock eater, but as it did so, it exuded a gush of mucus which the tender caught in his shell.

"Get none of it on you," the tender said as he repeated the process on another tentacle. "We will need as much as we can carry."

The young man dodged off to the side to allow Rossler access to the groping tentacles. The rock eater moved like a chain of crashing boulders, each segment lifting itself in turn and then slamming forward onto the uneven ground. Countless spike-like feet thrust backward beneath each body segment. Even on his weary legs, Rossler kept pace with ease, but leaning in toward the groping tentacles gave him pause. He looked ahead and took the measure of the rough cavern floor before turning to swipe at one of the closest tentacles. The eggshell bobbled in his hands as the thick trunk of the tentacle swung back at the shell before retracting. Mucus spurted, half into the shell and half spattering to the ground to fume and hiss before the rock eater's body slammed down.

Rossler jumped wide around a waist-high cone of dripstone and ran a few more paces before making a second attempt. He leaned in and brought his shell bowl up beneath another tentacle. This time, he braced for the muscular kick as the limb retracted. He captured a sizeable measure of slime in his bowl. The shell now weighed heavy in his arms, and the cavern wall loomed ahead. Momo prodded the creature toward a tunnel not much bigger in diameter than itself. To get trapped between the rock eater and the tunnel wall would crush him to the consistency of an algae rag.

Rossler measured the distance in his lavender light then dipped the shell back in for another glob of slime before dodging away from the tunnel mouth. He held the shell well away from his nose and caught his breath while the creature continued its undulating charge into the tunnel. Momo followed, only tapping with the gaff on the rock eater's tail end to keep the creature moving.

The young tender joined him and nodded his approval at Rossler's quantity of slime. Then the man looked back and frowned. The Lightgivers were closing. Rossler could now see the individual white lumen stones.

"Enter the tunnel, stay behind me," the young man said. "Watch what I do, but do not use your slime until I am done and out of the way."

Rossler leapt into the tunnel. Momo continued driving the rock eater forward though his efforts took him beyond the reach of their lumen.

Starting at one side of the tunnel entrance, the breeding ground tender held his shell out at arm's length and laid down a dribbling trail of mucus. The stone hissed and bubbled, dissolving down and spreading as he waved a jiggling trail from one side of the entrance to the other then stepped back to do another pass. Choking fumes rose up, stinging Rossler's eyes into tears. The thin, foul air became unbreathable. After another pass, the tender threw his empty shell into the seething pit, and backed down the tunnel to cough.

Rossler's lumen stone sweetened the air under his nose. Its continuous puffing breaths pushed back the fumes just enough for him to breathe. He copied the young tender's movements, laying down a winding trail that continued lengthening the pit. He worked swiftly, but with care. At the rate it spread and ate, dripping a line of mucus across his toes would cost him a foot. He grinned and dubbed that the eighth caution, a punishment that fit the violation.

White light began to reflect on the tunnel mouth and the rising cloud of noxious fumes. The pit was two man heights long and half that deep. The Lightgivers could most likely leap over at the rate they moved. Rossler shook his head, but did not cease his work. He completed two more passes, adding another man height to the pit's length before emptying his shell.

He backed away from the pit. The young tender took his arm as a Lightgiver male rounded the corner at a full sprint. His large, slanted eyes went wide as his pumping legs found no floor. He growled and hissed like an animal as he fell, face twisted in feral rage. Then he convulsed as his limbs and body melted into the bubbling stone.

When the Lightgiver's lumen touched the burning sludge it skittered on the surface as its silver chain melted. Then it burst in a flash, dazzling Rossler's eyes. The release of light flowed over his skin in an intense clap of sensation. It lasted no more than an instant before he sensed a presence draining it away, pulling the flood of sensation downward—the eater of light. He tried to focus on it, feel its source, but the breeding ground tender clapped him on the arm in warning.

The remaining five Lightgivers scrambled to a halt on the far side of the pit and watched the last of their comrade dissolve.

Their white manes were cropped short, in the manner of the Lightgiver males, exposing the tips of their long, pointed ears. Their white lumen glared from the silver chains about their necks.

"Run!" the young tender said, and turned to flee, his body coming between the light of his green lumen stone and the Lightgivers.

The Lightgivers raised their hands and Rossler understood in that instant the truth behind the Second Caution.

"No! Don't hide your light!" he cried, but the warning came too late. Shadowy fingers clutched at the young tender's back, snapping his ribs and spine. The young man coughed once, spraying blood, then the Lightgivers lowered their hands, and he flopped to the ground. His one hand twitched and then lay still.

"Cover your lumen in the presence of a Lightgiver or lose an eye," Rossler muttered as he turned his head away.

"Return the lumen to us man-thing, and you shall live," one of the Lightgivers said in a low hiss.

"The Mistress commanded me and I obey," Rossler said with a shake of his head.

The Lightgivers began to cough on the rising fumes. They all labored for breath.

"She is no longer your Mistress," said the same speaker between coughs, "another is in command. Return the lumen stone to us and you shall live the rest of your days in the Temple of Life."

Rossler began backing away, dismissing their hollow offer with another shake of his head. "Matisharo is in command now?"

One of the males hissed and raised his hands, slender fingers hooked like claws, but his shadow could not land over Rossler's lavender lumen stone. The tender's green lumen stone lured him like a temptress. He could bend down and retrieve the green lumen for Momo, but did not. The act would have dipped his shoulder toward their shadows.

Rossler continued to back down the tunnel. "Perform your service to the very best measure or lose your ear. Tell Matisharo that Zellisandrei was correct, I can do the task she set before me."

"Obey our commands, now, man-thing!"

Rossler remained silent. They had killed the breeding grounds tender without hesitation. They would strike him down just the same if they could. The distance stretched between them with each step he took. When the shallow curve of the tunnel cut him off from their view, he turned and ran until he caught up with Momo.

Momo halted, his eyes searching as Rossler ran up.

Rossler shook his head. "They killed him. They want my lumen stone. They killed him just because he stood with me."

Anger burned in Rossler's heart. His hands clenched into fists to strike at something, but there was nothing. The Lightgivers were monsters. Men served them until death, served to the very best measure of their ability—all for light. For light, men followed the Cautions and closed their hearts from one another.

Momo coughed, wincing at the foul air, then handed Rossler the gaff. He pointed back up the tunnel then rubbed his hands together. He wanted Rossler to feel the Lightgivers' movements. Rossler took a few breaths to calm himself, then focused on the tingling of his skin. The five white lumen withdrew, heading back toward the route upwards.

"They retreat."

Momo pointed to Rossler and rubbed his hands again with a nod. Then he pointed to himself, rubbed his hands and shook his head.

"You cannot feel their lumen?"

Momo shook his head, pointed back to Rossler and nodded. He could not. The breeding grounds tender had not noticed the Lightgivers' approach until he saw the light of their lumen. "Only I can feel them," Rossler murmured.

Momo smiled and nodded, then coughed again. Rossler jogged up to the tail of the rock eater and tapped it a few times to get it moving again.

"We will rest as soon as I feel that they have climbed up out of the rock eater cavern," he told Momo.

Momo followed, wheezing at the thin air. Rossler waved the man up to jog beside him. "Stay close, my lumen is breathing out air for us."

Momo poked a finger at the lavender lumen and jerked it back with a shake of his head.

Rossler drove the rock eater onward until the Lightgivers had climbed out of the cavern. Their punishment for failing to return the lavender lumen to Matisharo would be fierce.

The tunnel had curved about, and continued to descend. He pulled Momo to a halt and flopped to the tunnel floor. The rock eater undulated a bit further before it too slowed and stopped.

"The Lightgivers are gone, I do not think they can breathe down here any better than we can without this." He held up his lumen.

Momo sat beside him against the round slope of the tunnel wall. He shared out pieces of mushroom and algae. Rossler sighed at having a mouth full of food after running for what seemed like two full sleep cycles.

He swallowed the mushroom and sucked on the moisture trapped in the algae before swallowing it as well. Then he shut his eyes and let the sleep of exhaustion take him. He dreamed that he lay on his back, watching the stars wheel overhead. Beneath him was tickly softness, not the polished marble of the floor beneath the vault of night. The great star of the renewal cycle was due to rise soon; it tracked along his skin stronger than ever before. It tugged at him with strong fingers of radiant heat, stronger than the Mistress's lumen. No high wall blocked his view. The vault of night extended an impossible distance. Where the stars rose from the level of the ground, they began to dim. No, the blue-black sky was brightening in the direction of the great renewal star.

Momo clutched at his hand. "You are the one who feels the sister stars. Watch, dawn comes," the man said, his tongue whole, his voice rich. Then he began coughing and would not stop. Burning fumes washed over them, erasing the brightening sky.

Rossler jerked awake, his throat and lungs burning. The dream words echoed in his mind, but Momo coughed beside him, unable to draw a breath. He pulled Momo's head close and raised his lumen up to their lips. In its light, Momo's face had turned a pale sickly grey, his lips blue.

Rossler coughed and sucked in the lumen's air. The rock eater was eating, filling the tunnel with fumes. Rossler's heart sank like a stone in his chest. The puffs of breath from his lumen were not enough for the both of them. He cupped Momo's head and held him up toward the lumen stone. He held him there long after the coughing weakened then ceased.

Momo's inner warmth tickled his skin in one last burst, then dropped away, snatched as well by the eater of light. It drew Momo's light down through the stone of the tunnel floor. Rossler followed it with his senses. It tracked down his skin to merge at last with the great red lumen. He could sense it far below. The same dim warmth he had sensed rising through the Chamber of Renewal. It had come to the Mistress's strange call before she extinguished her white lumen stones. It had come for the burst of light from the fallen Lightgiver's lumen as eagerly as it had come for Momo's light.

Rossler rose, clenching Momo's maimed hands in his. Momo who had seen dawn was dead.

"Your service has ended, Momo. You have performed to the very best measure of your ability. I could have asked for nothing more. You will not spend eternity in darkness. I am coming to claim your light from the thing that has taken it."

Rossler swung the remainder of the mushroom over his shoulder and rolled up the algae mats to tuck under his arm, careful not to squeeze out any of the moisture trapped within their fibers. Then he clamped his lumen stone between his teeth and took up the gaff.

It required some experimenting before he hit upon the means of getting the rock eater to tunnel downward. He had to hook the sharp point of the gaff under the big male's tail and tug upward. For five more sleep cycles he tunneled at the rate of a slow walk. The rock eater's many feet sucked up every trace of the dissolving slime and resulting slurry, leaving clean, bare stone in its wake.

His lumen never dimmed or changed color as a normal lumen stone did. The eater of light in the deepest dark did not draw its peculiar light away as it had from his normal lumen stone long ago.

The Mistress had told him he would not renew. She knew. His lumen puffed air which he sucked on, and lit his path from between his teeth. She had known he would need air and had renewed his lumen stone for the task.

He slept at the end of each cycle, clutching at the fresh hewn stone of the tunnel floor and praying for the dream of dawn's coming to continue, but it did not. He dreamt only of a vast round cage, an aged and cracking barrier that he struggled to break free from. He stretched his arms through the cracks and reached upward, groping for help.

When he woke, he drove the rock eater onward. He rationed his food, but after a couple cycles the mushroom had shriveled. He ate what remained of it after waking from his fifth cycle since leaving Momo behind. Half of one algae mat remained, enough for another two cycles. The distance between him and the great red lumen, the eater of light, had closed, but a large gulf still remained. He stretched his senses to their limits in hope of finding the vague warmth of a steam cavern, but the deepest dark was void of all other sensation. His only possible goal was the great red lumen. It had drawn Momo's light to it. It had to be the source the Mistress sent him to find.

Despite the rumbling tread of the rock eater, a steady vibration grew in the stone beneath his feet. Rossler pressed his ear to the tunnel wall to hear it rumble. His skin felt nothing. The deepest dark held this mystery before him, but he had seen none of the terrors that the women of the Temple of Life had warned of. The only horrors were those he had left behind.

He did not halt the rock eater. During the cycle the rumble grew loud enough to hear.

With a sudden crack and crash, the floor of the tunnel broke out from beneath the massive weight of the rock eater. With a whip of its tail as it fell, the creature yanked the gaff and tugged Rossler forward. He plunged in the rock eater's wake.

His lumen fell from his mouth to shine on a great cascade of water. The rock eater tumbled beneath him. It slammed into towering rocks and split like one of the eggs of its young. Burning pain slashed across Rossler's thigh and stomach. He screamed, then struck furiously turbulent water. Icy cold enveloped him, but the rock eater's splash of slime continued to burn for a moment longer. Deep into his belly it seared. Below his right hip, his leg went numb.

With his arms, he thrashed against the rushing flow of water. The torrent held him trapped and tumbling. Bubbling lavender and red swirled. He ceased his struggles and grabbed the chain still about his neck. He groped down its length with his fingers to catch the lumen stone then shove it into his mouth. The light dimmed, turning the blood in the water to the deepest shade of red.

Rossler shut his eyes tight and let the water take him. The pain in his belly made him see white beneath his closed eyelids. The same white as the Lightgiver's lumen—the color of searing pain. The burning and eating of his flesh stopped, replaced by the sting of water flowing into his gut. He pressed his hands flat to his belly to stem the flow of blood and water.

Consciousness fled several times, only to be driven back by scrapes along the pebbled bottom or a brief surfacing. When his head surfaced and stayed above water, he opened his eyes. The torrent had slowed, merging into a calm body of water. The air tasted clean, but stale and lifeless. He craned his neck, but the light of his lumen did not extend to the roof of the cavern.

Despite his pain, the great red lumen tickled at his skin. He had drawn close. It plucked at his cheek and he turned his head. Dim lavender reflections met his eyes, tracing tall, regular shapes capped with round or peaked tops. On the shore of the wide expanse of water there rose a number of black structures. He swam toward them, pulling himself forward with one arm and kicking with one leg. His other hand pressed into the wound in his belly.

Many of the structures were tall needles. In size and shape they matched the Lightgiver tower far above. Rossler groaned. He had found a vast domain of Lightgivers. He sensed none of their white lumen stones. Within their tower above, they were hidden from his senses. The same could be true here. The city seemed dead of all sensation of light, but for the great red lumen somewhere in its heart.

The sluggish current aided his efforts to reach the shore. He dragged himself out onto dust-covered paving stones that sloped into the water. The dust clung to his wet flesh. Where blood flowed, it turned to red mud. He swept up handfuls of the dust and packed it into the hard, knotted flesh of his gaping belly wound before examining his right leg.

The splash of rock eater mucus had burned a broad swath of flesh away from his hip to the middle of his thigh. Knotted flesh peeled back from pitted white bone. He could not move his toes or lower leg, nor feel anything past his knee. The water had washed out the slime before it could eat all the way through, but the leg hung useless.

He turned his wobbling head toward the Lightgivers' city. The great red lumen pulled at his skin, close and immediate. Beyond the paving stones he had crawled onto, a massive circular building stood, crowned by a high dome. Broad steps led up to an arched entry surrounded by columns carved in the likenesses of female Lightgivers.

Rossler crawled. Right knee dragging and left hand pressed to his belly, he pulled himself up the broad steps. He expected the statues to be leering down at him, but they all looked into the black gulf overhead. They seemed to yearn for something up there, for their hands were upstretched and grasping.

He left a blood-smeared trail in the dust, but the pain had faded to a dull burn. He could have stopped to rest, let his life ebb out, but he refused. The warmth ahead called to him. It baited him with the shred of Momo it had swallowed. His lavender lumen stone seemed to answer back, brightening as the distance that separated it from the great red lumen decreased.

After the struggle of ascending the stairs, the crawl through the archway seemed easy. Within, the building was one large open space. In the center of the marble floor was a round pit, large enough to swallow an adult rock eater. Rossler kept his head down and focused on his movement, the reach of his arm, the pull of his knee, the tightening of his gut, then the reach again.

The great round lumen stone filled the pit, a vast sphere covered in a thick layer of dust. It seemed black except for the strong brush of warmth on his cheeks. Jagged cracks curved up from its hidden lower hemisphere, just as the cracks in the cage of his dreams. From these, the barest glimmer of red light bled.

"I found you," Rossler whispered.

The red glow shifted, flickering out then returning, almost in time to Rossler's racing heart.

He turned his head away and wept. The great lumen lay dying. They would die together. His lavender lumen glowed bright and puffed its breath of air. Its light taunted him with life. He held his lumen stone out over the pit. Nothing happened. The great red lumen, the eater of light, disdained from consuming his lavender light.

Rossler closed his eyes and rolled onto his back. When he opened them again, he beheld the underside of the great dome that capped the building. Ancient hands had painted it pale blue—a shade of color he had never seen before. At the apex of the dome, a disk of golden yellow with rays extending outward like spread fingers overlooked all. Around the lower edge of the dome, were painted tall green shapes with broad, rounded tops. They looked like the pillars in the tunnel below the scarab maze. Images of men stood beneath and between these green things. Not shaved, naked, and bone-thin men, but men wrapped in silk of vibrant hues. Hair flowed from their heads in streaks of color, and their faces were painted with smiles. Women were depicted as well, hand in hand with the men beneath the dome of pale blue.

The walls that supported the dome were of black marble, carved with the likenesses of many Lightgivers. The carvings bore raised blades and clawed toward the golden yellow disk at the top of the dome. Snarls of rage and eyes narrowed against a bright light were set on each Lightgiver's face.

Rossler sobbed out a breath and held his maimed hands up. "Why have you done this to us?"

The Lightgiver statues ignored him. He crawled beneath their notice, a dying man-thing.

His eyes fell from the cold statues and alighted upon a black pedestal that had gone unnoticed. He pulled the chain from his neck. "This is yours, it is not mine. I will not take your cursed light with me into eternity. I would rather have darkness."

Lumen chain in hand, he wormed his way to the pedestal, across a floor slick with his blood. It seemed to take a full cycle, with much slipping, but he levered himself up until eyes rose above the pedestal's top. He jammed the lavender lumen stone into the socket with numb fingers and the vast chamber went dark.

Rossler let himself slide to the floor, the fingers of one hand tangled in his lumen chain. Blackness engulfed him, sending numbing tendrils into his destroyed flesh. His last breath rasped in his throat. He could no longer command his chest to rise and fall. Then a warm light blossomed within him. When all sensation fled, his light tickled through his body. It flowed up through his dangling arm and his awareness traveled with it—a conscious dream essence of light. It tasted of blue, like the color on the dome. Without volition, he left his body through the lumen chain then flowed into a featureless vault of bright lavender.

For a moment his light seemed trapped within his lumen stone. Countless other lights surrounded him, all shades, likewise trapped within lavender radiance. He saw as if he were dreaming. They were visions and sensations of pure awareness. They clustered around him, building up pressure like a breath held too long. Then they burst free in a torrent, flowing out and down. He merged with the other lights, becoming part of their yellows, greens, reds and blues. They too bore awareness within them. They were the lights of men and women, boys and young girls.

They had been trapped within his lavender lumen stone.

The deluge of essences flowed through a tunnel of twisting white light. He reached forward, drawn toward the dim essence at the end—the essence within the great red lumen stone.

There came another merging. He, and all the essences that flowed with him, joined with the essence within the great red lumen stone. Its red light brightened and steadied. The many lights went to the weak cracks of the lumen, the cage, while he drifted at the touch of the eater of light's essence. A force thrust upon him. His awareness shifted again, out through a crack then to a point above the vast stone in the pit.

He sensed a voice. It sounded like the voice of Momo in his dream. "You are the one who feels the sister stars."

He saw again that long ago glimpse of the sky.

"Yes," the voice of the essence within the great red lumen said. "I free you from my prison. The essences you brought will seal me away within the stone, but I free your spirit."

His awareness filled with the blue tinged dot of the renewal star. "Go forth to her," the voice continued. "It is her gift that empowers you. Because of her will, you feel her light. Tell her Sevinor comes."

Rossler discarded his name, his only possession, as another drop of poison the Mistress had served him. Rossler lay dead, a thing of flesh that would rot away in time. His new body floated in the center of the chamber, a weaving nimbus of blue light. The one who feels the sister stars.

He bent his awareness down and blue tendrils leapt from his body of light to lick across the great lumen stone, disturbing not a single mote of dust. The cracks in sphere were mending, fusing shut. He found his voice and when he spoke, more tendrils of blue light burst forth. "Who is Sevinor?"

"I am," the essence within the great lumen said. "I am the living spirit of the world, trapped within this prison by the dark elves." An image of the Mistress flashed in his memory. "They bend these spirits you brought to the task of repairing my cage."

Like fingers caught tapping an idle rhythm, his tendrils of light paused in their motion. "Why did you take Momo's light?"

Almost all the cracks had healed, but Sevinor's voice yet rose as a distant whisper. "I keep the spirits safe. They will live within my light until I can be free."

The last crack mended and silenced the voice. The great lumen stone glowed steady red. A low vibration raised ages of dust from its upper hemisphere in a cloud.

The ruin of his body held no interest. His light, his spirit, had been freed—freed of all Cautions and all prisons. He turned his awareness to the Lightgiver statues and his tendrils played across their upraised faces. Sevinor called them dark elves. He pulled away. They too held no interest any longer.

The one who feels the sister stars urged himself upward, away from the loathsome statues. He passed through the golden yellow disk at the apex of the dome and accelerated. Dark rock and lightless voids flashed by then fell behind. He rose above the Lightgiver tower at the top of the Mistress's domain and into the eternal vault of night. The deep, round black of the world fell in his wake, a shrinking hole in the blue darkness far from any star.

His awareness focused on the touch of the sister star. His tendrils of light stretched toward her. She tickled at him, stronger than ever, tugging at his tendrils, coaxing him toward her.

He released himself to her distant pull—the pull of a true Lightgiver. He would tell her that Sevinor was coming, and she would show him dawn.

The End

Altitude Sickness

By C.M. Saunders

Christian Saunders, who writes fiction as C.M. Saunders, began writing in 1997, his early fiction appearing in several small-press titles and anthologies. His first book, INTO THE DRAGON'S LAIR – A SUPERNATURAL HISTIRY OF WALES was published in 2003. After graduating with a degree in journalism from Southampton Solent university he worked extensively in the freelance market, contributing to numerous international publications including Fortean Times, Chat, Its Fate! Bizarre, Urban Ink, Enigma, Record Collector, Nuts and Maxim, and a regular column to the Western Mail newspaper. Since returning to dark fiction he has had stories published in Screams of Terror, Shallow Graves, Dark Valentine, Fantastic Horror, Unbroken Waters, Gore and several anthologies. His novellas DEAD OF NIGHT and APARTMENT 14F: AN ORIENTAL GHOST STORY are available now on Damnation Books, while 2012 saw the release of his latest, DEVIL'S ISLAND, on Rainstorm Press. His most recent work, the literary fiction novel RAINBOW'S END, is out now on Flarefront Publications.

Airports make the best places to people watch. The larger international airports are fully operational around the clock, giving rise to a constant stream of people coming and going. Arrivals, departures. People waiting. Killing time. The bigger the airport, the more people to watch. However, sooner or later, the fun ebbs away and the boredom sets in...

James yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. He had been waiting in the International Departures lounge for over three hours, and still there was no sign of his flight on the boards. He had already checked in, but take-off was delayed indefinitely. Electrical problems. Just what he needed after a sleepless night, an early start and a four-hour bus ride to the airport. Thank God he only had to make this trip once a year.

The boards changed. And suddenly, there it was. His flight.

At the same time there was an announcement. First in Mandarin, then in English...

"Virgin Air flight number VA 290, Shanghai to London Heathrow, is now ready to board at gate 27. This is the delayed flight originally scheduled for 11.20. We apologise once again for any inconvenience..."

James breathed a sigh of relief. About fucking time!

As he stood and joined the orderly queue his stomach grumbled loudly. He had missed breakfast. And lunch. He never thought he would admit it, but he was actually looking forward to the in-flight meal. Some food, a few drinks, a movie, and a nap. Heaven.

He handed his passport and boarding pass to the smiling woman at the gate, and then his tired legs were carrying him down the tunnel. His limbs were heavy, and his eyes felt as if they had grains of sand floating trapped beneath the lids. A small child pushed past him, yelling at the top of his voice. James hoped the little shit wouldn't be sitting anywhere near him.

On board the plane he exchanged smiles with one of the pretty blonde flight attendants, who glanced at his boarding pass and helpfully held out a guiding hand. "Half way down the aircraft, sir. On the left-hand side."

James nodded and moved on, found his allocated seat, and stowed his carry-on luggage in the overhead compartment without even pausing long enough to retrieve his Kindle. Too tired to read. He had the window seat. A big guy with a tanned, weathered face occupied the seat next to him and the aisle seat remained empty. For now.

"Excuse me." James said to the big guy as he squeezed past and flopped gratefully into the seat.

"No worries," the big guy returned without looking up from his in-flight magazine, voice like gravel.

The safety announcement told him to strap himself in and watch the video playing on the tiny video screen fixed to the back of the seat in front of him. James did as he was told. He always found this part of a flight slightly creepy. Did anyone really believe that if the plane were to drop out of the sky into the black ocean anyone would have a chance to inflate their life jackets and blow their whistle? Who were they trying to fool? Every passengers and crew member would be vaporized immediately. Or drown in the freezing water within minutes. The theory was that the only reason the safety film told passengers to put their heads between their knees in the event of a crash-landing, was because the impact would quickly break your neck, putting a stop to any unnecessary suffering. Still, it was probably a legal requirement to show the video. And maybe it reassured some of the more naïve passengers on board.

James shook his head violently. Must stop thinking such morbid thoughts. Flying is statistically one of the safest modes of travel, so they say. Much less chance of dying in plane crash than a road accident.

But he couldn't help himself. He wouldn't ordinarily consider himself a nervous flyer, but a bad feeling was sneaking up on him, wrapping cold tendrils around his gut. Each time he was on an airplane he couldn't shake the notion that people as a species just weren't supposed to be in the air. There were so many things that could go wrong, so many variables. That's why God never gave us wings.

He looked around, trying to gauge how many other passengers were thinking the same kind of thing as he was. The big guy next to him wasn't watching the video, either. Instead, his head rested against the seat and his eyes were closed. His lips moved silently, the in-flight magazine lying folded on his lap.

The aircraft taxied down the runway, gradually building speed. The noise was also building, along with a ball of anticipation deep in James' stomach. He took a deep breath, wrapped his fingers around the arm rests, and slammed his eyes shut as the 500-plus tons of metal lifted off the ground into the cloudy Chinese sky.

Take-off is the worst. Closely followed by landing. Some estimates suggest that 80% of accidents happen during these two complex manoeuvres, mainly because of system failure or human error. Once the aircraft is safely in the sky, you are relatively safe.

As the plane climbed and then levelled out, James began to relax.

"Drink, sir?" It was the same blonde stewardess that had greeted him on boarding. Now she was pushing the drinks trolley down the aisle.

"Gin and tonic, please," James replied. "With ice."

"Same," said the big guy sitting next to him, without waiting to be asked.

The smiling stewardess passed James a little plastic glass full of clear liquid, which he eagerly accepted, and gulped back half in two large swallows. The big guy drained the whole glass before the smiling stewardess had even finished serving the person now sitting in the aisle seat, a middle-aged woman with braided hair. James noticed that the big guy's hands were shaking, and couldn't help feeling a little smug about the fact that there was someone even more uncomfortable than he was.

"Here we are, then," proclaimed the big guy.

Oh no. Not a talker, please. James hated those people in the habit of striking up conversations with strangers. Especially in confined spaces where there was no escape.

"Yes. Finally in the air," James replied politely, then instantly regretted it. What a ridiculous thing to say. Talk about stating the damned obvious. He hated the opening verbal exchanges when meeting someone new. Whatever he said, he always managed to sound like an idiot.

To his credit the big guy took the absurd comment in his stride. It was almost as if he didn't even hear it. "You know, I hate flying," he said.

"Really? It doesn't show," James lied.

"No?"

"Not at all."

Glancing at the big guy out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that he wore faded jeans and a blue shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to show well muscled, tanned forearms matted with thick black hair. He had a weathered face, covered in a couple of days worth of dark stubble, and heavy rings under bloodshot eyes. A light film of perspiration clung to his forehead.

"So, where are you from, mate?" the big guy asked.

"England," replied James with what he hoped wasn't too much impatience.

"Me too!" said the big guy excitedly, as if there was some kind of huge coincidence involved in meeting an Englishman on a flight to London. He shifted nervously in his seat, his massive frame seeking comfort in the limited space the economy section provided. "Can't wait to get back, to be honest."

This statement momentarily piqued James' curiosity. "Why is that? Did you have a bad experience in China or something?"

"Not China. Philippines."

"So why didn't you fly home from Manila? Isn't it quicker than flying out of China?"

"Erm... It's cheaper to get a connection in Shanghai," the big guy retorted a little too sharply.

Cheaper? Really? It sounded dubious. But what did James know? He had never got a flight from Manila. "So what were you doing over there?" he asked.

"Over where?"

"Manila. The Philippines."

"Oh, nothing much. Just travelling."

The man was a very bad liar. Maybe he was cheating on his wife, or doing some dodgy business deal. Maybe he was on the run from Interpol or something. James was surprised to realize he didn't care. Asia was full of westerners running from things.

The verbal exchange died, and the flight wore on. The steady drone of the engines and constant low hum of conversation becoming almost relaxing, and pretty soon it was dinner time. James felt his stomach growl. There were two choices of meal; pasta, which he guessed doubled as the vegetarian option, or chicken with mixed vegetables. He chose the chicken and set about it with fervor. Only mid-way through the meal did he notice that the big guy next to him wasn't eating. Instead, he stared fixedly ahead, eyes glazed, meal lying untouched in front of him.

After dinner James used the little button to summon a stewardess and requested another G & T. One more drink would hopefully put him to sleep.

"That's a great idea!" the big guy said, overhearing, and asked for one himself. The smile on the stewardess's face wavered slightly as her glance flickered between the two men. No doubt she was hoping she didn't have a couple of rowdy alcoholics on her hands. In any case, she went to fetch them each a fresh drink. While he waited James donned his headset, reached for the in-flight entertainment controls and began searching through the latest movie selection. Nothing grabbed his attention.

The stewardess soon returned with two glasses in hand. The big guy seemed to notice the arrival late, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he spotted someone leaning over him. That nervous flicker across the face of the stewardess again. The poor guy would need those extra units to keep a lid on his nerves.

James thanked the stewardess and turned his attention back to the too-small screen, squinting to see better. He was looking forward to killing a few hours in the land of nod.

Suddenly there was a tap on his shoulder. The big guy. James took off his headset and cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"Sorry to bother you. I was just wondering... is your in-flight entertainment working okay?"

"Yes, thanks. Why? What's the problem?"

"Damn thing's frozen up."

"Yeah, that happens." James sympathised, but failed to see what it had to do with him. If the big guy thought he was going to swap seats or something he was sadly mistaken. "Try turning it off and then on again."

"If I have to get the cabin crew involved I may as well get another drink. Would you like me to ask them for another G & T for you at the same time?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"You know, the best thing about long-haul flights is the free alcohol," the big guy said. "The only drawback is that they monitor your consumption like hawks. They usually let you get four or five in before they put a cap on it. Which means we should be good for one or two more yet."

Before the big guy could say anything else, James gave a dismissive thumbs up and returned his attention to the in-flight entertainment.

Minutes later, another tap. This time the big guy handed him a fresh G & T. They clicked plastic cups.

Big guy was talking again.

What was it with some people? They assumed because you were forced to sit next to them through sheer bad luck it made you Best Friends Forever. It was an unwritten rule that if someone was wearing headphones, they didn't want to be disturbed.

James thought about blanking him, but his conscience wouldn't allow it. In his own clumsy, annoying way, the big guy was reaching out. He was skittish, and his eyes looked at James imploringly. Probably nerves. Perhaps if James humoured him for five minutes he would talk himself out and go to sleep. He removed his headset again. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"I said my in-flight entertainment still isn't working. I mean, you pay all this money you expect everything to be working, right?"

"That's too bad," James replied. Then he had a great idea. "Maybe you can ask them to change your seat? There might be a few empty ones."

The big guy wrinkled his nose. "Nah. Don't you know all the big airlines intentionally overbook flights as standard? They gamble on not everyone showing up for one reason or another. Another way to squeeze a few quid out of the consumer. Besides, I'm settled in now. It's their responsibility, don't you think?"

"Yeah, sure. Their responsibility, all right."

"After what I've been through these past few weeks I need some relaxation."

James cocked an eyebrow. "And what have you been through?"

The big guy shifted nervously in his seat and broke eye contact. "Nothing. Forget it."

James didn't want to forget it. Perhaps his fellow traveller was being intentionally coy, yanking his chain, pulling him into a barely warranted conversation. Even so, James didn't mind playing ball for a few minutes. It wasn't like he had anything else to do. "Well, you wouldn't be the first foreigner to have a bad experience in Asia. What happened? You get stung in a bad business deal?"

"Nothing as simple as that, I'm afraid."

"What, then?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." The big guy chortled, but any trace of humour quickly melted from his face, leaving behind something that was more a grimace.

"Fair enough," James said with a deliberate air of finality. He wasn't in the mood to play these games.

"Nothing personal. It's just a long story..." the big guy continued.

"Not a problem. Didn't mean to pry," James said as he re-positioned his headset and prepared to press PLAY.

"My fault. That was a bad choice of words. Shouldn't talk about killing people on airplanes." The big guy paused, his dark eyes flicking between James' as if weighing up his integrity. Then he said, "Nobody's perfect."

James was growing impatient. "Look, is there something you wanna get off your chest?"

"If there was, what makes you think I'd tell a stranger on a plane?"

"Well, you're obviously edging toward something," James said flatly. "And if you did have a big confession, who better to tell than a stranger on a plane? I mean, if you broke the law or something and you told me about it, even if I cared, I wouldn't be able to chase it up. I don't even know your name. When this plane lands we walk off, go our separate ways, and never see each other again."

"You could find me, if you wanted to. Just go to the police, and they'd check the passenger list..."

"Why would I bother? I probably wouldn't believe it, anyway."

The big guy chortled again, and drained his latest G & T. "You're right about that, kid. You probably wouldn't believe it."

James knew what was going on here. In his experience, the vast majority of criminals and petty crooks just loved to boast about their exploits. How they evaded capture or beat the system. If you offer them a platform without fear of reprisals, most of them grab the opportunity with both hands. There was an uneasy stand-off while James counted down the seconds in his head. If the big stupid fuck didn't start talking in five seconds, the headset was going back on and wasn't coming off again until they landed in London.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Right on cue, the big guy sighed, then started talking.

"In Manila, I was a security operative. That's what they call us in the papers and stuff. Truth is, we're mercenaries. Soldiers of fortune. Mostly ex-servicemen, recruited from Iraq and Afghanistan after their tours end. Sometimes we leave the services, and go straight back out there on private contracts. Mostly working at training camps or providing protection for companies or wealthy individuals. We do it for the money, basically. A good operative can make five or six times what the army pays. More, even.

"The job I was on was an extension of a job I started in Dubai last year, looking after this oil tycoon and his family. The one that caused the most problems for everybody was the guy's youngest son, who fancied himself as a bit of a playboy. Loved the champagne lifestyle, he did. Fast cars, beautiful women, exotic holidays, you know the score. Kid had no responsibility."

"I know," James said, hoping to move the conversation along a little.

"Well, you know Dubai is a dry state?"

"I heard something about that, yeah."

The big guy acted as if he hadn't heard and offered an explanation anyway. "That means you can't drink alcohol there. Not even the powerful families like these guys. Its illegal. Of course some of them have police and judges in their pockets, but they also have enemies. So to keep this young playboy happy, and out of trouble, his rich daddy went and bought him a fuckin' mansion on the beach in the Philippines. You should see it... four stories that thing is, with a sun deck and its own stretch of private beach. Something like ten bedrooms and an indoor fuckin' cinema. You can imagine it, can't you?"

James nodded and blinked a few times in a bid to avoid his eye lids drooping.

"So one night, this pampered playboy had a party at his mansion. There were dozens of people there; a few local celebrities, some whores, booze, lots of cocaine, and five of us to handle... security. Uninvited guests, troublemakers and the like. There was Tank, Roger, Reuben, Jonesy and myself. The kid's daddy always made sure the kid had a useful crew around to protect him. And most of the time the precaution was justified. It was a well-paying gig, and pretty easy. Not much chance of getting blown away.

"'Course, a few of the lads started to wonder if the jumped-up li'l playboy caused so much trouble just because he knew we were around to pick up the pieces. Anyway, this guy, like a lot of people like that, powerful people, they don't like to be told what to do. And they definitely don't like hearing the word 'no.' In fact, it's so alien to them, that some of them don't even know what the word means. They've probably never fuckin' heard it before."

"Yeah, so what happened?" James found that in spite of himself, he was growing impatient for the big guy to get to the punchline for reasons other than allaying his boredom.

"So there was this young girl there. Local girl. Pretty young thing. Fifteen or sixteen at the most. It's how they do things over there. No such thing as the age of consent. And if there was, nobody would give a shit. All the parents want is for their kid to fall into money."

James suspected he knew what was coming next. "And the girl said 'no', did she?"

"She did better than that. He stuck a hand up her skirt so the gutsy li'l thing threw a drink all over him at his own party. Nobody could believe it."

"He didn't see the funny side?"

"See the funny side? Hell no, he bashed her brains in with an antique vase. Blood everywhere, there was."

James felt his stomach flip over. "He... murdered her?"

"If you spent any time in Asia," the big guy continued, "then you should know two things; life is cheap, and money talks."

Now James was beginning to hope the story was made up. Even so, fuelled by some morbid curiosity, he had to know more. "What happened next?"

the big guy shrugged. "Well, a colleague and I disposed of the body and sent for a cleaner to fix the mess."

"You disposed of the body? What did you do with it?" Misdirected or not, James could feel anger welling up inside him.

"Had to charter a fuckin' fishing boat, took it out a few miles and dumped it in the sea."

"It? When did 'it' stop being a 'she?'"

The big guy shrugged again. "Dunno. When he wasted her, I s'pose."

James was shocked by the big guy's apparent indifference. He was talking about the young girl as if describing something as menial as taking out the rubbish. He wondered if the guy was a fantasist. Making up stories to pass the time on a long flight.

But the kind of cold insensitivity and disassociation he was displaying is common among ex-army personnel, and not something easily faked. The indifference itself can be faked, but not many outsiders would know that is the overriding emotion when those schooled in the art of death talked about such unsavoury things in detail. Detachment was a coping mechanism. It was their default setting.

The bottom line was that James believed every word. "What is this?" he asked. "A confession?"

"I don't have anything to confess. I didn't kill the girl, did I? All I am guilty of is doing my job. The thing is... that was just the start of it."

"Oh really? How so? Did the police get involved?"

"The police?" The big guy looked surprised, as if it had never occurred to him that his actions had violated any law. "No, no police. The party didn't even stop. A few people left after the killing, but most stayed around. What happened is, the next day, an old woman came to visit the mansion, claiming to be the dead girl's mother. The rich playboy thought she wanted money and tried to pay her off, but she made it clear that she didn't want money."

"Then what did she want?"

"Revenge. She wanted revenge. Plain n' simple. When he realized money wasn't going to solve the problem, the playboy had us eject her from the premises, this old woman screaming and shouting in a mixture of English and kapampangan."

"What's that?"

"One of the languages of the Philippines. Most of them speak English, but the fact that she was kicking off in this old native language told us that she was of a more... traditional persuasion. It seemed she was very determined to get her point across."

"What was her point?"

"A curse. She put a curse on the playboy, and all his hands. Including me. She was saying things like, it's impossible to run or hide, the curse will catch up with each of us in turn."

There it was. The punch line. Apparently, the big guy had a curse hanging over his head. James shifted nervously in his seat. "So what happened then?"

"The very next day, the playboy died."

"How?"

"It was an accident. Nothing more. He was riding his jet ski in his very own private little patch of ocean and he fell off. No boat or even another jet ski in sight."

"He drowned?"

"Not exactly. Those things are equipped with a safety device. If you happen to fall off and your foot comes off the gas, the thing will circle around, rather than continue going in s straight line. Well, when he fell off the jet ski circled around and hit him in the back of the head. By the time we got him ashore he was dead. The back end of his skull all caved in. Weird thing is, it was the same injury he had put on the girl."

"Sounds like poetic justice to me," James said. "And that was it? That was the end?"

"No, that was most definitely not it. I only wish it were. The kid's father went ape shit. He blamed us for the death, and flew in from Dubai the next morning. We had an emergency meeting, where we were all fired with immediate effect. Now, one of the boys, Tank, took exception to this. Said he was owed back pay. We all were, in fact, but the rest of us weren't stupid enough to argue the point. Tank didn't give a fuck. Ex marine. He made a grab for the old man and ended up getting himself shot, right there and then, by the tycoon's body guards. Right between the eyes. One bullet. Blam! Clean."

"Holy shit," was all James could manage.

"After that, the four of us that were left scattered. Roger and Jonesy went back to Afghanistan to find new jobs in the private sector. Just a week into the job, their jeep was hit by an IED and they were both wiped out. That left only Reuben and me from the original five. Reuben decided to leave the country and went to Spain travelling. He rode a motorcycle. That was his passion. He said he had some money saved, so he was going to take some time off and go riding."

"Don't tell me. He crashed it and died, right?"

"Exactly right," said the big guy. "Drove into a brick wall one night. Game over."

"Smart."

"Hold your tongue. It wasn't his fault. He was a good man, was Reuben. Tough guy. It was the woman's curse that did for him."

"Couldn't it all be coincidence, though?" James suggested, almost hopefully.

"Some coincidence, don't you think? First the playboy himself, then Tank, Roger, Jonesy and then Reuben? All at different times and in different situations?"

"Stranger things have happened," James said, playing devil's advocate. "So what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Why aren't you... dead?"

"Because I beat the curse."

"How?"

"Easy. I laid low for a while. Stayed in a little hotel on the other side of the Philippines. You know there are over 7000 islands there, so I did a little island-hopping. In the beginning, I was convinced I was going to die as well. Absolutely shit myself every time I got in a boat, crossed the road. But somehow, I made it through every day, and the time passed. Pretty soon, months had gone by. I figured maybe the curse couldn't find me. While I was in hiding I sent out some feelers, to see if I could trace the old hag."

"Why would you do that?"

"Thought I'd just explain the situation. Tell her what happened, and make it clear that I had no part in killing her daughter."

"But you threw her body in the sea. Covered up the crime. Perverted the course of justice and all that."

"Did I really? One thing I've learned from all this is that justice will find a way in the end."

"So did you manage to contact her?"

"Eventually, yes. Met a guy who knew a guy. That kind of thing. I got a hand-written message to her. Even got it translated into kapampangan. It took her a while, but eventually she sent a message back."

"What did the message say?"

The big guy wiped some perspiration from his brow with one meaty hand. "It said, thank you for reminding me, you are the last. I guess that means she thinks she's done enough damage and dropped the cursey-thing, right?"

James was amazed. "It didn't mean she dropped the curse at all. It means you are the last survivor, and she was thanking you for reminding her she had missed you out!"

"I was kind of hoping that wouldn't be the case. Hey, I need another G & T. Wanna join me?"

Now James understood why the stupid, selfish prick had been so nervous. In some dark recess of his mind he must have known he was taking a monumental gamble by taking the flight. And not just with his own life, but with the lives of the crew and all the other passengers.

Including James.

Suddenly, before James could vent his fury, the plane lurched horribly to one side, and the lights momentarily flickered. There was a unified gasp from the passengers, then a horrible moment of impenetrable silence before the panic set in. People started screaming all around him. The screaming was the only sound there was. James grit his teeth as the aircraft hurtled toward the ground.

THE END

Prism

By John Gregory Hancock

John Gregory Hancock was born near St. Louis, Missouri. Hancock spent over 25 years as a newspaper graphic artist, winning multiple national and international design awards. He uses his artistic abilities to design his own covers and illustrations.

His first book, A Plague of Dreams, Dreamwood Tales Vol. 1. is a collection of cross-genre short stories, and debuted at the beginning of 2013. It includes two stories previously published in Bewildering Stories.

Hancock can juggle, badly, and is a voracious reader of multiple genres. He lives with a wife (who puts up with him, beyond all logic) and a fantastic son (who whips him fairly soundly in video games). They are hopelessly landlocked in Southwest Ohio, far away from either ocean or desert. Hancock writes in whatever free time he can scrounge between his 9 to 5, his artwork, and his family. And, ok, yes, he plays video games.

Celebrities who tweet him on twitter will eventually be drawn. Those celebrity portraits and his illustrations can be found on www.artsprocket.com.

Liam saw two soldiers at his door and waved at them to enter, making wide gestures. It was a place of business, after all. One can't make a living if the customers won't come in. They wouldn't cross the threshold. Instead Liam walked out of his shop into the hot sun to meet them.

"Well gentlemen, we can also talk out here, if you'd like. As luck would have it, I've just gotten in a bolt of Kreegan leather from the swamps of Lyss. Your feet would feel as if concubines were caressing them all day, yes?"

The younger soldier grinned.

"Ahh. I judge your smile to mean you are a man familiar with the caresses of concubines."

"Nay... farmer's daughters, more like."

They each laughed, the ice broken. Then the young soldier displayed a more serious look.

"No, good sir, no boots for us poor soldiers today, thank you all the same. We're here to bring you to the King."

Liam felt the back of his neck flush. "But... see here now, I've but paid my taxes faithfully, I..."

The older soldier interrupted, holding up his hand. "This is not about your taxes. I'm sure they're paid up. The King is summoning you to the castle for a personal audience."

"Why would he want to see me? I'm just a merchant." Liam started twisting his sash.

"You are M. Liam Boxwain, right? Owner of this here "Boxwain's Boots?"

"Of course." A thought. "Maybe the King might desire boots? I can show him my current line. They're the best I've ever made and the height of fashion for this year's court. For the King, I could chase the seams roundabout with a special golden thread. Very expensive... but I wouldn't dream of charging extra, of course." Liam bowed.

The soldiers exchanged a look. The older one laughed. It reached the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. His face looked kindly, bracketed by the salt in his beard.

"No, no boots for the King, I don't think. Mayhap after the King sees you and finishes his business, he will discuss boots with you. The King makes his own mind."

"We'd best be going. I want to drop this fellow off and get back to the barracks. Then I can continue to win more of your wages," the younger man chided.

Liam asked the men, "Give me a moment." He stepped back through the door, and nodded at the young woman behind the counter. "Blow out the candles when you close, and lock the door with the iron key, Emme. Have Darvin restock the leather. I'm not sure how long I'll be."

The raven-haired Emme opened her eyes wide. "Where ye be going with those men? Are ye alright, M. Boxwain?"

"I'll be fine, Emme." He wasn't sure he'd be fine, but he saw no reason to worry her.

He stepped outside and returned to the soldiers. "Now, what size is the King, do you think? Are his feet large in proportion to his legs, or small?"

"How the blast would I know?" The young one shrugged. "I don't pay attention to things such as that." Under his breath he added, "I swear, merchants are odd creatures."

\---

The boot maker sat on a hard stone bench just outside the throne room. He felt a little bit alone now that the two soldiers had gone back to their game at the barracks.

He nervously waited, trying to pass the time. He examined the bench and it's clever carvings. The legs resembled interlocking forest vines with various birds interspersed. It was an intricate pattern, and being an artist himself, he was impressed by the stone carver's skill. Yet there arose a damp chill from sitting on it that worked its way up his thighs to his backside. Artistry isn't everything.

He nearly jumped when the King's guards opened the large wooden doors. Their boots were a little worn, he noticed. Liam permitted himself the vain hope that somehow the King could be persuaded to let him fit the guards for new boots. He fabricated various merchant speeches in his mind, but one by one he discarded them as they sounded a bit desperate. He was good at making boots, but weak at selling. That was always his problem.

This whole affair was making his pulse race -- the summons, the wait, the uncertainty. He felt ready to pass out.

As he was escorted into the throne room, he couldn't help but mentally tally up every pair of boots he saw. So busy was he counting potential sales, that he almost missed hearing his introduction.

"...Liam Boxwain, the boot maker, your Majesty." One of the guards announced.

"Come forward, M. Boxwain," the King commanded.

His ankles got crossed, and he stumbled forward. Liam bowed as low to the ground as he was able. He held it for what he hoped was the right amount of time in the presence of a monarch, and began to straighten.

"It has become known to me that you're unable to see color."

Liam froze. He couldn't bring his eyes up. All his speeches to sell boots evaporated from his mind. Almost everything evaporated from his mind.

"Nay, your Majesty. I'm sorry, but you must have been misinformed. I can see just fine. My craft depends on picking the right color leather for the season's fashion of boots. I..."

"I think not. I'm not misinformed. My spymaster has ways of finding out anything I desire. He is without peer."

Liam was horrified. His body folded in upon itself as he tried to sink into the floor. He wished not to be there at all, or to turn into a worm, or maybe even he should fall down dead. Yes, dead would be better.

"There is a certain young man in your employ, is there not?"

He shook himself. "Yes, your Majesty. Name of Darvin. He's thirteen summers. He... he's my apprentice."

"And secretly he tells you the color for each leather, yes?"

Liam's mouth opened, yet no sound came out. He licked his dry lips and looked up at the King. He felt cornered.

"Majesty forgive me, with respect, but for what conceivable reason are Darvin's duties in my humble boot shop a matter of even passing concern for the King?"

"What is a concern for the King is for me to decide." The King moved abruptly as if to stand, his face set hard. The guard closest to his throne tensed, and adjusted the grip on his axe. Liam flinched, instinctively ducking his head, imagining a blow.

"Be truthful. Are you able to see color or not? Answer me!"

"No, Sire. I'm sorry to have to say it out loud, but I am not."

"Are you missing all color or just some? For example, what do you see in the tapestry on this wall? Which colors?"

Liam gazed at the woven depiction of the fall of Trenedy Fortress some 100 years in the past. "Well, I can but see the shapes in blocks of light and dark."

"Red? Green?"

"No, I see no color at all. Leastways, I can't tell which color is which. If two colors are similar shades of dark, they look the same to me." Liam felt a hard knot in his stomach. "Your Majesty, I implore you, if my customers ever found out, I'd be ruined."

At this point the King smiled broadly, his sculpted beard bobbing. "Splendid, Boxwain, Splendid!"

Liam frowned in confusion. "Sire?"

"Bring the man in," the King directed. For a moment, Liam thought he was talking to him.

The Chamberlain opened a side door to the throne room and led in a man, arriving in halting steps. Thick linen was wrapped about the man's head, covering his face.

Once he was led to where the King stood, the Chamberlain gently placed his hand against the man's chest to stop him.

"Private Mallow, tell your story."

"Yes, your Majesty." The man bowed in the wrong direction but no one corrected him. "The horse and I followed along the brook, listening for the sound of water..." he began.

"No, young man, start from the beginning. The boot maker needs to hear this. All of this."

The blindfolded man shook, breathing heavily, and slowly regained composure with effort.

"Ah... apologies, your Majesty. Well, then the beginning is we were getting reports of odd happenings North of the outpost; missing children, hunting dogs gone running loose and barking at nothing. Whole families found dead in their straw beds, corpses like none ever seen.

"We got our orders at the outpost and seven of us mounted horse. We was to reconnoiter and engage threats, if need be, but mainly find an explanation and determine what we was up against. There was me, a'course, and Sgt. Sperling who headed up the squad, Farquart, young Blevins, Milford, that blasted ornery cuss Crowne, and seventh, Flanders.

"After a couple of days travel, Crowne kept complaining we was being followed, and that the grass seemed less green, by his reckoning. Truth, we never much listened to that bastard (begging your pardon, your Majesty) because he was always whining about things, or trying to pick fights, just to get his own blood running. What I'm saying is, if you met him, you'd know right away he was not right in his core. He had that way of looking at you with eyes that carried mischief. I never trusted him, but I guess it don't matter now.

"Soon enough, we came to see that mayhap Crowne wasn't wrong, because the rest of us noticed the grass losing its green. It were a gradual thing. The further we rode, other things started greying. Tree trunks what were supposed t'have been brown, instead looked more like charcoal after a fire. We followed a stream, parallel to our path, and when we stopped to fill our skins, the water weren't as blue.

"And what's more, on top of that, just like he claimed, things kept appearing in the corners of our eyes. When we turned, they weren't really there. So those were the following things what Crowne saw before. Then, headaches came on us, powerful headaches, like sewing needles stuck in our heads. They didn't let up, just got worse.

"We made camp, tucked into a short bluff next to the brook. The water had overflowed seasons past and carved a hollow wide enough to shelter us along with our horses and kit.

"Flanders snagged a rabbit and small muskrat with his bow. Wasn't much for seven men, but it was meat. We talked in the dark that night. You wouldn't believe the theories that flew between us, your Majesty, each more crazy than the last. None of 'em right, a'course.

"Blevins volunteered first watch. He said his head hurt him pretty fierce so he likely wouldn't sleep. We didn't argue. Always let a man take first watch if he offers, that's one of those things you learn.

"I had second watch at 3 bells. Or should have. Instead, I slept straight on. Blevins didn't wake me as planned.

I knew something was wrong when I woke to sunlight. I jumped out of my bedroll in a rush, and saw Farquat standing over Blevins."

Mallow stopped then, and ran his hands over the back of his neck. He needed to collect himself. Liam swallowed nervously, wondering where this tale was heading.

"Well, Blevins..." Mallow continued, "...he was laying on the ground, so naturally I figured he'd fallen asleep on watch. I was wrong. He was staring straight up at the sky, with his eyes wide open. But his eyes had become just whitened balls. The color, you know that circle around the little black hole? It were drained, gone. And his hair turned fully grey. When we went to sleep, Blevins had a healthy head of dark hair.

"Then my horse keeled over, likewise dead. It were a chestnut-colored mare the night before. Only now it was mottled grey. It had the same whitened eyes."

"Good Gods," Liam whispered.

"All hell broke loose, then. There was a huge fight. Started by that loudmouth Crowne, no surprise there. Sgt. Sperling ordered us to move on and finish the quest, but Crowne and Flanders weren't knuckling. Threats were made back and forth. Sperling pulled rank, and ordered us at force to mount up.

"Crowne complained loud and long, but in the end, he agreed. But I want to say right here and now I understood his point, Sire. Put us in a battle, with swords or pikes fighting other soldiers, and we'll dance for you 'til the river runs red. But this was not natural. This thing had unnerved us all, to a man.

"So we broke camp, and put Blevins over the back of his horse. I had to ride his horse since mine died. That's why the accident, I expect -- I wasn't used to riding it, and it was none too happy with a dead man draped over it. When I tried to head up out of the ravine, the corpse shifted and the horse tumbled backwards. I got pitched back head first into a Devil's Thorn thicket."

"It's how this happened." He gestured towards the wrappings around his head.

"Besides making a mess of my face, it ruined my eyes. Knocked me plumb out for a while. Didn't know how long I was out, not at the time. I awoke in water and in a panic. Everything was dark and I could feel my eyes gone. Crowne told me to calm down and get moving.

"A'fore long, it came clear to me the only voice I heard was that bastard Crowne. Where was everyone else? I asked him. 'They've gone on ahead into the trouble area,' he told me. 'I'm supposed to take you back to the outpost so they can look after you,' he explained. But I could hear the lie in his voice.

"Your Majesty, I did hear it, but I ignored it, I surely did. Because I wanted nothing more than to go home. I wanted to believe it. I was blinded, and in pain, and I knew I was done. I mean all done in. I knew my soldierin' days were over."

He turned his bandaged head. "Can I have a sit, you think, your Majesty?" Mallow asked. He looked ragged and tired.

"Yes, let's all have one." The King settled back into his throne, gestured to the guards, and chairs were scraped along the stone floor. Liam jumped when someone pushed a chair under him from behind.

After a moment, Mallow continued. "Crowne never stopped talking, but he wasn't complaining, like usual. That struck me as wrong. So I made him stop. I said I was hungry so he would get us off the horses. He was cagey and didn't want to. That should have given me the clue to be scared, but instead it just made me angry. It made me all the more determined.

"I made him talk to me. He admitted I was out a long time, wouldn't wake up. That there fall done more than ruin my face. My head got bashed. Amongst themselves, they reckoned not to move me 'til I woke up. Sgt. Sperling and the rest, they followed the stream north, leaving Crowne behind with me. They planned to pick us up on the way back. The hope was I'd be awake by then.

"Two days passed with me still under. Crowne said the colors kept getting greyer, and whiter, and blacker. He thought to save some whitened grass in a jute bag and put it in the saddlebag.

"The next day, bodies came floating down the brook. He waded into the water and snagged one, but the others drifted on by, out of reach. Turns out it were Sgt. Sperling's corpse, but he could only tell because of the stripes on the uniform and his family signet ring. The body looked like it had been sucked dry, and the whitened eyes were on him, too. Crowne buried both Sperling and Blevins under a pile of rocks, he said. And going plumb crazy waiting for me to wake up. So that was the nature of his lie, I found out then. Holding back what really happened and pretending he'd been given orders to take me back when there wasn't no one to give him orders." Mallow started coughing then, great hacking coughs that left him struggling for air.

A snap of fingers and a servant brought a glass of water to the blindfolded man.

"Thank you. I was getting a mite bit dry." He drank a few gulps and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Where was I? Oh... I made Crowne stop, and he told me what happened to the rest. I asked him why we were traveling in circles. 'I can't make out where we are,' he admitted. 'There aren't enough colors left to go by. Everything turned grey.'

"So I told him to get us back on the horses, but turns out he wasn't done. He said he needed to tell me why we was pushing so hard to get back. Back at the cut-in, he'd had no choice but to bury Blevins and Sperling, since I hadn't woken yet and couldn't be moved.

"Exhausted after digging and buryin' and all that, he sat down by the fire. Over the rise there came something, he said, like he'd never seen before. He thought it was the thing what kept appearing in the corners of our eyes, only now it didn't seem to bother hiding. It came straight at him. It was incredibly bright, so bright it hurt his eyes. He clamped his hands over his eyes. When he peeked out again, he saw bits of himself drifting from his eyes towards the thing like embers from a fire. He scrambled under the bluff and rammed his face into the soft mud.

"He said it sent strange thoughts direct into his head, making him want to turn around and look. It were a powerful strong temptation to turn around, he said, and he resisted mostly by digging his fingers into the mud and burying his face in deeper. Finally, it let up. But before it moved on, it told Crowne in his head it would come back for both of us. And he righteously believed it.

"So he dragged my body to the stream and pushed my head under. He figured I'd either drown or wake up. If I didn't wake up, he was going to have to leave me anyway, which would end up the same as drowning, just slower. And when he said that, he let out a very loud sigh.

"Then all was very quiet. 'Let's get on the horses, then,' I told him, 'let's get out of here.' He still didn't say anything else. I asked him what was wrong, and then I heard a thump. Such a soft noise, said and done. That were Crowne, falling over, dead, I found out later. I suspected that's what it was but still I sat there for the longest time, fretting over what to do. I made my way over to his body and made sure he was dead. Everything seemed hopeless. I plumb felt the sorriest for myself that I ever felt sorry for myself then, I truly did. I cried, and the salt in my tears burned in the wounds on my face.

"The heat from the fire dwindled down. I didn't think I could safely start it back up again, without being able to see what I was doing, so I curled with my back towards the dying embers. It took me so long to fall asleep that when I dreamed of a meadow of green grass and horses running free, it was a shock. In dreams I could still see.

"Then I came awake, everything was black again and I heard an irritating buzzing sound. You ever hear those summer bugs in the trees? Making that noise? That's sort of like it. I felt my body being tugged at like the wind, except not being pushed, being pulled towards something. I felt a pain in my head, shoving words in, telling me to look, to turn behind me. I felt the same temptation that Crowne had felt, I reckoned, but a'course, I couldn't really look. My eyes were gone. Even so, I turned my head towards it, and I was shaking. The need to look was almost beyond what I could endure. But being eyeless must have saved me."

Mallow laughed bitterly at that.

"Not sure how much of a blessing it is to lose your eyes, but at least the thing went away. Part of me didn't want it to. I'm ashamed to say that. I knew this thing killed all my mates, but that hook it put in my mind made me want to do what it said.

"I left Crowne's body at the dead campfire and somehow struggled back onto a horse. Turns out it was Crowne's horse, but it had taken me so long to climb up I didn't feel like climbing off again to get back on the right horse. What difference did it make, anyhows?

"The horse was smart enough to follow the brook. We plodded along for a while next to the water, the horse and me. Him following his nose, and me hanging on for dear life. I feared the cursed thing would find us. Or hoping it would. I reckoned the stream would take me back to the outpost. But I didn't end up having to go that far.

"Because the bodies of my fellows had already swept downstream, they ended up at the post. They formed a search party and caught up to me coming the other way. They bandaged up my face best they could, and brought me back to the outpost. I told my story, and they sent me here to the King."

"Thank you, Mallow," the King nodded.

"Certainly, Sire."

The chamberlain led him back out and after closing the door, produced a jute bag. "This was the bag Crowne filled." He spilled the contents on the floor in front of the King. A handful of prairie grass tumbled out. To Liam, it was as grey as grass ever looked. But the other men looked surprised.

"What's this? I thought this was the drained grass."

"I as well, your Majesty."

"So, has it regained its color?"

The Chamberlain offered, "Well, either it healed its color, or it never lost its color."

The King and the Chamberlain both glanced at Liam.

"This doesn't change our plans," the King said.

"But it does make them more complicated," the Chamberlain added.

\---

The sun overhead was stifling hot. The two soldiers trying to get Liam on his skittish horse were the same two that came to his shop. He'd learned their names were Morse and Gibbon. Morse was the older one.

The horse wasn't the only creature acting skittish. Liam had never ridden one before, so he was yelling at it. As if that would help. It wasn't the horse's fault he couldn't manage to stay on the saddle.

"I'm not.... NOT a soldier you fool beast. I've never held a sword or a pike. I use tiny knives and sewing needles. Dear gods, hold still, horse! Making boots. Boots! I could make the soldier's boots, that's all. That's all I'm good at! I'm good at that, I am! I have tiny, precise fingers. I'm the envy of other craftsmen, but holy gods, I am no fighter. Surely you have better choices! Help me; what is wrong with this saddle? What am I doing wrong?"

The soldiers had stopped trying to help him and were caught in fits of laughter. Liam slid back off the horse and stood with his hands on his hips.

"Had your fun, I guess. When you two are done, mayhap you could give me some sage advice on mounting horses."

The King's Chamberlain strode towards them and loudly announced, "Everyone gather 'round!" Several men carrying leather satchels followed him, trying their best to keep up. He stopped and waited for the small group of soldiers and Liam to form a rough circle.

"These have been provided by the court wizard." The chamberlain snapped his fingers and the satchels were opened, one for each man. The leather unfolded flat with several pockets. The men gazed at curiously crafted headgear, glass flats, and small weapons with leather grips and wickedly curved blades made of beveled glass.

"The helms are specially made to allow you to slide in one of the glass plates. There are four colors fashioned into the plates: one of blue, yellow, red and green."

To Liam, they just appeared different shades of grey.

"The boot maker is naturally color blind."

Liam shuffled his feet and looked to the ground.

"But the rest of you are not. We believe his malady may offer him some protection. For the rest of you, we aren't sure which, if any, of the colored plates will protect you when you meet this thing. I recommend you not all try the same color. If any has more luck, then tell the others to switch to that color."

"What be this strange weapon?" asked a soldier, turning it back and forth in his hand. "There's colors a'flashing from it. What kind of sorcery you got us into?"

"Listen carefully. Our thinking is this thing kills by removing the ability to see color. We're not sure how. These half-swords are bladed with a prism. It has been specially shaped so that light entering it will be converted into colors of the rainbow. It is our hope that if normal weapons will not work, then maybe something that splits light will. You will need to keep the weapon, the colored flats and your helm on you at all times."

Another soldier cleared his throat. "What of the boot maker? What if his blindness be no protection?"

"Yes, what about the boot maker?" Liam asked.

"We are optimistic that your color blindness will make you at least partially immune to the creature's abilities. If not, you'll have to try the other measures: the colored glass flats, the prism blade. You may succeed where the soldiers fail."

"You seem more optimistic than me," muttered Liam.

"Don't worry any, Boxwain. We'll get this thing," Gibbon clapped him hard enough on the back to make him lose breath.

The men examined the items. The headgear looked similar to a horse bridle, fashioned of leather straps and metal rings. The place for the glass flats was a slotted metal panel to hold it in place.

"Blasted frogs! It's a wonderment! Everything is yellow!" One of them blurted out, after installing the headgear.

While the company was occupied, Liam saw a woman and boy approach the camp. The dark haired woman carried an overlarge basket covered with cloth. The boy carried a cinched leather pouch.

Liam walked out to meet them. "Well met, Emme and Darvin!" Emme seemed pale. Perhaps the heat.

"M. Boxwain, I brought you something for the journey," Darvin said as he handed over the pouch. Liam opened the drawstring and pulled out a pair of boots.

"I made 'em myself out of scraps, so don't worry. I didn't spoil the good stock." They were fashioned of what seemed like dozens of odd-shaped patches of leathers of different varieties, and Liam assumed, different colors.

"Why, this is quite good, lad. I see you used that stitch I was teaching you last month. It must have been a headache to get all these scraps to line up just right." Liam was proud of his apprentice and the boy beamed under the praise. Liam squinted at what the boy had embossed on the soles.

"It says 'M. Boxwain, Monster Slayer.'" Darvin announced proudly.

For a long moment, he could not speak. Tears stung his eyes and his throat knotted up. He immediately sat down and took off his boots, replacing them with the pair from the boy. He stood up and tossed his old boots into the brush.

"I'll never wear anything else, Darvin."

Emme held forth her basket. "I brung you some of my sweet barley cakes for the road. Tossed in some cheese and dried meat, wrapped in wax." She looked down at the ground as he took the basket. He sniffed the baked goods. He wasn't sure how long those would last before being gobbled up.

"Excuse us, boy, I need to speak to your mother." Liam drew Emme aside, underneath a tree and into the shade.

"Emme, I need you to make me a promise."

"Anything, M. Boxwain." Her eyes opened very wide. She could be considered by some to be a plain woman. Not ugly, but also not someone you'd turn and look at as she passed. As if aware of that fact, she always hid her crooked teeth when she smiled.

"You and the boy have done real well taking care of the shop after your husband passed. I could have asked for no better help."

"Yes, sir. It's no hardship. You're very kind to us, you are."

"Well, this task... is a favor I'm doing for the King."

"Yes, we're very proud of you, sir."

"Well, about that. Mayhap it's going to be a bit dangerous."

Emme seemed to stop breathing. Liam just rushed ahead.

"I want you and Darvin to have the shop. The King's already arranged it if I don't return. The deed is signed over to you."

"But sir, sir, you HAVE to return to us. You must be careful. I... Darvin... well, we. I..." Emme surprised him as she reached out and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug that almost took his breath away. She sniffed and looked up at him. Her fingers touched the back of his neck and she kissed him, full on the mouth. Some of the soldiers saw this and began hooting and making less than civilized remarks. Embarrassed, Emme's face darkened as she grabbed her son's hand and ran out of there as if her feet were on fire.

Liam stood, ignoring the calls of the men. He just thought about how her fingers felt like butterflies on the back of his neck.

"Seems you got one sweet on you, Boxwain," Morse ribbed him. The men were sizing him up differently, it seemed, but he was flummoxed. For three years she'd been in his employ and he'd never suspected a thing.

This made things just that much more muddled. He reckoned he wouldn't survive this quest, and had gotten himself used to that idea. That was difficult enough. Now, he had something to come back to. If he didn't survive, he'd hate himself for it.

\---

Emme's barley cakes were a hit among the men, and if Liam hadn't squirreled some away for himself, he'd have run out by the second day. Never much of an outdoorsman, he was finding the camping life a bit tough. He was very sore until one of the men taught him the trick of moving with the horse instead of against it. Of course, by then he already had bruises where he sat.

He started off the trek complaining about it, and quickly learned by the looks he got, that career soldiers frowned upon complaining. They just took everything in stride, it seemed. Very admirable, but hard for him to do the same.

Morse and Gibbon took the opportunity at the end of each day to try to teach him to use his strange half-sword. It gave him sore arms to go along with sore hind parts. But they were patient teachers, and by the time they reached the outskirts of the affected area, he was starting to at least be able to swing the sword about with a little more control.

As he curled up in his bedroll at night, he gazed at the stars in the heavens and thought of Emme. Especially her kiss. The more he thought of her, the less plain her face became in his mind. She grew beautiful in his memory, all the more so because he knew she had a good heart and was a woman of quality. She'd been living over the shop across the hall all these years and he'd never thought of her that way before. He was a fool, he finally decided. A complete, blind fool.

One day on the road, Gibbon held up his hand, which was the signal to stop silently. Except for the random movements of the horses as they jostled together, the men were quiet as mice. They looked into the woods around them in all directions, all save one. So that's where Liam was drawn to look.

He saw it. It had to be the thing that Gibbon saw out of the corner of his eye. He found he could look straight at it without a problem, even though the other men seemed unable to do so. Its basic aspect was not frightening, just strange.

It resembled a large lizard, perhaps four rods tall, about the size of short man. Liam guessed it was reptilian by the skin that covered it. In shape, it was not like any creature he'd seen before. It stood upright on its hind legs, the smaller front legs drawn in towards its chest.

Something resembling a wasp nest, with rows of tubes lined up next to each other covered its face where a mouth should've been. The tubes were flexible, and moving in a way that turned his stomach. The creature spun a whirl of shifting smoky patterns. It appeared to be hiding behind this screen. But Liam could see through it.

Its eyes held him.

The creature examined him intently, and Liam felt a thought push into his mind, Look away, like the others. What are you? Why can you see me? It snarled at him, tangling his mind, and then it bounded off, jumping on thickly corded legs. It ran farther into the brush and thick forest.

"Gods! Did you fellows see that?" Liam shouted.

"Shhh..." Gibbon hissed.

"No, it's alright. It's gone now, I saw it leave."

Gibbon stared at him, dropped his head, and started rubbing his temples.

\---

Other men came down with blinding headaches. They decided to camp there until they could be tended. They had packed some powders for the pain, and mixed with water, it did help. Morse came over to the fire and sat down.

"Do you have any headaches, Boxwain?"

"No. Not at all."

Morse nodded to himself, as if confirming something.

"Can you tell me more about this creature?"

Liam sighed. "I think I've told you all I can remember. It seems a lizard unlike any I've ever seen."

Morse was wearing the headgear and one of the glass flats. The helmets, in any other situation, would look foolish. But all the men wore them. Morse had ordered them to for their own safety. They never knew when the creature would return.

"Well, mayhap it will have a harder go next time." He tapped the glass before his own eyes. "My fortnight's wages are on yellow." He smiled. Then he got a more serious look on his face.

"The men and I been talking, It isn't just the color. This thing seems to put thoughts in a man's head. We reckon it pushed at us not to look at it directly. And that's where the headaches came in, we think. Mayhap if we accidentally look at it while it's trying to sneak up on us, out of the corner of our eyes, it goes against the command and our minds get hurt. But the question remains, why aren't you getting headaches? You looked right at the thing."

Liam shrugged. "Must be the color blindness. I did hear it in my mind, as clear as you are talking to me now, but my head didn't hurt. And...."

"And what?"

"...It seemed surprised to discover that I could look at it."

Gibbon staggered over to join them by the fire.

"Hey! Boot maker!" He was in his cups. Apparently, he had added wine to the headache powder. He tapped his glass flat over his eyes. "I'm bettin' on blue, I is." To Liam, his flat looked the same color as the one Morse wore. Clumsily Gibbon didn't sit, so much as fell down on the other side of Liam.

"The thing is, it's a mortal creature, so it can be killed, methinks. Since Boxwain here seems unaffected by its mental powers..." Morse began.

"I wouldn't say that. It still pushed inside my head. I just didn't get a headache."

"Eh! I got one! Hurts like I got walloped by a roof timber." Gibbon rubbed his head vigorously.

"That's our Gibbon, well acquainted with getting hit in the head with planks of wood," joked Morse.

\---

The men were edgy. As they rode forward along the trail, heads swiveled and fingers tensed on weapon hilts. Foliage from the trees made a dappled pattern of light and shadow on the trail. When a soldier passed through a shaft of sunlight he'd pause to get his bearings again. The glass flats made it hard to see after the abrupt transition from light to dark. His eyes needed time to adjust. For a brief moment, he'd be as good as blind.

Once in a while, they'd call a halt to wait for the remaining soldiers to catch up. This time, it was Liam and Morse waiting for the others.

"Boot maker. I be wondering about something and I wanted to impose on you a favor."

"Sure, if I am able. What kind of favor?"

Morse fidgeted with his gloves, and seemed a bit at a loss for words.

"Well, the thing is... there is this certain... well... I wish to be straight about things."

"Ok, straight it is."

"Good. There is a certain woman of which I must admit to being a little fond."

"Good for you, that's great. I'm happy for you."

"Well, but she works in that two story house, you know, the one that sits out of town."

Liam was studiously quiet, keeping his thoughts to himself.

"Yeah, alright, she be a woman that shares her favors for coin, I know that. I'm aware. The thing is, I'm a just an old soldier so I have no hope of attracting a wife. Heh, well, I'm rambling a bit. She was my favorite, the only one I ever asked for, and I think there's a wee chance she might have thought of me now and then in a special way."

"Alright."

"So her name is Penelope. She has blonde curls. She's a bit older than the others, but experienced, if you catch my meaning." Morse ran his hands over his greying beard. "And I'm reckoning there's a good possibility I might not make it through this thing..."

"Nay, don't say that!"

"I am saying that. It's the profession. Soldiers accept each trip could be their last. Some have wives or mothers at home. Penelope's all I got. And I'm in the way of thinking the odds are in your favor, mayhap, and if you make it, and I don't... I want Penelope to have my back pay and death bonus. I could ask one of the other men, but I think you'd honor that promise of a certainty. Am I right?"

"Yes, if that happens, I'll be honored to arrange that."

"Thank you, much obliged."

"Morse, could I ask you a similar favor?"

"Ask."

"Could you let Emme know that her kiss was the last thing I thought about when going to sleep, and the first thing I thought about when waking?"

"Ah. I wish I could speak as flowery as you. Consider it done." The soldier spat on his palm and held out his hand. Unfamiliar with the custom, Liam hesitantly spat on his own hand, and shook their hands together.

"To my way of thinking, this makes us deep friends, boot maker."

"To mine, as well."

Then the rest of the men caught up, and they never mentioned it again.

\---

Liam woke up, and realized he'd drifted to sleep while riding on his horse. Darn fool thing to do, and he swallowed, thankful to whatever gods that he'd not fallen off.

There was a buzzing noise in the air and he looked around. The men were in formation, but they were all looking off to right of the path. Some were hunched over, as if in pain. There was nothing to the right of the path, so Liam looked off to the left and saw three soldiers off their horses and facing a tall rock. On top of the outcropping stood the creature. It was waving its tiny front legs in wild motions and pushing the shifting patterns of smoke in front of it.

"Morse! Gibbon! It's here!" Liam shouted, and spurred his horse over to the left. Morse didn't move, but Gibbon shook himself from a trance, and joined him. Two more soldiers peeled off as well.

The creature was using the tubular parts of its mouth to suck in what looked like fireflies from each of the unhorsed men. By the time they got there, the men had collapsed and the creature bolted back into the forest. Before it left, it sent a message into Liam's mind. You! You are in the way! Then Liam got a chunk of an image that stunned him.

No one else noticed the creature before the attack or during, nor when it made its escape. To them, it was as good as invisible.

"Gods! They've been drained like a husk. The creature must have gotten to them." Gibbon removed a headgear and examined the glass flats.

"Ok, red is definitely out. All three were wearing red flats." He glanced at the men who had followed. "I win the wager. Blue is the best color, though I'm not all that happy to get the money, now. Bedel, Hart and..." Gibbon turned over the third man, "...Vonn were the cost of that bet. Damn!" The eyes were whitened.

Liam looked back to where the rest of the soldiers remained. Most were rubbing their heads. A few were actually gripping their heads as if they were going to split open like a melon, and rocking back and forth. He couldn't see Morse at first, then realized he'd actually fallen off his horse.

Gibbon sent the other two men back to the group, telling them to alert that blue was the best color. Liam grabbed him by the shoulder after they left.

"Gibbon, there's something more, something worse."

"Worse than this?"

"Yes, it sent an image into my mind before it ran off. I saw a cave. It was full of eggs and youngling creatures."

"Blasted goats!" Gibbon shook his fist.

\---

Red was worse than no flat at all. The other colors still left the men open to being pushed to look away, but at least wearing blue made it possible to shake off the commands, if something interrupted.

Morse addressed the group. "Who is our best fletcher?"

Sotto raised his hand. "Probably be me, I reckon."

"What we're going to try is to break the red flats and see if we can make the pieces into arrowheads."

"Why can't we use the flashing swords?"

"Because we're thinking getting that close to the thing is not a good idea. How many bows do we have?" Hands rose. "We'll need more. Sotto, can you make more bows?"

Sotto looked around at the trees. "Mayhap. I don't see any yew trees, but there's an ash or two I can use. We'd have to make camp a couple of days. Takes some doin' to make bows."

"We'll stop as much time as it needs to make us at least three more. We'll use the regular arrows on local game and save colored arrows for the creature."

"Colored arrows will work better?"

"Mayhap," Morse allowed.

\---

Liam helped Sotto fashion bows and arrow tips from the discarded flats. It calmed him to work with his hands again. However, the other men found no relaxation. No one was sure which would be better strategically, moving or staying in one place. There was furious discussion on either side.

All had switched to blue flats, and those who were better archers taught those with less skill. The headgear weighed heavy on them, and the leather straps caused chafing and welts in places. Yet none considered taking them off, for any reason. Burying Vonn, Bedel, and Hart was enough of a reminder.

Small talk dwindled before disappearing altogether. Each man carried his own nightmares inside him. Morse gave the order to strike camp. Liam was no good with a bow, so he carried one of the beveled half swords in his sash. He wasn't much good with that, either, but at least he was armed.

"Nice boots," Sotto nodded at Liam's feet.

"Yes, my apprentice made them. He's a good study."

"I might want a pair just like those, after this is all over."

"That can be arranged. For you, a discount." Liam smiled.

Sotto laughed. Then he stopped laughing.

"What's wrong?" Liam asked, and then he heard it, too. The buzzing noise, louder than ever before, and coming from all around.

Creatures surrounded the camp. He saw perhaps a dozen, all projecting the command 'Look here. Look here.' The strength of the compulsion was multiplied so many times it was even giving Liam a headache.

"Archers! Shoot them!" Liam yelled. But the men weren't drawing bows. They just stood still, looking wherever the creatures willed. The strange reptiles were crafting patterns like shields in front of them. Likely the men couldn't see the threat at all, assuming they could even think clearly.

The blue glass flats were not enough. The creatures were too powerful, grouped together like this. Liam ran from man to man, shaking them, trying to get them to shoot arrows. None responded.

Liam grabbed a bow and tried to shoot an arrow, missing by quite a wide margin. He looked up, and the circle of creatures was slowly getting tighter. They kept creeping in. He felt helpless. The men weren't responding.

Tiny bits of light were being sucked from Gibbon by the creature closest to him.

Liam threw down the useless bow and drew his half sword. He ran up behind Gibbon. He grabbed him by the back of his neck and turned him around to see him face to face. Gibbon's mouth moved, but it seemed there was no activity going on behind his eyes.

He didn't want to be the only one left awake to watch all his friends die. Anger and rage came from a place deep in his belly. All he could think of was how Crowne shoved his face into the river mud, and how Mallow was spared when blinded. The buzzing noise and the mind commands were deafening.

Liam used the hilt of his sword to hit Gibbon over the head, knocking him out to interrupt the trance. It took two hits to do it. It figures Gibbon would have a thick skull. When his friend fell to the ground, the buzzing increased as the creatures advanced towards the men.

He ran from man to man, bashing them on the head. He couldn't get to all of them quickly enough. Sotto lay dead before he could reach him. But there was no time to mourn. He had a hold of Sotto's sword, when something thumped into him from behind. He turned to find a creature butting him like a goat.

It occurred to him what kind of creature would likely need to hide in order to hunt. One that was too weak to defend itself otherwise. Using reserves he didn't know he had, Liam twirled both swords like fabric scissors to open the reptile's throat. Blood gushed out like a fountain.

Liam staggered when the creature died, for an expanding ring of light passed from the creature. The light had substance and power, and he felt it pass through him like a hot knife through butter. Not affecting him, but in its passage he could register the intensity of it.

He was unhurt. The blood on his chest was from the creature. He yelled a scream of rage and leapt from creature to creature, slashing and killing as he went. Coronas of powerful light sped away as each fell. The blasts did nothing to slow him, but seemed to momentarily paralyze the other reptiles.

His arms were tiring. His lack of experience as a soldier was taking its toll. The muscles were burning and starting to lock up. He tried to alternate right and then left arms, but there were so many of them. And the buzzing, the frizzing sound was vibrating the very teeth in his head. Since he'd knocked out the other men, it left him the focus. Still, he fought on.

Liam was drenched in gore and spun to face the last of them. He was stunned at the carnage around him, amazed that he had been the author of it. But in that moment, he lost concentration and the creature leaned in, pushed hard into his brain. Liam felt the hook, the compulsion that Mallow had described.

Look at your sword. The voice of the reptile spoke in his mind. He tried to resist, but almost without knowing it, he found himself fascinated with the short prism sword.

It is beautiful. See the strength of the edge, how it cries out for blood.

He brought the blade up to his eyes, to verify what the voice was telling him. It was true. The edge was hypnotic in its stark potential for violence. Violence it had already tasted, and yet, it was not sated.

It needs blood, it thirsts for it. But now it needs human blood. The hot blood that is coursing through your neck. Feel how your vessels pulse in your neck with the delicious liquid. The sword has discovered it, too. The raw power of the blood draws the sword edge to you. Your life's blood needs to be set free!

Liam started, because he felt the edge pulling against the artery in his neck. How did that get there? Certainly he did not lift it to his neck. He would never do that. He looked down. His white knuckles strained against the hilt. Deep within him a part was fighting the temptation to slit his own throat. And somewhere else a perverse part of his brain was agreeing with the creature that his blood needed release, to become a magnificent fountain spilling on the dust, mingling with the blood of the lizards. Liam craved a marriage of fluids, making him and the reptiles one forever.

His last thought was of Emme's kiss, of her tender fingertips that brushed his neck. She would understand the rightness of drawing the sword across his bearded throat. She would...

He felt another exquisite nick, and then suddenly there was a blinding pain in his head. He fought against unconsciousness.

But instead, all turned black.

\---

Emme stared out into the market. She sat quiet behind the counter.

"Ma?"

"I'm sorry, son. How are the boots for M. Locke coming?"

"They're done, Ma."

"Good... good." She remained very still.

"Ma, I'm happy to be doing actual work instead of apprenticing. But... it's not the same with M. Boxwain not being here."

"You're doing fine, Darvin. I'm right proud of you."

In the distance, Emme could see a soldier approaching the open door. She stood up, and wrapped her arms around herself as if freezing. But it was summer.

The older man entered the shop.

"Emme." He nodded.

"Afternoon, M. Morse."

He looked about the shop and pointed to a pair of boots hanging from a hook on the wall. "Those mine?"

"Yes sir. I made them of scraps, like those I made for M. Boxwain. A lot of soldiers are asking for that style." Darvin answered.

"How much do I owe?"

"Nothing." Emme reached under the counter and brought out a pair of pretty red shoes. "And these here are for your special friend. Even the highest ladies of the court do not have any quite as fine," Emme said.

The laugh reached Morse's eyes before his mouth. "This'll get me in good, I reckon, with Penelope. But of a truth, I intend to pay. My wages have increased, and if not for M. Boxwain, I would not be here at all. If I could pay you ten times their worth, I would."

"M. Boxwain is a hero." Darvin stated proudly, puffing out his chest.

"Aye, he's that, and I have the hard knot on my head to prove it."

Emme swallowed and looked down at her clasped hands.

"I thought career soldiers never complained, Lt. Morse," boomed a soldier wearing a uniform of high rank, as he stepped into the shop.

Startled, Morse turned around and faced the newcomer laden with a bundle of furs and leathers.

"Major! I reckon you're right. We should not be belly-aching."

"Besides, the knot you left on my head was much bigger." He smiled and turned to Emme, who had shot off her stool behind the counter, "Don't let this soldier pay for boots, not..."

The Major huffed as he got the air knocked out of him. Emme and  
Darvin tackled his chest in a tight group hug.

"Hey now, you're going to make me drop this stock, if ye be not careful!"

"You're back again, safe and sound, thank the gods!" Emme said through tears. Darvin stepped back, but Emme kept a tight grip on Liam's chest.

"Here, boy... take these so I can give your mother a proper embrace." Darvin cheerfully unburdened Liam's shoulders and dumped the load on the counter.

Lt. Morse tried to cover his mouth, and his grin. "Mayhap I shouldn't be witnessing a superior officer fraternizing with the local womenfolk."

"That's right, Lieutenant. Best you turn your nose to the corner there and pretend you can't see anything," Liam laughed.

"That's fourteen rainbow lizard skins. When I make boots of these, the court will snap them up like barley cakes," Darvin said.

Emme pulled away and hit Liam on the chest. "Fourteen! You take too many risks with my future husband!"

"I am your future husband. Now Emme, you know I have to do this. It's in the service of the King, to keep all of us safe, especially you and Darvin. I just never thought I'd end up a soldier."

"Nor did I." Morse pointed out, good-naturedly.

"Hoot, look at all these skins, I love the way their color shifts as they move in the light." Darvin held up one of the rainbow lizard pelts for all to see.

But to Liam, it looked just like any other leather.

And that was fine with him.

The End

The Ballad of Azron Bezron

By Steven Wetherell

After a brief career as a fake keyboard player in an 80's cover band, Steve now makes his living by repeatedly hitting a machine with a spanner. He spends most of his free time writing humor articles for sites like Man Cave Daily and Maxim. He lives with his wife and two kids in Northamptonshire, UK.

Of all the cities of Bersch, Port Town was the ugliest. With barely a straight line to be found, its buildings staggered and leaned together like valiant drunks at the coming of dawn. The streets were mortared with filth, the roads paved with vague disappointment, and the pathways almost certainly up to no good. Don't even mention the alleys.

Port Town was ugly, but honest. The special kind of honest you get when everybody lies, and expects to be lied to. If there was any truth in the city, it wisely kept its mouth shut.

It was a city of thieves, of swindlers, of down-and-outs. Of hired muscle and freelance thuggery. Of bent coppers, crooked magistrates, con men, hoodlums, jackers and jokers, and too many tarts to count.

It was ugly. It was villainous. It was treacherous.

It was home.

Azron Bezron breathed deeply, cool night air jetting through his narrow nostrils, his eyes closed against the stars and moonlight, his crooked grin straightened by a rare satisfaction. Reaching into his long, midnight-coloured coat, he retrieved a pre-rolled cigarette, brought it to his lips and lit it from a tinderbox. Puffing like a gentle locomotive, he looked out across the city.

Perched as he was upon a rooftop, he could see all around him the street lamps lit against the darkling sky, hear the shouts of drunken altercations, the laughter of whores, the sudden bark of a maddened tramp. Against the low light a thousand shadows flittered this way and that, as the citizens of Port Town rallied hard against the concept of making an honest living.

Azron scanned the streets below with a practised eye. He noted two ruffians fresh from a night of mugging, purses and pockets full as they stepped into a tavern. It'd be the work of a moment to lighten their load. So too, the chubby merchant riding in a hired cab, far too besotted with a gaudy strumpet to notice a man with light feet and talented fingers. Azron shook his head. These were tempting opportunities, but beneath his station. He was, after all, the Hero Thief.

He'd never really set out to be a Hero Thief, he had always been more than happy as a mere thief. Well, not just any thief. Port Town might have appeared as chaotic hell to the casual observer, but really the economy was based entirely on theft, and needed structure just as much as any system of government. Azron had always been a high flyer in the Union of Cutthroats, Thieves and Mischief-makers, and had the certificate to prove it. Admittedly, he had stolen the certificate from somebody else, but whether that made him a better or worse thief was up for debate.

His promotion to hero had come quite by accident, after a chance encounter with a strange young man who claimed he had magic powers, and was on a quest to stop the planet from being exploded by space rocks. Azron, realising the mad were probably easier to rob than the sane, had gone along with the ploy. He had been as surprised as anyone when the boy turned out to be right.

And now after crossing continents, facing peril, and confronting an insane emperor, Azron was a hero.

Heroism wasn't too bad, on the face of things. He'd been rewarded, obviously, but had politely requested a cash equivalent of any medals or titles he might have been offered. He ended up with a sack of money so big he needed to hire a cart to carry it. All well and good, but money came, and money went, and Azron had always been more interested in procuring finances rather than actually spending them.

And so he had returned to Port Town, but found it a different place. People kept on giving him things, for a start. Food, drink, clothes—people lined up to offer him a hearty handshake and a gift. He remembered the first time he had been clapped on the back by a stranger. It had been okay at first, until he checked his wallet and realised that it was still there. He'd come over all dizzy after that. If somebody bumped into you in Port Town without taking your wallet, then the world had gone topsy-turvy.

And, of course, when people kept giving you things, stealing from them became very awkward indeed.

Tonight would be different, though. Tonight there was a score worthy of his attention.

He'd fallen back into the habit of eavesdropping at his usual haunts, keeping an ear pricked for anything which might inspire him, and it had taken hours of careful nonchalance and saint-like patience before he overheard a couple of dockers talking about a shipment of bumblewine being held overnight.

Bumblewine was only brewed in Regalious, and popularly believed to be an aphrodisiac. A mere bottle of the stuff was worth its weight in gold in the Free Countries, especially to a man whose spirit was at odds with his flesh. It would be well guarded, highly sought after , and the perfect heist for a man who had a reputation to live up to.

Azron pulled his peakless woolen cap down over his ears, and began to step over the rooftops of Port Town, making his way as easily across the jumble of mossy slate, wonky scaffolding and rickety plank bridges as most people would across their bedroom carpet.

He headed to the docks, so big they might as well have been a city unto themselves. Port Town sat upon the convergence of three rivers as they led out to sea. Called the Filter since before anyone could remember, the large stretch of water was an optimum trade route for anyone with a barge or boat, and Port Town had sprung up around it like weeds around a pond. It hadn't taken long for the slew of docks and jetties to conjoin and form streets of their own, and much of the Filter was taken up by wooden walkways secured firmly to deeply entrenched posts, or else tied loosely to floating barrels. Ships of every size and description inched slowly along in the business of coming and going. Some of them remained stationary, having long since decided that acting as prime real-estate on the Filter was more profitable than taking to the water. Hence there were boats that were bars, boats that were stores, boats that were theaters and, just occasionally, boats where boats were built.

It was to one of these barges long since converted into a floating warehouse that Azron made his way. The barge had once been called River Goddess, and had sailed up and down the many canals of the Free Countries, shipping goods from town to town. Now its carefully painted name had long since faded, and it sat peeling and sad, the deck given over to an ugly rectangle of wooden plank and corrugated iron.

Azron stood on a nearby pier and smoked another roll-up, assessing the situation from a distance. He retrieved a small telescope from within his coat and began to search the shadows with a beady eye. There were two guardsman on patrol, big and obvious, their pikes and helmets shining in the lamplight. They were the usual kind of hired muscle that a merchant would procure to help keep hold of his merchandise, and they built their reputation basically by administering a swift and brutal kicking to anybody they didn't like the look of. In this case, though, the guardsmen were merely a distraction. More of a concern was the beggar, huddled under a moth-eaten blanket and hunched in just such a way as to suggest, to those who knew how to look, that he was holding a crossbow between his legs. So too the aging whore, who paid not a jot of attention to the drunken sailors who ambled past, but stood in a manner that would make it easy to retrieve a dagger hidden under her bustle. Finally, there was the man hidden from sight on the rooftop, armed with either a longbow or a smuggled pistola. Azron only knew he was there because that was exactly where he would put a guard if he wanted to catch someone like himself.

The thief thought for a moment, scratching at his pointed sideburns. Then he turned around and quite casually dropped off the edge of the pier.

He landed with barely a thump in the small canoe waiting below. A grizzled little face peered up at him, looking like a cross between a tortoise and a hare . An unattractive tortoise and an unattractive hare. It was dressed in a badly tailored sack held at the waist by a length of rope.

'Hallo, Baby,' said Azron.

'Salutations, pointed weasel man,' replied Baby, voice rasping against buck teeth. The creature held out a claw and Azron slipped two sponduliks into it with a smooth and practised motion.

'Ahem,' said Baby, which is not to say that he cleared his throat, but that he actually said "ahem". 'This is two of the coins that you are putting in my front foot, when what I said once in the past was that I would like double this amount for almost certain-death suicide missions.'

It was widely thought that kobolds were stupid. This wasn't true. They were almost incapable of creative thought, certainly, and had all the imagination of a particularly unambitious rock, but they also had near-flawless recall.

'You'll get the other two coins when I get back out.' Azron said.

'Pointed weasel man cannot make good on promised coins for foot insertion when he is filled with holes from angry stabbings,' said Baby. 'Pay now or forever hold your face.'

Nobody knew why the kobolds had such an odd manner of speaking. Scholars speculated that they did it just to be annoying.

Azron sighed and handed over the other coins with obvious reluctance. It wasn't that he couldn't afford the payment, but he harbored a deep spiritual re sentment when it came to giving people money.

Baby smiled and placed the coins into his purse, which was another smaller sack. 'Let us go and be killed like idiots,' he said brightly.

Azron shook his head. 'Nobody's getting killed today, Baby, just as long as you remember what I told you.'

'Baby remembers everything,' said the kobold. He began to row the boat under a boardwalk, the black and boding water barely breaking before the little vessel's prow. They kept silent as the planks above them creaked and thumped with someone's passing.

Eventually, they were near to the water line of the River Goddess. Azron put his finger to his lips and winked at Baby, who merely blinked slowly in return. The thief pulled a double-headed hook attached to a thin length of rope from his coat, smothered with soot to appear a dull black. It looked as if somebody had flattened a small anchor. He stretched up to the jetty above him and squeezed the hook through a crack between the planks, turning it so that it held fast. He then attached the rope to a snap-ring on his belt buckle and, with barely a wobble, he rotated in mid-air, spread-eagling himself like an unfortunate rabbit on a busy road. He turned to Baby and winked again. Baby nodded and rowed the boat away.

Azron hung above the dark water for a moment, looking at the wooden hull of the River Goddess. It had certainly seen better days. The portholes had all been boarded up on the inside. Azron began to rock forwards and back until he was able to swing toward a porthole and cling on. He took a handle-like contraption from one of his pockets and slowly screwed it into the hull, then attached another rope between it and the snap-ring on his belt. Held in place, he pulled yet another device from his coat, this one looking like a cross between a plunger and a pair of compasses. He suckered the thingy onto the porthole, made a quick circular motion and pulled away a perfect sphere of window glass. Now he waited for Baby's distraction.

He pricked his ears as he heard the kobold's reedy voice. 'Hey! Hey you tubby guards. I am distracting you, do you see? Behold my distraction.'

Azron groaned softly and began to work quickly. He tied a kerchief around his face, produced a phial, which he uncorked and splashed against the planks on the inner side of the portal. The wood began to smoke and blacken, and Azron prayed that the eyes of the guards above him were on Baby rather than the rising plume caused by the reacting chemicals.

'You are indeed overweight,' came Baby's voice. 'Is it that you are fond of pies? Perhaps you are emotional problems? Arrgh! Take your fat hands away from me!'

There came the noise of a struggle, and Azron hoped that Baby's payment was sufficient for the kicking he was about to receive. Taking a dagger from a sheath hidden in his boot, Azron prodded the smoking wood and, finding it weakened, began to pry it through the portal towards him, where it plopped harmlessly into the water.

It had taken a little luck and a lot of preparation, but Azron had made a way into the River Goddess. He took a tub from under his hat and smothered a lardy substance around the rim of the porthole. After some inelegant struggling, he took off his long coat and threw it into the boat ahead of him. Without his coat, weighed down as it was by all manner of dubious tools and devices, Azron was feather-light and, spindly thin but even so he had trouble squeezing through the porthole.

He rolled gracefully as he hit the deck, picking up his coat and putting it on as he stood up. He paused, arms and legs splayed as though ready to move in both directions at once. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. When they did, he wished he hadn't bothered.

The hold was empty save for a table and a couple of chairs.

You didn't get to be a thief for as long as Azron had without developing some finely honed instincts when it came to walking away from a job, and Azron's instincts were telling him that this job had turned as sour as a bag of lemons. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard the unmistakable click of a flintlock pistola being readied behind his head.

'Dear me, I seem to have the wrong house,' Azron said, quickly. 'What a humorous misunderstanding. One that I'm sure we'll have a jolly old laugh about later. I'll just be on my way, if it's all the same to you?'

He felt the barrel of the pistola jab into the back of his head.

'Oh.'

The room suddenly brightened as a door was opened. Several men filed into the hold, their way lit by oil lamps. Azron's heart sank. There was no mistaking the tasteful cut and stylish rendering of the chic black leather armor, nor the black masks that covered their entire faces. These were the guards of Tony Topman, Port Town's most fashionable criminal maniac. A final figure entered the room and Azron's heart sank so much that he considered buying it shoes. Tony himself was on the barge.

Everything about Tony Topman suggested elegance; his thin frame, sharp cheekbones, oiled hair and a mustache so carefully groomed that it might as well have been painted on his face. His clothes were so understated that you couldn't help but notice their extravagance. Every stitch, every cut, every fold of his outfit was so tasteful a hungry man would have eaten it without a second thought. The way he moved suggested he was dancing to an elegant waltz that the rest of us were too badly-dressed to hear . He folded himself into the chair and motioned for Azron to sit. Seeing little choice, Azron did so.

Tony snapped his fingers and a small glass of fizzy wine was instantaneously placed into his hand. He sipped at it, his eyes never leaving Azron's face. When he spoke, it was with an accent carefully tailored to appear vaguely foreign no matter where he was.

'It is a pleasure to meet you, Azron Bezron.'

'Is it?' said Azron, his eyes darting from side to side, desperately seeking an escape route and finding none.

'Oh, yes. It is not often that one is able to meet the fabled Hero Thief .'

Azron shrugged. 'Is that what they're calling me these days? I hadn't heard.'

Topman snapped his fingers again. A guard stepped forward and, with frightening speed, ran a knife through the buttons on Azron's coat. The coat fell open to reveal a knitted jumper bearing the legend "Hero Theef!"

Topman raised an eyebrow.

'My landlady knitted it for me,' Azron mumbled. 'It'd be rude not to wear it.'

Topman waved a hand impatiently. 'Your clothes are awful and I do not wish to discuss them,' he said. 'I have invited you here for quite another matter.'

'Invited?'

'Oh yes, this was all a clever ploy. There is no bumblewine.'

'What about the guards outside?'

'For show! I could not have you getting suspicious.'

'They put on a good enough show when they were beating up Baby,' Azron snapped.

Topman blinked slowly. 'Who is beating a baby?'

'Baby! The kobold. The little hairy lizard...thing.'

'Oh, that? It has been released unharmed. I do not believe in cruelty to animals.' Topman took another sip of his wine. 'Cruelty to humans, of course, is a very different matter.'

Azron swallowed hard. 'What's all this about then, guv?'

Topman leaned back in his chair. 'It was some time ago that some precious cargo of mine was intercepted and diverted to another personage. It did not take me long to find out who was behind the charade —that being you—but by the time I had dreamed up a suitable punishment you had fled beyond my reach.'

'Suitable punishment?'

'I was going to have your face sewn onto a live pig's bottom.'

'That...doesn't sound very suitable. This is just my opinion, you realise.'

'And imagine my surprise when I hear that the wily Azron Bezron is now a great hero, part of the entourage of the great doomsayer, who, I am led to believe, saved us all from tyranny and certain destruction.'

'Yep. That was me. Saved you from tyranny and destruction . Definitely worth bearing in mind, that.'

'That is what I thought!' said Tony. 'I thought, this Azron Bezron, who has stolen from me something very precious and angered me beyond the bounds of sanity, he has done a good thing. I thought to myself, So long as he stays out of Port Town and never returns, I will have no cause to sew his face to a pig's bottom—and not just any pig, but a pig that all the other pigs find very attractive so that he may know the intimacy of pigs for the rest of his short, tragic existence.'

Azron raised his hands. 'If you want me out of town, boss, just say the word. You won't see me for dust, I swear on my fingers.'

'It is too late.' Tony raised a delicate hand to his forelock and sighed. 'Your very presence here makes me look weak. And weakness is not a look I wear well.'

'There's got to be a better way to deal with this than pig intimacy,' said Azron, quickly. 'Maybe I could get your stuff back?'

'The designer jeans you took from me you gave to goblins,' Topman spat. 'Goblins? Do you have any idea what it does to my image to have my label attached to goblins? I had to discontinue the line!'

'I can pay you!' said Azron. 'Whatever they were worth, I can pay it back.'

Topman shook his head. 'The insult you have done me goes beyond the reach of monetary satisfaction .'

'Then what do you want? I'm sure you didn't lure me all this way just to tell me my clothes aren't nice.'

'Your clothes are terrible. Terrible. But you are right. I believe there is some other way we can come to an understanding. After all, it would not look good for me if I was the man who killed the hero thief. Your popularity is your shield. For now.'

'So no pig's bum then?'

'For now, no, there is to be no pig's bum.'

'Well that's a relief, I don't mind telling you.'

'But there will be an accord.'

'Ah.'

'You will perform for me a service.'

Azron stared for a while. 'This service doesn't involve—'

'No. No more pigs. Put pigs from your mind.'

'It's a bit difficult, now that you've—'

'No more pigs. I need you to retrieve a treasure for me.'

Azron brightened. 'That's more my cup of tea, certainly.'

'But of course. You will retrieve this treasure for me. You will deliver it to me, and then we will be...how do you say... fair and square?'

Azron rubbed his hands together eagerly. 'Sounds spiffy. Where is the treasure?'

'Across the cotton prairies, in the lightning barrens, in an old derelict castle that is home to an old mad wizard.'

'Oh,' said Azron.

'Something is the matter?'

'No. No, not at all. The cotton prairies, you say?'

'Yes.'

'With its high number of bloodthirsty beasties?'

'This is so, yes.'

'And the lightning barrens?'

'Yes.'

'The haunted lightning barrens?'

'I believe that is how the rumors go, yes.'

'And then on to some crazy old magic bastard?'

'That is correct.'

Azron thought for a while. 'Tell me again about the pig option?'

Topman sighed and put a hand over his eyes. 'Jaq?'

The figure who had put a pistola to Azron's head stepped forward.

'This is Jaq,' said Topman. 'He is the finest bounty hunter I can afford, and he will accompany you on your journey.'

Azron looked up at the figure beside him. Apart from one of Topman's guard masks, his clothes seemed to be woven entirely from concealed weaponry.

'If it's all the same to you, I'd rather work alone,' said Azron.

'You misunderstand. Jaq, he is like the small annoying dog with the humorous mustache. He doesn't let go of things, is what I am implying. He is there to make sure that you are there, you see?'

'Ah.'

'The treasure I seek is the Ruby of Galganond. I trust you have heard of it?'

Azron gave a sardonic smile. 'I've got posters of it on my bedroom ceiling, mate.'

'Excellent. I will give you two weeks. If the jewel is not in my possession by then, I will make finding and killing you my personal hobby. Everyone should have a hobby, don't you think?'

Azron swallowed hard again and stood up to leave, Jaq falling in beside him like a heavily armed shadow.

'One thing,' said Azron. 'Why do you want this ruby so much?'

Topman shrugged, as though the answer was obvious. 'Rubies are in this year.'

+++

Azron walked into the night air on the deck of the River Goddess. He looked down at Baby, who was waiting for him. The kobold had a cut above his eye, but otherwise looked better than Azron expected. Certainly much more alive.

'Fat men are being nowhere near as jolly as custom would have you believe,' said Baby.

'Here,' said Azron, tossing the kobold another coin. 'For your trouble. I'm sorry you got beaten up, but, honestly, that was the worst distraction I've ever seen.'

Baby caught the coin and placed it somewhere in his sack. 'It worked, though. Everybody was distracted. I am a successful distractor. Who is the ominous woman who accompanies you?'

Azron looked around at Jaq. 'He's not a woman, he's my...personal guard.'

Baby shrugged. 'All humans have equally baffling faces. Will you be needing this Baby further, or can I get rid of you and thank heaven?'

'Actually...' Azron took a piece of paper and a stub of pencil from his coat and began to write something down. 'I need you to pick up some things for me. Retrieve these items from Henrick's stores—he knows my name—and bring them to my lodgings. Okay? Now read the paper.'

Baby read the paper, frowned briefly, then ran headlong into Jaq, sending the bounty hunter sprawling over the prow and into the water below.

'Leg it!' screeched Azron, and he and Baby ran in opposite directions, feet thundering on the wooden jetties as they fled.

Baby left behind the piece of paper, which simply said, in a hurried hand, "Head-butt this man next to me and I will give you some chocolate".

+++

Azron sprang across rooftops, swung himself down drains, darted from dark corner to dark corner and vaulted across alleyway detritus. He generally preferred to move at a saunter, but the prolonged sprint was yet another necessary part of the professional thief's skill set and, just occasionally, Azron could move like a bolt of lightning with a pressing engagement.

It helped that he knew Port Town as well as he knew himself. Even after his months of absence, he still knew instinctively which byways led to dead ends, which roofs could take his weight and which routes were typically shielded from prying eyes.

Azron had over a dozen lockups and store accounts across Port Town, and most of his cash was divided among easily accessed pickup points, in locations that he alone knew. He headed to one such pickup point now, an apartment that he rented but kept unoccupied. He had everything he needed there to get the hell out of town and set himself up somewhere far away from Topman's reach.

Pigs or no pigs, every hair on the back of his neck was telling Azron that going after the Ruby of Garamond would end very badly indeed.

The thief skidded to a halt in an alleyway that looked just like any other alleyway and ran his fingers across a wall until he found a brick that looked like any other brick. He levered it out of place with his fingers, creating a foothold, and began to scale the wall. He removed a dozen more bricks until he reached the top floor of the building, where he jimmied open a window and climbed through.

As he entered the dark room beyond, he froze, sensing instantly something was wrong.

'Hello, mister weasel man,' came a voice.

A lamp was lit, revealing the figure of Jaq, sitting quite casually in an old armchair, clothes still wet from the waters of the Filter. Baby stood sheepishly at his feet.

'Oh,' said Azron. 'There you are. We would have waited for you at the docks, but I thought it best if I got a head start on packing.'

The following silence suggested that the time for flimsy excuses had long since passed.

Azron shrugged. 'You can't blame a fella for trying,' he said. 'Might I ask how you found my digs?'

Jaq merely gestured to Baby. 'Sorry,' said Baby. 'The sinister lady with baffling face caught me and threatened me with vicious perforations unless I cooperated.'

Azron rolled his eyes. 'For the last time, Baby, Jaq is not a— Oh.'

As Azron was speaking, Jaq removed the mask that Topman insisted his guards wear. The tumble of tawny hair that escaped was indeed very feminine. As were the pale green eyes and soft, coffee-coloured skin beneath. The murderous scowl, though, wasn't very ladylike.

'Ah,' said Azron. 'You are a woman after all. What a pleasant surprise.'

Jaq moved quickly and was on her feet before Azron could react. She fetched him a ringing slap across the cheek. The thief was stunned into silence.

Jaq spoke in a low voice. 'You may be wondering why I slapped you, when I could have just as easily stabbed you, shot you, garroted you or cracked your skull open with a mace. Are you wondering?'

'Well, I am now,' Azron said, rubbing at his cheek.

'Good. Allow me to satisfy your curiosity. You see, I could have done all of those things and more, and just as easily. But you and I have a professional relationship now, so I thought it only fair that I start out small. You crossed me this time and you got a slap. Cross me again and it will be something worse, and worse, and worse still, until you look back on that slap as a fond memory. Do you understand?'

Azron nodded.

Jaq squinted at him. 'Are you crying?'

'No!' said Azron. 'My eyes are just watering. That really stung, you know.'

Jaq raised an eyebrow and turned back to Baby. 'You,' she said. 'You're done here. If I ever see you again, I will drop-kick you into a cesspit, understood?'

Baby saluted. 'Loud and clear, terrifying woman!'

The kobold turned and ran out of the apartment door, which Azron noted had been kicked through. He frowned in sudden realisation.

'How did Baby know I'd be coming here?'

'Kobolds have perfect recall,' said Jaq, tying her hair into a neat, tight bun. 'With the right incentive they can tell you everything you need to know. The rest was just deduction.'

'The right incentive?'

'I hung him by his ankles over a pack of starving dogs.'

'Yeah, I can see how that might focus one's mind.'

Jaq approached Azron until their noses were a finger-width apart. 'Make no mistake, Mr. Bezron. I am the best bounty hunter you'll ever meet. Nobody gets away from me. Nobody. Bear that in mind the next time you think running away sounds like a good idea.'

'I certainly will, yes,' said Azron.

Jaq turned away and headed to the door. 'Get your kit together and get some sleep. You will meet me at the Laughing Shark Inn at dawn tomorrow.'

Azron said nothing.

'Do I have to reiterate that if you are not there I will find you and kill you?'

'Nope.'

'Good.'

Jaq left and Azron exhaled deeply.

He did not like to feel that his destiny was out of his hands. To be beholden to an employer went against the very core of his being—it challenged that special relationship a good thief has with the world, where he lives and makes a living on his own terms, albeit at the expense of others. It was, he believed, as close to freedom as a man could get. And now he found himself in hock with a bunch of murderous psychopaths. Who wanted him to start at dawn. At dawn.

He sighed and sat in the old armchair and, after a few hours of staring furiously at nothing, he fell asleep.

+++

Dawn the next day found Jaq already atop a white horse, which seemed to be the horse equivalent of a body-building fanatic. She held the reins of two other smaller horses, one laden with packs and bags, and one saddled and ready for Azron. Azron was late. Not so late that Jaq had flown into a murderous rage, but late enough that "fly into a murderous rage" was definitely on the to-do list.

Jaq had been ready for some time, dressed in her usual attire of battle chic, the cloth band around her forehead seemingly the only part of her outfit that was not leather, metal or polished wooden handle. She wore her pistola openly at her side, and had a large flintlock rifle slung over her shoulder. The townspeople gave her a wide berth. Gunnery was all but banned for anybody who wasn't a R egulator, and those who wore such weapons openly were considered to be either mad or professionally dangerous. Jaq, of course, was the latter. In fact "professionally dangerous" was written on her business card.

Eventually Azron sauntered into view, a paper cup of coffee in his hand and a look on his face that was not at all impressed with the hour.

'You're late,' said Jaq.

Azron yawned, slurped the rest of his coffee and threw the cup at a nearby pile of rubbish. 'I think it's philosophically impossible to be late at this hour of the morning,' he said. 'All you can be is ridiculously early.'

'Do you have everything you need? Where are your tools?'

Azron opened his long coat like a man with a forward nature and an improper understanding of romance. His thin body was strapped with pockets and pouches, precision carry-cases for lock-picks, phials, tools and a host of suspicious devices. 'Happy?'

'Ecstatic. Mount up.'

'I should warn you that I'm not very good at horses. You might have to wait on me a bit,' said Azron.

Jaq turned a cool stare on him. 'If you slow me down, I'll find a way to speed you up.'

Azron struggled into the saddle and scowled moodily. 'Are you paid to be this hospitable?'

'No,' said Jaq. 'I'm paid to make sure you do your job. If you think you can do your job with a broken arm, then by all means continue annoying me.'

'I probably need both arms. Definitely, in fact.'

'Then let's go.'

Jaq spurred her horse and galloped across the flat mud streets of Port Town. Bouncing in his saddle like a kangaroo in an earthquake, Azron followed.

+++

They were some miles out of town, trotting along a quiet road through hill and dale, before Azron tried talking to Jaq.

'So, then,' he said. 'Jaq—is that short for Jaqueline? Or Jackie?'

'No. Just Jaq. My parents wanted a boy.'

'Oh?'

'They seemed to change their mind when my little brother was born, though. They called him Sue.'

'Oh.'

The two rode on for a little while before Azron spoke again.

'Still. Must have made him strong, a name like that. All the playground hassle, and all that? Must have grown up to be quite a toughie?'

Jaq shook her head. 'He runs a weekly show down at the Purple Dragon. "The Dragon Queen Review."'

Azron nodded. 'I've heard of that. It's supposed to be very good.'

'He's done well for himself.'

'Fair play to him.'

They rode for a little while longer. Azron opened his mouth to speak but Jaq quickly raised a hand, silencing him

She listened carefully, eyes squinting in concentration. 'Keep talking and ride on at the pace you're riding at now. Don't look back.' With that she slid out of her saddle and darted behind a bush at the side of the road.

Azron couldn't think of anything to say, so began to whistle instead. The road behind remained deathly quiet. His whistling began to falter as a sense of unease crept up his spine. There was a sudden yelp followed by a jabbering litany. Azron spun in his saddle to see Jaq stomping furiously up the road towards him, dragging something along behind her by its foot. She stopped and threw a babbling kobold in front of his horse.

'Is he with you?' she snapped.

Azron looked down into the panic-stricken face of Baby. The kobold was wearing the same ragged sack-on-sack combo as the last time he had seen him, but had added a frayed pair of underpants to the mix. He wore the underpants on his head, his scaly and hairy ears poking through.

'No,' said Azron. 'He definitely is not with me.'

Jaq's hand went to the butt of her pistola and she spoke through gritted teeth. 'Don't you lie to me. Why did you have him follow us? How many more are there?'

Azron raised his hands in supplication. 'I honestly don't know what he's doing here.'

Jaq turned her furious gaze down on Baby, who flinched as though placed before a roaring furnace. 'Well?' she said. 'What are you doing here? Spit it out!'

Baby raised a trembling finger to point at Azron. 'Weasel man owes me chocolate!'

Jaq blinked and looked up at Azron. 'Is this true?'

Azron scratched at the back of his head. 'Yeah, I promised him chocolate. I sort of forgot about it, to be honest.'

'Well do you have any chocolate on you?'

'No. Do you?'

'I don't like chocolate.'

'That doesn't surprise me.'

'What?'

'Nothing, nothing.' Azron sighed and dismounted the horse. 'Alright, Baby. Here's the thing—I don't have the chocolate on me. You'll have to wait 'til I get back.'

Baby got to his feet and gave Azron a defiant stare. 'Business done is business paid. You think you can hide behind the woman with a thousand tempers? Pah! You will suffer my incredible vengeance!'

Jaq shook her head. 'Why do they talk like that?'

'Beats me,' said Azron. He put his hands on his knees and looked Baby in the eye. 'How about this? You come with me until I can get my hands on some chocolate, then we go our separate ways, yeah?'

Baby's eyes narrowed. 'Two sponduliks a day, plus expenses.'

Azron rolled his eyes and turned a sly grin on Jaq. 'See? They talk straight enough when money's involved.'

The thief spat in his palm and held it out to the kobold. 'You do as you're told and you've got yourself a deal.'

Baby spat on Azron's hand, then shook it. 'We are like high-powered businessmen, with questionable pasts and troubling personal lives.'

'Yes,' said Azron. 'That's exactly what we're like. Well done. Now go and sit on the pack horse.'

Azron straightened up and caught Jaq's incredulous stare. 'What?' he said.

'You're paying that thing to be your lackey?'

'Yeah, If you like. Why? What harm does it do?'

Jaq looked at the kobold as it heaved itself onto the pack horse. 'How much are its expenses?' she murmured.

'The daft thing's wearing a second-hand pair of underpants as a hat. I don't think he'll rack up too much in the way of luxuries.'

Jaq shook her head and mounted her horse. 'Weird.'

'Trust me, I've worked with him a few times before. He won't be any trouble. Just be very clear about what you tell him. They're a bit...what's the word? Idiot. Kobolds are idiots.'

+++

They camped that night beneath the branches of an oak tree, Baby making himself surprisingly useful in stoking a fire. The night was dark and cloudy and the warmth from the fire was welcome indeed.

They ate from the pre-packed rations Jaq had provided at Topman's expense. Baby was helping himself from Azron's share.

'Expenses,' he said, grinning through a mouthful of food. 'Tasty, tasty expenses.'

'Yeah, I'll bet,' Azron muttered darkly. 'Why don't you go and water the horses before I forget what I'm paying for?'

Baby frowned at the thief. 'I'll water the horses until they beg me to stop,' he said, and wandered off to where the horses were tied.

Jaq watched him go. 'He's very odd.'

'Yep.'

'Why is he called Baby?'

'They're all mostly called Baby. Or "boy" or "girl" or "accident". Their parents aren't usually very bothered with names.'

Jaq slowly shook her head. 'Astonishing.'

The two sat for a while picking over the last of their rations, Baby's tuneless whistling the only sound. Azron looked over at Jaq. Now that she was concentrating on eating, Azron noticed a few things about her. She was younger than she let on. Without the squint and frown she wore constantly, and without sticking out her jaw, she looked softer.

Azron spoke. 'Why'd you decide to be a bounty hunter?'

Jaq replied without looking up. 'Why did you decide to be a thief?'

Azron thought for a moment, then shrugged. 'I don't think I ever decided. It's just what I am. My dad was a thief, and my mum. She stole his heart, they used to say. I was born a thief.'

Jaq met Azron's gaze, the familiar scowl falling over her face like a curtain over a stage. 'No one is born a thief,' she said.

Azron gave a noncommittal shrug. 'All the Bezrons are thieves. Except my cousin Baxo. He's a bit of a black sheep—he became a magistrate.'

Jaq raised an eyebrow. 'How does that work?'

Azron scratched his chin. 'It gets a bit awkward around the holidays, to be honest. Anyway, I wasn't asking about me I was asking about you. Why a bounty hunter?'

Jaq sat for a while, staring into the fire. 'My father left my mother and me when I was only young.'

Azron said nothing. He picked up a stick and began poking the fire.

Jaq continued. 'He left without word, without leaving a note. I thought that he might be in trouble, or that he might be lost, so one day I set out to look for him. I found him three towns over, shacked up with a landlady in a grotty pub.'

'Harsh.'

'Yes, it was. I asked him why he had left and when he was coming back. He said, in no uncertain terms, that he was a man free to do as he pleased and that he'd not be shackled into a life of unhappiness.'

'Bastard.'

'Yes, he was. Well, anyway, it turned out he had a small bounty on his head over an unpaid fine he had thought to leave behind. I hit him with a barstool and dragged him to the nearest lockup. It was the easiest money I ever made.'

'That's...quite a sad story,' said Azron. Then he frowned as a sudden thought occurred to him. 'Wait a minute—how old were you?'

'Eight.'

Azron's jaw dropped. 'Wow,' he said. 'That story went from sad to terrifying pretty damn quickly.'

Jaq began scraping dirt over the fire. 'I'm good at what I do, Bezron. Don't think I'm some silly girl playing games, because I've left men in the ground who've made similarly poor judgments of character.'

Azron put his hands up. 'I'm all for equality, love. Just making small talk, is all.'

In the dying light of the fire, Jaq held the thief's gaze. 'I'm above charm, Bezron. I'm above mind games. Chit-chat all you like, but you won't endear yourself to me. You are a job to be completed, and I could not care less for the nonsense that comes out of your mouth.'

'Well, there's no need to be rude.'

'Yes, there is, because I don't think you understand what I am, Bezron. I learned a valuable lesson the day I turned my father in. I decided that there are people who run out on the consequences of their actions, and people that enable them to do so, and that I would never be either of those people. Ever.' Jaq turned away from the guttering fire, lay down and pulled a blanket over herself. 'Good night, Bezron. Sleep tight. And do not even dream of escaping me.'

Azron sat for a while, surprised by how quickly the night air had chilled. Baby returned from watering the horses and gave a sympathetic shudder. 'You could be stabbing the atmosphere,' he remarked.

'Shut up, Baby.'

+++

Azron's eyes snapped open. It was full dark and the still-cloudy skies ensured against a peeping moon. He carefully regulated his breathing to give the illusion he was still asleep. If his guess was correct, it had been three hours since he had turned in, meaning that both Baby and Jaq would be well into their slumber. He listened to their breathing and movement, and smiled in the dark. Dawn would find him far away from irritating kobolds and tempestuous bounty hunters.

Azron was used to moving around when other people were asleep—it was yet another prerequisite of his particular career. He'd lost count of the amount of times he'd taken treasures from beneath pillows or mattresses while their owners slept on above. There was an art to it, to breathing and moving in a way that didn't unsettle slumbering minds. There was an art to it, and Azron was an artist. He slowly pulled the blanket down from his body—

He heard the unmistakable click of a flintlock pistola being readied.

The voice of Jaq was not even a little bleary. 'Go back to sleep, thief.'

Azron swallowed hard and pulled the blanket back up to his chin.

'I will say again—goodnight, Bezron,' said Jaq.

'Yeah, g'night.'

Azron lay staring into the dark for a while, quietly horrified. He thought he heard a faint snickering from where Baby was. He thought of a great many swearwords, but dared not whisper even one of them.

+++

The next day found the three travellers on the borders of the cotton prairies, trotting quietly through the stretching plains of grass. That morning they had broken camp in silence, mounted up in silence, and now they rode in silence. If Jaq was bothered at all by the quiet, she did not let it show, and Azron suspected she would be just as happy if nobody ever spoke another word again. Baby seem content without speaking, but Baby seemed content to dress in the discarded undergarments of strangers, so Azron saw no benefit in trying to draw meaningful conclusions from the kobold's behavior.

Azron hated the quiet. Oh, not the quiet of empty warehouses, or other people's homes or the various other places he was keen not to be discovered in, but quiet where quiet served no useful purpose bothered him greatly.

'So,' he said. 'I don't want to be here. You don't want to be here. Baby wants chocolate and that's about as far as it goes. The least we can do is try to get along, yeah?'

Jaq said nothing.

'Oh, come on!' said Azron. 'Why don't we make the best of a bad situation? How about a game of I Spy? I spy with my beady eye, something beginning with—'

'Stop. Immediately.'

'Something beginning with—'

Jaq gave a ragged sigh. 'Desist the playing of this game.'

'Something beginning with...G.'

'Grass.'

'Good guess!'

Jaq rolled her eyes. 'We are on the grassy plains. There is plainly little here but grass. Now, I don't want to shoot you in the head, but if you don't stop prattling I'll be left with little choice.'

Azron stared glumly at the ground for a while. 'You're not easy to get along with, are you?'

Jaq's already hard face hardened further still. 'I make a point not to be.'

There was a long period of quiet until eventually Baby spoke. 'Now I am spying, with my disproportionate eyes—'

Jaq groaned. 'Oh, for the love of—'

'Something beginning with B.'

Azron frowned. 'Grass doesn't begin with B, Baby.'

'And neither does sky.'

Baby grinned behind his buck teeth. 'I am the best at this game! The thing I am seeing begins with a B!'

There was a sound like a fox swearing vengeance. It echoed across the plains. Azron and Jaq turned their gazes slowly to the sky.

Baby grinned. 'Birdie! See?'

Jaq's eyes grew round and she slung her rifle over her shoulder with incredible speed.

'Get down!' Azron roared. He grabbed her shoulder as he flung himself to the ground, pulling the bounty hunter with him. A huge feathered shape, bigger than a horse, barreled just over them with a deafening screech.

Jaq slapped Azron's hand away from her. 'I could have had it!'

'Yeah? And I could have let it have you!'

Jaq snarled and leapt to her feet, aiming her rifle skywards, quickly tracking and scanning the vast, featureless blue. She squinted down her sight as she made out the giant flapping shape. 'Ah! Got it.'

'Wait!' cried Azron, once again grabbing at Jaq's shoulder.

Jaq shook him off. 'What? What now?'

Azron pointed wordlessly to Baby's empty saddle.

'Oh,' Jaq said.

'Yes. That bird has got my mate, and I think the last thing he needs right now is to be shot at by you.'

For a little while Jaq said nothing. Then she nodded to herself and jumped into her saddle. 'Come on! It's spring and that's a devilcrow. It'll be heading to its nest.'

'And what's at the nest?'

'Its hungry children.'

'Is that good? That doesn't sound good.'

'It means we have time—now move!'

Azron jumped into his saddle, fell off and climbed carefully back up. He spurred his horse into a gallop, following the already shrinking figure of Jaq. The beast in the sky was barely more than a dot as it headed out toward a distant copse of towering trees.

+++

Baby awoke, looked up at a beak the size of a wagon wheel and quickly re-evaluated the merits of being unconscious. The devilcrow was a huge oily thing with a jagged cluster of thorn-like horns running down the centre of its head. It looked down at Baby, its huge yellow eyes following the kobold's every twitching movement with reptilian impassiveness.

Baby rose shakily to his feet, sticky mismatched twigs crunching beneath him. 'Nice birdie?' he tried.

The devilcrow cawed, a sound that ripped through the eardrums.

Baby wobbled backward and landed on his rump. The devilcrow made no move to attack, seeming content just to watch him. Baby looked around at his surroundings. He was in a nest, the walls of twigs and logs glued together with bird mucus. The nest was not empty. He was surrounded by three giant eggs, each as big as he was. As he watched one of them it began to rock slightly. A large crack appeared in the pink-hued shell and through the crack there was a hint of jagged, razor-sharp beak.

'This is a most awful way to die,' said Baby, his lips trembling. 'I would much prefer old age, if that is a possibility at this time.'

The devilcrow cawed again and Baby fell to the ground once more, watching in despair as the eggs around him began to rock and sway.

'Don't move, Baby,' came a whispering voice.

Baby looked at the eggs and blinked. 'It is astounding you can talk at such a young age. And with you being a bird, also.'

'Behind you, idiot.'

Baby looked behind him but could see nothing but the sticky wall of the nest. 'Whoever you are, you are invisible. I think that you should be made aware of this.'

The devilcrow suddenly tilted its head to one side and hopped forwards, moving closer to Baby.

'It's me, Azron. I'm behind the wall. I need you to move backwards.'

Baby, his eyes not leaving the monstrous bird, tried to talk without moving his lips. 'This bird is angry with me,' he said.

'Just trust me. Move toward my voice.'

Baby began inching backwards, the egg next to him suddenly cracked hugely, a hint of deadly talon breaking through into the light.

'Oh, but I have come a lamentable way for a little chocolate,' said Baby. Then he felt a hand grab his collar. He had time to see the devilcrow lunge toward him with its huge, vicious beak open wide before he was jerked over the wall of the nest. He dangled above a dizzying height, a leafy brown floor far below him. He looked up to see Azron Bezron hanging from a branch by one hand, holding the scruff of Baby's sacking with the other. The thief looked down at him, smiling through gritted teeth. The head of the devilcrow peered over the side of the nest and looked down with as much puzzled fury as a bird could possibly convey, and shrieked like satan's alarm clock.

'Hang on,' said Azron, and he let go of the branch.

Baby clenched his eyes tightly shut as they began to fall through the air. He opened one eye nervously to see that they were not falling at the break-neck pace he had assumed they were. Azron was supported by a thin rope at his waist that looped over a thick branch. Looking down, Baby could see Jaq holding fast to the other end of the rope, her leg braced against the trunk of the tree.

'Death is not immediate!' said Baby happily.

'Don' t speak too soon,' said Azron grimly.

The caw of the devilcrow was deafening, and Baby looked up to see the horrible bird swooping through the air toward them. 'Death is immediate!' he screeched.

Azron grunted with effort as he swung Baby towards the trunk. Down below Jaq let out an exasperated cry as the rope twisted and pulled in her hands. The thief and kobold swung just enough to dodge the diving beak of the devilcrow, but the rope itself was clipped by the creature's wing, sending them spinning like a drunken ballerina. Baby moaned as the forces of inertia threatened to tear him from Azron's grasp and send him tumbling to a broken end.

Below them, Jaq grunted as she tried to gain control of the rope. The twisting had jammed it on a branch above her, and as much as she shook and heaved she could not free it. The thief and the kobold continued their mad twirling.

'Grab the rope!' Azron bellowed, and with a grunt he heaved the kobold upwards. Baby didn't need telling twice, grasping the rope as though his hands were a vice and bumping down onto the small of Azron's back.

'Now cut it!' Azron screamed. 'Cut the rope!' He handed Baby his dagger, which he managed to retrieve from his boot despite the spinning and swaying. Baby looked at the dagger with the one eye he had managed to open, and with great reluctance took one hand off the rope to grab it. Then he looked down. They were still too far above the ground to fall without potentially fatal consequences.

'We are not in a position to challenge the ground!' he wailed.

'Do it! That huge bloody bird is coming back!'

As if on cue there was another shriek from the devilcrow. Baby looked up at the flying menace. His eyes grew to the size and shape of saucers. He quickly took the dagger and began sawing at the rope.

'More quickly!' shouted Azron, rummaging in his coat.

Baby closed his eyes and sawed more frantically at the now-fraying rope, which suddenly snapped. He just had time to see a confused devilcrow soar over him as they began to fall. He clutched desperately at Azron's coat, and the thief below him stretched his arms out towards the tree trunk. Baby did not have time to wonder what the stubby metal claws on Azron's hands were, but he saw the benefit of them as Azron plunged them into the bark. The claws tore wicked gouges into the tree and both man and kobold crashed into the trunk, the breath rushing from Azron's body with a loud whuff!

They remained still for a moment.

Azron spoke quietly. 'I think—'

The tenuous hold the claws had on the trunk gave way, and the two companions screamed as they jerked and tumbled down the tree, Azron scrabbling his makeshift claws for purchase whenever he could, desperately trying to slow their descent.

It worked. Sort of. They crashed into the ground with all the grace of a rhino sitting down after a long, hard day, and then they lay in a twitching heap.

After a while Baby spoke. 'You have claws like a cat. You are a cat burglar. This is funny.'

Azron shook the climbing claws from his bloodied hands. 'Yes,' he said. 'Hilarious.'

There was another shriek from the devilcrow, and Azron groaned. 'Just let the bastard thing eat me,' he said.

Baby looked up fearfully as the shadow of wings fell over him. Just as it seemed he was about to gain a first-hand account of bird-monster digestive anatomy, Jaq leapt in front of him, rifle raised and ready. There was a sound like a thunderclap and a strangled squawk. The devilcrow's corpse landed with a thump that shook the ground, with a ragged, bloody hole in the centre of its head.

Azron sat up, breathing hard. 'Well that was—'

Suddenly the air was alive with shrieks, caws and flapping.

The colour drained from Jaq's face as she looked up, seeing shape after dark shape erupting from the various treetops. 'There are dozens of them,' she said breathlessly.

Azron sprang to his feet like a jack-in-the-box after too much caffeine. 'We need to get to the horses!' he said.

'Horses is a good idea!' Baby concurred.

'No time!' Jaq shouted. 'Over there!' She pointed to a large burrowed mound in the earth.

'We don't know what's down there!' said Azron. 'It could be a proto-badger, or a crackrabbit or—'

'Or a hobbit!' shrieked Baby.

'We don't know what's down there, true, but we do know what's up here. Now come on!' Jaq sprinted toward the burrow, Azron hot on her heels.

Baby looked about in a flustered panic until a caw from above spurred him into motion. He huffed and puffed his way toward the hole in the ground, diving the last few feet as something swooped over his head. Azron pulled him farther into the burrow just as a devilcrow's head burst into the entrance, screeching and snapping furiously with its terrible beak.

Baby kicked his legs, pushing his way backwards until he found himself scrunched into Jaq and Azron. A pistola was lowered over his shoulder and he looked up into the grim determination of Jaq's face.

'If it gets in here, it'll be the last thing it does,' she said.

The giant bird shrieked and squawked and thrashed madly, unable to get any further into the burrow. After what seemed like an age it gave up and flew away. Azron, Jaq and Baby sat hunched in the damp earth for hours, nobody moving, barely breathing. Eventually all the devilcrows returned to their various nests.

'What now?' said Azron.

'We wait 'til nightfall,' said Jaq.

'Then we get on the horses?' said Baby hopefully.

Jaq shook her head. 'If they haven't run away, they're most certainly dead. From here on out, we're on foot.'

Baby stared grimly into the dark. 'This chocolate better be bloody amazing,' he said.

+++

In the forest night, the travellers emerged from the burrow. Whatever beast had dug its hole there had thankfully not returned, and under a sliver of a moon the devilcrows slept.

The travellers walked softly and carefully through the woodland and back out into the wide stretches of the cotton prairies. Keeping as far away from tree lines as they possibly could.

+++

They walked for days and a bone-weary fatigue set in. Without their packhorse, they had lost their travelling essentials. Though the days were warm, the nights were difficult to find comfort in, without blankets. With no food, Jaq resorted to wasting precious bullets bringing down the docile wakkabirds who seemed to serve no other purpose than to be easy pickings for the rest of the predators on the cotton prairies. They had no water but for the half-full flask Jaq kept by her side. The long grasses of the prairies were now even longer, coming up to the shoulder. Without the benefit of horses, making progress was hard work.

'How long now?' said Baby, panting.

'Remember what I said last time you asked that?' said Jaq coldly.

'You said things that were unpleasant.'

'Yes. Yes I did. Now be quiet.'

They trudged on in silence for a while until Azron cleared his throat.

'Yeah, but...you know...are we there yet?'

'No. We are about a half day's walk from the lightning barrens.'

'Oh.'

Azron patted his coat and retrieved his tobacco pouch. There were only a few shreds of tobacco leaf left, and next to starving to death or being eaten by the various beasties that inhabited the plains, this was of great concern to him.

'Even when we were lost in the desert, I at least had some bloody 'baccy,' he mumbled.

'What?' said Jaq.

'Nothing. Just grumbling. Running low on 'baccy.'

'Here,' said Jaq, tossing him a pouch.

Azron held up the pouch, peered at it, then sniffed it deeply. It was filled with fresh tobacco. 'I didn't think you smoked,' he said.

'I don't,' said Jaq. 'It's a weak habit. But I know you do. I thought I might need it.'

Azron grinned. 'What? To sweeten me up? I thought you were more of a "point a gun at them and speak in a low and threatening voice" sort of girl?'

'Oh, I am that,' said Jaq. 'It pays to be pragmatic, though. Carry a big stick, have a little carrot on hand just in case.'

'Very wise,' said Azron, lighting the cigarette he had expertly rolled while Jaq was talking. 'Maybe we'll call it quits for saving your life?'

Jaq stopped. She turned slowly and pointed a finger at Azron. 'You. Did not. Save my life.'

'Well, I seem to remember that bloody great bird nearly had your head off your shoulders. If it hadn't been for me pulling you down—'

Jaq lowered her voice. 'You. Did not. Save my life. If you hadn't put me off balance I could made the shot and we'd still have our horses!'

'Oh, so that's my fault is it?'

'Damn right!'

Azron narrowed his eyes. 'Know what you are? You're an ingrate.'

'Yeah? And you're a dead man!'

Azron threw his arms up. 'So kill me! Stop banging on about it and kill me! But you'll have to join the bloody queue, love, 'cause every other bugger wants a turn first!'

Azron and Jaq stood eye to eye, neither backing down.

'This is awkward and sexual,' said Baby.

'Bah!' Jaq turned on her heel and stormed off. Azron watched her go.

Baby cleared his throat. 'Are we for going to go after her?'

Azron nodded. 'Yeah, but you go first. Tell me if she's waiting with a gun.'

+++

There was more awkward silence, but this time Azron let it unravel without comment. He considered himself a fairly enlightened man, in that he firmly believed women were just as dangerous and untrustworthy as men. Maybe dangerous and untrustworthy in different ways, sometimes, but ways he respected all the more for their subtlety.

Jaq was different, though. Azron had met women warriors before, and was all for equal rights, especially when the advocate of said rights was holding a pair of axes. But Jaq seemed to take no joy in what she was. No screaming for combat or bumptious bravado. There was just a hard dedication, a...professionalism about her that was as cold as a tombstone in the snow.

Azron had no idea why he found this so damned sexy. He expected it was psychological, and as with all things esoteric, gave it a wide berth.

'What was that?' said Jaq suddenly.

Azron looked about guiltily. 'I didn't say anything!' he said.

'No. A noise. Listen.'

For a while there was nothing but the constant background noise of crickets, then a faint rustle.

Jaq had her rifle on her shoulder so quickly it was as though she were a low-effort flick-book. She scanned the brush, slowly tracking her rifle around until it was pointed squarely at Azron's face.

The thief swallowed. 'I wonder if this might be a good time to apologise?' he said.

'Duck,' whispered Jaq.

Azron dropped to his haunches just as he heard a low growl behind him. There was the colossal retort of the rifle and a corpse dropped to his side. It was a velvety black wolf with a snout that ended not only in sharp-toothed maw, but also two wicked, spiraling tusks. A single green eye stared blankly from its socket in the creature's forehead.

'Great holy bastards!' Azron exclaimed, jumping to his feet. 'What the hell is that?'

Jaq began to reload her flintlock rifle. 'Borehounds.' she said flatly. 'We have to be alert. They always hunt in pa—'

The bounty hunter was cut off as another borehound leapt from the tall grass and bowled her to the ground . Azron stood with his mouth agape as woman and beast wrestled in front of him. Jaq quickly turned onto her back, jamming the butt of her rifle into the creature's neck, using all the strength in her arms to keep the salivating, snapping jaws away from her face. She winced as a tusk cut a gouge along her cheek. The beast's jaws inched closer and her arms began to shake against the pressure.

Azron shook off his hesitation and snapped into the present as though at the end of temporal yo-yo. He once again grabbed the dagger in his boot and bowled into the borehound with a primal scream. There was a yelp and Azron found himself sprawled on top of a hard, furry mound that let out one last shuddering breath before lying completely still. He got to his feet and stared dumbly down at his shaking hand. His dagger was slick with dark blood. He jumped slightly as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned around to look into Jaq's hard, green eyes.

Suddenly, there was a gurgling howl from not very far away at all. Then another. Then three more still.

Baby burst into their small clearing, panic stretching his face. 'Does the howling mean they are running away? We are mighty and victorious?'

Jaq shook her head as she began to check and ready her rifle. 'The howling means they're coming for us.'

'That is the exact opposite of the scenario I just now suggested!' wailed Baby. 'I am disappointed and terrified!'

Azron grabbed Jaq's arm. 'We've got to run,' he said.

'No. We can't outrun them. We fight.'

'We can't outfight them! We run!'

Jaq spoke through gritted teeth. 'Don't you get it, Bezron? I don't run—I chase.'

Azron grinned. 'Then chase me! Isn't that what you're paid for?'

Without a further word, Azron turned and ran, picking Baby up by the scruff of the neck as he did so.

Jaq stood for a while, her rifle ramrod straight before her. She looked at the tall grass, where even now she could hear a rustling growing louder. Then she looked behind her at the thin trail that the fleeing thief had made.

'Bugger,' she said, and ran off after Azron.

+++

Azron was quick, moving in bounding leaps across the grass, terror lending him a soaring grace that would have given a gazelle pause for thought. Baby was tucked under his arm like a rugby ball.

'This is for terrible stomach!' the kobold cried. 'I will not be responsible for the colour of your shoes!'

Azron said nothing, simply pumped his legs for all they were worth. He was quick, but across open ground he couldn't hope to outrun a pack of borehounds. Already he could feel his initial adrenaline rush wearing off, and his muscles were beginning to ask some serious questions about overtime rates. What he needed was twists and turns and ways to outthink his pursuers. He almost laughed as he saw a cluster of small trees come into his field of vision. He put his head down and ploughed towards them.

All of a sudden the grass gave way to flat mud, and Azron skidded to a halt just as he came to the ledge of a narrow chasm, perhaps seven or eight feet across. He looked down, seeing a small stream gurgling a dozen or more feet down. The walls of the cavern were dry earth, certainly nothing a man could climb back up with ease, let alone a borehound.

Azron nodded to himself and, with barely a second thought, slung Baby underarm across the chasm. Baby gave a shriek and landed with a thump. Azron didn't stop to listen to the litany of curse words that followed. He turned, moved back to take a run-up, then sprinted towards the chasm, leaping at the last moment and landing with an awkward roll on the far side.

He stood up and looked back at the grass fields. He panted heavily, his eyes narrowed. He waited.

+++

Jaq pushed through the long grass, for once regretting the pounds and pounds of excess weaponry she wore instead of clothes. She could already hear the panting of the borehounds as they moved in behind her. Her rifle was once again slung over her back, but she kept a pistola ready in her hand. Just as she felt the hot, slavering breath on her neck, she ducked and rolled, causing the leaping borehound to soar over her and skid to a confused stop. Jaq put a bullet in the beast without hesitation, and was on her feet and running just in time to avoid the snapping jaw of another borehound.

Fear lent new strength to her legs, and in desperation she slung the spent pistola behind her. She made a mental note of the various short blades and daggers on her person. If she was taken down, she'd be taken down slashing, stabbing and generally making dinner difficult for her pursuers.

The tall grass suddenly ended and Jaq saw the chasm looming before her, Azron waiting on the other side. She leapt without looking and landed with a thump, her arms and chest on the lip of the chasm and her legs dangling above the drop. She did not have time to pull herself up before the pursuing borehounds barreled into her. The animals crashed into her prone body then tumbled into the stream below, but not before one of them managed to catch her boot in its jaws, dragging her farther down the crumbling wall before she kicked it off.

Jaq clung to the wall, feeling the earth shift beneath her fingers. She succeeded in burrowing her foot in a little, but knew straight away that the grip wouldn't last. It was a familiar sensation, like trying to carry too much wet crockery from the sink. Things would begin to slide, slowly but unstoppably, until there was an inevitable breakage. Jaq looked below her to where the one-eyed borehounds had recovered from their fall and were already leaping and snapping at her heels. She looked up and felt a rush of hope as she saw Azron's face looking down at her.

'Help me,' she said. 'Quickly—I can't hold on like this for long.'

Azron looked down impassively for a moment, then stepped back out of sight.

A shock of fury welled in Jaq's guts, most of which was directed at herself for having ever trusted a thief. She gritted her teeth and looked below her at the baying hounds. Maybe if she timed her fall right she could crush one of them, which might at least make her feel a little better when the others were eating her...

'Here!'

Jaq looked up. Azron had returned, holding a branch for her to cling on to. She did so just as the earth gave way beneath her foot. She hung there for a while, the thief straining as he held the branch steady.

'Quick!' said Azron. 'You're really, really heavy.'

Jaq snarled and, using the last of her fading strength, pulled herself arm over arm onto the lip of the chasm. Then she rolled onto her back and lay there breathing hard, listening to the cheated howls of the borehounds below.

She lay for some time, the greying fog clearing from the periphery of her vision, then she got to her feet. Azron was standing still, his back turned to her, looking down at the borehounds.

'Well?' said Jaq. 'Aren't you going to make another crack about saving my life?'

Azron didn't say anything for a while. Jaq walked slowly over to him, standing at his side. She followed his gaze down to the borehounds, which were still leaping and scrabbling ineffectually at the wall, or pacing in a figure of eight, snarling all the while.

'I always was more of a cat person,' said Azron, his voice far away.

Jaq frowned at him. 'Are you okay?'

Azron looked down at the dagger in his hand, still wet with blood. 'You know, I bought this a long time ago. Actually bought it, you know. I wasn't looking to stab anybody or anything, but I thought, you never know, right?' The thief sighed. 'I've never had to use it. Not for what it's meant for, at any rate. I've never had to...you know...cut anybody.'

Jaq's brow creased further as realisation set in. 'You feel bad about the borehound?'

Azron shrugged. 'I'm a thief, not a fighter. A thief is what I always wanted to be.'

'But...it was a borehound.'

'Yeah, I know. But, honestly, love, I can't step on a spider without feeling bad about it. Taking a life like that, it feels...you know...weird. It's not something I usually do.'

Jaq looked at Azron for a while, then burst out laughing. 'The world's most notorious thief and you literally wouldn't hurt a fly?'

'Well, not with malicious intent, I s'pose.'

Jaq laughed again and Azron began to grin. 'You know, you should laugh more often. It's nice.'

Jaq suddenly grabbed Azron and planted a kiss, quick and warm, on the side of his face. 'There,' she said. 'That's something I don't usually do. Now we can both feel weird.'

Jaq turned and left, leaving Azron alone and uncertain of what to say.

+++

The lightning barrens appeared against the cotton prairies as though some cosmic creator had run out of Cornflower Blue and Forest Green and had found left in his paintbox only Pungent Brown, Goth Black and Suicidal Grey. Miles and miles of flat, dull earth, interrupted here and there by sticky little shrubs and skeletal plants, were topped by a sky that was bleak and heavy with cloud. On the horizon lightning stepped, thunder booming in its wake.

The trio of travellers paused and Baby nodded his head sagely. 'I may not be a smart kobold, but I know what ominous is.'

Azron nodded in agreement. 'I've got to admit, I've seen a lot of ominous in my time. This is pretty damn ominous. You know, they say it's haunted.'

The wind whipped and moaned across the dirt as if in agreement.

Jaq shrugged. 'Ghosts are nothing to worry about. Firstly they're already dead, and secondly they don't exist.'

Aron raised an eyebrow. 'Sure about that, are you?'

'I've never seen one.'

'I'd never seen a borehound 'til yesterday—it didn't stop them trying to eat me.'

Jaq sighed. 'Come on.' she said. 'whatever's waiting for us we'll deal with it.'

As it turned out, the lightning barrens were all boding and no belly. Whatever wildlife managed to eke out an existence there did so quietly, and if there were any evil spirits, they attended to their own, presumably evil, business. The travellers moved on without any distraction, making better time now that they didn't have to wade through grassland.

They passed a farmstead, rotten and dilapidated. The rumor was that the lightning barrens had once been just as lush and vibrant as the cotton prairies, and a popular destination for those farmers and pilgrims looking to tame the wilderness. Nobody knew what had changed, but the skeletons of farm and town appeared like a mirage now and then, humbled by time, brought low by neglect, sickly with forgotten dreams.

Nobody was surprised to hear the rustle of movement and see the darting figures out of the corner of their eye as they came to these places. The desperate would live anywhere.

One such figure stood as bold as brass in the frame of a long-since missing doorway. He was emaciated, with papery skin and glazed eyes, the hair on his head thin and wispy. He pointed a crooked finger at the travellers as they passed and spoke in a voice like the dying of leaves. 'Doomed. Doomed. Doomed.'

The three travellers stopped and conferred briefly. After a time, Azron broke off and approached the thin stranger. 'Hallo, guv. How goes it?'

The figure blinked. 'Doomed,' he said.

'Yeah, you said that. Thing is, though, how exactly?'

'...doomed?'

'Yeah, how are we doomed exactly? It might be useful to know.'

The figure frowned and seemed to think. 'Generally doomed?'

Arzron sighed. 'You mean in a "death comes to us all" kind of way?'

The figure nodded happily. 'Doomed,' he said. 'Like the others.'

'Others?'

'Oh, yes. Other men travelled through, not three sunsets ago. They were big and armed and never seen again. They were, most emphatically, doomed.'

'Oh,' said Azron. 'Well. See you, then.'

'Doomed!' called the stranger, waving goodbye. 'So very, very doomed!'

The travellers walked into the distance and the stranger stood quietly, awaiting the next people to pass by so that he might helpfully inform them of exactly how doomed they were.

+++

Later that night they came to a deserted township, watched over by a crumbling keep and tower built long ago to defend who-knows-what from who-knows-what-else. It was surely the abandoned castle they sought. In the night, the tower looked to be cut from onyx, but for a single glowing light emanating from the very top tower. The trio had a brief discussion and agreed that the light was most probably eldritch.

'I'll need to check the place out when we've got some daylight,' said Azron. 'We'll camp tonight. Take turns on watch.'

Jaq studied the thief's face for a while before nodding.

They made camp in a windmill that had lost its roof long ago, and they made a fire in the shelter of a stone wall.

Azron rolled a cigarette and stared into the fire. 'I'll keep first watch,' he said.

After a time, lulled by the lonely moans of the wind, Jaq and Baby fell asleep. Azron stayed up, staring hard into the fire.

+++

Jaq awoke, had a terrible thought, and her hand went unbidden to her rifle. She sat upright but their little campsite was exactly as it had been when she had fallen asleep. Baby was still snoring away. Azron had not moved.

Jaq grinned sheepishly. 'I had a thought that you'd escaped,' she said.

Azron drew on his roll-up, the tiny orange glow reflecting from his sharp features. 'I thought about it.' He held a thumb and forefinger an inch apart. 'I was this close.'

'Why would you bother? We're here now—this is the easy part. You go in, get the ruby, get out.'

Azron shook his head. 'There's no ruby in there.'

Jaq frowned. 'What makes you say that?'

The thief sighed. 'Because Topman doesn't want a ruby. He just wants me dead. All that's waiting in that tower is a bunch of men with guns.'

'You don't know that.'

'I do.' Azron looked up. 'I really do.'

For a moment, Jaq simply scowled into the dark. 'Why tell me this now? Why not just make a run for it? You had the chance.'

'You're right. I did.' The thief took a hard draw on his cigarette. 'Tell me, what was your job? What did Topman ask you to do, exactly?'

'Make sure you got here, make sure you got the ruby, make sure you got it back to him.'

Azron nodded. 'You see, for a while I thought it'd be you that would kill me.'

'I'm a bounty hunter, not a murderer for hire!' Jaq snapped.

'I know that. I know that now. I realised it when you saved Baby and me from that devilcrow. So I thought to myself, does she know? Does she know that Topman plans to kill us all?'

Jaq said nothing.

'Think about it,' Azron continued. 'He can't be seen to have anything to do with my murder. Not in Port Town—they'd string him up. But if Azron Bezron goes to a strange place on a secret mission and is never seen again? Port Towners can live with that. It's another story to tell. A good story, and that's what people like. Tony gets his revenge, nobody's the wiser.'

Jaq nodded slowly. 'And he hires me to make sure you get here, where nobody goes. Then he has me killed so I never tell.'

'Yeah,' said Azron. 'Pretty crappy, isn't it?'

'Yes. Why tell me now? Why wait all this time?'

'Would you have believed me before, really?'

'I might have.'

Azron grinned. 'Actually I wasn't sure about telling you 'til just now. See, maybe I do know you a bit, and you're not a silly girl playing games, but there's a part of you with something to prove, isn't there? Not because you're a woman in man's game, but maybe because you don't want to turn out like your mum, or your dad for that matter. See, for a while I thought that, even if you knew the truth, you might go ahead with the job anyway. You might burst in there, take on the hired thugs and get me back to Topman just to rub it in his face.'

Jaq didn't speak.

'Tell me I'm wrong,' Azron said.

Jaq shook her head. 'You're not wrong. It's tempting. Very tempting.'

'Can I offer a slightly less dramatic course of action?'

'Feel free.'

'We walk away. We chalk this up to experience and we walk away.'

Jaq narrowed her eyes. 'You mean run?'

'No. I mean we go where we please, at our own casual pace. We've seen through Topman's plan, and we live to fight another day.'

'You could never go back to Port Town.'

Azron shrugged. 'It's not the place I knew anymore. It's time for me to move on.'

'I don't run. I don't run.'

For a while neither of them spoke.

'I'll tell you what,' Azron said. 'It's your turn for watch anyway. Why don't I get some sleep and leave you to think it over?'

Jaq nodded. Azron lay down and soon fell asleep.

+++

Sunrise the next day found Azron already awake. He sat up and looked around. Jaq was standing some way from the campsite, eyeing up the castle, which, even in the day, still sported the eldritch tower light.

There was a high-pitched yawn as Baby awoke. He fixed a beady eye on Azron. 'Last night I dreamed that I made better life choices,' he grumbled. 'It was a wonderful dream and you were not in it at all.'

'Good morning to you, too.'

Baby stretched and blinked rapidly. 'It is time for certain-death adventures?'

Azron looked over at Jaq. 'Maybe not. Let's go and see, shall we?'

Azron and Baby walked over and stood shoulder to shoulder with Jaq. 'So then,' said Azron. 'What's the plan?'

Jaq sighed. 'I'm going back to Port Town.'

'Oh.'

'Don't worry, I won't expect you to come with me.'

'You're letting us walk away?'

'I'll tell Topman that you...that you escaped me.'

Azron put a hand on Jaq's shoulder. 'I realise that's going to be hard for you to do.'

'Hard? My reputation is flawless—flawless. This will be...unprecedented.'

'Aren't you worried about Topman?'

Jaq shook her head. 'Either he'll accept my version of events and a full refund, or there will be an argument.'

The set of Jaq's jaw left little doubt as to who would win the argument.

'You could come with us, you know,' said Azron. 'We'd be glad to have you. I'd be glad to have you.'

Jaq turned to him and snorted a quick laugh. 'Be another verse in the ballad of Azron Bezron?'

'Is that such a bad thing?'

Jaq shook her head, genuine regret on her face. 'You're a nice guy, Azron, but you're a thief. You can't change what you are any more than I can.'

'No, I suppose not.'

'Still,' said Jaq. 'We'll always have the cotton prairies .'

Azron grinned. 'I'll remember it fondly. Apart from the terrifying bits, obviously.'

Jaq squeezed Azron's shoulder, said nothing, and turned and walked away. Azron and Baby watched her go until she was out of sight. Then they too turned and walked away, wandering off into the sunrise, leaving behind them the abandoned castle and the haunted town.

'Where do we go now?'

'Who knows, Baby?'

'The world is an oyster?'

'Possibly.'

'I hate oysters.'

'Then imagine the world as something other than an oyster. Something you like.'

'The world is made entirely of cream?'

'Sure, why not. You know, Baby, I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.'

'Really?'

'Well. No. Not really.'

+++

It was some months later that Jaq sat in her office, her feet on her desk, tossing a throwing knife idly from hand to hand. Her failure to bring in Azron Bezron hadn't been as damaging to her reputation as she had thought—in fact, becoming part of his legend had actually increased the incoming job offers. She was thinking of branching out, maybe starting a franchise.

She looked through a stack of fresh propositions, various letters and wanted posters, then froze as one caught her eye. It was written in a language she did not know, but the likeness of Azron Bezron and his kobold sidekick was unmistakable. So too was the sizable reward. She turned the poster over, looking for a return address, wondering who in particular was interested in taking Azron down. All that was written was a note scrawled in hasty handwriting.

"Catch me if you can."

Jaq felt a wide grin come unbidden to her face.

The End

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