

THE CHRONICLES OF DOG AND TROLL: BOOK 1

OF DOG AND TROLL

By

Joshua S. Friedman

SMASHWORDS REVISED EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Joshua S. Friedman on Smashwords.com

The Chronicles of Dog and Troll: Of Dog and Troll

Copyright © 2010 by Joshua S. Friedman

Thank you for downloading this book. This books remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial us without permission from the author. If you enjoyed this book, then please encourage your friends to download their own copy.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are a production of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Adult Reading Material

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I would like to take the time to thank the following people, without whom, this book would not be possible. Sally May Britten, thanks for trying. Susan Mary "Show Me!" Malone. My sister, Rachel. The love of my life, Andrea. And to Dave, thanks for all the inspiration.

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For Dad

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### FOREWORD, AFTERWORD, AND EVERYWHERE IN BETWEEN

Oh, hello, I didn't see you there. What's that you say? You're sick of all those campy teenage romance tales where vampires sparkle in the sunlight instead of burst into flames? Tired of aliens and acne-riddled-adolescent wizards? You say you're looking for something new? Something that is more of an adventure than a story? Well, set on down a spell and I'll spin you a yarn.

Wait, I almost forgot, before we begin, there's just a few things we need to go over. Don't worry, I'll keep this brief.

Firstly, this tale is _not_ intended for small children. This story is set thousands of years in the future. So far into the future in fact, it almost seems like the past. An age where the only rule or law is that of survival. It is a dark and savage world in which the characters, Troll, the Dog, and Myriam Star live. This tale of grim is filled with graphic violence and coarse language but virtually no sex (so make of that what you will).

Secondly, this is only the first installment in a series of six. So bear in mind, there's going to be a lot of stuff that you won't be able to understand, not yet anyway. But by the end, you will have at least a small glimmer of what's _really_ going on. Some things just can't be told all at once. Sometimes, one has to come to a truth slowly, piece by piece and a little at a time.

So get nice and comfy, grab yourself a snack. Do you have to go to the bathroom? 'Cause now would be a good time to go.

Where should I begin? That's a question that plagues all story-tellers. Where does a tale really begin? When do previous events or persons _not_ affect the course of things to come? Surely, there is a _long_ history behind this story before ever we meet these characters. And much has already happened. But before I can tell you the story of the Wachati tribe, or the history of Myriam Star, or even the _very_ beginning, I guess it all started with just two: Troll and the Dog.

And so, dear friends, when the past is lost, and the future a riddle, the only place left to start -- is the middle.

J.S.F

May, 2012

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" _He who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man."_

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

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PROLOGUE

DARKNESS RISING

Dasher trotted solemnly through the dense forest trail. She was not accustomed to night travel, but the past few months had seen an increasing amount of midnight rendezvous. For when the Mistress of the Trees did call for conclave, Dasher's master came faster than the winds of winter. In the distance a screech owl broke the ominous silence with a blood-curdling shriek. Beams of pale moonlight penetrated through lush leaves and thick twisted bramble, composing incandescent gems that danced merrily about Reverend Warwick's dark, wool-stitched cloak.

The priest and his steed pushed onward through dense forest thickets until finally emerging into a small, moonlight clearing in the midst of nothingness. A low thrumming drowned out the calls of nocturnal nature as the whole world seemed to shimmer with a sickish, vibrating glow. Dasher neighed objectively to this particular piece of forestry, time for her master to dismount.

Warwick tied Dasher's reigns around a nearby ash tree. This, the mare protested as well. With that done, he crept through the clearing to a blockade of thorny bramble and anciently warped trees. The reverend approached precariously, his hands searched for invisible obstacles before finally falling upon a solid porous surface. His fingers worked blindly along as a faint bluish-light seeped through the knotty cracks of the door's camouflaged façade. The thrumming in his head resonated like a kettle drum as the light intensified, illuminating the outline of a crooked and haggard door. An eerie glow smeared across the reverend's face as he curled an old and twisted hand around a crudely carved wooden knob. A frigid blue light spilled hastily into the forest clearing as the door slowly opened. All the while that thrumming sounded like wild fire in the deepest recesses of Reverend Warwick's mind. Dasher neighed and bucked, driving her hooves defiantly into the soft undergrowth. The reverend took no notice as he inched toward the encompassing blue aura. The door slammed shut behind him.

Outside, that eerie blue radiance evaporated and once again Jeffrey Rush was able to take hold of the grounding elucidation of the world around him. The frightened yet still voluntary scout found his feet and ran like hell for back up.

****

Wax candles fenced the interior of a dimly lit hut. Red-orange gleams of flickering light contradicted a piercing blue radiance emanating from a brilliant blue ball hovering weightlessly above a wooden table that furnished the otherwise vacant domicile. A haggard figure trenched in a thick, black cloak loomed frighteningly over the pulsating orb. The figure paid no notice to the visitor, for she was too fascinated with the relic before her.

"Well, what is it now, witch?" The reverend approached the wretch with the greatest of caution, and asked, "Why hast thou summoned me?"

The witch's response came as a vacant peering into the orb. Sick, blue light splashed across the hag's face and for the briefest of moments the reverend could have sworn that the outline of the woman's skull was clearly visible through her cracked, leathery skin. For the first time since his original encounter with the Mistress of the Trees, Reverend Warwick shook in terror.

"Come now, woman." He quivered, swallowing his fear in dry clumps. "Speak, for our time grows short. The town's people grow suspicious."

"The time grows nigh," the old woman croaked without removing her gaze from the glowing trinket before her. "The promised one approaches, the first of the king's knights, the darkling."

"A Hellion," he gulped. "When is he to arrive?" But Warwick's queries were answered only with nerve-wracking silence. "Blast ye, cursed wench!" he hissed through yellow stained teeth. "How long?"

"The ball is unclear. Wait, there is something else." She peered further into the glass. "There are others among us, town's men." She gasped in disgust. " _Ye_ brought them _here_." She glared up at the reverend with dead, suspicion-glazed eyes.

"No, no. I swear." His sole desire was to flee in terror, to run as far away as possible and bury his head in the sand as some ancient bird, but his feet were frozen and unresponsive to logic. "They must have followed me. I told ye they were becoming suspicious of us."

" _Us?_ " the witch snorted. "Why no, ye poor fool. They were suspicious of _you_. For, it was ye who sought me out." The witch hissed, glaring intently at the reverend with pale cloudy eyes behind strands of spidery hair.

Warwick felt her hatred penetrating through to his very bones. He paced anxiously in front of the small coffee table, and muttered, "No, no, no. It was the only way. The only way I tell ye. I had no choice. I had to do it for Anna."

"Who does thee seek to convince?" she asked, following the reverend's every move with those dead empty eyes.

****

Jeffrey Rush wasted no time in retrieving the cavalry, and now a crowd of men from town gathered in the clearing in front of the witch's invisible hut. Armed with torches, pitch forks, and shovels, the soon-to-be esteemed constable, Silas Withers, managed to amass a small tribe to dispense with the king's advocates.

"Are ye certain this is the place?" Withers questioned from atop his salt-and-pepper steed.

"Aye," Jeffrey said.

"I see no hut, are ye for certain?"

"T'is hidden, sai." Jeffrey searched feverishly for the spot through which Reverend Warwick had entered a doorway of solid blue light.

"And the Reverend Warwick," asked Withers, "does he hide as well?"

Still scanning the woods, Jeffrey said, "Aye."

"Very well, then," Withers proclaimed, sitting tall in his saddle, his long dark hair held back in a ponytail. He raised his torch to the darkness and bellowed a boasting warning, "Reverend Warwick, crawl out of your snake hole, _now_!"

The horses drew anxious, and the few of the cavalry who had not yet dismounted prepared to engage in this very activity now. Withers stood in the middle of the clearing, muscles tensed back and ready to spring at the first sign of danger. He held a torch valiantly against the piercing darkness. In the other hand he brandished the battle axe of his forefathers. He crept toward the tree line and the origin of muffled voices that sounded leagues away. An intense buzzing carved deeper into his brain with every excruciating step. Wither's skull trembled, teeth wriggled, eyes tearing and bulging out at the socket. He boasted another warning through a wavering and terrified voice. "Reverend Warwick. I repeat, come out this instant or we shall be forced to take drastic action."

Jeffrey Rush wasn't entirely sure Withers' brag would hold water considering the fact that nobody knew exactly in which direction the reverend lingered. Never-the-less, his patriarch's proclamation instilled great courage within the young Mr. Rush. With every step, that low thrumming rapped at Jeffrey's frail frame. He was only exposed to such torture for the briefest of moments, but more than enough for Mr. Rush to call it quits and shrink behind the soon-to-be constable. From somewhere in the densest of undergrowth, a familiar voice did swell.

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"This is ye'r fault, ye heathen bitch!" the good reverend spat accusingly.

"Why, my dear boy," the witch's voice seemed oddly calm, "how dare ye have the audacity to bring men to my sanctuary only to insult myself and the king with such slander!"

Reverend Warwick shrank away in terror. The hovering blue orb pulsated rhythmically to match the tenseness in the air. Violent shades of blue hummed and thrummed with such force that the very hut danced and weaved in step with the mesmeric beat.

"No, no, I..." Warwick pleaded in a mouse's squeaky diction.

"There is only one punishment for treason amongst the king's court!" the witch cried, her words distant, emanating from some far-off plane. She rose above the earthen floor like some terrible phantom.

The reverend felt his grip on reality begin to slip as the hut spun into a hellish vortex. The intensity in the room swelled to volcanic magnitude. The candles blew out. And the orb fell dead.

****

Silas Withers felt sick. And not the kind of sickness he was stricken with at age twelve when he had fallen ill with the Potter's flu. This was an ailment like no other. All his extremities felt as if they were comprised of poorly made springs and God just sent the world rocking back and forth. Pushing back the acrid vomit rising in his throat with hefty effort, Withers, followed by the young Jeffrey Rush nipping tightly at his heels, trudged onward through the painful radiance that racked away at their bones.

The soon-to-be proclaimed constable disdainfully savored every bit of strain. His body cried for him to set fire to the entire bloody forest. But he was still true to his duty. His Cree, his religion, the very dogmatic law of his fellow countrymen, which he'd sworn to uphold for the later part of his life, demanded he give a third and final warning before engaging an enemy.

"Reverend Warwick, this is ye'r last chance. Either face ye'r countrymen or we shall burn this entire forest to its cursed floor."

A pale blue light sank through the brush. Crude lines of incandescence formed the outline of a clearly visible hut. A misshapen door hung loosely on its façade. The radiant blue glow pulsated to a distorted rhythm. Shadows cast an eerie aura into the trees. Towers of Ash and Maple shifted nervously at the roots. A terrible thrumming tore tenaciously at Withers' ears. The once bothersome vibrations erupted into a violent blast of energy that surged through the hut's warped door and flowed ceaselessly into the forest. Knocking townsmen and steeds back a piece. Only Dasher, whose master had tethered her at a safe distance, was spared by the vicious burst. The tremors swelled to an immense factor before cutting out without warning. Dead silence. Not even the screech owls dared to violate it.

Withers glanced back to see if any of his fellow townsmen had conjured the good sense to run for the hills. But his men were loyal. The most loyal of all being the young and idealistic Jeffrey Rush. Feeling steadfast, Withers journeyed onward, followed by Rush (and farther behind and more cautious, the rest of the troop advanced). A shrill scream stabbed away at the silence. The men recoiled in confused horror. No one even noticed that the once puncturing thrumming that so furiously tore away at their courage was now absent. The fear in their hearts deepened into a new kind of terror, that of the unknown. Now all that remained was a feeble old shack with a crooked door that led into nothing but blackness.

Withers blinked in disbelief at the apparition that now stood so plainly before him.

"Rush, McCoy, Hawkins," Withers beckoned with as much discretion as he could muster, fearful that his very voice would shatter the silence into mass hysteria. The three men presented themselves in formation before him with lightning promptness. "We shall investigate the hut. Everyone else, remain at your posts, flee only at the first sign of trouble."

McCoy squawked, "Why, sai --"

"What _is_ it?" Withers hissed.

"Maybe we should wait for the dawn of light. After all, we now know where the traitor holds conclave."

Teeth clenched, Withers snarled, "And by dawn they may have fled just as ye are willing to do now." Pivoting, he marched valiantly toward the hut. The others, led by Jeffrey Rush, had no choice but to follow. Withers stopped in front of the twisted entrance and swallowed deeply before turning the knob.

It was quiet, too quiet. And the encompassing darkness took on a liquid-like quality that not even blazing torches could ever hope to break. Withers crept laconically across the bare earthen floor.

"Is anyone there?" Rush asked, breaking their oath of silence. His voice sounded awkward and shrill, startling himself along with the others.

"Sshhhhhhh!" Withers hissed through terror-clenched teeth.

Over in the far corner, a huddled figure slumped low to the ground, rocking rhythmically back and forth, and sobbing softly.

The three men stared at Withers aghast. This was not the priest they sought.

"Are ye...all right, madam?" Withers asked.

No response other than the soft blubbering of a child.

"Madam, was there a priest here? Did he hurt ye?" Withers crept toward her. His companions did not follow.

A maniacal air stirred about the room and the three young men wanted to be as close to the door as possible.

"Madam," Withers said, still attempting to make some kind of communication. "Madam?" His voice rose just the slightest amount. "Madam?"

The figure said, "He... he...he touched me!" Her voice swelled to a fanatic pitch.

For the utmost of brevity, Withers thought the woman would resume crying, but she began to cackle with frightening lunacy.

Billy Hawkins backed toward the door. Jeffrey Rush saw this, as well as McCoy (who was well on his way to following the only sane man left in the world). Jeffrey, not wanting to leave Withers, looked back longingly at his deserting comrades.

"Come on..." McCoy mouthed, silently motioning for the door.

"Where is he, madam?" Withers persisted, still creeping toward the old woman.

"Come on," McCoy repeated with a harsh nod toward the exit.

Jeffrey gave Withers one last foreboding look before obliging.

"Where is the Reverend Warwick?" Withers asked. "Come now, speak!" The soon-to-be constable expected the woman to answer in that quivering child's voice, if at all.

What he got was a cold, flat, assertive voice of a man. A voice Withers knew all too well. The voice of Revered Hansel Warwick. The reverend, or woman, or whatever the hell the figure really was, spoke only two words to Silas Withers that night. Two words that made the hairs on the back of Jeffrey Rush's neck and arms stand up and demand he get his skinny behind the hell out of there in a hurry (nearly knocking over McCoy and Hawkins as he bolted for the realm of sanity). As long as he would live, Jeffrey never forgot that voice or the two words that would hence forth plague his dreams. The figure rose with such fluidity that Withers had become entranced. Those words were: "Right here."

****

The room was silent, silent and dark. Withers had no idea how long he'd been standing there alone in the darkness, nor had he any recollection of the preceding events that led him to his present predicament. From somewhere off in the distance, the chattering voices of his fellow townsfolk were clearly audible, yet, oddly muffled as if emanating from some other plane of existence. He turned; his body sluggish and heavy. In front of him, only a few feet away stood an opened door. The constable trudged toward it, but was stuck in slow motion and his feet fell with the sluggish malaise of a nightmare from which he could not flee. He marched for what seemed like minutes yet gained no ground. The voices outside rose in urgency, pleading for him to get out now before it was too late.

"I'm coming." His voice seemed a distant echo. The door slammed shut. Withers' panic alarm went through the roof. He dropped his axe and torch (which had gone out some time ago). From behind him came a voice panting and grunting with rage. Closing in. Withers pivoted. Nothing there. The door seemed leagues away. His exit had vanished without a trace. From out of the darkness a twisted old face feverishly rushed him. It shrieked a terrible scream that sent the soon-to-be constable into a descending spiral of madness. The last thing he saw before the phantom pounced upon him were the cold, dead eyes of a demon.

1

"Well, this is certainly another fine mess ye've gotten us in," Troll said to the Dog. Troll ran a hand down the left side of his handsome face, fingers running over the scar the Dog bestowed upon him the first time they met. The scar consisted of three concise lines. Two of which ran from forehead to jawline on either side of his eye (though, his beard concealed most of the damage). The middle line would have taken that eye, but the Dog's blade had missed -- narrowly. But all that was then, and this, unfortunately, was now.

They hid in a small cave, seeking shelter from the storm, and boy, was it a thrasher. Lightning crashed. The wind, rain, and hail came so fierce that Troll and his diminutive companion had no choice but to flee the forests. Troll veiled his head with the hood of his bear-skin cloak, hobbling as swiftly as he could haul all eight-feet and 450 pounds of him, via the aid of his ever-trusty staff, of course. His soaked deerskin shirt and kilt clung to his skin as he plodded through mud and muck. The viscous, brown liquid slithered its way through Troll's sandals, settling between his toes.

The Dog scampered ahead of Troll on all fours, just as a real dog might. His clothes were but rags. Dark-green pants sagged at the seams and stitches as he moved. A weather-torn black shirt cut off at the sleeves covered his childlike torso. Previous battle wounds made the shirt appear as more of a retired pirate's flag than an article of clothing. An old and beaten cap with the letter "D" stitched into it in gothic lettering rested upon his head. The "D" no-doubt stood for some long-extinct empire of athleticism. A thick and scruffy beard stretched across his youthful face, while the hair dangling from his chin was longer still, gnarled and mangy, like that of a goat's.

A custom leather belt carrying an assortment of knives and daggers hung snuggly around the Dog's thin waist line, fashioned together with a silver disc-like object for a buckle. Metal gauntlets rode his wrists and forearms, suspended by thick leather straps that protected his hairy skin from the abrasive metal.

The Dog led Troll into a clearing before stopping on the ridge of some bowl-like valley. Porous rock formations and twisted-black trees dotted the stony earth. That was when Troll spotted the cave at the bottom of the ridge. The climb down would have been arduous even if they weren't pelted by hail and rain. Somehow they labored down the ridge and into the cave.

"We thank-ye, oh Lord, for little-miracles. Aye, so we do," Troll said as he eased back against the cavern wall, and steadied himself with his staff. The wall felt surprisingly soft, for a rock, anyway. Lightning flashed. Thick vines lined the interior of the cave like roots. How odd. Troll sniffed the air. A pungent aroma, like rotten-cotton filled his sinuses.

The Dog sat on his haunches at the mouth of the cave, peering up into the stormy skies with quiet fascination. His golden eyes glittered iridescently every time lightning crashed.

"Stick ye'r head out further and see if the storm does not strike thee down," Troll taunted.

The Dog glanced over, golden eyes twinkled as lightning flashed again. The light danced off the Dog's gauntlets and buckle. He tilted his head like a dog does when it hears a strange noise, a low guttural growl seeped out of him.

"Do not raise such a tone with me." Troll tried to get up but he couldn't. He was stuck to the wall. "What sort of trickery be this?"

The Dog hunkered low to the ground, ready to pounce, teeth barred as he growled louder.

A most peculiar sound echoed from the depths of the cave, like some type of unintelligible clickity-clacking. What could be making such a noise? Whatever it was -- the Dog didn't like it.

The Dog shivered in excitement. Golden eyes grew wide. Foam dripped from his mouth, and ran down his long, gnarly beard.

The odd clickity-clacking drew closer. Troll couldn't see it, he couldn't even turn his head, but he sensed the thing bearing down on him with incredible speed. Troll made out another sound, something scuttling voraciously among the stony ground from behind. Troll tried to turn his head again. No use. He tried to move. He succeeded in wriggling his appendages, but he just couldn't hoist himself away from the wall -- try as he might.

The Dog fetched a ten-inch hunting knife from his belt and skillfully flicked the blade into the darkness.

A loud _Screeeeeeeeee_ echoed throughout the cave, hurting Troll's ear drums. Something massive fell at his sandaled feet. "What, what is it?" Troll knew the Dog wouldn't answer him -- he never did. A horrid stench rose and violated Troll's nostrils. Some time ago, Troll passed across a skunk's carcass. The body was well into decomposing, maggots writhed within the moldy and gamey meat. Whatever lay at Troll's feet smelled worse -- much worse.

The Dog arose, strode toward Troll, and crouched on his haunches.

For a moment, Troll lost sight of the Dog before hearing a _ploosh_. He caught another (this time, hefty) whiff of that aged and earthen aroma. "What's going on? I want to see."

The Dog stood, knife in hand. A slick greenish-goop dripped from the serrated steel.

Troll felt a little better knowing that whatever the thing was, was now dead.

Eyes twinkling gold, the Dog stared off into the abyss. He tilted his head this way and that, pointy ears twitching at the slightest of sounds. Then he growled again.

Whatever glimmer of hope Troll felt moments ago, now sunk into the deepest recesses of his bowels. "What?" Troll asked in panic, "what _is_ it?" Then he heard it, a frightening amalgamation of (what sounded like) thousands of...well, that was the thing. Troll still didn't know what those things were. But they were coming fast, all scuttling and clickity-clacking away. They were coming for Troll. "Quick, cut me loose!"

The Dog pivoted. He tried to free Troll. No use. Slick with gore, the serrated steel of the Dog's blade had been rendered useless (at least, until he cleaned it).

Still, the demons in the dark closed in on them.

The Dog didn't even bother going for another knife from his belt. No time. Instead, he tore away at the vines restraining Troll, with tooth and claw.

Not until the Dog disturbed the plants did Troll realize the smell of rotten-cotton emanated from the viny tentacles. The odor sweltered and swarmed within the cave, and for the utmost of brevity, Troll felt he would faint. But he didn't.

The Dog continued to gnaw away at the restraints.

Troll's body shifted slightly, allowing him to turn his head. Troll gazed down at the creature at his feet. In the darkness, he could see it had long, spindly legs, giant mandibles, and was bigger than Troll, himself. That was when Troll noticed that the vines holding him weren't vines at all -- they were webs.

Lightning crashed. Troll could see the creature's massive hairy shell. The thing was covered in spines and had ten legs, five on each side of its segmented body. The two front legs had hand-like appendages. Another flash of lightning allowed Troll to see the thing had dozens of eyes, all of varying sizes. Those eyes almost appeared human -- almost. A chill coursed its way up and down Troll's spine. The monster before him was _not_ a spider, it didn't even really look like one, it was just the closest thing he could equate it to. And there were more. Coming for Troll. He could hear them. "Quickly now," Troll said as the Dog toiled away at the webs. "Surely, this cannot be the end of Dog and Troll, can it, Lord?" Troll opened his eyes. He could see them now, thousands of the creatures, all of various shapes and sizes, rapidly marching across the earthen floors, walls, and ceiling. They swarmed over top each other, some as big as the one dead before Troll; others bigger. The tiny ones looked like normal spiders, but were anything but. "Faster would be good," Troll said. His heart raced.

The Dog bit, clawed, and basically hacked away at the webs as swiftly as he could, but many a-strand held Troll.

The creatures approached. Millions of humanoid-eyes glowered at their prey in hatred. The Dog bit away another bundle of strands. They stuck to his face like silky-rotten strands of taffy. The Dog hacked and coughed. His body hitched as if about to sick-up, but webbing and chunks of spider guts were crammed in his mouth, and he couldn't. His body heaved and retched in torment as he struggled for air. "urk...urk...urp...uuurpk." Tiny rivulets of vomit drizzled out of the corners of his mouth and down his long, gnarly beard.

Troll's stomach turned.

The webs held, rendering the Dog incapable of spitting out the obstruction in his throat.

The first wave of the spiders fell upon them. The smaller creatures reached them first, crawled up their legs and into their undergarments, biting and stinging them.

"Hurry!" Troll called out again as the spiders chewed away at his flesh. He was stuck there, helpless, being devoured alive.

The Dog did the only possible thing he could do to remove the obstruction in his throat -- he swallowed it. "Uuurk....uukuup..." Several times he almost regurgitated (Troll along with him) as he choked back the vomit, guts, and spider webs. "Uurk...ulp...urkkp..." Somehow, he managed to swallow it all down.

The smaller spiders covered them.

Troll desperately wanted to swat the little buggers away, but couldn't.

The Dog didn't even seem to notice them crawling all over him.

" _Screeeee_!"

The larger spiders emerged, nearly upon him. He was about to call out for the Dog again, but no need.

The Dog grabbed Troll by his deerskin shirt with both hands and ripped his behemoth master free with brute strength alone. Troll was loosed. And not a moment too soon. One of the larger spiders crashed its hand-like appendage into the wall where Troll had just been.

With one hand, Troll swatted the smaller spiders (those crawling on him) as he dashed for the mouth of the cave, his trusty staff in the other. Another bolt of lightning crashed across the sky, but he no longer cared about the torrential weather. Troll sprinted a good twenty yards away from the cave before he bothered to look back.

The very webs the Dog ripped away with his own teeth had attached around one of his bare feet, tethering him to the inside of the cave. At the wrist of each gauntlet upon the Dog's arms resided a small pinion just underneath each thumb. He pulled back one pin. An audible clicking sounded as three long serrated blades emerged in a snap, poking ferociously out at the knuckles. Dog did the same with the other gauntlet, arming himself with blades that could not be knocked away or dropped just as a spider pounced. He wrestled on the ground, slashing away as spiders continued to fall upon him. Of course, he only attacked the larger spiders. The smaller ones crawled all over him, biting and stinging, attempting to pump enough venom into the Dog so that he might fall, and be their next meal. Yet still he fought on.

What should he do? He couldn't leave the Dog, could he? "Ye'r right, Lord, I cannot." Troll doubled back, keeping as much distance between himself and the mouth of the cave as he could. A few of the spiders noticed his advancements as Troll climbed the embankment surmounting the cave. They pounced, huge fangs dripping greenish venom. Troll swung his staff at the demon arachnids. Their innards splattered upon him. Their green-black guts stunk worse than the webs.

The winds picked up. The sky boomed with thunder. The spiders fell.

Troll climbed to the top of the embankment, glancing up just in time to see a man-sized spider rappelling from the twisted trees above. Troll drove his staff upward into the creature's midsection, sending it flailing wildly backward. The spider rolled across the rocks, bowling over a few others in its wake. The arachnids stumbled briefly before scrambling to their feet. Regrouping, they charged toward the top of the cliff, attempting to cut off Troll's escape. He glanced up. Twenty more (all good sizers) rappelled from the warped branches above. Troll batted them away and inched toward the apex of the precipice. The spiders closed in, surrounding Troll. Can't worry 'bout that now, he thought, not when the Dog is down there fighting for his life. Troll glanced behind him, finding just what he had been looking for. He pivoted, wedged his staff between a boulder at the top of the cliff. Troll put his weight into it. Another spider pounced from behind. Troll turned his attention from his staff to one of the metal bands he wore around his meaty fore-arms. He pulled back a pin on the band in the same fashion as the Dog had done with his gauntlets, except this time, instead of razor-sharp blades, a twirling hook followed by a length of thin chain-wiring rocketed out from the cuff. The hook sailed through the air with such force as to tear through the spider's armored body, slicing through two more of the beasts on the return trip. The hook retracted into Troll's cuff and he returned his attention to the boulder. The Dog fought furiously below. With all the strength he could muster, Troll pried again. This time, the boulder fell.

Without so much as an upward glance, the Dog bounded away (as far as his tether would allow) just before the rock crashed into the earth, squashing a bunch of the beasts and creating enough of a shock wave as to momentarily stun the others. The Dog had just enough time to cut himself loose with his teeth as a spider regained its footing and pounced. The Dog rolled away.

With the Dog free, Troll turned back to the spiders surrounding him. They jumped, fangs exposed. Troll twirled his staff around like a propeller, splattering their guts about the rocky surface. Seeing something out of the corner of his eye, Troll tilted his head.

The Dog crouched beside his master, as if leaping straight up to the top of the outcrop in a single bound.

"Dog, to me!" The duo stood back to back, creating a tight perimeter of defense. Troll, with his staff and long reach, dispatched of any pouncing spiders while the Dog cut down any that managed to crawl underneath Troll's range. Slowly but surely, they fought their way out. Troll didn't know how long they battled the demon arachnids, just that they kept coming -- from everywhere. The smaller ones were quick enough to break the duo's perimeter, attacking their already sorely stung legs. Troll's lower extremities burned in agony. He could only imagine the pain the bare-footed Dog endured.

The wind howled, thunder and lightning crashed ceaselessly above, yet no rain fell to ease the duo's burning appendages. They inched across the rocks, pivoting, turning, and fighting, before finding themselves at the edge of a cliff. The river ran fiercely below. The cliff was tall and flat, too high to jump, and too steep to climb down while still fending off the invading arachnids. They were trapped.

The spiders encircled them, but did not attack. Then they parted, creating an aisle amongst them.

Troll realized the spiders were toying with them, as if saying, "Go ahead, run -- if you can."

Out of the aisle, the biggest spider emerged. The beast was larger than the boulder Troll pried loose in order to save the Dog. Its hide comprised of sharp spines; on its back was a red mark that resembled that of a skull.

"Dear Lord, if it be ye'r will that we die this night, please let it be a good death," Troll prayed aloud as the queen spider approached. Hissing, venom dripped from its fangs and sizzled on the rocky ground. "...and let not our flesh decay in the gullet of these demons." Troll drove his staff into the ground, and said, "Amen!"

What happened next was a miracle. The winds ceased, the skies parted, and a huge bolt of lightning crashed down amidst the spiders.

The force of the lightning sent Troll and the Dog reeling off the side of the cliff.

All the dead, dried trees made for excellent kindling, setting the entire forest ablaze.

Troll's ears rang as he (and the Dog) plummeted to the racing waters below. His vision faded as the ringing in his ears subsided. The last thing Troll remembered before crashing into the river (and losing consciousness) were screams. The screams of the spiders being burned alive.

****

Dog awoke sluggishly, drifting past the treacherous waves of unconsciousness. Two voices echoed from somewhere in the depths of sleep. Their language was odd, some ancient dialect he couldn't place. Sifting through the darkness, he could not move, though his restriction was not from bondage. His muscles simply refused to cooperate with the Dog's will. He tried to open his eyes but found them as equally unresponsive.

The voices swelled and yet he could hear beyond them. Birds gibberishly chattered away. Some scrapping sound that resembled the clickity-clacking of... The spiders! _The_ spider. The fall from the cliff. Troll. A wave of anxiety came over the Dog as he tried to force his muscles to work, attempting any sort of movement he could muster. His arms and legs trembled in violent seizures. Further out still, children laughed. Horses playfully trotted about. Even Troll's voice was now evident. This gave the Dog the briefest moments of relief. But still, he must try and move, must try and escape this motionless darkness that bonded him.

A few of the Dog's fingers slightly wriggled. A low growl came deep from within the Dog's gullet, though no sound reverberated. He began to shake his head back and forth, slowly at first, but getting faster with each pendular motion. One of the Dog's arms flopped spastically, like a fish drug out of the river swift, perhaps by Troll himself. And if he could hurry in breaking his comatose façade, perhaps Troll might even share some of that fish with him (even if he did ruin the flesh by cooking it). Troll \-- the Dog could hear his voice loud and clear now, speaking of some ancient flood of lore. Dog's entire body was in tremulous agony. Almost fully awake now, he could feel it. It would only be a matter of moments before he would be able to move again. But then Troll's voice drifted away, along with the horses' hooves. The gleeful squeals of children faded back into the darkness Dog swam against. No more scrappity-clackity. Now all that remained were two voices: One of a man's, the other a woman. Both sounded elderly and hoarse.

The Dog's eyes fluttered rapidly behind closed lids. His head rocked back violently, hitting the base of his cranium on something soft yet solid. Dog's eyelids shot open. Sitting bolt-right, he examined the strange new surroundings. He was lying on the ground over a bed of skins, in a small tent that was empty save for a few clay pots, a wicker basket, and two elderly, dark-skinned people kneeling on either side of him.

The man smiled and ran a cracked and leathery hand through his long, grey hair. A brightly colored tunic wreathed around his frail body.

The woman's hair was not quite as grey but getting there. And unlike the man's garb, her gown was that of a simple earthen hue. In her hands she cradled a bowl that had been painted with a pigment made from beeswax and affixed with some sort of heat application. The old woman offered the encaustically decorated bowl to the Dog with bright sunken eyes and a toothless smile. The Dog sniffed at it -- water. Warily, he accepted the offering, sniffing at its contents once again before bringing the bowl up to his lips and partaking of the cool, fresh liquid. Drinking deeply, he leaned his head back, though his green-gaze never strayed from the elderly couple. He drained the entire contents before handing the bowl back to the woman. Water ran down the Dog's gnarly beard as he gave the two a thankful little bow.

The woman took the bowl. Laughing hoarsely, her entire face wrinkled in age as she rocked back and forth in delight. A small wicker mat lay on the ground behind her. His weapons were laid out upon it as well as his clothes. Until now, the Dog hadn't realized he was naked under the deerskin blankets. Following the Dog's gaze, the old man turned to speak to his companion in an old and broken dialect, yet to the Dog, who understood all languages, it was easily decipherable.

"Leave us," he said to the woman.

She nodded, laughing as a toothless loon before taking her leave. The bowl crooked in her thin arm, she rolled open a hidden flap from the tent's veneer, exposing the exit next to where the Dog's articles were lying.

The old man watched the Dog's eyes as he rose to retrieve his guest's dried garments. "When the young ones first brought you here, I feared your condition was beyond our medicines." He bent down to hand the Dog his tattered uniform. Dog accepted them, tilting his head at the old man's words as if he didn't understand them.

The man turned around to allow his guest to dress in private and went over to the mat where the Dog's weapons lay. "I am Chief here and it seems the Great Spirits have returned you from the land of ghosts." The chief assessed a metallic disc less than half a foot in diameter. A groove divided the disc in two along the outside treading, with rivets to grasp on to. And on both sides of the disc were very thin dials. The old sage picked up the foreign object, turning it over as he inspected the tool admiringly. He fingered the dial on the front and six sharply curved blades popped out from within the groove along the edge of the weapon. The blades doubled the object's diameter. The portable circular saw could be thrown as a disc and was fashioned to appear as if nothing more than a belt buckle.

"Such strange weapons for a warrior," the chief said. He turned the dial back in the opposite direction and the blades retracted just as neatly as they had ejected. "What manner of game do you hunt?" He placed the object on the mat with the other weapons. He turned around to find the Dog standing there.

In the old man's native tongue, the Dog spoke one word: "Man."

****

Troll said, "Now this be good smoke." He turned the elongated and decorative pipe over in his hands. He inspected the feathers and dyes that wreathed along it before passing it to a chubby young tribesman with jet-black hair cut in a bowl shape, as were the tribe's elders (who didn't really look all that elderly, for that matter). Black lines of paint tattooed the tribesmen's faces in thick horizontal lines.

Troll, the Dog, and six natives sat in a circle, cross-legged on the blanketed ground of the staunch smoker's tent. Among the Wachati tribesmen were the chief, his son, three other men who made up the council of elders, and of course, the portly native sitting next to Troll. While the chief (and one of the elders), understood the dialect that Troll spoke in, he refused to speak it, and so the chubby tribesman known as Montalvo, served as translator for Troll.

After they woke in the Wachati's camp, the chief invited Troll and the Dog into the elders' tent for private conclave.

Troll had many questions for the chief. Where were they? How had they gotten here? But alas, such quandaries would have to wait until after the smoking of a peace pipe.

Montalvo passed the pipe on to the party sitting to the left of him -- the Dog.

Both Troll and the Dog, like the other men in this cramped smoke-filled tent, were required to go shirtless. Wreathes of flowers and tall-grass adorned the newcomers' necks, while the tribesmen wore beads and jewelry. As outsiders, Troll and the Dog were not allowed to wear the trinkets of the tribe's ancestors (which they only wore while partaking in the smoker's circle), and so the children made these flowery adornments for their visitors. These accessories were a welcome honor for Montalvo, as this was his first time being invited into the smoke tent; his first time in beads and paint, and he had Troll to thank for such endowments.

Dog took a whopper of a hit. Troll examined every contour of the Dog's face, uncertain of how he would react. Dog managed to hold his composure long enough to pass the pipe off to one of the elders before exploding in a raucous hacking. He keeled over, coughing in a fit, face a sanguine hue. The natives glared at the Dog as if he'd just cursed their gods.

Oh Lord, tell me the Dog hasn't caused offense.

The tribesmen glanced at each other with pensive severity.

They watched on in quiet fascination as the Dog writhed and spasmed on the ground, struggling to catch his breath. _Hack -- cough -- wheeze._ Dog lifted his head, eyes glazed over as a small line of drool ran down from his lips and long, gnarly beard.

Troll peered around the tent, prepared for the worst.

The natives erupted in hearty laughter.

Troll forced a hesitant smile as the chief said something.

Montalvo laughed before relaying his chief's message. "The chief say, he really is like animal." Montalvo pointed to the Dog.

"How's that?" Troll asked the chief.

The chief slowly drew from the pipe, savoring the rich smoke. He held it in briefly, exhaling a long plume before answering Troll's query. He said something and the natives started to laugh. The chief waved his hand, as if telling the men not to react until the punch-line was delivered.

Montalvo said, "Because, dogs don't like smoke either." Then he and rest of the tribesmen erupted in hearty laughter.

"I like that," Troll said. "I'll have to remember that one." He glanced at the Dog, whose face blossomed in embarrassment. "T'is how God made him," Troll said apologetically to the chief.

The chief spoke and Montalvo translated.

Troll focused his attention on the chief's thin, cracked lips; hoping to begin to understand their jargon.

"Chief say he like your God. He say your God and our Gods are fit to be honored together."

"Our Gods are the same, for all are one," Troll replied.

"How wise you are. Though surely you agree, there are many faces of worship," Montalvo translated for the smiling chief.

The chief's son, Tecumseh, who had thus far remained silent, muttered something solemn under his breath. The chief heard and turned to chastise his son.

"What's he saying?" Troll asked Montalvo.

The chubby translator shook his head.

Troll frowned but abstained from his quandary. A heated dialogue ensued between the chief and his son. Troll could only speculate as to why.

Tecumseh spat angrily at his father before the chief retorted bitterly. His entire face shriveled up in wrinkles, as if tasting something most foul.

The elders just sat there. Eyes wide, mouths open in disbelief. They gazed at each other as Tecumseh continued shrieking at his father and pumping his fists wildly in the air.

Troll glanced at the Dog.

He merely squatted calmly on his haunches.

The chief stood, barking unintelligible words at his son while waving a bony, admonishing finger at the boy.

Tecumseh spoke, his words were short and hate-filled.

The elders gasped in disbelief.

The chief screamed at his son, and pointed toward the tent flap.

It would appear he's being banished, Troll thought, running a hand down his scar and stroking his beard.

Tecumseh turned to leave, reaching the tent's flap before whirling around to face his father. Brown-eyes narrowed, he uttered something bitter. Then he stormed out of the tent.

Troll didn't understand their speech, but he read the hurt in the chief's sullen face as the patriarch despondently returned to his seat. Legs crossed underneath him, his feathery headdress in his hands, a long terse moment of silence elapsed before the chief timidly meet Troll's gaze.

In total exasperation, the chief released a long sigh before speaking to Troll -- in English:

"Many, many moons ago, this land was savage with deep rocky cliffs, swamps, and jungle. Giant man-killers stalked these lands, laying waste to all who dare oppose or flee. Then the Gods sparked a great fire. Many were killed as we retreated into the caverns that lay by the river, which then was not the tiny stream that it is today. I was just a boy then, but I remember the grey snow that fell for three wheels of the moon even after the great fire had been extinguished. The land was un-liveable for many seasons thereafter, but as a phoenix, the destruction held with it a seed of promise, and from the ashes sprung a great valley of peace.

"I was a man when our people returned from our exodus to the land of our fathers. Just married to my first wife; I had three in all, and sixteen children. All have now passed to the valley of spirits. All except Tecumseh. But even after all these peaceful years, some ancient evil lived on and now resides within the deep forests just half a day's ride north of here. At first the evil presented itself as a giant spider. It killed many a woman and warrior alike, though mostly it preyed upon our children. It would sing a lullaby and our young would wander away into the woods, entranced by its terrible spell. Every new moon, when the skies were darkest, the creature would sing. I still remember the sound it made, _clickity-scrappity, scrippity-clackity._

"For many leagues it would sing, from sunset to sunrise, _scrappity-clackity, crickity-scrap._ And the children would rise from their beds, still asleep. We tried all we could to stop them, but the children were relentless and hollow while under that siren song. I lost five sons and two daughters to that terrible march. We sent out small bands of warriors to dispense of this evil, but they would never return from the dark woods through which they had gone. We sent more and more warriors into those woods, but they were also killed. We did nothing but anger the creature that dwelt deep within the forests. Out of vengeance, the creature would now come to our village every night. It killed in stealth while we slept, singing us to sleep with that hypnotic song. We had no choice but to arm the entire tribe. We took turns staying awake, it is then when I first saw the demon. As I said, it took the form of a giant spider with a red skull marked on its hide, though a spider it was not. It was killed by two men who came to our village in our time of need. They were heralds sent by the Gods, who died in battle with the beast, but not before teaching us how to kill the monster. We were eternally grateful, yet the evil kept coming back, each time in a different form.

"As if a nightmare, the same series of events unfolded, except, recognizing the evil at hand, we united as a whole more quickly, and the beast was killed. And for a time, there was once again peace among the land. But our curse kept returning as giant monstrous beasts: snake, bear, wolf, bat, even ant. As I said, I've fathered sixteen young from three wives, and all but one was taken by the evil that lurks in the woods. I remember the feeling of hollowness entering my soul every time a child was lost. I am an old man and close to death, Tecumseh is the sole survivor of my seed and will become chief when I join the great spirits in the land of winds and ghosts. I have faced death by this demon nearly every encounter, and every time the beast would kill a member of my family or tribe over me, drinking from my pain and growing ever stronger.

"Tecumseh has the makings of a great chief, but he is still very young, too brash and headstrong to lead. He wants to hunt down the beast as his kin before him. It would honor him to die in such a glorious battle, but death is not for him. Only one person is sacrificed every new moon, and that's better than angering the demon and having it kill many. Tecumseh thinks it cowardice and riles the tribe against its elders. What a great leader he will one day be, already the tribe is split in twain. But as I said, Tecumseh is the last of my lineage and I will not look upon the death of my family as what-ever reincarnation of that ancient evil stares me in the eye and laughs: _Scrippity-clackity, clackity-scrippity-scrap._ "

Troll asked, "Are ye in need of exorcism?"

Gaze blank, the chief's brow furrowed before speaking once again in his native tongue.

Montalvo translated, "The chief does not understand your words, but ensures you that any despair within the tribe is ours and ours alone. He advises you need not get involved."

Troll asked, "What was this demon's most recent form?"

"The women believe it to be some sort of giant sloth," Montalvo translated. His chubby cheeks waggled as he spoke.

"Are ye certain?"

The chief nodded.

Troll glanced at the Dog. He was beginning to be able to read the Dog's mind, and the Dog was telling him to inform the chief of the events that transpired before their meeting the tribe. And so, Troll proceeded to speak the only way he knew how -- bluntly.

"The Dog and I encountered giant spiders nearly a fortnight ago. Their queen was a huge arachnid..."

The chief once again furrowed his brow and peered questioningly at his tribesmen.

Troll decided to minimize his extensive vocabulary. "Spider, with a red skull marking on its hide."

The chief laughed in a voice so husky and old that it cracked. Trying not to make too light heartedly of such a grave situation, the elders warily followed suit. The chief spoke and once again Montalvo translated for Troll.

"The beast, of which you speak, does not control other animals, including insects. For all fear this evil and strain to avoid it at all costs."

"Please here my words," Troll said.

The chief paused a moment for reflection before bowing in concession.

"We were greatly outnumbered, but then the fire of the Gods arose."

The chief's eyes brightened.

"Lightning crashed from the skies, erupting dry timber into flames. I don't remember much after that. But the next thing I knew, the Dog was saving me, pulling me out of the river."

The chief stared at the Dog. He frowned, brow wrinkled.

Troll continued, "T'was a great fire indeed, one that spread for many leagues. After nearly a fortnight, the beast, battle torn and wounded, sought us down to seek its revenge, but it fell in vanquish. It was then that your men found us standing victorious, and brought us here."

The natives glanced at each other questioningly, murmuring feverishly in their alien language. Troll wasn't sure what to make of this, but he began to have one of his sinking suspicions, something he referred to as "twinklin's".

"Is it something I said?" Troll asked.

"No, no," Montalvo said, waving his hands out in supplication. He sighed. Shoulders hunched, he said, "It's just that..."

"Go on."

"It's just that, the things you say...they are, how you say...untrue."

"I beg your pardon!" Troll may have been a good, many things, but he was _no_ liar, and had no tolerance for being called such.

Intimidated by the behemoth, Montalvo shrunk away from Troll. The chief said something that seemed to sooth the tension and Montalvo eased back a bit before relaying the old man's message.

Eyes glinting in excitement, the words flew from his mouth in a blur. "It is not our intention to anger you. You are welcome friends to the Wachati and always have been. Unfortunately, you seem just as confused as the first time you came to our aid. But the truth is we found you both floating face-down in the river. We thought you were dead but you were not. Imagine our surprise when we realized it was _you_."

"I beg ye'r pardon?" Now Troll really _was_ confused. He distinctly recalled the fall from the cliff. But the way he remembered it, Dog had pulled him out of the river. The two then journeyed for almost an entire fortnight before the queen spider, seeking revenge, caught up to them. The Dog fought and killed the beast. Then a small tribe of hunters found them and brought them to the village. End of story. Isn't that what happened? It was certainly the way Troll remembered it.

The chief, via his translator, elaborated. "The two heralds we spoke of, the ones who came many moons ago when the first evil arose -- the spider. There was a man, as big as a beast, and a beast that looked like a man. Together they showed us how to hunt and kill this evil. But it was not nearly as easy as they had made it out to be, once they had passed and the darkness returned."

Now Troll understood the joke, if that's what you wanted to call it. 'Though Troll didn't seem to find it all that humorous. It seemed that two people who just happened to fit his and the Dog's description had once visited this village and helped them to quell the evil lurking in the woods, if only for a short while. But did the natives actually believe them to be the reincarnations of the tribe's former heralds?

The chief, via Montalvo, continued, "Our saviors gave their lives to help us. And now, nearly half a century later, you have returned to finally vanquish this plague."

Troll and the Dog shared a look of bewilderment.

The chief laughed in general merriment, 'though the elders sat quietly, faces downcast. Montalvo giggled nervously, gaze averted.

So many questions. So much uncertainty. Surely, there would be much writing for Troll to do tonight.

****

Journal entry, late spring, third quarter moon.

It has been nearly a moon since first meeting the Dog, and several days since my last journal entry. At least, so I think. But, alas dear, journal, for my own thoughts betray me. Why do my memories deceive me? Why do I have nearly a fortnight's worth of memories that the Wachati claim to be untrue? I remember the Dog pulling me from the river. I remember traveling. I remember the Queen Spider hunting us down and the Dog's courageous battle. I remember encountering three young tribe's men shortly after, who brought us back to their camp. These memories are all so vivid, and yet, so false. Why?

If what the Wachati say is correct, then there is no way the Dog and I could have been floating down the river for an entire fortnight, no siree. We would surely be dead, dear, journal. That means that they would have fished us out of the river hours, perhaps even a day or two, after encountering the spiders. And yet the chief, and thusly the entire tribe, insist that such a fire took place half a century ago. And the fact that the chief said that this demon that plagues them now did not command other creatures. It just doesn't add up.

Did the Wachati really find us and nurse us back to health? What did the chief mean when he said, "the first time we came to their aid?" Have I been here before? It doesn't feel like it.

Furthermore, if the chief along with the elders and most of the tribe, for that matter, truly believe the Dog and me to be their reincarnated saviors, then why did the chief assure our involvement in this matter to be unnecessary? Perhaps the chief was merely being coy, waiting for me to invite our services; which he no-doubt knew would be insisted upon. That seems feasible if what they proclaim is true. Perhaps, but I fell something amiss. Hopefully tomorrow shall yield some answers, though I am doubtful.

****

The sun beat down hot and without mercy. In this part of the country, no vegetation thrived. No natural water or springs. No water at all for that matter. No game prospered except the vultures that circled ceaselessly above. Only dust and rock, and nothing more. The days were hot and long. The nights were cold and longer still.

They called this place the Fields. But fields yielded fruit and seed. This place in the desert was where slaves were sent to toil until they died. Yet when the slaves (all shackled together via a network of chains), labored in unison, carving deeper into the shelves of bedrock, they almost looked like grain swaying to and fro amidst a summer's breeze.

The slaves used hoes, picks, axes, and shovels, all digging in lassitude through the barren earth at all hours of daylight without rest. They mined for coal, salt, and other minerals through which to prolong the king's devastating war machines. 'Though these slaves were heavily armed with tool, their captors felt no fear of revolt. For the king's myrmidon stood great in number and rich with armaments and steed. The king's men wore thick, black armor. Their features shielded by helmets with the faces of animals carved on the masks. They donned long-range weapons, whips, and speed-shooters.

The slaves were far too weak to wield such heavy tools effectively in battle against their captors, and so, had no choice but to toil until they fell dead in the dust.

They were fed scraps only once daily. And water, only when their captors felt it pertinent. Many died from dehydration, malnutrition, or being beaten or worked to death. Some just dropped dead out of losing all hope. Hundreds died daily, but it mattered not. For every hour of every day, the king's army advanced in all directions, taking over new lands and enslaving thousands. All were sent to toil in the desert that had no name; that is of course, if they survived the prisoner transport.

Enslavement was terrible, but not as terrible as the Lord of Black, slouched upon his midnight mare. They called this dark master, Furion, Furion the Black, Furion the slave driver of the west. And the master saw far and knew all. There he sat, all day long, just watching from atop the highest precipices, surveying all that lay vastly before him. And oh, he would laugh. But not in the tongue of man, oh no. For, Furion was a dark wizard who cackled ceaselessly in a terrible voice that was understood by all men, in all languages, and heard for miles upon miles. For, Furion the Black spoke not in words but rather, in the mind. And this was somehow more terrible than anything else in the desert. For, the body could be tempered and the mind occupied. But once he got into your head, he took root and stayed. He would cackle and taunt you, break you down. Sometimes he'd even make you do things against your will. Terrible, awful things. And when all you could do was fall to your knees, screaming in agonizing torment, there he'd be. Inside your head, laughing at you: Scrippity-clackity-clickity-scrappity.

****

Troll awoke in a start to a high-pitched screaming -- a woman. And by the sound of it, she screamed bloody murder. _Star,_ Troll thought inexplicably. He quickly forced those thoughts away -- the fields, Furion, the entire dream faded as he roused himself from the deerskin blankets the Wachati provided.

Native tongues murmured heatedly. The stamping of feet rushed off into the night. Shouts, echoes, and shrieks. Troll's heart raced in excitement. Some kind of commotion was going on outside. Shaking the lure of sleep away, Troll glanced over to where a young native woman had laid a fur bed for the Dog. Empty.

"Typical," Troll murmured in the darkness. Grabbing his cloak, he ran outside to see what could possibly be amiss. Troll arrived late. In fact, most of the tribe had gathered in a field, loitering about like lost children. Approaching the scene, Troll asked, "What's going on here?"

A young man held a skirling woman, trying to console her from whatever travesty had just taken place. Considering the story Troll heard earlier, he figured it had something to do with the ancient evil in the forest that now came as a giant sloth. A shiver coursed down Troll's spine.

The chief stared solemnly off into the distance with the rest of the elders by his forlorn side.

Huffing and Puffing, Montalvo trotted into the field and stood beside Troll.

The woman's ululating wails hurt Troll ears. He wanted to cover them, but he didn't.

Had one of her children been taken? If you could call it being taken, seeing as how the child, entranced, just sort of wandered off on his or her own. Troll extended to Montalvo a courteous little bow. The pudgy translator reciprocated. Troll was about to ask Montalvo something when Tecumseh marched up to his dejected father.

Face flushed red, Tecumseh's veins protruded from his forehead and neck as he yelled in their native tongue.

"What's he saying?" Troll asked Montalvo, who responded by telling him he'd probably rather not know. "I see," Troll said, stroking his stubbly chin in thought.

The chief and his son exchanged heated words for several minutes before Tecumseh pivoted toward the tribe. He pounded his chest and clamored his decree.

The chief hung his head as a hushed silence fell upon the tribe, all except for the woman, now quietly sobbing in the arms of the man holding her.

Montalvo's chubby face grew slack, eyes wide in astonishment.

The chief and the elders' gazes affixed upon the ground, shoulders hunched, as if shamed children.

Troll knew what was happening, how could he not? For, he'd seen it many times in his travels (at least, so he _thought_ ). The son had challenged the father, and this time, it was for leadership of the entire tribe.

Tecumseh leaned proudly toward his disgraced father and whispered something into his whiskery ear. The chief made no reaction. His face unreadable to all. Shoulders back, chest puffed out in pride, Tecumseh turned to address the crowd once more. When he finished his proclamation, the braves roared in approval.

The chief's (and elders') head still downcast in shame as a gust of wind tussled his silvery hair.

Montalvo turned to Troll. Eyes shimmering with tears, he said, "Tecumseh say--"

"That's all right," he sighed. "I get the gist. Tecumseh has challenged his father for leadership, which means he'd have to lead a successful hunt. In this case, I suppose it would be ye'r fabled demon in the woods."

Montalvo reared back. Mouth open, gape wide, he asked, "Yes, but how did you--?"

"Inform the chief that I and my Dog will participate in the hunt and guard his final lineage."

"Yes, the chief will be most pleased." Montalvo bowed briefly before rushing off to relay the message to his dejected chief while'st the other natives headed back to their tents to rest up for the hunt to come.

Yet Troll surmised that no one would be getting much sleep tonight.

The young man, who held the sobbing woman, now helped her to her feet and escorted her back to her tent.

Probably her eldest son. Troll stared off into the distant woods that sang _scrippity-clack-crickity-scratch_.

When the natives cleared out, and Troll stood there alone, he turned to a nearby ash tree, and asked, "Enjoying the night air?"

Perched silently in the branches above, the Dog peered down at Troll with amusement dancing through his brilliant, golden eyes.

****

Dawn. A cadre of braves readied their horses and armed up on spears, arrows, and tomahawks in the same spot where Tecumseh had challenged his father only hours earlier. All wore their ornamental war paint.

"Which one is mine?" Troll asked Montalvo as the two approached the scene.

"That one," Montalvo said, pointing to a salt-and-peppered mare.

Aye, t'was a fine steed indeed and Troll would no-doubt be glad of the mare's company during the battle.

"Dog will ride with me, as he is much smaller," the chubby translator added before Troll could ask.

"Speaking of which, where is the Dog?"

Montalvo motioned to the ash tree Troll saw the Dog occupying only hours ago. The Dog sat there on his haunches on the same branch, staring off into the direction of the woods, as if sensing something that the others could not.

"He was the first one here," Montalvo said, nodding at the Dog dignifiedly.

Did he set there all night? And if so, then why did the child have to die? Troll quickly pushed the thought away. Surely the Dog, as wild as he was, could have nothing to do with a child's murder, even if that thing were _nothing_. Or could he?

Donning the grin of the Cheshire cat, the Dog peered down at Troll.

Troll glanced around the braves and found Tecumseh readying his steed as his father approached. The two engaged in another heated argument. But when this debate ended, Tecumseh hung his head in dejection. The chief turned to his tribesmen and declared something in their native dialect.

So, it would seem that it is the father and not the son to lead this hunt. Troll ran a hand down his scar and scratched his stubbly chin.

The chief then informed the braves that it was time to ride out before straddling Tecumseh's already prepared steed.

Montalvo trotted over to the ash tree where the Dog perched. Dog jumped down. Montalvo's mount bucked and neighed nervously at the cur's very presence.

Troll called, "Can ye keep up on foot?"

Dog nodded.

"Very well then, tally-ho!"

The tribe raced off into the orange light of dawn, leaving Tecumseh standing there alone as the dust swirled viciously around him.

They rode for a good couple of hours, best as Troll could wager, before arriving at the tree line that marked the barrier between the valley and the dark forest ahead. Though the landscape was lush and lively, the forest before them yielded tall, dead, and barren trees. Yet, the departed conifers stood so thick that only a few feet into the forests could the troop see. Apparently, the brightness of the sun failed to penetrate these murky parts.

The chief held out a gnarled hand.

The braves slowed their steeds.

Dog ran up behind the pack. The horses traveled faster yet the Dog still managed to maintain reasonable distance (though, he pretty much had to sprint the entire way). His hairy skin glistened with sweat, yet he seemed not to be out of breath.

The chief spoke as the other natives bowed their heads in vigil.

The Dog scanned the tree line. Troll motioned for the cur to lower his head in prayer. The Dog merely tilted his head as he did when he didn't understand something (or simply feigned ignorance). Troll pointed an admonishing finger, and wagged it over the Dog. The Dog flinched. Squinting, he kneeled entreatingly.

The chief paused briefly during his sermon. He stared vacantly at the weeds before the tree line, as if something were there. But Troll, whose eyes were keen, spotted nothing. The tribe sat upon their steeds, waiting in awed silence for their patriarch to continue.

The Dog sneezed and it snapped the chief out of his daze.

The chief spoke and the tribe dismounted. They didn't have to rein their steeds to anything. Their horses were well trained, almost like big dogs. The troop readied their spears and knocked their bows. The chief glanced into the weeds again before motioning for the tribe to advance into the gloom.

Troll crossed the tree line with the others. Instant darkness, as if a heavy veil had just draped over them. They didn't just enter into the forest; they crossed over into another world.

After their vision adjusted, the natives divided into small groups. Troll took the liberty of volunteering to join Montalvo's team.

The Dog, however, began to wander off by himself, heading in an entirely different direction altogether. The Dog's gauntlets had been dangling from his belt since he woke up in the camp. Now, he strapped them tight, and ventured off.

Troll called, "Where do ye think ye'r off to?"

Dog pivoted toward Troll. He sniffed the air, tapped his nose twice with his index and middle-finger, and pointed in the direction he intended on going.

How could the Dog zero-in on a scent he'd never smelled before? Or had he?

"Watch yerself," Troll sternly advised.

The Dog nodded.

Would he obey? Troll certainly hoped so.

The Dog smiled, exposing the fangs lurking behind his thin lips. His eyes burned a brilliant golden fire. And then he vanished into the haze.

Only ten minutes passed (best as Troll could wager) since they'd seen hide or hair of any of the other hunting parties. Yet, Troll remained confident that their troop would be the first to see action. Stealthily, they marched through the dense barren trees and dried undergrowth. Troll glanced at the braves' bare feet, and wondered if it hurt. Still, they trudged on.

They passed a grove of broken trees that had not fallen naturally, as if something huge had clawed at the tall timber until it fell, knocking several other trees down in its wake.

"I'm not so sure that a sloth is the beast that we're after," Troll whispered to Montalvo.

No response. Montalvo's (like the others in their party), focus affixed on his tracking abilities.

In the distance men screamed in horror.

Goosebumps rippled across Troll's skin.

But Montalvo was a brave, and as such, he acted brave. "Come!" he commanded, charging deeper into the forest.

Troll and the other braves trotted behind, following Montalvo deeper into the woods. Where had the Dog been during all this? Troll didn't know.

A massive roar pierced the still air.

Montalvo turned left, hopped over a fallen branch, and raced toward the melee.

There, in the clearing ahead, a gigantic beast towered over what remained of the Wachati's hunting party. Men skirled as the beast shredded massive claws into flesh, and tore meat from bones with a massive beak. The creature had had its way with nearly the entire tribe. Bodies skewered upon the deciduous ground. Some so mangled, Troll couldn't tell them apart.

In the name of all creation, what is _that_ thing? One thing was clear, it was no sloth. Troll clutched the golden medallion hanging loosely about his neck as he prayed for strength and guidance. He glanced at Montalvo and the other three braves standing beside him. Red and black war-paint smeared their chests, arms, and faces. They wore ornamental beads around their necks. Troll had beads in his hair too. And as he ran a large hand through his long scraggily mane, they rattled softly.

The tribesmen armed their bows. Knocked, locked and ready to rock. Quivers of arrows slung over their shoulders. Tomahawks tucked into the string-ties securing their deerskin pants about the braves' slim waists. Except of course, for Montalvo (who was quite portly), who held a spear. Nothing more.

Troll, armed with nothing more than his staff, magic cloak, and indelible faith, glanced at the abomination, and then back at the tribesmen. Their wide eyes and open mouths suggested they didn't know what they were peering at either, but it was certainly _no_ sloth.

The three braves next to Montalvo let their arrows fly. Striking the beast in its furry midsection. But the beast kept on feasting upon the flesh of the fallen, not even taking note of the splinter-like weapons lodged into its meaty hide. The braves dropped their bows and reached for their tomahawks, charging the creature. The beast pivoted, and sent the three men sprawling with one swipe of its massive claw, staining the ground further with their spraying blood. The cracking of bones echoed as well.

Troll said, "Mayhap, we should devise a strategy." He sized-up the beast's movements, trying to spot any weaknesses. He didn't see any. Troll ran a hand through his long greasy brown hair again. Beads and braids lightly danced with each other as Troll assessed the situation through crystal-blue eyes.

The creature stood nearly twelve-feet in stature on chicken-like legs. A densely tangled brownish-red fur covered its bulky body. Talon-like claws awaited its prey on the end of long, skinny arms. No neck. The head was the upper part of its body, like a spider's. Long, mangled horns sprouted forth from the creature's brow like deer antlers. Beady red eyes rolled dead inside the beast's skull as it continued to tear and feast upon the fallen braves. Its bird-like beak full of razor-sharp teeth tore vehemently into bloody flesh.

Montalvo cried out courageously. Spear raised high, he rushed the beast. With one swift swipe the beast slashed open Montalvo's shoulder and upper arm. Ribbons of chunky flesh flew from the wound. Montalvo collapsed to the ground in a heap. The beast reared one of its gigantic chicken-like legs. Montalvo rolled away moments before the abomination could crush him.

"Lord, be with me," Troll said before roaring a battle-cry that resonated through the entire forest. He charged headlong at the beast with his staff. The creature squatted low to the ground, preparing to pounce. A shrill whistling sounded. The beast whirled around. There, standing upon a fallen tree was the Dog, gauntlets unsheathed and prepared to do battle. The Dog stood just under four-feet tall (when he _did_ stand), but just then, he appeared momentous.

"Scrappity-clackity," the monster chirped.

"Get him, boy," Troll said silently, still sprawled out on the spiny ground.

"Crackity-slappity?" the beast questioned to the Dog.

The two animals charged. Dog leapt. The creature swiped its massive claws wildly in the air, missing its target. Dog sailed into the beast's midsection, sinking razor-sharp gauntlet blades into the beast's hide. The beast bucked and pivoted. The blades slipped out of the monster's flesh. Dog whirled through the air and crashed in a heap.

Troll rushed the beast, picked up a spear, and drove it into the creatures' backside. The beast roared, pivoting, and slashing. The extended spear knocked Troll over.

The creature lifted a huge, ragged claw menacingly over Troll. "Scrappity-scrippity-clack!"

A razor-sharp disk flew out of nowhere, sliced through the creature's skinny wrist, and relieved it of its claw. The creature recoiled in agony. The disc (continuing its flight) lodged itself neatly into the trunk of a nearby tree. Dog fetched the other half of his circular buckle. He twisted the dial running along the side of the object and it spun open, becoming another razor-sharp discus. He prepared to throw it at the monster's beak.

Ululating his war-cry, the chief emerged from the dense forest. He hurtled his spear right between the creature's eyes, where it hit home. The monster reeled drunkenly backward, thrashing its head from side to side before collapsing dead on the ground.

The Dog leapt off the tree, planting his bare feet into the spiny undergrowth. His belt of daggers glistened in the minimal sunlight that dared penetrate the forests' ubiquitous darkness, as did the gauntlets riding his thin, hairy arms. Dog marched toward the tree and plucked his disc from the knotted wood. He turned the dial counter clock-wise, refashioned the two discs into a buckle, and reattached it to his belt.

Troll hoisted himself off the ground and dusted off his cloak and kilt.

The chief picked up the beast's severed talon and strode toward the Dog. Except for his ornamental headdress, the chief dressed as all the other braves; bare chested, beads, and war paint. He knelt before the Dog and held the prize up to him. His silvery hair danced across his wrinkled face as he said something to the Dog in his native tongue.

How odd. The Dog had never uttered a single word in the short time that Troll knew him. Yet, the chief spoke to the Dog as if conversing with an old friend.

An ember of jealously coursed through Troll as he absently ran his hand down the left side of his face, and over the scar the Dog had bestowed upon him.

Holding his lacerated shoulder, Montalvo shuffled toward them, and said, "He say--"

"Holy hell, man, are ye well?" Troll was astonished the brave was even alive, let alone, standing and talking.

"Yes, the cuts are not deep," Montalvo replied, fingers feeling around the wound.

The Dog accepted the chief's gift.

The chief rose just as a snake slithered out of the dense undergrowth. It lunged from the shadows and bit the chief on the ankle before slithering away as stealthily as it appeared.

Gape bulging, chubby mouth drawn tight, Montalvo said, "A death's head! Quickly, we must get him back to the village."

The chief wavered drunkenly, and then fell. The Dog caught him before he hit the ground, though he had to drop the beast's claw in order to do so.

Panicking, Montalvo cried, "Quickly, quickly!"

The Dog cradled the chief up in his arms and they fled for the horses. They rushed through the dense forestry in total silence. When they finally reached the point where the dark forests of Grim ended and the plains began, the three halted.

"What menace could conjure such evil?" Montalvo gasped.

The four emerged from the woods only to find not a single steed. Apparently all the horses had fled, as if sensing the lingering evil that even though thwarted, still resided in the forests.

"Guess they should've tied 'em down anyhow," Troll whispered to the Dog.

The Dog scowled. Evidently he did not appreciate Troll's lighthearted tone at such a time of urgency.

"Put me down," the chief instructed the Dog, in English. The Dog obligingly set the ailing patriarch on the cool grass. His long, gnarled beard fluttered briefly in the breeze.

Gasping desperately for air, the chief's throat swelled.

It wouldn't be long before his struggling ceased forever.

"I'm sorry," Montalvo said, taking the chief's hands into his own.

"Do not worry," the chief managed (still speaking in the white man's tongue). "I have lived a long and fruitful life. I have loved much and lost greatly. But I knew when we arrived at these woods that this would be my final battle."

"No, no. Don't say that," Montalvo pleaded, on the verge of tears. "You will yet ride in many a battle still."

"No, my time has come," the chief said with weakening breath.

"But you can't...Tecumseh is not ready to lead."

"That is why you must help him. Help him to heed the voice of the spirits. Help him to make his forefathers proud."

"No, we will save you yet." The chubby warrior blubbered. Long, fat tears ran down his face.

"Today I saw the demon, today I saw its eyes and knew this to be my last hunt." The chief's words dwindled down to a wheezy whisper. A low gurgling emanated from the back of his throat. He gazed up at the Dog, and said, "Today, I saw _you_." The chief convulsed in violent seizures. His purplish, bloated tongue protruded. His eyes rolled back in his head. Then he was gone, off to the valley of winds and ghosts.

Without horses, they had to walk the entire way back to the village. The Dog carried the chief's corpse without aid for the entirety of the trip. They stopped only once. By a small pond where Montalvo caked his wounds with mud, clotting the open serrations until he returned home.

Troll and the Dog remained vagabonds.

They arrived at the village around dusk. The tribesmen moaned and wailed in despair at the sight of the Dog carrying their chief's lifeless body.

Surely, this would not end well.

Tecumseh sprinted toward them. Eyes teary, teeth barred in anger. He slowed to a trot, halting a few paces away from the Dog. His jaw drew slack, mouth agape. Befuddlement filled his gaze, as if he couldn't believe what he was looking at.

The Dog presented the boy-chief with his father's corpse.

Tecumseh scowled, eyes narrowing. He slugged the Dog right in his hairy face, and yet the Dog wavered not by the force of the blow.

Troll stepped forward to restrain the Dog from attacking the grief-stricken lad. No need. The Dog placed the chief's limp body gently upon the ground. He rested his hand upon the departed chief's forehead, and made a sound, as if speaking the tribe's words.

Did he speak? Hard to say for certain. Perhaps the ol' boy grunted or something similar, yet Troll had his suspicions.

Tecumseh turned to the crowd. He thrust his fist in the air and shrieked in his native language.

Chubby face paling, Montalvo said, "I think you should go my friends."

"Why is that?" Troll asked.

"It seems that Tecumseh is holding your Dog, and thusly you, personally responsible for the chief's death. He is riling the tribe against you."

Troll glanced around, the natives glared at them with vengeful eyes.

Montalvo said, "I'm sorry for our ill-fated meeting, though I know the truth about what happened out there, and hold no grudge. When things settle down, I will tell my people what really happened on this day. But for now, perhaps it is best that you go on about your travels."

"Aye, perhaps ye are right," Troll said. Troll and Montalvo shook. Montalvo offered his hand out to the Dog. The Dog bowed.

"Good journey," Montalvo said to Troll.

"And to ye as well."

Then Troll and the Dog set off before the tribe (what was left of them) turned against them.

After leaving the Wachati, Troll and the Dog continued following the river. Fearful that some of the tribe's men might try to avenge the chief's death, they walked the entire night and half of the next day.

What happened? Troll didn't even know how he _really_ ended up in the Wachati's village in the first place. For the second time since meeting the Dog, Troll had found a group of people living together, tried to help them, and then been cast out. Had the Dog anything to do with these recent banishments? Troll couldn't remember being exiled from anywhere before meeting the Dog. Or had he? Troll felt he could no longer trust his own memories. Perhaps he was just tired. After all, they had been walking for an entire day and a half without rest. Before that, the battle in the woods. And before that, a long, restless night.

Troll collapsed upon the earthen floor, gasping in exhaustion before draining nearly the entire contents of his canteen.

Dog sat neatly on the ground upon his haunches. He didn't seem fatigued at all. Troll offered his canteen to the Dog, who eyed it suspiciously.

"Oh, come now, after all we've been through, I would never offer my cup in malice toward thee."

The Dog made neither gesture nor movement.

"Sure ye'r not thirsty?" Troll asked, taking another swig. Droplets of water flew from his parched lips and nested in his tangled beard.

Nothing.

Troll hastily withdrew the canteen, returned it to its rightful place within his cloak, and snorted, "Fine then." He rose to his feet with a groan. Staff bearing the brunt of his weight, Troll hobbled toward the Dog.

The Dog drew back a bit, but maintained his ground.

"Do not be frightened, for I mean no harm, when I'm not around people for a spell I forget how daunting my presence can be," Troll said, appreciating the massive difference in size between him and his diminutive counter-part. He offered his hand out to the Dog in friendship.

The Dog nodded and tipped his hat.

Bingo. He did possess knowledge of basic social skills, just as Troll suspected. He now knew the Dog was not nearly as feral or vicious as he'd like to portray. He might just have the remains of a man in him yet. "Come now," Troll said, hand still outstretched. "Will ye not shake with me?"

Still nothing.

"Have ye no sense of social propriety? Oh well, it matters not, for I take no offense by it. I just think ye should act a man around the presence of others." Troll hobbled away with a hearty grunt, returned to his place on the ground, and added, "Might make things a bit easier when we do run into people, so I shall teach ye some basic civilities." Troll yawned like a lion stretching out upon the shaded ground. "But not today."

Ready for a nice, long nap, Troll drew his cloak about him. The last thing he saw before his eyes fell heavily into slumber was the Dog still squatting there in the sunlight, watching Troll with hazel-eyes.

****

Journal entry,

I have taken the Dog under my wing. I hesitate to use the word domesticate, but my intentions are definitely based on making him acceptably presentable to people by way of vigorous training regimen.

After breakfast I set time aside to make the Dog proficient at such skills as swordsmen-ship, archery, and staff fighting, all of which were supplied by the armaments beneath me cloak. After that, we resume our travels, following along the river's winding path. When we rest at mid-day, I often skill the Dog in simple self-defense techniques (blocks, kicks, and other things of the like). However, if I fancied myself a nap, I would leave the Dog suspended in balance exercises to correct his natural clumsiness, like balancing atop a tree stump or rock on one leg.

We then resume travels for another few leagues of sunlight before setting camp. His taking to the training is rocky at best, though I have every confidence in his improvement. I am left perplexed, for after such nimble and proficient performance at our initial battle (or even the encounter with the spiders for that matter), that he seems to take to such training as slowly as he does. Perhaps his diligence and skill during battle are primarily out of instinct; instinct that's just waiting to be coaxed into masterful perfection. Either that or he simply tries too hard to appease me. Probably the former.

Speaking of which, I'm pleased to report that the Dog now appears to be a servant to me, appeasing any simple command (sit, stay, come, and other tricks of obedience) just as a dog would, though he still seems dumb in the craft of shaking. I suspect this is because he understands the fact that I don't want him to perform this out of mere mimicry, as a dog would, but rather, out of common greetings of a man. This only furthers my suspicions of the Dog's lurking humanity. The Dog is not human, this much is clear to me, and while I sense his heart is true, others sense his unnaturality and immediately condemn their troubles, doubts, and fears upon the Dog.

What is the Dog? Where did he come from? For all our travels and battles, he still refuses to trust in me. Yet, this doesn't bedevil me nearly as much as the whole ordeal with the Wachati tribe. Tell me, Lord, I pray of thee, what should I make of these mysterious events? Truth be told, I'd rather forget any of it ever happened. But the very temptation of it only furthers to remind me of my own mis-memories.

Fearing reprisal from Tecumseh and his Cree, I thought it best to leave the river side for a while and traverse through the meadows. Since our encounter with the tribe, I have instructed the Dog of the importance of observing other people's customs, hoping that this would at least aid us in our travels.

But once again, my thoughts have rolled upon their own accord. What I was trying to write about occurred earlier this day.

Today I nearly gave the Dog the thrashing of a lifetime. But I meant no malice by it; bugger took me by surprise, he did. Yet, there I go gettin' ahead of myself again. We went fishing this afternoon, I made use of a hook and some string I had in my cloak pocket. Fetching worms out of the Earth by digging my big ol' sandals into the dirt with my heels. I needs no pole. Dog, on the other hand, sat perched upon a tree branch over hangin' the waters. The current wasn't too fast, and so whenever a fish swam close enough to the surface, that ol' Dog, he'd just pluck his hand into the water hoping to pull out a nice trout or eye-waller. But they was too fast for the old boy.

I'd just pulled out my third fish, a good-sized trout. Steppin' on it so's it didn't flip-flop round when I ripped the hook out its smackers, and tossed it ashore next to another trout and good-sized eye-waller.

" _That makes three to none by my count," I said to the Dog. "May I suggest another method?" I could see the Dog was gettin' frustrated with my daunting success, so I offered him up a piece of advice. "That's not the way to do it. Ye must bait 'em, let 'em come to ye, by cracky." I guess the poor li'l feller felt challenged by this, cause'n he crept further out onto the branch. He was pretty far out over the water, reaching into the cool current with great effort for as far as his short arms would allow anyway. He nearly lost his balance, at which I instructed the Dog to proceed with caution less'n he wanted to get wet. He just gave me this look like he was gonna say something. Something smug or spiteful, but he remained silent as he went back to trying to rustle himself up some grub. Well, sure 'nough if one didn't come close enough to the surface for the Dog to actually taste. Salivating as his eyes turned gold, teeth elongating, he plunged a clawed hand into them waters with such a force that he nearly flipped over entirely as he tumbled into the waters below. At first I was concerned, 'cause I forgot the Dog couldn'a be hurt, wait, let me rephrase that, he can't be wounded. But damned if he didn't break them waters with that very same fish clenched betwixt his fangs. Immediate hilarity I say, for the thing was still all a-wriggle with life. So, the Dog, in fashion of his namesake, bit down harder on the fish, shaking his head violently from side to side._

" _Well done!" I said once I caught my breath from all the laughter and what not. Well, he come out that river fish in mouth, with such a triumphant look, it filled me up with pride, so's it did. And it was a good sizer, too. The Dog made his way down to the river bank, wet clothes a smackin' and a sloshin' 'gainst skin and mud, makin' a sort of sucking sound as he plodded along. The Dog was well on his way towards a eatin' (raw and unprepared, yuck!) when he tripped over a branch and fell flat upon his face. I erupted in such a roarous laughter that the birds took flight in terror, even the trees seemed to shrink away by the very sound of me voice._

Well anyway, the Dog wandered off into the woods to relish his catch. Deciding that three bein' a holy number and all, it was time for me to start eating. I produced my trusty pot from deep within the recesses of my even trustier cloak (along with a few wild onion sprouts I found in my seemingly bottomless pocket). I said my prayers and prepared to feast. Upon finishing, I went in search of the Dog, as it had been many an hour since I'd seen hide or hair of him. I felt as though I'd hurt his feelings and wanted to apologize (though the very thought of him tripping with that fish in his mouth would send me to the ground in a fit of laughter, had I allowed it). Pushing through a pocket of thick brush, I detected a low grumbling sound. Following the noise away from the river and up a small embankment littered with rich shrubbery and tall pines, I tracked the sound through spider-web infested bushes before I came to a clearing in the forest. Though clearing might not be the best word for it, t'was more a mirage than a clearing, and dark too. Trees weaved complex interlacings of branchery. Coniferous mazes lined the clearing like a cage, isolating it, as if it some other kingdom or realm. There, in its apex, rose a mound of mauled fish, bird, and an array of other forest creatures: squirrel, hare, skunk, and other things of the like. Some of the animals were not yet dead, though mutilated viciously. Fish wriggled with life, a sparrow cried out in torment. A raven, upside down, flapped insanely, entangled in a bit of squirrel intestine. The sight was horrendous. Yet, worst was the beast high upon the mound. Some wild-like abomination ripping into the animals with relish. Not so much eating the prey as it was mauling them. The beast rolled upon the animals, soaking its deep brown fur in blood, gut, and skunk spraying. The beast acted almost like, dare I say, a dog. But surely the Dog was not to blame for such a gluttonous travesty. For the Dog, while capable of feral form (though to a lesser degree), wore clothes, a hat, and weaponry. Whereas this beast was naked save for its fur. I was behind the beast and downwind, so I advanced, hand on the hilt of my foil and ready to draw. The other on my medallion for strength of the Lord, I uttered a small prayer, advancing as stealthfully as possible. But the beast did hear, turning around and hissing at me with blazing gold eyes just as the Dog had. I stopped. Was it the Dog? No, it could not be. Yet those eyes held something so familiar, so forbidding.

" _Vile creature," I muttered below my breath at a distance of more than twenty paces. The creature reared back as if ready to pounce, growling and drooling as if a rabid, dare I say -- Dog. "Get thee hence from my vision, feral beast. In the name of the Lord, I pray!" I bellowed, drawing my foil as I charged headlong at the creature. The beast bounded away effortlessly before I gained so much as a quarter the distance. T'was this time when I noticed a pile of clothes folded neatly and tucked safely between the roots of an ash tree. A belt of knives and daggers sat coiled atop a pair of gauntlets. On top of the entire thing, as a swallow roosting upon its nest, was a ragged, old cap with the letter "D" stitched upon the brow._

" _Well done, Dog," I said admiringly to the pile of game at my feet. "Well done indeed."_

****

The afternoon's heat sweltered with the kind of humidity the skeeters flourished in, another reason for staying out of the thick woods. Troll hadn't seen the Dog since brandishing his blade at him earlier that day. Troll felt certain the cur still followed, a twinklin' told him so. Yet no sign of movement amidst the tree line. Less'n the Dog was either far enough ahead or behind so's not to be noticed. That was a possibility. Suppose the Dog wasn't following him. Perchance it was t'other way 'round. Troll let those thoughts come and go as fall rains, but did not dwell upon them, for surely if he called, the Dog would come.

Troll (as he usually did when perambulating), was singing,

My woman is gone, gone all away

But onward I'll march, my heart must obey...

He focused on the path unraveling before him, stopping every so often to pluck a small stone or pebble from the Earth-worn trail, only to toss it complacently into the brush.

I preach from my soul, I will not evade

Lend me a beer, and grateful I'll thank

From behind him, something stirred in the bushes before jetting across the path. Troll whirled around just in time to see absolutely nothing. He scanned the surroundings with earnest, but spied nothing besides the thick, lush trees that lined and even sometimes tunneled the forest path with their outstretched limbs of foliage.

"Quartz!" Troll plucked the tiny gem from the ground as if nothing had happened. But he knew better.

I travel the seas, I volley the stars...

He slipped the piece of quartz into a pocket concealed within his enormous bear-skinned cloak, before marching on.

I've buried my dead 'neath sacred yards

Affixed upon eyes of the Lady Divine

Should my wants and soul be pure,

The good Lord will oblige.

Another rustling came from behind the singing giant. This one sounded closer than the last. Troll stopped and without turning, calmly accused the forestry around him. "Is someone there?"

The trees rustled. Troll pivoted on sandaled heels. A flock of blackbirds fled a mulberry tree in distress. Troll stamped the dirt trail with his staff thrice and small plumes of dust swirled about his massive ankles with insane delight. He bellowed, "Whoever is there, present yourself now, I beg of ye. Or prepare to face the wrath of a servant of the one true God!"

Without further a-do, a shadowy figure crawled out onto an extended limb. The figure encloaked itself within the shade, but Troll's eyes were keen. "Oh, it's ye." He ran a rough hand down the left side of his face, savoring the scar there. "I hadn't seen ye in a while, I thought ye'd gone on ye'r merry way."

The Dog smiled, wearing the grin of the Cheshire cat that led Alice deep within the dark forests of Grimm. Troll knew all about the tales of old from the land of Grimm, but never thought he'd actually meet one of those fabled creatures. Troll did not trust the grinning Dog, not as far as he could throw the vile beast, and apparently that was actually quite far.

"Might as well come down here and join me for a spell." So's I can keep a keener watch on thee, he couldn't help but silently amend.

The Dog just sat there, eyes shimmering gold, that gruesome grin with elongated teeth. He tilted his head this way and that, pointy ears twitched.

Troll bowed his head and released a long, low sigh. He gazed up toward the heavens, and said, "Aye, t'is true, Lord. But then again, ye'r always right." Troll worked his hand through his shaggy hair, running it down the scarred side of his face and down his beard. Troll trained his crystal-blue gaze upon the Dog, and said, "Now, come down here so I can apologize with propriety."

For a moment, or two, Troll didn't think the Dog would accept his offer. But then, the Dog sprang off the branch from a good thirty feet in the air, landing safely as his bare feet dug into the dirt-trodden path. Well done.

Dog sat on his haunches, gazing up at Troll. From underneath an ancient cloth cap with the letter "D" barely readable through the thick grime and dirt, Dog's eyes glazed over from gold to a hazel-green.

"I apologize for driving ye away from ye'r kill."

The Dog sat there, tilting his head this way and that, hitching his pointy ears at the tiniest of noises.

"I must admit, I was a bit startled to see ye in such a state. I don't much care for it when ye do...whatever it is ye do." Troll strolled on.

Head bent in shame, the Dog followed obediently on all fours.

Troll blurted, "Besides, gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins, did ye not know it? Now, I can eat a lot of food, but that was just a grotesque amount. My stomach nearly flips just thinking of it. And the smell, oh, God, the smell was horrid beyond words. And as for ye--" Troll pivoted and stooped low to the ground, via the aid of his staff. He craned his neck toward the Dog and sniffed. Troll recoiled at the stench of blood, death, and skunk sprayin's. "Ye would benefit from a bath as well."

****

Journal entry,

The Dog continues his vow of silence, but I know he can speak, I just know it. I feel as though any day now he'll open his mouth and start jawing my ears off as if he'd been speaking all along. But still he remains speechless. I grow weary of his antics. I can't believe after all we have endured together, he still trusts me not. This vexes me greatly, for if he still trusts not my loyalty to him than why would he place his life in my hands and allow me to do the same for him? I just don't know anymore.

Worst off, I'm not sure I could get rid of the Dog now even if I wanted to, which is starting to look like not such a bad idea. After all, who knows how much more trouble the Dog is likely to get into around other people. Or for that matter, how much trouble he could get me into.

Earlier today I was walking along in silence, just looking 'round at the beautiful scenery God doth give'th me. I wasn't doin' anything of importance when suddenly it hit me; an epiphany, or perhaps a vision, or maybe both. It was a mental image of me continuin' me travels on by my lonesome.

I know that the Dog shall not be in my company for long. But while he remains so, he makes my quest at doing the Lord's will, all the more difficult. Oh Lord, I know that thou'st will is not serviced without trials, but in that moment, I imagined the Dog no longer with me. And I long for the day that he is no longer in my stead. Perchance I would enjoy his company even more so, would he conversate. But I feel, as unfortunate as it sounds, he is growing far too burdensome.

I know deep within my soul that while he does not, and shall probably never be able to live alongside humans, he doesn't hate them. He just wants to be left alone. Though I do sense a great anger within' him. Mayhap, the only one he truly hates is himself. I have prayed over this matter many times. And each time, God is telling me that the Dog's place is with me, that he is vital. I don't usually question God's commands, but I just don't know...

Finally, the dreams. Oh, Lord, to what should I make of them? Why do I keep dreaming night after night images that I have never seen and could possibly never know? Who is Star? Who is Furion the Black? What is the meaning behind all this?

Lord give'th me strength and enlightenment so that I might not only know what to do, but also have the strength in which to do it. In your name I pray -- Amen.

****

"Now, frogs is good eatin,' especially the legs." Troll ranted on as the Dog, as always, followed along in silence. "There are oh-so-many ways to prepare such a delectable dish. Ye can bake 'em, sauté 'em, grill 'em, smoke 'em, boil 'em 'n such. Not just to eat 'em raw, which is probably what ye would do. Do ye like frog?" Troll paused not so much as to allow the Dog a chance to respond, but to catch his breath. Just up ahead, the path they followed forked. Troll halted, and asked, "Well, what do ye think? Which way should we go?" Silence. "Dog's choice."

Out of the corner of his eye, Troll saw the Dog point an outstretched finger to the left, but that would not do. Troll wanted him to do what he knew he could. Troll wanted him to speak. "Well?" Troll stood there for several minutes, waiting for the Dog to answer.

The Dog merely squatted on the ground, pointing as if a statue.

"Damn it! Ye'r gonna have t'say something sooner or later, ye know." Troll waited for some sign of understanding; a look, a furrowing of the brow -- something -- anything. Troll sighed in vexation, and said, "Come now, I don't care if ye don't talk to anyone else, but ye'r gonna have to start talking to me."

Dog sat motionless, finger outstretched toward the west.

"I'm not going to stop and look around for ye'r fleeting attempts at sign language every time I ask something of ye. Just speak, ye blasted cur." Still nothing. Troll ambled on, completely exasperated. "I'm a man who needs conversation. I crave it!" he bellowed. "And if ye cannot supply it, then perhaps it's time I find me a companion who can."

****

2

After taking a short break in order to continue the Dog's "education", the duo spent the remainder of the day traversing in total silence. Troll no longer knew where they were headed, only that they were more or less going south and apparently walking up-hill. They hadn't seen any sign of the river they once followed in many days. Around dusk, the two arrived at a small hamlet in the middle of nowhere. Several quaint, stone homes lingered on the outskirts of the town. All seemed run down and deserted and Troll found himself wondering (and not for the utmost of brevity) if this were not the case regarding the whole world. Perhaps everything everywhere was just dwindling on the verge of existence. That was the way things seemed anyway. Any time Troll found a group of people living together, which was becoming fewer and farther in between, it seemed they were already...Living in the valley of ghosts and winds. Troll's thoughts drifted to the natives. How was Montalvo doing? Did he finally tell the others the truth about what happened in those bleak woods? How did they take it? Did the tribe still hold the Dog and himself personally responsible for the chief's death? Would he ever see his friend Montalvo again? How was Tecumseh fairing at being the new chief? Had he a wife now? Perhaps. Had the evil in the woods resurfaced yet? Perhaps not. But it would.

Farther along the path stood an old cobblestone well, also deserted. Was the water from within even drinkable? Even farther lay a narrow street where small, frame buildings lined each side of a dirt road. Wooden plank cross-walks adorned the facades of the crude weather-ravaged buildings. Folks in jeans and cowboy hats littered the earthen street as they went about their wheelin's and dealin's. It looked like a paradise.

"So, should we find the nearest bordello or merely ask to parle with their leader?" Troll jested.

The Dog shrugged in complacence.

"Speak, damn it!"

Yet, the Dog still made no response (not even his usual facial gesture or exasperated huff).

"Screw it! I'm getting myself a drink. Go do...whatever it is ye do when only God watches. Behave yourself." Troll cursorily scanned the area before leaning toward the Dog, and whispered, "And don't kill anything."

Troll passed a pole where the citizens hung candles at night. A yellowish piece of parchment had been pinned to the splintery wood. When he got closer he noticed the torn and wrinkled paper was a wanted poster for someone named Jethro Jessip. He didn't bother to stop and read what crimes the outlaw committed, something about the poster felt like some ominous omen.

Dear Lord, I pray (yet again) that the two of us shall be able to leave this town without the Dog incurring a wanted sign of his own, Amen.

Troll ambled down the street, extending warm tidings of welcome to any man or woman who dared come within greetings distance of him. "Hello. High there. How ya doin'? Nice to see ya."

Everyone he sent salutations to, returned a grimace or scowl, as if his very presence disgusted the lot of them.

Or maybe t'is not him they repelled by. Troll glanced back.

The Dog was right where he left him, as if commanded to stay.

Farther down the dirt street, a few small children wearing flannel and overalls played jacks in front of a local convenience.

"Excuse me, lads," Troll said, careful to keep his distance and making pains to appear as little intimidating as possible. "But could ye tell me where a weary traveler might be able to wet his whistle?"

The children stared vacantly at him just as the Dog might, and for a brief instant he had actually anticipated this, but no, that could not be. Perhaps they simply had not heard his monstrous voice.

"Hello? Be there anyone capable of speech?" He waved his hands around as if it would help to attract their attention. "Oh, I see, seems to be a lot of that goin' 'round as of late," Troll said with a sigh. Wait, that must be it! Just his luck, he finally found a whole town littered of people and it's filled with blasted, deaf-mutes.

The children screamed, arms flailing as they fled into the nearest building for sanctuary. From behind, the Dog broke out in a laugh that hiccupped and popped. Troll turned around to find that the cur even pointed at him in mockery while stamping a foot in the dirt.

"Well, I'll be," Troll said, smiling widely. "I thought ye mute."

Troll continued on in his quest for brew. The Dog followed from a good twenty paces away. Troll passed a few reigned horses tied to a hitching post and stopped long enough to make his introduction to the young geldings, taking time to greet each horse in turn. They accepted him accordingly, though they'd be the only ones in town to do so. But when the Dog passed, they bucked and neighed in instinctive apprehensiveness. The Dog darted to the side to make some distance from the frightened horses. Grasping the opportunity, Troll whirled around, pointing and laughing in loud, boisterous mockery at the Dog, just the way Dog did to him (only louder). Troll's thunderous voice echoed off the plank-wooden buildings. People on the street jumped in a start before shrinking away. They all stared at him in silence, eyes wide, mouths open as if they intended on saying something -- but didn't. No matter. Music and loud merry gibberish emanated from a building a little further down the street. The pub.

Candles dimly lit the small, cramped, and humid tavern. The salty aroma of sizzling grease and the staleness of spilt and congealing libations (combined with natural body odors of people kept in close quarters for extended periods of time), brought a sweet amalgamation to Troll's sinuses. Somehow, he felt right at home. Townies and drifters of all sorts crowded within the bar, all laughing and having a good time. Certainly a good spot for Troll to imbibe a few spirits. Troll glanced over the tavern's occupants while standing between the double swinging doors. In the far corner (just beyond the door Troll now stood in) sat a shadowy figure, sipping on a bowl of steaming hot soup in solitude. Something about the stranger caught Troll's gaze, something he couldn't put a large, pudgy digit on. The stranger wore a wide-brimmed hat that covered his (or her) face. He would certainly have to keep an eye on this one.

Farther down stood the bar, where a few people sat on stools and sipped from large, ceramic mugs. Four red-headed waitresses and a cook, clad in grease-smeared garbs, leaned behind the counter, serving their guests with wide, fake smiles.

Troll found an empty table along the far wall, conveniently isolated from the majority of the crowd. Surely such a table would prove just fine for Troll and the Dog. However, one table right across from the one that Troll picked was well occupied, with six drunken men all hootin' and a hollerin' and having a good time. The men looked scraggily; dressed in jeans, cotton shits, leather vests, and 'neckerchiefs. Their long, greasy hair plastered to the sides of their dirty faces and scruffy beards. Scoundrels, sure. But scoundrels usually kept to themselves \-- usually.

Troll sat down at the table and found luckily enough that he had a direct view of the stranger sitting in the corner, still working away at a bowl of soup. Every time the stranger bent down, the brim of his hat danced ever-so slightly.

For the Lord doth work in mysterious ways, Troll thought with a grin.

From behind the bar, a waitress promptly shuffled over to take their orders.

"What can I get you, boys?" she asked. Her auburn bangs danced upon her forehead as she wiped her hands off on her apron.

"I'll have a beer, a whiskey, one water, and the biggest bloodiest steak ye have," Troll said as his stomach rumbled, mouth already salivating at the prospect of steak.

"Only got's deer, hon,' that all right with you?"

"Certainly," Troll replied. "Steak is steak is it not?"

"Uh, yeah," she said, her thin brows arched, gaze darting to the side. "Will there be anything else?"

Troll took a moment to contemplate. Was something missing?

"And one baked potato please."

She turned to the Dog. The girl recoiled, face wrinkled in disgust. "And for you, sir?"

The Dog peered at Troll, a pleading look in his eyes as he whined lowly.

"Go ahead, Dog, order _if_ ye can," Troll said, smiling smugly. He would enjoy this, for, surely the Dog's attempts at ordering would be entertaining, to say the least.

The Dog slapped the table, pointed at Troll, and held up two fingers.

"And the same for you," she asked of the Dog, who nodded accordingly. "All right, I'll be right back with your drinks."

Troll briefly glared at the Dog in contempt before producing his journal from somewhere within the depths of his cloak. He had much to record and could not bother himself with the Dog's eccentricities right now. Head bowed and seemingly flipping through pages, Troll glanced over at the figure in the corner. The stranger eyed the two down, all the while still sipping complacently at the bowl of soup. Troll settled on a page and feigned to read through it, even made the gesture of producing a pen. Scanning down the blank lines, he appeared as though his mind were elsewhere, all the while keeping a keen eye on the stranger who was in turn keeping a keen eye on them.

The Dog merely sat there, looking around the bar in fascination. Every so often he would stretch his neck out in a certain direction and sniff the air.

The men at the table next to Troll's toasted their mugs and cheered loudly at something or other. For some reason, all their laughing and yelling seemed to alert the Dog. A low, guttural growl churned deep within the Dog, as he narrowed his dark-brown gaze upon them.

"Behave," Troll admonished without looking up.

A scraggily man at the next table yelled out drunkenly, "Waitress! Damn it, waitress, where's my steak, ye contemptible shrew? I want it now."

From behind the bar, a young woman with short red-hair (probably Troll's waitress's sister) hurried to prepare the plates. Balancing one in each hand and one on each forearm, she quickly brought the table their food.

The scraggily man studiously inspected his steak as the waitress continued to serve the others. His stubbly, sun-tanned face twisted into a contortion of utter disgust. He angrily smacked a plate out of her hand, its contents spilled unto the dirty floor. The dear steak left a greasy glob on the plank wooden floor as the Dog let out a small whimper. As per usual, before the shit hit the fan, all grew silent and still. The scraggily man grabbed the woman fiercely by the arm.

She squealed, "Ow, you're hurting me!"

Time slowed down to all but a crawl, all gazes on the action unfolding. All except Troll, who continued to watch the stranger in the corner sip away at his steamy dinner.

"This meat ain't done yet. Does this look like well-done to you?" the man shrieked at the cowering girl. "Huh? Does it?"

From behind the bar, the older sister made an advancing motion but the cook (probably the girls' father) held out an impeding hand and said, "Serve your table's drinks, Sal."

"Answer me!" the vagabond said as his friends chuckled merrily at the girl weeping in terror.

No one dared to help the young lass.

"You stupid, useless bitch!" The man stood up so he could tower menacingly over his prey. "I wait all this damn time and my shit ain't even done yet." He leered over the poor girl and drooled hungrily (but not for steak) as he raised a hand to her. "I'll show ye done, bitch." He swung but his hand didn't move. Confused, he turned to find the Dog growling as menacingly at him as he had been toward the young girl.

"Dog, come!" Troll called, still seemingly affixed upon the book spread-eagle upon the table before him.

Dog leaned close to the man, and allowed him to catch a whiff of the blood and rotting flesh on his breath. Teeth bared and sharp, the Dog leaned in closer, growling all the louder as the vagabond's eyes widened in confusion and fear. The man released his grasp on the young waitress. Terrified, she fled back to the sanctuary behind the bar where her father waited to embrace the child. The Dog snapped his jaws at the man. Everyone at the table startled.

Troll said, "Dog! Sit down now!"

Dog stood there growling at the men, staring them all in their beady little eyes. Pivoting, the Dog strode back toward the table where Troll patiently sat.

"That's right, go sit down," the man muttered, "damn mutt."

The Dog whirled, and hurtled a serrated, ten-inch hunting knife at the man's food. The blade went right through the steak, shattering the plate and lodging itself into the wooden table beneath.

From across the room, the stranger in the corner gazed up for the first time and watched the events ensue with full attentiveness. Dog sauntered over to the hoodlums. The scraggily vagabond drew back, muscles tensing, and mouth clenched. The Dog stopped right in front of the scoundrel. Never removing his gaze from the man's frightened gape, the Dog retrieved his knife. Digging his dirty clawed fingers into the man's would-be-meal for leverage, he pulled the blade out effortlessly. Taking the man's steak for his own, he bit into it, tearing a piece off and chewing as loudly as a cow on its cud. The Dog purred contently, as blood drizzled down his hand and long, tangled beard. The vagabond may not have liked his meat raw, but the Dog sure did. And he had no problem with confiscating a piece of good meat from someone who didn't appreciate it, even when it was bleeding in their face. Everyone else at the table could only watch in awe, frozen in intimidation.

The long-haired waitress brought a tray with Troll's drinks on it. Troll returned his journal to the safety of his cloak as she set the tray on the table. Her hands shook, causing the glasses to tink softly against each other. Troll stood up and downed the two shots before the waitress could even place all the drinks upon the table.

"We're leaving," Troll instructed to the Dog (who was still eating the vagabond's steak right in front of him). Taking the beers for the road, Troll handed the Dog one before hobbling toward the exit. He stopped mid-stride and turned to one of the flabbergasted hoodlums. Gaze glued to the stranger in the corner (who now appeared to be trembling with excitement), Troll said, "I apologize, sir, but I'm going to have to confiscate this from ye." He snatched a steak off the plate of one of the three scoundrels. "Oh, and this as well." He plucked a flagon of wine from the center of the table. "Good evening." Troll bowed pleasantly before taking his leave.

The Dog picked up the dusty steak discarded on the floor when the vagabond smacked it out of the waitress's hand. Gnawing, gaze glistening a golden fire, the Dog followed after his master.

As if emerging from a coma, the figure in the corner dropped her spoon to the floor, jumped up, and bolted for the door.

The disturbance quelled (at least for now), the cook approached the table of delinquents. Brandishing a meat cleaver, he said, "I believe it's time y'all left."

****

Myriam Star burst through the tavern's double swinging doors in an eruptive force. Not knowing in which direction to give chase, she looked left, then right, then straight ahead. Nothing. The once people-littered streets were now deserted. She felt a slight tremor of frustration before quieting herself. Somewhere off in the distance, a loud boisterous voice resonated in song. Star ran in the direction she _thought_ the sound emanated from, but found nothing but the side of another local convenience closed for the night.

Disappointed, she ran back the way she came, hoping to catch onto some sort of sign before the two strangers from the tavern disappeared to wherever they came from. Not watching where she was going, she ran right into a large burly figure standing before her. The figure knocked her to the ground. Her wide-brimmed hat fell backward, revealing her beautiful brown face with golden curls and emerald-eyes. Her hat would've hit the ground had it not been attached to a string tied loosely around her thin neck. She glared up. Her assailants were the very same scoundrels from the bar.

"Well, what do we have here," the scraggily vagabond she bumped into said to his posse of n'ere do wells, "a little chocolate sundae? Don't mind if I do." He licked his dirty index finger and leered at Star. "Seein' how's we missed supper and all, think we'll just have to skip right to dessert."

Star smiled shrewdly. After all, she _was_ in the mood to kick a little ass and these morons were nothing but practice.

Still sprawled on the ground, she kicked the lead man in the groin. He fell to his knees, holding his belly. Star quickly hopped up to her feet as the others closed in on her. She kicked the scraggily leader in the face. Another assailant charged. She ducked easily, letting the drunk flip right over her back. Another swung a wide right-cross. Star easily avoided his inebriated punch. She kicked out the back of his knee, dropping him swiftly to the ground. She grasped the two off-balance men by the scruff of their mangy hair and bashed their foreheads together, rendering them unconscious. Another glutton for punishment rushed her, swinging wildly. She blocked with her forearm and rammed her elbow into the man's Adam's apple. He dropped smartly to the ground as another scoundrel (after seeing her impressive display of kicks) tried to kick her. She grabbed his ankle, and raised his leg high over his head. He collapsed to the ground in a heap. Star stomped her booted foot into his groin.

Last man standing pulled a pistol, but she had two six-shooters cocked, locked, and ready to rock his brains out the back of his head before he could even draw his gun from its holster. Realizing his defeat, he dropped the pea-shooter and ran for the hills. She holstered her side-arms, and kicked the scraggily woman-beater swiftly in the ribs. Then she spat on him.

Satisfied, she strained her ears, and listened for what seemed like a long moment before she heard it again; a boisterous voice singing proudly into the night. The sound was heading toward the forest, so immediately, and in great earnest, she took off in a full sprint in that direction.

Star followed that lecturing voice far out of town and deep into the dense woods. She waded as stealthily through the shrubbery as possible, closing in on the source of the singing. Had she been there, her actions would have reminded her of the native children who were lured into the dark forests of Grimm by the queen spider's lullaby.

An orangish-golden glow shone through the brush ahead -- a campfire. She crept to the edge of a clearing, crouched in the bushes, and peered through the dense bramble. A large fur-clad man sat on a log before a raging fire. He sang some old song of lore in between gigantic swigs from the flagon within his large grasp. Somebody grabbed Star by her long, curly hair and violently jerked her head backward. A small (but audible) " _urk_ " escaped her lips. Some sort of animal growled viciously from behind her as she felt the familiar touch of serrated steel caress her smooth neck.

****

Troll asked, "Now, Dog, is that anyway to treat our guest?"

The Dog grabbed Star by the belt and tossed her into the clearing. She hit the ground hard but quickly rolled to the side before rising to her knees, pistols drawn and aimed at Troll.

"I assure ye, those be not necessary."

She eased up a bit and slowly arose, both shooters still locked on his forehead. She appeared in her early twenties, dressed head-to-toe in Ranger's clothes. Brown leather pants and boots, poncho, and of course, her hat, slung low over narrowed green-eyes. A stern look painted her brown, oval face.

"My name is Troll, at ye'r service." He smiled and bowed politely. "And I see ye've already met the Dog. And ye are?"

"Star," the woman managed after a long, dry swallow. "Myriam Star."

Troll's eyes widened as if the name held some sort of relevance to him, 'though was hard pressed to recall just what, if any, significance her name held, as if he'd heard it somewhere before, possibly in the moments just after waking from a vivid dream. But like most dreams upon waking, the reverie soon faded.

"Well now, Ms. Star, how can we be of service to ye?"

Star holstered her side-arms, and said, "I saw you in the bar."

"But of course, corner booth, right?"

"Ye...yeah." Her emerald-green-eyes grew wide. Her entire body seemed to tense up, like the Dog when he prepared to pounce. "I didn't realize you'd spotted me."

"Of course," Troll said with a shrug.

"I'm sorry. It's just that in all my years, I never dreamt I'd actually find _you_."

" _Us_?" His confusion could not be more genuine. Once again his thoughts turned to the Wachati and his differing memories. He glanced at the Dog. Yet, the Dog, as per usual, knew nothing.

For a moment, her scrutinizing gaze dithered between Troll and the Dog; studying their faces. "Yeah."

"So ye know who we are then, I assume?"

"Of course, you're the chosen ones."

"Pardon?"

Star blinked, shook her head, and blurted, "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. Who'd a thought _I_ 'd be the one to find _you_?" Star's oval face brightened without the aid of the fire's lambent glow. A beauty, both childish and woman-like, radiated off her like heat.

Something in her haunting elegance seemed oh-so familiar. Something Troll couldn't quite put his large, admonishing fingers on -- something like Deja-vu.

Troll steepled his hands under his chin.

Star seemed shaken. She would begin a sentence; mumble some incoherent babble, and then stop. She was trying to collect her racing thoughts, and, as Troll could attest to, with very little success.

"I'm sorry," she said, pausing for air, "it's just that in all my years I never dreamt I'd live to see the prophecy fulfilled."

"Prophecy?" Troll and the Dog exchanged a vapid glance. Unfortunately, the Dog was no help in deciphering the woman's rampant babblings. He sat motionless on his haunches, carefully watching Star.

Slightly snarling, Star replied, "Yeah, surely you've heard of the Dark King and the prophecy of man and beast joining forces, coming together, uniting as one to lead mankind in a battle that will topple the tyrant's power, for good?" Star spoke so fast the words almost blurred together.

Troll sat with his chin resting on his steepled hands as Star's eyes frantically searched his. He was about to say something when Star chimed in.

"Ain't you never heard of the Dark King and his five children?"

"No, my dear, I have not."

Star's face shriveled up as if the very notion of this bewildered her. "Surely everyone 'round these parts has at least heard some variation of this story. Hell, it's damn near legend."

"Well I regret to inform ye that I am not from these parts. So, no, I have never heard of such a legend." Troll smiled, and said, "Though, I do enjoy a good yarn."

"Once upon a time, the world was one kingdom. The lands were unified by unimaginable sciences. Their great towers scraped the very heavens. Lands were fruitful in stock and seed. People were prosperous. They had great medicines, able of curing any ailment. Times for mankind were good. Hell, they were the best they'd ever been.

"But mankind is a funny sort. Seems like, people grew so bored and complacent in such mundane harmony, that they killed the Gods of old and drew away from each other. Falling divided into selfish sects, these people turned on each other."

"Which people?" Troll asked, scratching his stubbly chin.

"All of 'em. All of 'em hated and killed each other seemingly without reason; father against son, mother against daughter, brother against brother. They fought not on battlefields but in cities. Things got so bad you couldn't even tell the soldiers from those just tryin' to survive. Death and disease spread throughout all the lands.

"Legend has it that one day the skies erupted in a great fire that turned to ash any who dared look upon it. People believed it to be the end of days."

"You speak of the Apocalypse," Troll said.

Star's eyes narrowed, brow furrowed as she tilted her head the way Dog did when he _pretended_ not to understand.

"When God comes down from heaven and unleashes his final judgment upon mankind."

Star said, "Yeah, well I don't know nothing about that. But anyway, the world didn't end. Instead, the fire brought years of poisonous winter. The ones who did survive the Great Fire began to decay, as well as all other living things, leaving the world broken and rotting from the inside out."

"I don't understand, things just got better?"

"Yeah, I guess so. May I?" she asked, gesturing toward the fire.

"Aye, please, make ye'r self comfortable."

Star removed her hat and ran a slender hand through her golden curls. Then she unslung her knapsack and sat cross-legged on the ground.

Troll said, "Please, continue."

"Anyway, after maybe hundreds or even thousands of years, the skies and seas began to clear again. But it would still be many a year before stock and seed and even man hisself were born free of deformity. Once again man built villages, towns, what-have-yous. But see, the world didn't all heal together. Some of them poisoned lands didn't heal along with the others. And these men, these deformed creatures began to fight for what was not spoiled. The great old wars began anew, and out of the ashes arose a powerful warlord who had learned and mastered the five magics of the ancient world. This warlord rallied men to his cause, unifying the poisoned lands into a bloody game of conquest, crucifying all who dare oppose. Soon he would rule an empire. Soon he became king. But that wasn't enough for the king, he wanted the world, and he wanted it forever. So the king sold his soul in exchange for everlasting life."

"Wait, I don't understand."

Star waved Troll's question off with a simple hand gesture. "Since the devil couldn't collect on a soul that never passed through the gates of death, the king offered the soul of his first-born child. The devil accepted. But the devil, he had hisself a plan. He wanted the king's soul and with the coming of the king's first-born son, the devil figured out a way to collect. See, the king had five children in all, each born from different mothers and raised in the apprenticeship of just one magic. Each would master one magic, never able to usurp the king's power. But his first born, wasn't born a human, at least not entirely. He was said to be half the devil's son as well as the king's. Half man, half demon. And the devil would use his son to kill the king and collect on all their souls. But the king discovered this. The other children, not wanting to reside in Hell for eternity, banned with the king and somehow tricked the devil into giving the six souls into the king's everlasting hands. From then on his children were masters of one magic under their father the king, who possessed their souls within the jewels on his crown." Star grew silent, head bowed as if ashamed she had disclosed too much.

Troll gazed into her beautiful green-eyes, and said, "Please, tell me more of this prophecy." He wanted her to know that he was most certainly not bored by her yammering company. In fact, it was a much welcome change from the Dog's ubiquitous silence.

"You must be kidding!" Star's back straightened as her eyes grew wide with excitement. "Every child is told the story of two wanderers: one was a beast in the form of a man, the other was a man that resembled a beast. And that one day, man and nature would unite and free my people." Catching herself, she quickly rephrased her explanation. "I mean...all peoples from the king."

Troll took note of the broken shackles adorning her wrists like bracelets. "Were thou a slave?"

"Yes." She lowered her head, hiding her face beneath leagues of golden-blonde curls, and said, "Under the tyranny of one of the king's Hellions, a wizard by the name of Furion." Her face snarled up and her fists clenched into balls of absent-minded rage. "Furion the Black."

"But, ye escaped, obviously. How did this occur?"

"I don't wanna talk about that," gaze darting, she amended, "At least, not now."

The tone in her voice suggested she was suddenly afraid, though Troll didn't know why.

Watching Star's every move, the Dog produced a steak from under his preternatural looking hat. Voraciously, he ripped the meat into revolting chunks; chewing with his mouth open.

Troll scolded, "Dog, where are ye'r manners? I'm sorry, Ms. Star. I apologize for my companion's poor etiquette. Would ye care for anything to eat? I regret to inform ye that we have no food." Troll glared at the Dog in disgust. The Dog merely continued to munch away at the steak that had not only fallen on the floor, but also been sandwiched between his gnarly hair and sweat-stained cap. "However, the Dog is quite quick to rustle up--"

"No, thank you," she snapped, as if she had something of vital importance to say and very little time in which to convey it.

"Then please, have a drink with me." Troll produced a flagon of wine from underneath his cloak. No need for her to get up, as Troll's massive arm easily spanned the distance between them. She allowed herself to partake of one long, hard swig before returning the container to Troll's enormous hand. "Now," Troll proceeded, "tell me more of this Furion."

The woman known as Star talked deep into the night, sitting cross-legged on the ground as she relayed her tale. Her gaze stayed fixed upon the campfire's flames, as if entranced.

He couldn't be sure if it was the shimmering waves of heat, but Troll could have sworn Star was rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

She spoke minimally of her actual slavery under the Hellion known as Furion, only that she was ten when she escaped into the deserts of despair that had no name. The pain in her face hurt Troll's soul. And through golden locks of curls that draped over her brown, downcast face, the fire revealed every facet of her complexion, every nook and cranny of her beauty. And from that moment on -- Troll loved her.

Dog, however, wasn't quite as accepting. He remained crouched on the dirt behind her, ready to pounce as she went on in lengths about a prophecy of man and animal joining forces. Troll remembered a similar story telling that occurred in a man's parlor not long after he'd first met the Dog. Unfortunately, the man who told the story (which had nothing to do with any dark kings or lords o' magic), died right afterward. Troll hoped this story telling would go a bit smoother.

Star (upon Troll's insistence), also spoke greatly about the king's five children and how they each mastered one of the five archaic magics of a world long since passed. But more than anything, she spoke of the wizard known as Furion. Unfortunately, she only yammered about his tyranny and how much she hated the slave driver of lands far west. She knew nothing of how Furion actually came about nor did she relay any information about the wizard's flaws, vices, or weaknesses.

Troll learned very little from her ranting. They sounded more like speculative folklore than actual fact. Thusly, he gained little credible knowledge or insight. Still, he was none-the-less intrigued, for Troll did enjoy himself a good yarn. Aye, so he did. After a long drink, Troll began his quandaries.

"What ancient magics have these Hellions mastered?" he asked, stroking his short beard. He felt the scar on his face from the Dog, whom he eyed contemptibly.

"Alchemy, sorcery, wizardry, thermotology, and electricity," she said, counting along on her fingers.

"And ye say that this Furion is the wizard?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." Troll mulled it over as he stroked his bearded scar again in quiet fascination. "Curious, tell me about the sorcerer."

"I only know of him through fable," she said, gape still glued to the fire, as if it held her captive within its mesmerizing flames. Her face and posture drooped as her gaze darted around in fear. As if the very utterance of the Hellion's name would conjure the beast.

Troll said, "Please, continue."

"He, or _it_ I should say, is known by many names, all of which are unspeakable anywhere within the civilized world."

"Aye," Troll grumbled, "though there is very little civility left in the world."

"He is said to be the son of the Devil as well as the king."

"So ye have said. But tell me, my dear, what is this demon's name?"

"I don't know." Her shimmering gape stayed glued to the fire.

But something in her demeanor made Troll suspect otherwise. Perhaps she didn't rightly know the apparition's true name, though he surmised she knew some rendition or reasonable facsimile of it. But her face puckered up as if she were too frightened to continue. Even by the warming light of the fire, she seemed guarded against the invisible nemesis that might slink out of the shadows to take her back to the desert, back to slavery, back to Furion. And for the second time since hearing such a story, Troll conceded to let the topic drop. For now.

The mood turned somberly cautious as if the very shadows would pounce up and tear them to pieces. But someone had to break the jinxing silence, and far be it for Troll to back down from a challenge.

"I only have one question -- if ye escaped slavery at the age of ten, then that would establish the occupancy of the king's army on this continent nearly a quarter a century ago."

" _Actually_ , fourteen, for your information." The fear in her swiftly faded, filling her gaze with anger that danced menacingly within her emerald-eyes.

For the first time, Troll sensed the raging fire within this beauty.

Smiling, Troll conceded his palms, and said, "By all means, fourteen."

Star snipped, "So what's your point?" A far cry from her demeanor only minutes ago.

"Well, my dear, I have spanned this continent nearly a dozen times in my life, and never have I encountered any armies of darkness, nor bore witness to any mass slavery. Never have I heard of such disciples of Hell, nor a dark prince. And not until now, have I ever heard of any king anywhere."

"Are you calling me a liar?" she snarled. Her hands fell instinctively toward holstered hips.

Ready to pounce, the Dog lurched back. Troll raised a halting hand that kept the Dog safely at bay.

"Not at all, Ms. Star," Troll said with a wide smile, "I speak only truth, God's honest, whatever ye believe is yours and yours alone."

"But don't you see, it doesn't matter, none of it matters unless _you_ believe me. And you don't, do you?" Star shrank back, frowning, and shoulders hunched.

Troll gazed at the ground in contemplation. He glanced up at her and took another hearty swig of wine. Troll offered the flagon to the Dog, and asked, "What say ye?"

The Dog took it and signed something with his hands before bringing the container to his lips.

Troll rolled his eyes in vexation and snatched the flagon from the Dog's grasp just as the cur was about to sip at the sweet nectar. "Never mind," he said.

The Dog growled lowly, and his eyes glistened iridescently in the campfire's light.

But, if the Dog wished not to speak or carry on as a man, then he would not be privy to such privileges, such as alcohol. Troll said to Star, "I believe I need time to reflect upon all ye've divulged to us." Via his staff, Troll stood, lumbered a few paces, and then planted himself upon the ground next to the fire. He pulled his cloak tightly around him and lay down.

Star's gaze darted around in uncertainty before she reclined on the grass. She wrapped her poncho tightly around her trim figure, and drew her knapsack in close; utilizing it as a pillow.

The Dog sat there on his haunches and watched the two drift off to slip with golden, curious eyes.

****

Star awoke with a start. The fire had died down to nothing but suffocating embers of its once proud self. Shivering, she looked over at where Troll slept only to find him no longer there. She glanced over at where the Dog had been watching her. There, the two held secret council under the cover of night. Troll whispered something to the Dog, who watched her with interest. Following the Dog's gaze, Troll turned around.

"What is wrong, child?" The compassion in Troll's voice sounded authentic, and it helped to warm the young vixen slightly from the penetrating cold.

"Nothing," she said, "it's just that..." but she didn't know how to finish.

"Go on." Troll prodded as the Dog stood up and wandered off into the woods, leaving the two to hold council of their own.

"I need you both to accompany me back to Krin."

"And just where is Krin?"
"It's my homeland. As the prophets, you two are destined to join me."

"I understand ye'r concern, and ye'r thirst for vengeance, though I'm still hard pressed to find a reason why I should so blindly follow ye in a quest as to which I've never even heard of before."

"I want to tell you a story."

"Say, true?" Troll grinned; crystal-blue eyes grew wide.

For a moment, Star lost herself in his gaze.

"Is it of ye'r escape from tyranny?" he asked. _That_ story held great interest for Troll, yet she didn't know why. "Ye'r escape from Furion?"

"No, it's about how my people were enslaved in the first place." Star stared in the campfire as a legion of memories flooded over her.

Troll gestured for her to continue.

"The land of Krin is far west of here, so far west that the only thing beyond it is the sea. But, before the sea, are many miles upon miles of un-traversable swamp. No one had ever dared to venture into such a wetland of sink sand, bugs, and giant man-eating water animals. To the east, south, and north of Krin are long, desolate mountain ranges. Beyond that, people said there were deserts that went on forever. No one really knew for sure though, no one had ever gone past the boundary of the mountains. We heard stories of the king and rumors of his armies' advancements towards our homeland. But we were surrounded by un-passable lands, surely we were safe. For even if the king's army did advance, surely they couldn't get to Krin in vast numbers, surely our people would fight with every last breath we could muster. Surely we would stand victorious."

Star grew silent. Underneath her poncho (and unseen to Troll), she twirled her fingers around the golden chain around her breast-line. She didn't know if she could do this. After all these years; all her searching, could she really trust someone again?

As if sensing her thoughts, Troll motioned her to continue, and said, "Go on, child, t'is all right."

"But we were wrong, terribly wrong. For when they came, it was from the last place anyone expected -- the sea. It took them a long time to pass through the marshlands that none of my people had ever dared to venture through, though when they did, it was too late. 'Though there were great warships at the cove of the seas, they had to take smaller boats through which to infiltrate our lands. Because it took them so long to advance, we were ready for them. At least, we _thought_ so. But our people were not quite as knowledgeable in the art of war as our adversaries. And while we were concentrated on the legions coming from the west, no one even noticed the real threat. That Furion's armies were also behind us, coming from the mountains. It was the armies from the east that fell upon us first. We fought bravely, but the battle was over before the day's end. The boats coming from the seas didn't even get to Krin until after my country was defeated and enslaved.

"Furion wasn't there. I wouldn't even hear of such a demon until after my enslavement. Many people managed to flee, though even more of us were captured. And still more were murdered during the invasion."

Star released a long, low sigh before running a hand through her curly blonde-hair. "I was only eight when this happened. Unable to fight, my mother hid me and my brother in a bunker in the hills along with several others who were too young or weak to engage in battle. In the end, I realized that everyone should have participated. Believe me, I have no illusions of our success, I just think that if everyone fought, more people would have died. And believe me, death was far better than the horrors that awaited us in the deserts with no name. My Grandmere was one of a few brave souls who tried to protect the bunker, fighting the advancing armies with every last breath she could muster, but it was no use. I can still remember seeing her face, lifeless, eyes open and face twisted in pain as they pulled us out of the bunkers. I was certain that my father was dead as well, but he wasn't. I remember being so relieved at seeing him there, shackled in a long line along with the rest of us. Now I know better. Now I wished he had died in the standoff.

"At first, no one knew what they wanted. No one knew why the king's great army would care so much about our little village as to take it out so swiftly, so suddenly. My people weren't wealthy. We didn't have a lot of stock or seed. But that didn't matter. Furion didn't care about taking our goods or even our lands. He wanted to take _us_. He wanted slaves. And that's exactly what he took.

"So you see, regardless of what you believe, or regardless of what time period you think this happened. It did most certainly happen. I was just a young girl then, sure it's possible that my math doesn't add up. Perhaps I don't recall the years as clearly as they happened. But make no mistake, they _did_ happen. I have _this_ to prove it."

She flaunted the shackles wreathed about her wrists that, once-upon-a-time adorned her thin, frail, girlish ankles.

****

It was late. Troll couldn't sleep. Too many burdensome thoughts bore down upon him. Curious. He felt as though, he'd been here before. In this exact place. This precise moment. The king and his Hellions, the lapses in time, even his own differing memories of how he'd met the Wachati -- what did it all mean? Troll knew the pieces all fit, but he couldn't put the puzzle together, try as he might.

He glanced at Star, curled up on the ground, her poncho wrapped tightly about her as she used her knapsack for a pillow. Sure, she looked peaceful -- _now_.

Troll couldn't place it. Her story seemed vague, though heartfelt. And while Troll agreed that the timeline didn't make sense, he read in her eyes that her story _was_ true, more painfully so than perhaps he would ever understand. Yet, he couldn't help feeling like she had purposefully left things out, things that were certainly far too terrible to speak of. Perhaps one day she would tell him the story in its entirety. Perhaps she would even tell him of her actual enslavement and her escape from the clutches of the tyrant known as Furion the Black.

Troll searched the campsite for the Dog. He was gone. When had that happened? Troll sat up, bowed his head, and folded his hands.

Troll prayed, dear heavenly father, please bestow upon me the wisdom to know which road to take, and the courage to see the path through. Amen.

Troll fetched his journal out from his cloak and began to write.

Journal entry -- After telling me her story of how the land of Krin fell under the foot-heels of the king, and thusly Furion, I have decided that the Dog and I must help her. We must accompany Ms. Star to Krin, even if Krin no longer exists. We must stop Furion. We must stop all the King's Hellions. Surely, there is a darkness spreading across the lands. And if no one else shall see to this task, then the Dog and I shall. We must fight for freedom. And not just Star's people, but all people -- everywhere. It is just as Star said: Man and nature must join forces. We must stand up and say, "No more, we have had enough." The King must fall.

Every man goes through life wondering what their purpose is in this world, surely ours is to topple this king from power. This is why, throughout all my anger and vexation with the Dog, God was telling me that his purpose was with me.

After her story, Star fell silently asleep. As if by just telling me her story, a weight lifted off her chest and she felt at peace enough to sleep. When she awakes in the morning, the Dog and I shall accompany her back to Krin. Though, something inside me tells me that we shall not reach her homeland for quite some time. T'is the same voice that told me that the Dog was to remain in my company. And even though it is just a voice in my head that speaks in my own words, I know it to be the voice of God. This is my purpose, this is our purpose. And though the road ahead remains long and perilous, by the grace of God, we shall overcome.

****

"Look at this!" Troll exclaimed as Star scavenged for firewood. They'd been traveling all day, following Star as she led the way back to Krin. Upon her waking in the wee morning hours, there was no need for Troll to express to Star his decision to go with her. He simply asked if she was ready.

They walked most of the day in silence aside for a little small talk here and there. The three travelers were still trying to get a feel for each other. But that was then and this was now, and now it was time once again for the road-weary wanderers to set up camp and bunker down for the evening. And even though summer loomed right around the corner, the nights were still quite chilly.

A bundle of firewood in her arms, Star asked, "What is it?"

Troll knelt and hunkered over an odd-looking shrub. He plucked a small, red berry from the thorny bush and popped it into his mouth. Smiling, he replied, "Buxom berries." Troll gleefully picked a few more of the reddish-purple berries from the prickly shrubbery and offered the fruit to her in a massive, cupped hand.

Star delicately examined the small morsel this way and that. Nose wrinkled, she sniffed at it before wearily placing the berry in her mouth, chewing slowly at first. She closed her eyes, smiled, and leaned her head back as she savored every bit of flavor. Mouth covered with the back of a hand, she said, "They're good."

Troll replied, "Amen!"

Star plucked greedily from the bush; popping the tiny fruit into her mouth with relish. "Buxom berries you say?" she asked, as if the name simply didn't do justice to the delectable morsels.

"Indeed." Troll tossed a few in his mouth. They tasted berry-like, but with a sour zest and sugary aftertaste.

The Dog emerged from a thicket holding a dead rabbit. He stopped, peered at the two. Jaw slack. Bushy brow furrowed as his gaze darted suspiciously between them, as if they'd just been talking about him.

Star cleared her throat. She leaned away from Troll, drooping her head and concealing her lavish features beneath the brim of her hat as she continued to feast on the delicacies cupped in her hand (one at a time, of course).

"You should really try these," Troll said, offering a few berries out to the Dog.

The Dog's gaze affixed upon the morsels as he sniffed from a good ten paces away. For a moment, the Dog seemed captivated by their scent. He growled lowly, eye color turning from hazel to a glowing gold. He lowered his head, hiding his own features beneath the lip of his hat before Star noticed. He held up the hare, informing Troll that they could eat all the berries their hearts' desired. The Dog preferred to dine on dead animal flesh.

Mouth full, Troll said, "Oh, come now, these are fantastic."

Dog sank his teeth into the hare's hide. Jaws clamped, he reared his head to the side; tearing away skin and hair with elongated fangs. Sinewy strips of muscle stretched out as if the meat were nothing more than warm taffy. Blood drizzled freely down the Dog's chin and beard as he chewed his way through the raw meat.

Star snorted, "That's disgusting."

"The woman's right, away with ye, ya foul beast."

The Dog shrugged. He plodded off, still munching on the snack that might as well have been alive.

Grimacing, Star said, "You really should eat something more than meat."

"Yes, yes, how are ye'r bowel movements?" Troll called. "Perhaps more fiber is in order."

The Dog snorted loudly in retort, and then darted off into the woods.

Troll and Star shared a meal of buxom berries and wild cabbage in total silence. Afterward, Troll built a fire and the two huddled near the flames' heat (keeping a respective distance from each other). Star kept her head down, pretending to watch her feet, but every once in a while Troll spied her gazing up at him. Much seemed on the woman's mind tonight.

"Can I ask you something?"

Troll replied, "Why, of course ye may, my dear, what is it?"

"What's that medallion around your neck?"

And to think, he thought she'd been staring at _him._ Troll removed the trinket from the throat of his shirt and held it out for Star to see. The relic, etched in solid gold, depicted a dove encompassed by a circle wreathed in flame.

"What does it mean?" she asked, gazing into his eyes.

"I'm not sure. Point in fact, like most things, I don't even remember where I got it from."

"Oh." She lowered her head, concealing her face.

"Is there anything else ye'd like to know?"

"Well, sure. Lots." She shifted in place, and ran a hand through her hair. "I mean...it's just that, you know so much about me, yet I know very little of you or Dog."

"On the contrary, ye know nothing of us."

Star's head shot back a little. The corner of her lip curled up, as if she'd just sensed some noxious odor.

"Yet, ye only have to ask. Ask anything ye wish and it shall be answered."

"Where do you come from?"

"Well, from me ma, obviously," he jested. The stern look she shot him suggested she was in no mood for games. "All right. My tale is as simple as it is true: I travel," Troll said, shrugging modestly. "I travel in search of civilizations. What little of them are left anyway," he mumbled. "Aye, I travel, wander here, journey there. Hell, I'd trek anywhere -- just roaming the earth, doing the Lord's work."

"So you believe in God?"

"Of course, don't ye?"

"Hell no." Star scowled, drawing back a bit.

"It matters not."

The fire's light flickered and danced off Star's face as she sat there in silence. Troll was about to say something when Star spoke again.

"So...had yourself some adventures, have you?"

"Oh, most certainly. Why, we just encountered...uh, the Dog and I that is, a tribe of redskins not but three days east of here."

"Injuns?" Star asked. "Ain't been no Injuns round these parts in nigh a hundred year. Gone exinct, essinct...something like that."

"I beg to differ, but I assure ye of our encounters, just as ye are certain of ye'r own earlier exploits."

Silence befell them once more. Star lowered her head again and shifted nervously on the ground.

Troll could tell she was searching for something more to ask. He was ready to answer anything. How marvelous to finally have someone to converse with!

"So...what else can you tell me about yourself?" she asked.

"What more would ye like to know?"

"What part of the world were you raised in? What did you do as a child? How long have you been traveling, stuff like that? You know, the basics." Star ran a hand through her curly blonde-hair. Once again, she didn't remove her hat, only tilted it to allow her hand easy access.

Troll took a long reflective moment to colligate his thoughts and memories into a coherent past before clearing his throat. "I come from this country. I don't really remember much of my childhood or my parents."

"That's so sad," Star said softly, crossing her arms about her waist. She shivered 'neath the thin fabric of her poncho.

Troll had half-a-mind to go over and put his arms around her. But he didn't do that.

"To tell ye the truth, I can't really remember much of me life before meeting the Dog, other than the fact that I've been traveling ever since I can recall; just wandering and spreading the word of God, helping people out wherever I could. But even those memories seem hazy to me. It's as if the things I did before were not but a dream. And that my life didn't truly start until I met the Dog."

Scanning the forestry, she asked, "How did you meet him?"

Still no sign of the Dog.

"I made the pleasure of his acquaintance nearly two moons ago. I awoke one morning in a forest not un-like this, and there he was, trying to attack me over a pot of scraps. That's how I got this," Troll said, tapping his middle and index-finger upon the scar riding the left side of his face.

"So you just...took him with you?"

"Not at all," he said with a smile, "in fact, he began following _me_. At first, he only followed in the shadows, though I could sense his presence. Sometimes, when I cooked a meal, he would wander out of the forestry and beg for scraps. After a while, he began nipping at my heels, as any dog might."

Another wave of silence crashed over them.

"What else do you know about him?"

"Not much," Troll said with an amused huff. "He doesn't speak to anyone, not even me."

"But you believe he can speak, right?"

Troll was shocked. He'd never told anyone of his suspicions of the Dog's intelligence. Yet, Star apparently saw into the depths of Troll, making him transparent.

"So," Star said, running another hand through her hair. "If he doesn't talk, then how do you know his name is actually Dog? I mean, did you name him that?"

"A fair enough question, indeed." Troll chuckled, clapping his hands together. "But his name merely came to me one day. After all, his mannerisms are not unlike that of a dog's. Besides, it's the only thing to which he responds." Troll felt his scar again at the same time that Star ran a hand through her hair.

"So then, if he _is_ a dog, then what's with the weapons, or his hat, for that matter?"

Troll smiled and shrugged.

****

Journal entry -- late spring -- second day traveling in the company of the lovely Ms. Star. Things are going fine, though I find that every minute I spend with the vengeful vixen I grow more and more attracted to her. Not just to her beauty, but to her soul. Though we have different views on almost everything, I feel that in another time and place, perhaps in a totally different world all together, we would be inseparable.

Travel goes swift and I am enjoying the rations of buxom berries we gathered. I'm also thoroughly enjoying having someone to conversate with, albeit we talk of little other than common pleasantries and such. It is still far better than talking to myself. We have spoken almost non-existently of her slavery, escape, or even Krin for that matter. I feel as though, that even though she believes, heart and soul, us to be her saviors that she still doesn't feel comfortable divulging such past atrocities to anyone -- let alone us.

' _Though, I hope her feelings of silent isolation shall pass during the journey before us. My God, she is so beautiful, yet filled with so much anger, so much rage. It seems to poison her. The way things are going now, should we fall upon Furion or any of the king's armies for that matter, her thirst for revenge will lead us all head-long to our deaths. Fortunately, God is telling me otherwise, as the voice inside me assures that we won't have to worry about such things for quite some time. Thank God._

****

When Troll and Star awoke the next morning, the Dog had returned. He squatted on his haunches in the very same spot he'd been last night, watching them with quite fascination through hazel-green eyes. Troll said nothing in regards to the Dog's sudden re-emergence. Neither did Star.

Throughout the day, Troll prattled on about this and that, as if merely reiterating every single thought that crossed his mental plain. "Such a lovely day, don't ye think? That's a lark singing. That there is poison oak, don't touch." And other things of the like. Whenever Troll asked Star a question, she responded with short and un-emotive answers. Sometimes she just shrugged. She seemed aggravated.

Star kept the troop on a strict marching schedule, as if she feared her country would cease to exist before ever they reached the lands far to the west known as Krin. But Troll convinced the dark-skinned vixen to set up camp early this eve to rise more refreshed in the 'morrow.

They stopped upon a small hill crest in an open field. The night's sweet air held with it the promise of rain, threatening days of torrential storms to come in the not too distant future. Troll stooped as low to the ground as his gigantic frame would allow via the assistance of his ever faithful staff. He tussled the soil between his large, meaty fingers while peering at the tree bases with great intrigue.

"Hmm," Troll said. Star trotted over and stood behind the observant giant. "That's odd, the moss is wrong."

"Huh?"

"The moss growing on the base of a tree is always on the side facing north."

"And that moss _doesn't_?" she asked almost mockingly.

"According to my calculations," he said, looking up at the setting sun, "it's on the west side."

Star produced a golden compass on a chain from the throat of her shirt. It almost looked like Troll's medallion. She opened it and held it up in the air, turning the object this way and that as she impatiently tapped her foot.

"Well?" he prodded.

"Well, according to my _compass_ , the direction is actually east."

"Your trinket is flawed, I fear." Troll snorted as he rose and dusted off his cloak.

Star snarled, "It ain't no trinket! And it is never flawed. My father--"

The Dog sniffed inquisitively at a plant.

Using the opportunity to avoid a quarrel, Troll changed the subject. "Hey, look at this..." Troll's words soared over hers as he hobbled toward the plant the Dog investigated.

"Now what?" she sneered.

The Dog shuffled aside to let his master approach.

Troll squatted and plucked a few roots from the crumbling earth. "Wild onion," he said, handing Star a few of the roots without so much as an upward glance.

She accepted the plant, sniffing wearily at it as the Dog might.

"Like this." Troll plucked a few of the plants for himself. He took a big bite of the verdant reed-like stem. Star followed suit, taking a weary nip as Troll continued to munch away until nothing remained but the root (which he promptly placed within the confines of his cavernous cloak).

"Tastes like garlic," she said, smiling.

"Indeed." Troll plucked more of the herbs.

"Why do you keep the roots?" she asked in a _much lighter_ tone.

"Good for stew and medicines and such."

The Dog sat on his haunches, glowering at them in repugnance. Troll stood and offered a root to the Dog. The Dog sniffed at it again. He seemed quite curious at first, but quickly back-peddled away in apprehension.

Troll said, "Dog, please, just try this one plant, for me."

Slowly, Dog raised a reluctant claw before snatching the root away from Troll.

"Hey now, watch yourself, boy, ye take it nicely."

The Dog nibbled the stem.

A brief moment elapsed where the Dog just stood there, his face motionless and unreadable, as if he wasn't yet sure whether he liked them. He took a bigger bite, barely even chewing the salty plant before woofing the whole thing down. He smiled, plucked the herbs from the ground in avarice, and voraciously devoured them.

"Hey, Myriam," Troll said, turning to Star and smiling brightly, "I think he likes it."

****

Early next morning they returned to their ceaseless campaign. Star remained silent for most of the day while Troll continued to verbalize his every thought. He made several attempts at cajoling her into conversation, but every time he asked her something, Star responded with a grunt and a shrug. Perhaps his incessant ramblings were the very same reason why the Dog remained silent for so long.

After a time, Troll began to sing as the others walked in silence.

The path in the woods came to yet another fork, so to speak. On one side, lush meadows rolled on for leagues as poppies and sunflowers struggled to rise above the tall weed. To their right, a path snaked through tall oaks and pines. In front of them, a bluff overlooked a bit of patchy marshland, dotted with tiny shrubs and murky pools of stagnant water. Troll cautiously neared the edge of the bluff, just in case his hefty frame caused the ledge to give-way, and peered down.

"Not too steep, looks like a path, as well." Troll gazed at Star, and asked, "Which way? The marsh or the woods?"

Star's emerald-eyes scanned the landscape. "I don't know."

"Ye don't know! How can ye not know? I thought this the way to ye'r homeland?"

"It is but..."

Troll loomed over her. "Surely ye must know the way back to your--"

" _I know_!" She barred her teeth as anger flickered within her eyes. Star sighed. She ran a hand through her hair, the shackle around her wrist jingled slightly. In a much calmer tone, she said, "It's just that, the land seems different." She eyed the landscape suspiciously.

"Maybe, it's just ye'r compass."

"It's not the compass," Star said without looking at Troll.

"Well, what does ye'r compass say, anyhow?"

She glared at her behemoth companion in disdain before retrieving the golden object from around her brown neck.

"Come now, don't keep me in suspense, what say it?"

Star examined the object curiously. The needle hadn't even ceased bouncing before Troll snatched it away. The chain holding the compass around her thin neck snapped like a reed as he tugged fiercely upon it. "L'emme see that." Troll said.

"Wait! No! Give it back!" She reached for the trinket.

Troll easily held her back with one hand. He examined the device this way and that, shaking it violently.

"Don't do that! Damn you! Give it back," she spat as Troll ignored her pleas. "It's mine, give it back now!"

Troll's pride would not allow him to obey any charge given by anyone other than God himself. It was a flaw of his.

"Damn thing's useless," Troll scoffed, effortlessly pitching the object into the marsh below. When he turned back, he found Star aiming a pistol at his forehead. Her face stern and un-emotive. Her gaze narrowed as Troll raised his hands to the heavens.

"That was my father's, it's all I've got left," she said coldly. "And you better go down there and find it,"

The Dog's eyes turned from hazel to yellow as he crept closer to her. Troll waved him down. He was not about to let the Dog attack her, especially when he figured she'd probably do more damage to him than the other way 'round. And Troll wanted no altercations.

" _Now_! I'm not fucking around here!" she spat.

"All right, we'll look for it. No need to be rude."

Star rolled her eyes before storming off to find her father's compass.

The Dog merely sat there on his haunches, shaking his head despondently, letting Troll know that what he did was certainly not cool.

"That's right." Troll sneered in spite of himself. "Just shake it off."

****

They had been looking for nearly an hour, best as Star could wager. She and the Dog trudged through mud and muck, searching for the compass while Troll merely directed the two as to where he _thought_ the shiny object may have landed. Star was pissed. The Dog tried to track the tiny object down by the smell of it. And that might have worked, except every time he picked up her scent, it was only Star and Star alone he found.

"Maybe we'd actually find it if you helped look instead of barking orders," she snipped at Troll as he directed them to inspect another deep brush.

"I am helping," Troll said, believing every word.

Star could barely stand to look at him. She felt like she could kill him where he stood, prophecy be damned. She'd still have the Dog, and half a prophecy was better than none at all, right?

"Perhaps we should chalk it up to a loss." Troll turned to walk away.

That was it -- the last straw. Star pulled one of her pistols and crept after him. She was going to kill him and there was nothing anyone could do to save his measly pig-headed, prideful ass.

Dog glared at her, growling lowly.

She pressed her index finger against her lips, telling him to be quiet.

The Dog tilted his head, eyes wrinkling in confusion. But he _did_ stop growling.

Star closed in on Troll. He was dead meat, he just didn't know it yet. I'll chalk you up to a loss, she thought, advancing upon Troll. She wanted to be as close to him as possible. She wanted to see his brains splatter -- painting the tall reeds red. She wanted to be so close she'd be able to smell his blood.

"A-ha!" Troll bent over and plucked something from the brush -- her compass. Troll held it out to her in offering, his gaze darted down to the shooter in her grasp. His smiled faded, but he made no mention of the weapon as Star greedily snatched the prize away.

"See," Troll grinned brightly, "sometimes if you really cherish something, you must let it go in order to know whether or not it is truly yours. Ain't it true, oh Lord?"

Star stormed away without so much as a word or glance.

****

They spent the rest of the day traveling in silence. Troll knew Star was still fuming about her father's compass. The hours grew long as storm clouds blotted the sky in stony hues of gray. Troll suggested they stop and eat somewhere. Not wanting to argue, Star concurred with a slight nod and a little noise. She was beginning to act like the Dog.

They settled in the shade of a tall ash tree that stood atop a small crest. At the foot of the hill lay a small valley of long, grassy meadows. And beyond that (and in all directions), endless seas of deep, dark forestry stretched on and on. Pretty much the exact same scenery they'd seen for days. Were they going in circles? Troll didn't think so, not when considering the fact they'd been walking in the same direction the entire time. Yet with every step they took, Star appeared more and more unsure of where she was going. But, more than that, she seemed unsure of herself. And from her incipient uncertainty, a small seed had been planted within the soil of Troll's heart. The seed of doubt.

So there they sat, nestled on the ground 'neath the ash tree. Each keeping their respective distance till things cooled down a bit. Except for the Dog of course, who would have probably sought out solitude anyhow. Troll produced a massive handful of buxom berries and wild onions from the confines of his cloak and gave a small silent prayer before digging in. Dear Lord, bless this food to the health and nourishment of our bodies. In ye'r name we pray, Amen.

Star possessed her own stash of "wild salad" inside her knapsack. Meanwhile, the Dog simply curled up on the ground in rest. "Dog," she called soothingly while Troll munched on a stalk of wild onion in silence. The Dog stirred not at all to the sound of her voice. "Dog." This time the Dog turned his head and stared inquisitively at her with green-gray eyes. "Hungry?" she asked, holding out a few sprouts of onion that the Dog seemed so fond of. Dog sniffed at the air then turned back to watching the clouds gather ominously in the distance -- and growled.

****

After eating, Star sprawled out beneath the ash's outstretched branches.

Troll stood, stretched, and then wandered off into the brush without so much as a word.

Star barely gave the behemoth a passing glance. She figured he'd gone off to do his business. She returned to watching the Dog, now perched on the ground, gravely assessing the sky. Every now and then he growled lowly, shuffling nervously in place. Yet, Star spied nothing preternatural about the clouds. Dog whimpered lowly and shifted anxiously about on his haunches. Watching him there, standing sentry was hypnotic. And soon Star's eyes began to droop heavily.

She didn't know how long she dozed comfortably under the ash, but certainly knew when to wake. Sensing someone's presence, she snapped awake, hands shooting instinctively toward holstered hips.

Troll towered over her, brandishing a big bouquet of wild flowers.

"I could have killed you, you know," she said, easing off her shooters and glowering up at him.

"Well, I'm certainly glad that ye did not. I humbly beg ye'r pardon." He offered the flowers, and said, "I apologize for earlier, had I known it was ye'r father's, I would not have thrown it." He motioned to the gold compass adorning her breast line. "Truce?"

She sat and accepted Troll's peace offering. A small smile cracked her otherwise tough veneer as she smelled the flowers. "Thank you, but you would have known had you listened."

"My dear, I always listen." Troll chuckled proudly.

"You hear, not listen. There's a difference."

"Certainly," Troll offered, smiling brightly but not without jest.

Apparently it had been a while since Troll courted a dame. For Star believed he knew very little or nothing of how to talk to a woman without infuriating her. But like him, she didn't want to argue either, and settled for giving him a look that told him he'd better watch hisself.

Troll strolled toward the Dog. The gentle giant cupped a hand over his eyes and peered off into the distance, straining to see what seemed so interesting to the Dog.

Star sniffed the bouquet again, immediately and inexplicably her thoughts turned to the Dog. "Dog," she called out gleefully, "look at what Troll has given me. Come and smell them."

Dog gazed up at Troll as if asking him whether he had to. Troll responded by giving the Dog a look that seemed to say, "Come on, boy, help me out here." Dog sat there a moment before sluggishly getting up and scampering toward Star.

Troll turned his attention to the skies above and watched the gathering storm clouds that the Dog was so captivated by.

Star noticed Troll's mood shift to one of solemn sincerity as the Dog sniffed away at the bouquet. "What is it?"

Troll replied, "Looks like bad weather ahead."

Star felt a slight tugging from her bouquet. Turning, she found the Dog munching away at her present. Laughing, Star called, "Troll, see what Dog is doing."

Troll asked the Dog, "Ye know those are poisonous, right?"

The Dog stopped chewing his cud, as if in contemplation of his actions before shrugging absently and continuing to munch away at the flowery gift.

Star and Troll exchanged a much needed hearty laugh. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments before Star averted her gaze and looked bashfully at the ground. Things were better after that. But off in the distance, storm clouds gathered ominously.

****

3

When Troll awoke from the only two dreams he ever had, it was dark and cold. The frigid pre-dawn air whipped through the trees and around Troll as a shiver coursed its way into his bones. He glanced to where the Dog had been. Nothing. Typical.

Star huddled next to the fire's dying embers, her poncho wrapped about her, damp hat low upon her brow. She shivered and her teeth chattered as she rocked forth and sway. She kicked out a long, slender leg and attempted to stir the flames back to a more desirable degree of vigor with the heel of her boot.

Troll whispered, "Ms. Star?" No response. "Ms. Star, are ye well?"

Star shivered and rocked. Her chattering teeth reminded Troll of the spiders or even the beast in the woods where the chief had died. _Clickity-crack-scrippity-scrap._ What was his name? Troll couldn't recall. _Scrippity-crack-crickity-scrap._ The sound sent shivers down Troll's colossal spine. He could take no more. Troll lumbered to his feet and ambled toward her. She seemed not to take notice of his presence, as if hypnotized by her own pendular motion.

"Ms. Star? Star, can ye hear me?" He gently wrapped his hefty cloak around her thin body. She appeared dwarfed 'neath the massive furs. "Myriam, can ye hear me?"

"Star," she said vacantly.

"Pardon?"

"My name is Star. Myriam was my mother's name."

"Really, tell me then, why did ye first introduce yerself as Myriam Star?" He was glad to have her talking again; it seemed to calm her some.

"It was something my father used to say," she began as Troll threw more kindling on the fire and stirred the flames back to life with his staff. "He used to call me his Myriam's Star." She gazed up at the stars above, and said, "My Myriam's Star." A small smile cracked her firm veneer and her entire face lit up beautifully by way of campfire light. "She was beautiful, my mother Myriam. My father always said I looked just like her when she was my age." She stroked her own face with the cusp of her hand. "My mother's Star," she said absently, as if she were back in Krin with her family. "In Krin, the name Myriam derives from the word _Myragiam_ , meaning mother."

"Ye'r mother's star," Troll echoed dreamily, his own eyes filled with stars as he gazed adoringly at her.

"I've never introduced myself as Myriam Star until I met you because...because..."

Fortunately Troll, never without something to say, finished her thought. "Because we're the prophets."

Star met Troll's gaze with stars in her own eyes.

The rest of the day was not much warmer than the early morning hours. The skies covered in stony hues of thick cumulonimbus clouds. The winds blew fierce and dreadfully cold. They stopped around noon so the Dog (who reappeared at some random point), could rustle up a plump hare while Star and Troll prepared a salad of wild onions, cabbage, and buxom berries. Troll fancied cooking the hare before dicing the meat up into the salad. But the unrelenting winds would not permit the privilege of fire. In the end, the Dog ate the rabbit by himself, not that he didn't extend any of the raw meat to his companions, nudging the bloody flesh upon the ground with his nose to their feet in offering. Though Troll suspected this was done part way on purpose, taking pains to make the meat as disgusting as possible so that the Dog could have it all to his lonesome. And even though Troll didn't really want any, he thought to ask for a good chunk of the meat just to spite the Dog. But he didn't.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course ye may, my dear," Troll replied, "ye know that."

"In all your travels, have you ever...met someone that...you know?" Star blushed, gaze darted to the ground. She pulled the brim of her hat down over her eyes, as if trying to hide her face.

"Ye want to know if I have a woman," Troll said with a smile.

"Yeah." Head down, she twirled the chain of her compass around her fingers.

"Not that I recall, but as I said, I don't remember much before meeting the Dog." Troll glanced at the Dog, lying on the ground and gnawing on the hare's carcass.

"So what _is_ the farthest back you can remember?" Star met Troll's gaze.

A strange calmness in her gape made Troll feel uneasy. He closed his eyes and thought as hard as he could, forcing himself to remember something -- anything. But every time he tried, all he saw was the Dog and their first encounter. Troll had vanquished the cur twice, but both times the Dog rose, his wounds healing right before Troll's eyes. "No," he said, "I'm sorry, but there's nothing there."

Star drooped her head and ran a hand (under her hat), through her hair, as her shackle-bracelet rattled.

They continued on with their cold lunch in silence as the bitter, late spring winds whipped about them.

No sooner had they finished than it began to rain. It only sprinkled lightly at first, though soon the heavens leaked profusely upon them.

****

Star was soaked. Troll had offered his cloak to her, but she refused, assuring him that her light poncho would be enough coverage from the deluging rains. Though, how she shivered under the thin fabric. Star's chattering teeth clenched tight every time a gust of wind arose. She did her best to conceal her grief, tried to act tough, but really, Star didn't think she could manage hauling that massive, soaked cloak any better than she could handle the unrelenting cold.

After a few hours, the rain picked up -- hard. But worst off, they traveled downhill, and the flooding rain water made the terrain muddy and slick. So they marched in single file. Troll led, obviously. Just in case he should lose his footing, he wouldn't fall on anyone and crush them beneath his prodigious weight. Star followed behind him, followed respectively by the Dog. Unlike Star, Dog was having the time of his life. The cur hopped from stumps to stones to puddles, splashing through the muck in sheer ecstasy.

Hunched over with her hands on her knees, gasping as plumes of steam escaped her lungs, Star asked, "How long do you suppose it's gonna rain for?" Her hands tingled, losing sensation, almost to the point of freezing, but she wouldn't let Troll know that. She wouldn't be the only one struggling against the cold. After all, she had faced harsher weather before, though, she'd be hard pressed to recall exactly when.

The Dog came bounding up behind her. He nearly landed on her, but quickly leapt away and crashed into a nearby puddle. The splash nearly covered Star in cold, brown muck.

Troll replied, "Probably a while, why? I find it refreshing." He strolled casually along with his staff, as if in a meadow on a bright sunny day instead of this cold, wet, miserable mud-hole they now found themselves traversing through. "Besides, it seems not to bother the Dog."

Ensnared in glee, the Dog lost his balance at the sound of his own name being said by his master. He fell right on his keester into a pool of muddy water; covering him from head to toe in runny, brown slop. Dog shook the run-off from his body as any other dog might; sending the muddy water splaying out in all directions.

Troll roared in delight. Star laughed so hard, she nearly fell. But Troll (who might have collapsed cackling himself, if not for the aid of his staff), caught her arm.

Star gazed up into his face. She could feel his bright smile warming her. It was a face far warmer than the weather. And just when she thought she could take no more, she found the strength to go a little further.

****

The evening seemed no better. The rain continued its ceaseless hammering. The wind howled painfully. Oh, and the cold -- forget about it. Dark came swiftly and Troll found no suitable shelter that the torrential rains could not penetrate. And no shelter meant no fire. So there they sat, huddled under a tall oak, the best protection they could manage to find. Star and Troll munched listlessly on the remains of their wild salads while the Dog ate nothing. He looked pissed, probably because the weather would prove poor hunting for the Dog.

Star grumbled, "Well, this sucks." Her shivering teeth chattered, _scrippity-clack-skrickity-scratch._

"Perhaps we should all huddle together 'neath my cloak."

"Why? That thing is surely soaked by now."

"On the outside yes, but the inside t'is dry as toast." He opened his cloak for her to inspect. "Here, feel."

"I'm not gonna feel your fur," Star spat. "And why the hell would we huddle with you, anyway?"

Shrugging, he replied, "I just thought ye might find it more accommodating."

"Accommodating for whom? I'm sure Dog doesn't want to cuddle with you?"

The Dog affirmed her suspicions with a quick nod. Drops of water sprayed from his long beard and the bill of his cap.

"See, so it'd just be you and me all cuddled up nice an' cozy like, right?" _Crickity-scrack-screechily-crack._

"Indeed." Troll said, "It would certainly be much more accommodating for me."

Star's brow furrowed, though the rest of her face remained steady as ever.

"Oh please, ye have misunderstood, for I have no interest in ye in that capacity."

Somehow, this stung Star far worse than when he tossed her father's compass away.

Troll continued, "T'is ye'r teeth."

"My teeth?" _Scrippity-clack-screechily-crack._

"Aye, for ye see, once upon a time, Dog and Troll stumbled into a valley on a night not unlike this. T'was a dark and stormy night where the duo sought shelter in a cave, the only refuge they could find."

"I wish we could find a cave," Star grumbled. She shivered, cinching her poncho tighter around her lithe shoulders.

"Please don't interrupt. Anyhow, while seeking solace within the cave, our heroes were attacked by spiders."

"Spiders!" Star burst in a laughter that slightly warmed her bones. "You were attacked by a couple of little spiders? What'd you do, kill 'em with your breath?"

"Jest as ye like, but these were no ordinary spiders. They were gigantic, nearly five times as big as myself. And t'was not a few, but hundreds, thousands, possibly even millions. And they spoke. They spoke as ye'r teeth chatter away in your skull. _Scrippity-crack-crickity-scrap-screechity-scratch."_

"So what happened?"

"I wish not to divulge all the gory details, but the point is that every time I hear that sound, it makes me nervous. So ye see, it _would_ be accommodating for me if ye took refuge with me 'neath my cloak."

"Is that true?" she asked the Dog.

Dog nodded solemnly from his spot under the tall oak.

Troll said, "Screechity-crack-scrippity-clack."

Star's head bowed, as if in contemplation. Another gust of wind arose and she shuddered all the more forcibly. She glanced toward Troll, nodded toward the bowels of his cloak, and asked, "Ya got any pillows in that magic cloak of yours?"

Troll invitingly opened his cloak to her. He smiled broadly and said, "I think we can accommodate."

Star reluctantly nested up to Troll. She rested her head on his chest and felt his heart flutter. Troll held his cloak open to the Dog. The Dog frowned, snorted, and then scampered off on all fours. Troll wrapped his cloak around them. The garb easily covered them from head to toe. Within minutes, Star fell fast asleep. She did not awake from restless dreams the entire night.

****

Journal entry -- late spring -- moon, can't tell. For, the skies are constantly clouded with storm as the rains continue without abate. Star seems weary, though keeps a dizzying pace. As if fearful her homeland of Krin will no longer be there by the time she returns with the Dog and I as her heralds. I sense great turmoil within the beauty known as Myriam Star. She insists I call her Star, though her name: Myriam Star, is as beautiful as her worrying face.

Food has grown slim. Clean water even slimmer. And all the while the Dog remains absent from our posse, though I still feel his shadowy presence around us. I fear he grows jealous of the blossoming friendship between the lovely Ms. Star and myself.

Travel is mostly silent except for exhausted small talk. The terrain remains ceaselessly precarious, and though we are no longer traveling downhill, the ground remains muddy and bogged. I myself find my own strength dwindling with the combined onslaught of hunger and cold breaking away at us. T'is one thing to be out in the rain, but to have to traverse vast distances in water-bogged clothes and spirits is quite another thing all together. Even the confines of my cloak have dampened significantly through the past several days, though Ms. Star still seeks recluse from the rains there night after night. She seemed apprehensive about this at first, though now t'is almost as second nature, as though we've been huddling together since we first met.

God bless the rains that fall, giving birth to new life.

****

The Dog was alone now. He had been for some time, ever since the unyielding weather forced him to revert to his feral state. His skin had grown tight and hard. His body covered in a dense, wiry (and thoroughly soaked) fur. His nose and jawline narrowed to a predatory snout. His ears elongated to pick up the slightest of noises as his eyes burned in a blazing, golden fire. Yes, he had to stay away from his companions, at least until the weather warmed. For, while Troll already knew what the Dog was, Star did not ('though she had an inkling). And what Star would think of such a feral atrocity, the Dog simply did not know, nor wish to find out.

So the Dog stayed away -- alone and _hungry_. He followed far behind the two. So far behind that it seemed the Dog had left their company completely, though surely Troll knew better. So there he sat, cold, alone, and hungry -- _real_ hungry. He hadn't eaten fresh meat in...well...the Dog didn't know. But he currently spent his new-found solitude attempting to remedy that. He darted from bush to shrub to tree, sniffing voraciously for any sign of food. But the rains bogged down any scent that he might latch onto, and all the animals were hiding in their holes or nests or wherever they sought shelter from the weather. The Dog was _mad_. But, not just mad at the fact that he couldn't find anything to eat, he was mad at himself for what he might do if he did not find food soon. For if his rumbling stomach could not be sated with meat, then he would have to resort to finding _other_ sustenance. Namely -- blood. Human blood if it came down to it. He hoped it wouldn't come down to that. But, if the Dog didn't find nourishment soon...well...he just didn't want to think about that.

From somewhere far off, Troll's booming voice resonated in song.

Surprised to hear a low growling coming from deep within him, the Dog cringed. But the growl did not emanate from the Dog's throat -- it came from his stomach.

****

Hats _,_ Troll thought, we all wear hats of a different sort. (Except for Troll, of course, who wore no hat no matter what the weather or occasion). Star's hat on the other hand, was drenched with rain. The wide brim now drooped low over her face, concealing her beautiful features. So much so that Troll could only gaze upon her charming face when she looked directly up at him (and even then he could only make out her slender chin and lovely mouth). But since there seemed nothing for the two to talk about other than the weather (which neither even wanted to think about), the prospect of that happening seemed little to none. Troll couldn't help but picture her lavish face in his mind, and suddenly realized that he yearned for the real thing. So Troll did exactly the same thing he did when trying to rile a vocalized response from the Dog -- he made up something to talk about.

"Do ye ever wake in the morning with a song stuck in ye'r head?"

A freezing wind arose, batting Star's already wet clothes about her thin frame. She shivered.

"Well?" He turned around, hoping to gaze upon her gorgeous (though no doubt irritated at the sound of his voice), face. Yet no. There she stood, trembling, head downcast and hidden under her water-bogged hat.

"I dunno," Star said though clenched, trembling jaws, obviously making pains not to let her teeth chatter. "I guess, maybe, why?"

"I was just thinkin' about how when ye wake up with a song in ye'r head, which for me is as constant as the rising sun, that the tone of that song determines ye'r mood for the day." He glanced to see if she were looking up at him. But no, not yet.

"Okay."

"For instance, if the song a melodic ballad, thou are certain to have a light-hearted and fanciful day. Yet if that music be a somber nocturne, then one is surely in for a drab day full of disappointment and dismay."

Star trudged along, her cold wet clothes sticking to her skin as the wind whipped and howled furiously once again.

"I myself have awoken with quite an old and sour ditty in me brains every morn,' and every day thereafter it has been rainy and cold. Alas, I yearn for a summer's verse, but my mind doth role about upon its own accord. I suppose it's really a matter of--"

"Hold on a second," Star said. "Are you telling me that the reason the weather is so bad is because you _willed_ it?"

When Troll turned around, he found exactly what he'd been fishing for -- more or less. Ye must bait 'em, let 'em come to ye, by-cracky, he remembered telling the Dog moments before the cur tumbled into the swift waters below. And sure enough, there she was, her mouth drawn in a scowl of disgust. Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled something accosting. Her emerald-eyes spangled fierce and penetrating. God, she was so beautiful.

"Certainly not," Troll said with a wide smile.

"Yeah...but you just said--"

"I apologize if ye mistook my words."

"You know what? I don't care." Another gust arose as Star clutched herself, her teeth chattering _a-scrippity-clackity-crickity-crackity_. "I'm too cold, too wet, too hungry, and way too tired to listen to your...your...damn...drivel."

"If thou art fatigued, we could take a wee nap together."

Star pivoted, and even though her water-bogged hat concealed the majority of her face, Troll could tell she was smiling shrewdly, contemplating the offer. In the end, she merely turned and walked away.

Troll smiled. He had gotten what he wanted all along, just one look at her wild, magnificent beauty. And it was worth it. Just a glimpse at her and he suddenly gained his second wind.

Heaven here, Lord, this I know

Feel it through me from toe to bone

Troll began to belt out melodically.

And I shall sing my praise to thee, Lord

With whole a heart and soul

And on and on it goes

I shall sing this song some more...

Yes, Troll felt much better now, indeed -- invigorated even. He felt as though he could endure this horrid weather for days still.

****

After a full seven days the rains ceased and the sun shone bright and hot, caking the mud-bathed grounds by late noon. Despite the fortuitous turn of the weather, the Dog still remained absent from their party. Star walked tiredly, though still glad to be rid of the rain. She relished the warmth and sun shining down upon her face as she and Troll continued about their travels. By now, Troll had confided in her of his suspicions of the Dog's jealousy. But Star didn't quite believe that was the problem. Perhaps it was part of the problem. But she felt certain there was more to the Dog's absence than jealousy.

"That's just nonsense. Why would he just leave like that?" Star protested, as was her usual fashion when talking to Troll.

"Can ye offer another solution?"

But alas, she could not.

And so, Troll merely continued to stroll along, singing merrily as always.

The light that shines

The light that's bright

T'is the soul and shall not fright

Though we stroll in times of fear

Fear not thy lamb, thy savior near

Star asked, "Why do you always sing?"

"Why does thee not sing?"

"Nothing to sing about I reckon," she answered with a glum sigh.

"Blasphemy! T'is always something to sing about, always something to thank God for, people praising God through song and what not."

"Yeah, like what?"

"Like the beauty that is life, the beauty that is God."

"God, huh?"

"Certainly, for God is in everything and everything is God, and," he said, smiling brightly at her, "everything is beautiful."

"First of all, I don't believe in God. I believe I told ya that."

"It matters not."

Star rolled her eyes (but not in anger), and said, "Even so, I'd hardly call the last few days beautiful. In fact, I'd say they were down-right ugly."

"My dear Myriam--"

"Star!" she snapped, immediately recoiling against the harsh tone in which she employed.

Troll merely shrugged off the insult as if it no more than a falling leaf upon his shoulder.

"Star, by all means," he said, conceding his palms. "In any case, there is beauty in everything from a brilliant sunset to the raging stormy skies. From the most magnificent forest to the tiny grubs wallowing amidst their earthen bed. Why, there is even beauty in ye'r face even when anger seems to rob ye of it. Why, there is so much beauty in the world, the only real ugliness is that people don't realize it. Heaven on earth, my dear, heaven on earth."

Silent and contemplative, Star strolled alongside Troll. He had so much faith, so much spirit within him. It was amazing he could be so intolerantly pig-headed at times.

"Besides, singing also helps to scare off the bears." He smiled at her. And for the utmost of brevity, she smiled back.

"There are no bears," Star said, though her words lacked the conviction Troll's had. "Are there?"

"Well, I don't see any, do ye?" Troll smiled at her playfully before continuing his song, picking up where he'd left off.

The dawn that breaks those dreadful skies

Have seen all the Devil's lies

And though they tempt, and how they try

I'll cast away my sinful eyes

"Troll, wait," Star called, "what about the bears?"

****

Even the Dog relished the warmth as he lay sprawled out on his back in a meadow somewhere away from Troll and Star. But not so far as to be out of hearing distance of his master's beckoned call. For Dog heard far and sensed farther. From miles away, he could still hear the duo's banter -- and loathed it. He missed the days of just him and Troll. He longed for the days of wandering to new and distant lands, meeting new people, and being banished, only to continue traveling.

Troll understood the Dog. Or at least recognized what he was, and tolerated him (well, at least Troll tolerated the Dog more than most). And what of this female whose company Troll preferred? What happened when she discovered that the Dog was, well, a dog? Would she too dismiss them? Or would she cajole Troll into getting rid of the Dog for good, as so many others had attempted? Such questions the Dog could not answer, nor did he possess the desire to try. Rather he preferred to soak up the warming rays of sunshine while they lasted. Yawning and stretching comfortably among the weeds, a far-off melody lulled him to sleep.

The rains that fall, from teary skies

Keep the soil and till with life

Until they sprout and writhe with age

To fall to seed and live again

Oh, how he loved this day, but alas, such pleasures were never meant to last. For while the Dog heard far, he sensed farther, and what he smelled hidden in that sweet afternoon air was the promise of more rain.

****

Another cold and rainy day. Troll strolled the muddy path as chipper as ever. Star returned to a sour mood and Troll figured this would be the case for as long as the heavens leaked like a siv with a case of the runs. Once again, the Dog was gone, though Troll sensed his presence nearby.

Around noon (best as Troll could wager), his stomach rumbled and growled. He was famished, as always. Even though they replenished their supply of "wild-salad", Star suggested they skip breakfast in order to get her blood pumping.

"This looks like a good place to set and rest a spell," he said, stopping at some random spot.

"Ain't no shelter." Shackle rattling, Star ran a hand through her drenched hair. A frigid wind arose and Star clutched herself as she shivered violently.

"How many times must we do this dance?"

Eyebrow cocked, she stared at him quizzically, as if she didn't know what he was talking about.

"My cloak is more than enough shelter for us."

Star just stood there, gazing at him. "Not hungry," she said.

"Perhaps, but _I_ am."

Star crossed her arms, head downcast as she tapped her foot impatiently. Every time her foot hit the muddy earth, it sent small waves rippling across the flooded surface. For some reason, it reminded Troll of when she rocked back and forth, as if hypnotized. She peered up at him, and said, "well, _you_ can stop if you want, but I'm gonna keep moving."

"Aye, t'is true, Lord," Troll said when she was out of earshot, "she's a feisty one, indeed."

They pressed on.

The cur may have been out of sight, but far from out of mind. For, Troll, as always, could feel his presence. Star on the other hand, hadn't seen neither hide nor hair of the Dog in over a week and suspected he had run a foul. This Troll dismissed casually.

"Nonsense, the Dog is perfectly capable of self-preservation," he repeatedly assured.

"Even so, what if he's hurt, or worse?"

"He's not."

"How do you know?"

Troll turned toward her and sighed. "Because," he said, "I just know."

Head drooping, face hidden 'neath the brim of her hat, Star plodded on without another word.

Troll merely smiled in the direction Star previously stood. Troll didn't smile at her. Hell, he hadn't even been looking at her. What Troll smiled at, were the Dog's golden-eyes glaring at them from the trees above.

****

Journal entry – t'is been over a week since my last entry. Since that time, we've been without campfire and we are utterly drenched from toe to soul. Alas, we haven't even shared a hot meal in...much longer than I would care for. The only things we can collect in order to attain sustenance are berries, roots, cabbage, and wild onions; to make, what Star calls: wild salad. Though I must confess, dear journal, I grow steadily disgusted of watery vegetables and pine for a plump hare or juicy trout. But the unbreakable weather has proven exhaustingly unprolific.

Furthermore, the Dog has dared not so much as to come within sight of us, 'though I know him near. At first, I thought him jealous of the blossoming friendship between Ms. Star and myself, though I grow uncertain. For, while I am still convinced his problem is one of sheer jealousy, I feel like he is almost afraid of something. Though of what, I know not. His diminishing demeanor has worsened since the day on the hill where he ate of Ms. Star's bouquet. It was as if there was something in the air that had him spooked. I must admit, while captivated by the developing storm clouds, I sensed no looming.

Yet still, onward we traverse. I only risk drenching my thoughts (and thusly, my journal) now because of last night. I dreamed of the desert again, of slavery and of a dark figure. T'was a horrible reverie and was glad to be rid of once Star's stirring awoke me. She was bewitched, like so many nights before. Only, her tremblings are of more consistency and steadily worsening. This time she squirmed and muttered something of protest in her sleep, as if she were fighting someone or something. I tried to wake her, gently nudging her so as not to give fright, but failed. When she would not awake, I began to shake her forcibly. She screamed in terror as I broke her of the no-doubt terrifying imagery playing out in her head. I held her tightly as she continued to cry for several minutes. In an attempt to assuage the poor child, I even went as far as to rock back and forth with her while'st stroking her curly blonde locks in the darkness of me cloak. The rocking seemed to help, though she still sobbed for a long time. After a while of crying on my shoulder, she was able to compose herself.

" _Be ye well?" I asked._

" _Yes, I think I will be."_

" _T'is only rain," I mused, "and shall soon abate."_

She chuckled and the life came back into her face for the utmost of brevity before regaining its dark veneer (we were shrouded in the confines of my cloak mind ye, though some things can always be seen).

" _There's something I must tell you," she whispered. She trembled, terrified someone or something may overhear, possibly even the assailant in her dreams that was most probably, Furion. "Something I should've told you when we first met. Something vital. Will you hear it?"_

" _No," I said smiling there in the darkness. "I shall listen."_

She smiled back, but not for long. For, the story she told was no fanciful fairytale. T'was dark and grim. T'was the story of a desert, and slavery. T'was the story -- of how she escaped.

" _I was young, real young. Young in age anyway, but the funny thing about slavery, ya got hard or ya got dead. Workin' all day in that heat, no food, little water, and the smell. Oh god, the smell. Hundreds of thousands of bodies just rottin'. That's pretty much what it was, rottin'. We was already dead, all of us, though we didn't know it. Or maybe we did, and just refused to accept it. All we could do was sharpen, that's what we called it -- sharpening of the mind, body, and soul. It was kind of an inside joke 'tween the workers. That's what we called ourselves, anyway. Guess we was just ashamed. Ashamed of making a stand, fighting bloody and hard, and still our people lost. Heartbreaking it is, we just weren't sharp enough, though a few years in the fields could remedy that. They wasn't really fields, that's just what they was called. They was really more like rocky cliffs and mines. Another sort of inside joke that wasn't really all that funny. Kinda down-right depressing when ya got to thinking about it. But hell, that's all we had to keep our minds busy; stupid jokes, riddles without answers or punch lines, all the while trying to sharpen, getting stronger. How depressing._

" _But worst of all was the Lord of Black, high up on the tallest cliff on his iron steed. He was cloaked all in black and slumped over, looked like he was dead. That's what you'd think anyway, that's what he wanted you to think until he got inside your head. He would just sit there all day every day, just watching. One would wonder how he could sit there all day in that heavy, black armor and thick hood and cape. Not me though, bastard could rot there for all I cared. Rot just like the rest of us. And oh, how he would stink, his stench would be the foulest by far. But I ramble._

" _What I was trying to say, was that worst of all, was when the dark lord got into your head. He got in and just talked. He'd just talk forever, a thousand voices all chattering at once. Sometimes he'd talk people into doing things just for his amusement, wicked terrible things. Sometimes people just died from all the talking. Blood would flow from every opening on their face, like their brains just exploded in their heads. No one cared though, there was always people dying as more and more slaves came in every day. You just hoped that, if it was you who was going to die that day that, you fell at the hands of anything other than Furion's amusement._

Trembling violently, she quavered, "Furion the Black, he did it. Oh God, he did it just for the sheer fun of it. There he sat, just laughing at us -- laughing in our heads. God, how I wanted to kill him while he sat there, high upon his horse and laughing. I wanted to blow his brains out and then stand there laughing and pointing. Crying: here bleeds Furion the Black, murderer, rapist, sorcerer, and slave driver, and here lay his evil brains. Do not mourn, do not weep, for here lies Furion the Black, so mote it, so let it be."

Star was rocking again. I doubt she even knew she was doing it. She was becoming totally withdrawn into her story, as her hate bubbled over into incoherent mutterings.

" _So tell me..." I said, trying to return to the subject at hand. Though, obviously Star liked being interrupted during a story telling no more than I._

" _I'm getting to that," she snapped, ceasing her rocking and immediately recoiling in horror at her own shrill madness. This was how it started, madness, with incoherent musings to yourself and no other. "Sorry, I just..."_

" _No apologies necessary." Though, I secretly relished the chance to cut her off for once. "Please, continue."_

" _Right, sorry." Star stared blankly for a moment, collecting her racing thoughts for an appropriate place to continue. She began to rock forth and sway again. And in the darkness her eyes grew wild with terror, trembling and rocking, lips quivering. Then she spoke._

" _I'd been a slave for about two years. Not just me, but my family, too. I had a little brother who was six. My father was there as well as my mother. She was pregnant. I don't know exactly how far along she was, for I was just a child myself and knew very little of such things. What I do know was that she was far enough along to begin to show. And regardless of how much we strived, she hadn't lost the baby. You could consider this to be something of a miracle. Yet to me, it was quite the opposite. For, surely any child born in such circumstances was anything but a miracle. It was damnation before birth. My father was a good man. He made deals with any of the other workers he could, doing a share of their labor in exchange for a share of their rations. Anything he could do to take care of my mother and their unborn child, he did. My brother and I were left to fend for ourselves. Not because our parents didn't care about us, it was because we were nowhere near them. The fields were massive, stretching far and wide. My parents were on one side of the camp while my brother and I were on the other. So I did my best to take care of and protect my little brother just as my father did his best at preserving the lives of his wife and unborn child. That was of course, until Furion found out._

" _I don't know how he did it, perhaps some of the workers were found giving their rations away and the soldiers inquired as to why. Maybe they were tortured. Maybe, just maybe, Furion knew all along and was simply biding his time until my parents became his entertainment for the day. Regardless of how it happened, Furion did find out. And he didn't like it, the workers helping each other, he didn't like it one bit. That was the number one reason why Furion would fuck with certain people. He would torture and kill any slave caught trying to help another._

" _I remember the day clearly. It was bright and hot, just like any other day. Except on this day, me and my brother were rounded up by the soldiers and taken to another part of the fields. It was called the flats, since there were no cavernous mines around those parts. The land was flat and littered with the soldier's lodgings. When we got there my father and mother were also there. They were shackled and surrounded by guards and other slaves, who were rounded up simply to bear witness to Furion's tyranny. They were there to watch and inform the other slaves of what would happen to anyone caught trying to help another._

" _There was a trial. Well, not really, it was more of a mock trial. Where a man named Commander Shroud questioned my parents about whether or not they were receiving extra rations. My parents obviously refused any such knowledge of the events. But Shroud produced witnesses who had either accepted my father's offer or had at least bore witness to the deal my father set in place in order to take care of his kin._

" _It didn't take long before my parents were found guilty by Shroud and his men. It was then decreed that if my parents expected their unborn child to live, then one of their current children would have to perish. Shroud tried to make my parents choose between me and my brother, Mikhale, but they refused. So Furion, who was watching from the tallest cliff, decided for them. He got into my head. It was a sickening feeling. It was like being invaded internally from all directions. He seemed to seep into you from every pore, talking quietly at first, as if it were nothing but a whispering in the back of your head. But that whispering would soon swell to a thousand voices all tugging at your mind at once. I don't remember much after that. It was as if it were all a dream. I could see everything I was doing. But it was as if it weren't me doing it at all, like I was outside of myself, watching as my body acted on its own accord._

" _I attacked Mikhale, pouncing upon him, hitting him and bashing his face into the ground. I couldn't believe what I was doing. In my mind I cried out in revolt, repulsed at my own actions. I picked up a rock and bashed my little brother's skull in as my parents, restrained by the soldiers, screamed out in horror. I killed my little brother. The very same person I spent so long taking care of and protecting, I bashed Mikhales' skull in until his brains leaked out and stained the ground. My mother broke free, charging after me to make me stop. But Furion had a firm hold on my will, and refused to let go of me. As my mother came running toward me, I whirled around, seeing her but not seeing her at the same time, as if she were some nemesis sent to destroy me, at least that's what Furion wanted me to think. Before I knew it, I pounced upon my mother. I tore into her with my own teeth and nails, biting and ripping her apart in front of my father's eyes. Shroud had given my father a choice of which child would live and which would die. And since he refused to decide, Furion made me kill my little brother, my mother, and her unborn child right in front of him. My father fought with every ounce of strength that he could muster. It took three guards to restrain him, and still he almost broke free from them. Another guard quickly came up and stabbed him in the guts. All the while, I was ripping my mother apart in bloody ribbons of flesh. Fortunately for my father, most of the guards were heavily armed. And as one of the soldiers sank a blade deep into his guts and twisted, my father pulled a pistol from the soldier's holster and shot him dead. The other soldiers restraining him were shocked by the sudden burst of fire power. Taking the advantage of the element of surprise, my father shot the other guards. But more soldiers came rushing at him as the slaves, Shroud, and Furion all watched the unfolding events in quiet amusement. My father unloaded the gun into the oncoming soldiers as the ringing shots seemed to lull me out of the daze I was in. It was either that or Furion just let me go, wanting me to come to the realizations of all that I had just done. Standing there, my head cleared and it all came back to me as I stood triumphant over my dead family, their blood and guts stained my hands and clothes. Oh, God, there were even chunks of flesh and organ clotted in my hair. I shrieked, crying hysterically as my father fought off the guards. I could hear him, he was calling me. But all I could do was stand there and scream._

" _While I was screaming, my father ran out of bullets. I could hear him calling for me to help him, to get him another gun or knife or something -- anything. But I couldn't. I just froze as another guard came up; he had a pistol of his own and unloaded all six shots into my father's chest. But still, my father would not fall. I was on my knees, just screaming. My father was also on his knees, blood flowing from his chest as the armed soldier reloaded his pistol. He was standing over my father, holding the barrel against my his temple. I don't know why, but somehow, seeing him there, about to be shot in the head, stirred something deep inside me. I was standing outside of myself again, watching myself take action without the frivolity of thought. Though, unlike before, it wasn't Furion's many voices I heard, but one. It was the voice of my father telling me to act quickly. I grabbed a pistol from the belt of one of the fallen soldiers and shot him dead. As the man fell to the ground, a golden object hanging around his neck on a gold chain came spilling out from the throat of his uniform. My father grasped it and called out to me again as he collapsed on the ground. I remember him there, lying on the ground, covered in blood; his arms open as he called my name over and over again. I looked around, but no other guards advanced upon us, they didn't need to. The damage had been done. Shroud, the slaves, soldiers, even Furion, none of them so much as even made an advancing gesture toward us as I rushed into my father's arms, crying and pleading for forgiveness at what I had done. My father was no fool, he was well aware of Furion's ability to enter people's minds. And as such, forgave the terrible acts which Furion had done through me. He was dying, barely breathing. Still, he had the strength to kiss me and put that golden object around my neck. It was a compass -- my compass. I didn't want him to put it on me, not at first. I tried to protest but he insisted. Said it was his final decree._

" _This is so you'll never again lose your way, my Myriam's Star," he said as he hung the medallion around my neck. He then shot the chains connected to the shackles around my ankles, and I was free. He gave me his gun, giving me a total of two pistols and a golden compass. I would later have a slingshot and other weapons with which to fight. But that is another story altogether. I would also eventually remove the shackles from my ankles and wear them as bracelets, so that I would never forget where I came from. Never forget my pain and the promise I made to kill Furion and avenge my family, and my people._

" _When my father breathed no more, I stood, slowly, not knowing what to expect. I remember thinking they'd kill me outright. But, everyone just stood there, watching me. I thought that they'd drag me back to my unit in the fields, but that didn't happen. What did happen, is all at once, as if Furion had entered everyone's minds -- soldiers, slaves, Shroud, and especially Furion \-- all turned in unison, pointing at me, cackling wildly. I screamed for them to shut up. Screamed and cried as I had done when I realized I killed my family. But my cries were of no good, as the voices were also in my head. Pointing and laughing. Not knowing what to do, I began to run. No one gave chase, no one cared. So off I ran into the desert, alone and frightened."_

For the first time in my life, I had been dumbed to silence as Star sat there quiet for what seemed like an unbearable amount of time. Just setting there and twisting the gold chain of her father's compass around her slender fingertips within the obscurity of my cloak. I felt I should say something, but what? Some empathetic remark? Something to at least break the intimidating silence between us? Perchance a joke? No, none would suffice. How could I possibly try to empathize or make light of all the she'd endured. Certainly a jest at this point would not do at all. But, surely someone had to say something. To leave her like that, in the dark, almost hypnotized by her own mantra could not be healthy. Plus, it creeped me out. So what then? What to do? After a small prayer to the Lord for strength, the answer came to me. And in a soft, warm voice, I asked her what happened next.

" _I fled north to the mountains. It was as an arduous journey, little water, even littler rations, but I made it through by sucking the moisture off of rocks. I walked at night, sleeping in the day, eating insects I found 'neath the stones I used for moisture. I was weary, but eventually made it to lusher country._

" _From then on, I lived as a drifter, grifting what I could when I could get it, but mostly just runnin,' runnin' from the past. I kept expecting Furion's men to track me down and kill me, or worse, drag me back to the fields. But that never happened. Although, sometimes when people looked at me, there'd be this funny sort of look in their eyes, as if they was laughing at me. Laughing and pointing at me from inside their heads. That ate me up something fierce. Furion killed my entire family and for the longest time I was convinced it was my fault. I did things to punish myself for that horrible belief, things I'd rather not talk about. All the while I was punishing myself, I could just hear that bastard laughing, laughing and pointing like everyone else._

" _After a long time, I met someone who told me that I wasn't the one to blame. It took many a year but I was finally convinced by it, and once that happened, killing Furion became my sole obsession. I traveled to distant lands and learned everything I could in the ways of combat and survival so that one day I would be able to track him down and finally kill him._

" _I probably won't survive the ordeal myself, as I'd probably have to fight through damn near an entire army just to get to him. He'd have to use an army now, 'cause he can't get inside my head no more. But I don't care, it'd all be worth it just to kill him and hold his bleeding, black heart up toward the sky."_

I considered the severity in her words with great interest for several long, dark moments. Clearly her hatred was true. But in her lust for revenge, I fear that she'd rush head-long in any direction to meet her dark nemesis, and thusly, surely perish horribly before ever her mission accomplished, along with anyone with her. And that was beginning to look like the Dog and me. Well, me anyhow, for the Dog, I cannot speak.

" _How do you know Furion will be in Krin, wouldn't he still clearly be in the fields?"_

" _No, the fields are buried," she said with frightening assurance._

" _Pardon?"_

" _I mean, they ain't there no more. I reckon, after Furion and his men got everything they wanted, they filled the fields in with all the workers still inside."_

" _Are ye certain that ye were simply not in the wrong place?"_

Star met this with a hostile look that I could feel even in the impenetrable blackness. "I know," she said as bluntly as I'd assured her that the Dog had not run a foul. "And to answer your first question: I don't know that he'd be in Krin. But when Krin was invaded, not everyone was either killed or enslaved. Some managed to escape, and since there is nothing but ocean to the west, and every other direction surrounding Krin is steeped with harsh mountains followed by vast deserts, there is nowhere for any of the survivors to have fled to."

" _So, ye figure they'd just hide out then start over once Furion pulled his armies back to the fields in the deserts?"_

" _Exactly!"_

" _And ye'r certain someone there might know of Furion's where-abouts?"_

" _No," she said as her mood dropped from one of hope to that of uncertainty, "but it's a start."_

I felt as if there still much to discuss: the places she'd traveled, the skills she'd learned, the person who taught her that her family's death was not her fault, and thusly, what happened to that person? Yes, there was much to inquire about indeed, particularly: How did she learn to block Furion from her thoughts? Did she learn it of her own volition, or did her mystery savior bestow her with that knowledge? And if so, then how did that person learn? Were they a slave too?

But alas, my questions would have to wait for warmer weather and brighter skies. For after that, no-doubt exhausted from the tale she'd probably never told anyone else, at least not in entirety (except perhaps for her mystery teacher), she fell deeply asleep. And as she snored peacefully away until morning, I was left alone in the dark with nothing but my unanswered questions.

The last thing Star said before falling asleep was, "You know, it's funny, but I can't even remember what my family looked like."

****

Day would break soon, yet the skies still appeared grey and dulled with rain clouds. Belly full, the Dog purred contently. He had found a burrow of possum and dined to his content. Oh, how they fought with ragged tooth and claw. The Dog liked it that way. He preferred his food fight till he bled them of their last, diminutive breaths.

Once he sated his thirst for flesh and blood, the Dog found himself fancying to check in on Star and Troll. Still dark out, and no-doubt the two asleep, but he thought he'd drop in and see what was what, anyhow.

When he did track them down (which didn't take him long at all), he was surprised to find that they, in fact, were not asleep. They still huddled under the protective confines of Troll's massive cloak, talking. Seeing the two there, closed off together made the Dog feel unwanted. A cold sliver of rejection ran through him as he trudged off to be by _his_ self. But that was then and this was now. And now, the Dog sat perched high up in a pine tree, the best protection from the elements _he_ could find.

Completely feral now, he savored the taste of warm blood between his fangs. A thick fur mated down by rain water protected his slender frame from the harsh chilling elements. Claws out, skin hardened on the palms of his hands and feet, he was ready for anything. Anything but being rejected by the one true friend the Dog had made in maybe a million years. But it wasn't just the rejection that had the Dog feeling poorly, it was the feeling of being replaced.

Troll and the colored woman had been talking for quite some time, though most of it consisted of Star crying and blathering. Not caring to hear such things (that was the down side to having superior hearing though), he gathered a small stone from around the base of the tree before climbing back up to the top branches. He sat there, perched on a limb, staring at the huddled bodies 'neath Troll's massive cloak. He pulled his hunting knife from his belt and sharpened it upon the stone he'd collected.

_Scrippity-crippity_ , the knife sang as it worked its way up and down the pleated rock. _Scratchity-rickity_.

He scraped the blade across the stone faster and faster as a small growl rose from the depths of his diaphragm. All the while the Dog continued to glare at their huddled bodies, peering at them with those golden-eyes.

Before he collected the stone at the base of the tree, he'd overheard part of Star's story but didn't quite understand the reference, something about sharpening. He liked that. Something about it just had a good ring to it. Perhaps, that's what inclined the Dog to sharpen his blade in the first place. Perhaps, something deeper lingered behind the meaning, something far more primitive that inherently invoked the Dog's interest. Perhaps, somewhere deep down in the depths of the Dog, he was preparing to do a little sharpening of his own.

****

The rain finally stopped soon after dawn and Star and Troll resumed their ceaseless wandering. Once again, the Dog was nowhere in sight. Would he ever show himself again? Troll said he would, but Star just didn't know. Was she responsible for the Dog's absence? Troll said no, but once again, Star felt uncertainty creeping down into her bowels.

Hungry, yet surprisingly well rested for how little sleep they'd gotten, Troll and Star stopped around noon. She trapped a small hare while Troll fished their supply of "wild-salad" from out of his cloak.

No way to start a fire, Star thought, scanning the soaked undergrowth

Troll gathered a small mound of wet leaves into a pile. He produced a small kettle-pot from within the depths of his cloak. "Fill this with the freshest water ye can find, please," he said, handing her the kettle. "I suggest trying the river."

"What _don't_ you have in there?" Star asked in amazement, eyeing Troll's seemingly bottomless cloak.

"Patience, for tardy breakfast," he said smiling, "please, be swift now."

Star chuckled brightly before setting off to fetch the freshest water she could manage. When she returned, Troll produced a small leather pouch from his cloak. With large pudgy, digits, he carefully unknotted the leather tie. He opened the pouch and sprinkled a pinch of black powder over the rain-soaked leaves. The powder appeared and smelled as nothing more than common ground pepper. Yet pepper it was not. For when it touched the wet leaves, they began to smolder and smoke.

"Quickly now," Troll instructed, "the pot, place it over the kindling."

Star complied as Troll placed the (already skinned and gutted) hare in the pot. He then added a few wild onions and cabbage he collected, and made the rabbit stew he'd been talking about ever since the weather turned for the worse nearly a fortnight ago.

Eyes closed, hands folded penitently, Troll said, "Lord, we pray the bad weather behind us. Anything to add?" he asked.

Star shook her head.

They ate well. And as they ate, their moods began to lighten, as did the condition of the weather.

The rest of the afternoon was clear with very little cloud coverage. At some point, Star noticed the Dog had rejoined their troop. She couldn't say when for certain that this had happened. She just turned around and there he was, following right along as if he'd never left in the first place. Troll seemed to take notice of this yet made no discernible actions. She just sort of knew that Troll was aware of the Dog's presence. Perhaps he'd been there then entire time. That would explain why even though Star had been worried for the Dog's welfare, Troll had not.

"Tell me something, Star, ye mentioned something about Furion not being able to get into ye'r head anymore. How is that?" Troll asked, breaking the silence.

Star glimpsed back at the Dog.

"Come now, don't worry about him. He's not going to tell anyone. And besides, if he is really part of ye'r prophecy, then does he not have a right to such vital information?"

Could she trust the Dog? If Star had truly found her prophets (which she believed heart and soul that she had), then what choice did she have? "As I said, after I escaped, I could still hear him laughing in my head, all the time. When I started to turn my grief into rage, I was able to block it out. Only for short periods of time at first, but I got better. I got sharper, and learned to block it out for longer periods of time. Now I don't hear it at all anymore."

Scratching his beard, Troll asked, "Was it ye'r teacher who conditioned ye in such a fashion?"

Star walked on in silence. Head bent, face hidden underneath her wide-brimmed hat as she twirled the compass' chain around her fingers. Shale. She pushed the thought away before Shale's face could materialize in her mind's eye. "That's a story for another time. Something I'd rather not talk about."

"How do ye know ye could block Furion out now if he were in close proximity and tried getting in ye'r head again?"

"I'm fairly confident in my training."

"But ye'r not for certain?"

"Well," she smiled, "not yet." A clap of thunder rolled ominously in the distance. "Oh great, just what I wanted, more rain." Star groaned at the very thought of progressing through yet another day in cold, wet, and howling winds.

"Keep ye'r chin up, my dear. T'is possible that the weather could simply pass us by without so much as a single drop of rain."

"And if it doesn't?" she asked, frowning.

"Well, it can't rain forever," he said, smiling.

The Dog stood several paces behind, sniffing at the air.

They trudged on as the storm clouds gathered above them.

Troll stopped in the middle of the path and looked into the thick forestry. He scratched his chin before cupping his hand over his eyes, peering deeper into the woods.

"What is it?" Star asked.

"Not sure, care to have a look-see?"

"Let's do it," Star said, marching into the forest.

The Dog followed as Troll led them a few meters into the brush before stopping in front of a small rock formation covered with moss and vines.

Troll's gigantic knee-caps popped as he stooped down, via the aid of his staff. "Looks like a cave," he said, clearing the vines away from the mouth of the formation. "Could be good shelter if'n it rains." Troll crouched lower and poked his head inside.

Sitting on her haunches, Star said, "Wait!" Her muscles coiled, ready for action as she held an out-stretched hand. "What if there's bears inside? Like a...watch'a call it?"

Bushy eyebrows furrowed, he asked, "A den?"

"Yeah, a den."

"Did ye hear that, Lord?" Troll threw his head back, a wide smile cracked his bearded face as the beads in his hair shucked and jived. "She actually thinks there are bears about!" He roared in laughter.

"Wait...but you said--"

"My dear, I was only joshing thee. I assure ye, there are no bears."

"Yeah, but--"

"Well, let's have a look, shall we?" Troll poked his head into the cave and hollered, "Hello, be there any bears in there?" His booming voice reverberated throughout the cavernous chambers below. "Come out, come out, wherever ye are."

A cacophony of blood-curdling scream echoed below and a legion of bats poured out from the cave.

Troll shrieked, hands waving about as if the leathery beasts were fluttering around in his hair. He dropped his staff and sprinted away from the mouth of the cave as the bats chased him about.

Star rolled on the ground, laughing so hard she nearly wet herself.

The Dog sat there on his haunches, watching with golden-eyes and a wide-toothy smile.

Troll crumbled to the ground, hands folded over his head as the bats cleared out.

Star clutched at her sides, tears flowed as she continued to laugh and laugh. "You...you screamed like a girl," she said, pointing at Troll.

The Dog cackled in a laugh that hiccupped and popped.

Star regained control of herself and rose.

Troll did the same, dusting off his deer-skinned clothes, cloak, and kilt.

Star asked, "Are you afraid of bats?"

Troll strolled toward the cave and retrieved his trusty staff.

"You are, aren't you? You're afraid of bats."

"Of course not," Troll said, gaze darting to the ground. "Merely caught me by surprise so they did. Little, disgusting, disease-riddled vermin."

Star and the Dog glanced at each other before erupting in laughter again.

"It's not funny," Troll said. "What, with them beady, little eyes and razor-sharp teeth. And the wings -- did I mention they carry diseases?"

Star couldn't answer him. She was laughing way too hard.

****

Near dusk, the sky washed over in pinks, purples, and smudges of oranges in varying hues and depths. The wind blew low and sweet through the tall-grass. Troll and the Dog stood at the bottom of a slight incline while Star rested at the top, lying on the ground and enjoying the sunset.

Troll had not exercised the Dog in quite some time (mostly because of Dog's absence), but he hadn't abandoned the regimen entirely. Playing tug-of-war with the Dog, Troll whirled his mighty staff around. The Dog jumped up and down, snapping at it with his jaws, falling on all fours only to pop back up again. The Dog was not feral, of course, it was like watching a man play as a dog.

Troll glanced up at Star. She smiled as the wind blew her curly blonde-hair around under her hat. So, it's a show she's after, Troll thought. "Well, then we'll give her a show, won't we, Lord?"

The Dog peered up at Troll with golden, earnest eyes. He sat on his haunches, quivering in anticipation.

Troll grabbed both ends of the staff and held it out for the Dog to grab the middle. And sure enough, the Dog jumped up and bit down hard on the knotty wood, rocking his head violently from side to side while trying to pull backward. The Dog dropped to all fours, digging into the grass and staining his hands and feet green.

Troll spun in a circle as the Dog held on with his teeth. Troll swung 'round faster and faster until he lifted the Dog off the ground. He twirled the Dog round the air a few times before slowing his rotation and bringing the Dog safely back down to earth.

Star laughed, clapping in applause.

"Thank-ye, thank-ye." Troll bowed to his approving audience of one, all the while using his staff to support his lumbering weight. Dog, still wound up and ready to play, gnawed upon the stilled toy. "Hey, knock that off," Troll said, raising a large, threatening hand. The Dog quickly skittered out of arm and staff reach. "Don't ye be a chewin' on my stick now," he lectured as Star laughed softly in amusement. "That's my stick." Dog sat perched on the grass ready to pounce, barking playfully at his master. "What!" The Dog tipped the upper part of his body in the tall-grass, leaving his legs up and ready to pounce. "Yeah, that's what I thought." Dog jumped up and barked again.

Star laughed. Troll and Star stared at each other. They locked eyes, each enamored within each other's gape. And together, they smiled.

A large clap of thunder rolled across the land, causing Star and the Dog to jump.

Troll just stood there.

"That must have been one big-ass bat," Star called, sashaying toward them.

"Funny," Troll said.

The Dog sat on his haunches, sniffing vehemently at the air.

"What about you, Dog?" Star asked playfully, "what do you think that was?"

"Aye, what do ye smell?" Troll asked. "Do tell what is in the air tonight."

The Dog continued to sniff away, as if something were there that only he could sense.

Troll turned to Star, smiling and gazing into her emerald-eyes. Star stared back. He could have stayed lost in those eyes forever had the Dog not broke the two of the spell they were under.

In a soft voice that was almost like a child's, the Dog said, "Rain."

****

Star returned with another load of firewood and placed the bundle atop the pile. More than satisfied with its stature, surely it would be enough to see them through the night. Setting down by the fire, she inhaled the sweet air deeply into her lungs and smiled, enjoying the evening's twilight. This was her favorite part of the day. It reminded her of sitting on the bluffs of Krin with her father, mother, brother Mikhale, and sometimes even her grandmere, had she not already retired for the night in elderly exhaustion. Looking down upon the beautiful yet deadly swamp, and further out, the ocean -- and farther still, God only knew. _Clank-scrickitty._ They would sit there almost every night during the good weather, sometimes talking. _Chink-clackity._ Sometimes laughing. Sometimes just sitting. _Scrippity-scrappity._ Just sitting there until the sun went to bed behind the horizon and the stars came out, sometimes until God only knew when. _Clankity-crickity._

Star snapped back to reality as if startled by some primordial sense of danger. _Clankity-crick-scratch. Strickity-clack._

Troll had been quite proud of the Dog's progress, especially in the fact that he'd actually spoken. He even gave the Dog a great, big bear-hug. The Dog tried to back away in protest, but Troll grappled him up and hugged him anyway. Yes, Troll was quite pleased, and for a moment, Star wasn't sure he'd ever shut up about it. And now that the Dog _had_ finally spoken, what now? What did it mean for the three?

Despite all that, Troll declared there would be no slacking off in the Dog's regimens. And now, Troll engaged the Dog in fencing (or some reasonable facsimile of it, anyway). Troll circled around the Dog, slashing at him with his foil as the Dog rebuked each attempt with his gauntlets. How skillfully the Dog wielded such foreign weaponry. Why did the Dog, who relied mostly upon tooth and claw than weapons of man, carry so many martial means of defense (and of such oddity at that)? Each blade upon his belt, while similar in overall form and function, appeared so alien. Yet, Star had to hand it to the Dog, he was certainly getting better at the skills that were so vitally important to Troll to bestow upon him. (Of course, this was the first time Troll "trained" the Dog since meeting Star, yet he mentioned it quite a few times while trying to engage her in conversation.) And for the first time since meeting the duo, Star found herself _really_ wondering if the Dog was even a man at all.

****

Journal entry -- late spring -- first day after the Dog's first word.

Boy, what an interesting day it has been. I hoped that after his initial word, the Dog would yammer on as if he'd been talking the whole time. But alas, dear journal, t'was as if he'd never said a thing. I spent a good portion of the morning attempting to goad the Dog into vocalization, but it seemed he was wise to my ruse. Still, I persisted. At one point, I even tackled him, though, playfully I might add. We took quite a tumble down a hill, where I landed upon him, pinning the cur 'neath my hefty frame. "Do ye yield?" I asked playfully.

The Dog began to growl fiercely and foam at the mouth. For a moment, I thought he was growling at me. That was when I heard it, the click of guns cocking. Apparently, a gang of outlaws had gotten the drop on us. They were all scraggily and thin, as if they knew little or nothing of how to survive in the wilderness. T'was probably the reason they pulled guns on us in the first place, thinking we had something of worthwhile to rob. And I suppose, if they cared for wild-salad, they might have been right.

Fortunately for the Dog and I, Star in turn got the drop on them, holding a gun to the head of their leader. The whole thing was squashed before it even began and the outlaws rode away with their tails twixt their legs, but not before Star confiscated one of the outlaws' shotguns. As I said, it all ended quite abruptly, and I only write of it now because of one thing. The lead outlaw (at the interrogation of Star), proclaimed himself to be one: Alistair James Jessip. Neither Star nor I had ever heard of such a man, though he portended he was: damn near famous.

I don't know why, but the name Jessip sounds so familiar, but from where? From when?

Dear Lord, grant me clarity and give me guidance. In your name, I pray, Amen.

Troll clasped his journal shut and returned it to the confines of his cloak before glancing up at Star. She stood several yards away, hand cupped over her eyes as she peered off into the distance. With the other hand, she twirled the chain of her father's compass around her fingers and tapped a foot impatiently upon the grassy knoll.

It had been nearly an hour since their encounter with the Jessips. After which, the three ambled back up the hillside only to find the path they traversed upon only minutes ago was now gone -- completely.

Troll rested in the weeds, recording his thoughts as Star tried to regain her bearings.

The Dog sat on his haunches next to Troll, watching Star with quiet fascination. Every so often, Star released a frustrated noise, and the Dog tilted his head in curiosity.

"Fret not," Troll said. "For we shall merely go in the same direction we were, so previously traversing."

Star fetched the compass from the throat of her shirt, opened it, looked at the object, up at the horizon, then back at the compass. "I don't suppose you know what direction that _was_?"

Troll scratched his beard, and asked, "Don't ye know the way to ye'r home?"

Star slouched, hiding her face 'neath the brim of her hat. She let out a long, low sigh of vexation before returning her gaze to Troll. "I don't know," she said with a nervous chuckle. "I just don't know."

Troll couldn't tell if she was about to laugh or cry.

"It just seems like...I dunno..." Star ran a hand under her hat and through her hair as the shackle on her wrist rattled ever-so slightly. She sighed again, and paced back and forth.

It reminded Troll of her rocking as a cold shiver ran up his spine. "Like things are not as ye remember?"

Star slowly turned, hands on holstered hips. Her oval face was stern and un-readable, but her emerald-eyes shimmered with tears. "Yeah, how...how did you know?"

"I too, have felt the pressure of differing memories."

"What do you mean?"

Troll patted the grass next to him, and said, "Please, set with me a spell and I shall spin ye a yarn."

Star sighed again, running another hand through her hair as she tapped her foot. After a moment's hesitation, she trotted over and popped herself a squat.

Troll told her the story of how he'd first met the Dog. He relayed the accounts of the spiders and their exploits with the Wachati tribe. He explained his differing memories and the subtle (yet noticeable), absences of time. In short, he told her everything.

Star stood, dusted off her hands, and grumbled, "Great story, but what's that got to do with the fact that, before we went down the hill, there was a dirt path up here. Now it's a fucking meadow." Star's hips cocked, thumbs hitched in the buckle. She narrowed her emerald-gaze upon his, no anger in those eyes, only a longing for hope -- for answers.

"All I'm saying, my dear, is that things are not always as they seem."

Star sighed, and ran a hand through her hair again. She crossed her arms about her waist and asked, "Okay, so what do we do now?"

Troll gazed toward the heavens. Hands out in supplication, he called, "Dear Lord, ye know'th of our plight. Please, we pray of thee, what do ye advise?" Silence.

Star glanced at the Dog, who shrugged.

Foot tapping impatiently, Star asked, "Well?"

"God suggests we be patient, and continue on the predetermined path."

"What path?" Star spat. "There ain't no path."

Smiling, he replied, "My dear, there is always a path."

"Okay." Star rested her hands on her hips, foot tapping faster. "Show me this invisible path."

Troll looked at the Dog.

Dog settled his grey-green-eyes upon Troll. Troll leaned his head and the Dog rose, bounding off through the field on all fours.

"Where's he going?"

"On the path, my dear," Troll said, smiling, "on the path."

****

Anne sat alone in the tall-weeds on the nor'easter part of Silverdale, a place commonly known as Tooker's barn. Why did the other children despise her so? Was it because of the rumors about her father? Or because Anne was -- different? She didn't know. She only knew the welling sadness and longing that stirred within her. Aside from Sarah and Maddy, the rag doll, Anne didn't have a friend in the world.

She sniffled, drying her eyes with the back of her hand before running the other through her long, gnarly black-hair. God, she just felt so alone.

Anne closed her big-brown doe-eyes and imagined a world where nobody hated her. A world where she could have all the friends her heart had room for -- a place she belonged.

If she had a friend. Just one, true friend. She released a long, low sigh before lying back in the grass; gazing up at the sky with all the vigor and imagination an eight-year old could muster. "Just one friend," she said. "That's all I want, just one."

Little did she know, her prayers were about to be answered in a most unexpected way.

****

4

A stony cloud coverage blotted out the sun. The humidity in the air became palpable as a sticky heat clung to Troll and Star's sweat-soaked skin. The mating calls of strange and exotic birds muffled by the moisture in the air. Large skeeter-bugs swarmed about them, causing Troll and Star to swat at their own skin. But the beasts seemed uninterested in the Dog, as if his blood tainted. Insects weren't the only thing to thrive in this part of the world; the forest grew dense, almost un-passable. Troll charged the Dog to walk several yards ahead, clearing a path via the aid of his gauntlets.

Swatting at her shoulder, Star asked, "Why must you order him around so?"

"It matters not to one such as the Dog. Besides, he is just the right height and so equipped to handle such a task."

"But if you treat him as a dog, than how will he ever be civil?" She ran a hand through her hair. The shackle rattled. "I'm sure he doesn't mesh well with others, I'm sure you've had your share of trouble by him."

Troll glanced at the Dog, who paid no mind to the conversation at hand, and said, "Right ye are, my dear, though look at him: obedient, unquestioning, unwavering, and most of all \-- loyal." He waved a hand in front of his face, driving off another skeeter.

"So?"

"So, he _is_ a dog."

"But--"

"Tell me something, my dear, where and when did you first hear about this prophecy of yours?"

"It was in the fields," she replied. "I remember it clearly. We were toiling away, shoveling rocks and dirt into carts to be transported. Mikhail was crying softly. I remember trying to hush him, but I couldn't. I remember feeling just so...helpless. Nothing I said or did gave Mikhail any comfort. But then, an elderly woman told him to dry his tears, that it would be all right. I remember him asking her, how it would be all right. And she said, because one day our suffering would cease. One day the king and all his children would fall and be punished for their crimes. And we would know the time was nigh when a man in the form of a beast, and the beast in the form of a man joined forces."

"I see," Troll said, scratching his beard. "And tell me, do you believe in this prophecy?"

"Well, I..."

Troll whirled around to face her, but her head was down, features hidden 'neath the brim of her hat. "Do ye believe in ye'r prophecy or don't ye?"

"I don't know," she said, running a hand through her hair.

"Bull scat!" Troll scoffed. "T'is a simple question, do ye believe in this prophecy, or don't ye?" Silence. "Well?"

"Yeah," Star said in almost a whisper. "I do."

"Ye do, what?"

"I believe," she said, still looking down.

"Ye believe in what?"

"I believe in my prophecy," she mumbled.

"Louder!"

"I believe in the prophecy!" Star said, peering up at Troll. A spirited fire burned behind her gaze, the one Troll had fallen in love with.

"Well, good. Then ye must agree, that while he looks like a dog, he is anything but. End of discussion."

The Dog glanced back; the look on his face that seemed to ask, "Are you guys coming or what?"

Star asked, "And how shall we treat him when we do meet other people? Shall we carry on as him a dog and nothing more?"

"No, we shall treat him as our traveling companion, no more, no less."

Star swatted at another skeeter. She gazed up at him, and asked, "And is that how you feel about him?"

"My dear, the Dog is my longest and dearest friend. And even though I order him around like a dog, it doesn't mean that I do not care for him. Just as any man may come to befriend an animal."

"I see."

They strolled on in silence, battling the tenacious insects.

"And how shall we treat each other?" Star cocked her oval face, brow raised, a coy smile suggested she'd been toying with this question for quite some time.

Troll blurted, "As man and wife."

"Yeah, I just bet you'd like that," she said in a whimsical snort. "Dream on though, 'cause it ain't gonna happen."

"All right then, what do ye suggest?"

Smiling, she replied, "Like you said, traveling companions, no more, no less."

"Very well, then."

They stared into each other's eyes for a moment before the skeeters demanded their undivided attention.

"Where's Dog?" she asked, spitting at a skeeter hovering danger-close to her thin, puckered lips.

Troll glanced ahead to where the Dog _had_ stood. Apparently he grew weary of waiting, for he was gone. 'Though a neat, little trail had been cut through the dense forestry where the Dog slashed the undergrowth away.

"He has gone to attend to doggly business," Troll said, smacking at his neck.

Star chuckled, swatting at a skeeter again. She gazed up at Troll for the utmost of brevity before the tenacious insects interjected. "No really, do you think he's all right? Do you think he's really jealous?"

"Aye, say true."

"I'm sorry; I don't mean to drive him off from you. I know you two are friends."

"Fear not, for he is a dog and is true to his master."

Star rolled her eyes.

"If the situation were reversed and ye'd found him first, he'd be envious of me."

"Do you think he'll ever trust me?" A skeeter landed on Star's forearm. She squashed it, a crimson splotch formed as if she just popped a blood blister.

Troll sniffed the humid air in imitation of his now, longest friend. "I sense all will yet be well."

Star laughed. "You looked just as the Dog when you did that," she said, wearing a breathtaking smile (before the skeeters robbed her of it).

From that moment on, Troll vowed to make her smile no matter how bad things got. Somehow, the warmth in her face could brighten the darkest of days.

"Well," he jested with a shrug, swatting away another insect, "he is such an imitable character."

****

The two bantered on about this or that, the Dog couldn't say for sure, he cared not for such things. The Dog sliced his way further through the thick undergrowth, wedging more and more distance between himself and his so-called friends. Sure, he was back in the company of his master, though, in that time, Troll and Star's friendship had blossomed. Now, more than ever, the Dog felt more alone than when he actually _was_ alone. Now, more than ever, he wished he had a friend. Just one-true friend.

A rustling emanated from the thicket ahead. The Dog stooped, muscles coiled, ready to pounce. He strained his ears and listened for several moments before he heard it again -- a soft giggling, almost childish.

The Dog closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and focused on nothing, yet everything. Troll and _his_ companion's voices reverberated off in the distance. But no. He sensed something, or rather, _someone_ else up ahead. He headed that way.

The Dog's eyes turned from green to gold as he slithered among the undergrowth. His ears and nose elongated slightly, but he didn't turn completely feral -- he didn't want Star seeing him like that. The Dog crawled behind a shrub and listened for the slightest of sounds.

"Success!"

Dog peeked over the brush and spied a young, portly man with short red-hair and beard. The man wore a thick, tattered brown-robe. He wallowed on all fours, fingers working methodically through the lush undergrowth. He plucked something from the dew-stained ground and popped it into his mouth. "Beautiful!" he said.

The Dog sniffed but detected nothing more than the man's salty body odor.

The man's bearded and chubby face illuminated in a bright smile as he slowly chewed.

The Dog didn't know what the man was eating, but whatever it was, it looked quite tasty. The Dog stood.

The portly bearded-man felt around the ground, searching for more of the morsels. He plucked another hidden treasure from the mossy Earth, held it up to the light, and inspected it with a big, goofy smile. He was about to eat the object before his brow furrowed in thought. The man brought the object down to eye-level, turning it this way and that before stashing it in his pocket. He bent over again, continuing his search.

Curious, the Dog, inched closer.

The man crawled among the ground, staining the bottom of his robe with dew and grass, completely oblivious to the Dog's presence. The man's beard jiggled and danced as he laughed, weaving his fingers through the tender forest-floor until he felt something soft, fury, and solid.
"Toes?" The man's bushy, red brow furrowed. He ran his index finger down crudely sharp nails as a low, guttural growling arose. The man froze, eyes growing wide, flesh breaking out in goose bumps.

Though the Dog stood barely four-feet tall (when he did stand), he towered over the young man wallowing in the weeds. He glared down, gauntlets unsheathed and stained green from the grass he'd so diligently pruned.

Still on hands and knees, the man scuttled backward in terror. The Dog advanced, growling louder. Dog backed the man into a nearby tree, cornering him. The man curled up in a ball, his only line of defense.

The Dog squatted on his haunches, leaned over, and sniffed inquisitively at the man's tattered robes.

Terrified, the man dug a trembling hand into his pocket, and produced a handful of the tiny morsels out to the Dog. "Shrooms?" he quavered.

The Dog sniffed the tiny fungi as curiously as he had the man, before skewering one carefully with a gauntlet blade. He placed the small 'shroom in his mouth and bit down. A mellow yet complex earthen taste danced on the tip of his tongue. A smile immediately dawned upon the Dog's furry face as he devoured the morel in delight.

"Good, huh?" he asked, voice trembling, hands shaking slightly. His eyes were wide, jaw clenched so tight his teeth grinded together.

"Is he bothering ye?" Troll asked.

The young, portly man whipped his head around so fast he nearly gave himself a case of the lashes. His eyes grew impossibly wide as he assessed Troll and _his_ companions. How odd they must have looked to this frightened young man.

"Oh, no, sai," the bearded red-head said (though unlike Troll or the Dog, the man's beard was trimmed to a neat length). The stranger (who looked under the age of twenty) stood, swallowing in huge gulps while signing the cross about himself. "Just took me by surprise, so he did."

"Dog has a tendency to do that," Troll replied.

"Dog?" The man gawked at the beast before him, and scratched at his shaggy, red mange.

"Yes, Dog. I am Troll, at ye'r service, and this here is the lovely Ms. Myriam Star."

"My name is Byron," he said, relaxing his shoulders and standing up-right. "Brother Byron, if it does ya fine, and I am most certainly delighted to make your acquaintance. Could I...could I...?"

Troll said, "Come now, man, out with it."

Byron asked, "Could I offer ye some mushroom stew?"

"Present it!" Troll said, cupping his massive hands out in offering.

Star merely stood there in silence, narrowed emerald-eyes carefully assessing Byron.

"Huh?" Byron furrowed his brow, scratching at his head before the light of understanding shined in his green-eyes. They weren't as green as Star's, but still. "Oh, I don't have it here on me. We'd have to go back to town for me to prepare it."

"How far is this town?" Star asked, running a hand through her blonde locks.

"Not far, not far at all. Please follow me, my fine, new friends, and we shall eat, drink, and laugh the night away." He seemed honest and merry yet continued to eye the Dog suspiciously.

"Well then, it's settled!" Troll said, clasping his hands together.

"Please, follow me," Byron said, ambling toward Troll.

The Dog physically interjected. He didn't trust this man or his treats, tasty as they might be.

Byron held a morel entreatingly out to the Dog.

The Dog growled lowly, but accepted the morsel none-the-less. He opened his mouth. Byron timidly tossed the shroom into his fanged, awaiting maw. Dog smiled.

"Oh, how I do love guests!" Byron declared, grinning big-ear to big-ear before gesturing for them to go with him.

Troll motioned to follow.

The Dog jumped between them, chaperoning Troll and Star.

After only a few minutes of walking, the forest loosened its dense, overbearing grip and gave way to rolling hills of tall standing poppies and sunflowers, as if they crossed over into another realm. Minutes ago, the sun had been ensconced in storm clouds. Now, the sun shone high and bright. No more skeeters either.

Byron led the troop back to his village, gabbing all the way, constantly yammering on about this or that.

Grabbing at each other and giggling like children, Troll and Star followed further behind. Dog traversed between the two at play and their new escort. Apparently the two had become so infatuated with each other that they forgot all about the dangers of the open road. Dog didn't like it.

Byron stopped in his tracks, surveying the scenery as if lost. The Dog stopped promptly behind him, but at a fair enough distance as to not fall over the good brother upon the abrupt halt. Byron had been talking about 'shrooms now, about how good the morsels were and of all the fabulous preparation methods for them. It seemed that in Byron's locomotive ramblings he forgot where he was, and thusly, how to get home.

Troll and Star came up swiftly at a jog. Star sprinted ahead of Troll, all the while playfully taunting him to catch her. Dog held out an impeding arm to let them know it was time to stop.

"What's wrong?" Star asked, still giggling.

"Lost, are ye?" Troll added playfully.

"Not at all," the good brother assured them, though he sounded a bit uncertain. "We are nearly there, and are but only a short leg from..." Byron turned, and advanced toward the two.

The Dog growled, letting the good brother know that this was as close to the two as Dog was comfortable letting him get.

Star snapped, "Dog!"

So now _Star_ thought she could command him? The Dog answered to only one master.

"Behave," Troll added, finishing his companion's sentence.

The Dog squatted on his haunches, head bowed.

"T'is no harm." Byron smiled pleasantly. He produced another plump morel from his pocket. He wafted it in the air, and said, "Here, boy. Have another."

That mellow, earthen smell roused the Dog's attention. He opened his mouth and Byron tossed the morsel into his awaiting maw.

"See, I think he likes me," Byron said, smiling.

Star rolled her eyes, and murmured, "Yeah, that'll be the day."

Troll clapped, laughing boisterously.

Byron forged onward.

"So, Byron, brother is it?" Troll asked.

"Aye."

"What exactly are ye brother of?"

Byron halted, pivoted, met Troll's gaze, smiled, and said, "Why, of the cloth, same as ye."

Star stopped in her tracks, eyes brightening, smiling widely.

Troll remained as steady as ever. "Why do ye think me a man of God?"

"Because," Bryon said, leaning close. Or at least as close as the Dog would allow, anyway. "T'is written all over ye. The Holy Spirit shines bright with ye." Byron smiled warmly but briefly before leading them onward.

Troll and Star stood aghast. The same dumbfounded, slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression plastered across both their faces, as if sharing some mental bond. The Dog didn't like that either.

Byron whirled around.

The Dog dropped to a crouch, prepared to defend his master and _his_ companion. Byron seemed not to notice, as if the Dog weren't even there.

Byron added, "As it does with all God's children." He then continued on his way, almost immediately reviving his incessant ramblings.

Dog turned to his companions, and gazed directly into Troll's eyes. Troll didn't even glance at him. He whined lowly, staring at Star. Nothing. Was he really that invisible?

Smiling, Troll said, "I'm really starting to like this guy."

Star replied, "Yeah, me too."

The Dog growled lowly.

****

Star couldn't be happier to see a thriving community, especially one as reminiscent to Krin as this.

"And this here's the gate," Byron said, giving his friends the grand tour as they entered the town of Silverdale. "T'is the only way in or out on the eastern side of town."

They proceeded through the open archway into the town that was otherwise protected by giant, wooden pillars bound so close together that no man nor best other than that of an insect could pass through. The tops of the pillars were sharpened to a fine point. As forbidding as the fence seemed, no way existed to actually close the open gateway in case of emergency.

"There is no other way in or out of town?" Troll asked. He brushed his greasy hair from his face, beads rattled and danced.

"Oh, no," Byron said, "there is a gate on the western and southern sides of town as well."

"Then wouldn't calling this gate the eastern gate, instead of just _the_ gate be as sufficient, not to mention grammatically accurate?"

"Huh?" Byron furrowed his bushy, red brow, bottom lip protruding.

"Don't mind him, please continue," Star said to their host and guide.

"Right, well..."

"What are those?" she asked, pointing to a pen behind the fenced gate that held a pack of hound dogs. She knew full well what the pens, and thusly, the dogs were for. Yet she enjoyed Byron's warm and friendly voice.

"Those are the town watch dogs." Byron smiled, his beard hitched up his face like a pair of trousers over a rear end. "There are pens at every gate, we use 'em to sniff out unsortly visitors." Byron laughed. "Yet, they seem quite receptive of ye, so no worries."

The hounds began to bark and bay wildly. The three turned slowly, one after another, and found the Dog standing there at the entrance of Silverdale. The hounds were shaking, teeth barred, and legs 'twixt their tails. The Dog shrank to the ground on his haunches as if ashamed by this. All the while, residents of the town who were oh-so busy with their comings and goings stopped to stare at the strangeness of the newcomers.

"This does not bode well," Troll said.

Star elbowed Troll in the ribs.

"Oh, well," Byron said, smiling, beard hitching as he clasped his hands together. A bit of dust swirled off the sleeves of his robe. "No worries. Come, shall we?"

"Dog," Troll called. He jerked his head to the side and the Dog trotted after them.

They walked approximately ten paces before Byron said, "And this here's the cemetery."

The cemetery seemed nothing more than a grassy knoll with unmarked slabs of plank sticking up from the earthen ground. After another twenty paces or so, the gang neared the heart of town.

"Byron, Byron!" A little girl with long jet-black hair and a dirty dress ran up to the brother.

"Annie!" Byron said, catching the girl in his arms. He twirled her around as Troll had done to the Dog, via the aid of his staff. "How fare ye on this fine day?"

"Very well, thank-ye." The girl carefully articulated every word correctly. The freckles on her cheek danced as she smiled.

This warmed Star's heart. Once again her thoughts turned to Krin and a life long-gone.

The girl glanced excitedly at Star and Troll, as if seeking the newcomer's unconditional approval and acceptance.

"Oh, where are my manners," Byron said, to the young girl in his arms, whom he now set gently on the ground.

This once again reminded Star of Dog and Troll at play.

Byron said, "These are my fine new friends whom I met while hunting for morels."

"Oh." The girl's face brightened as she smiled wider, brown-eyes lighting up. "Did ye find a lot?"

"Easy now, child, first things first," Byron said, turning the girl's attention to Star and Troll. "I'd like to introduce ye to Ms. Myriam Star."

"How do ye do, Ms. Star?" The girl offered a quaint, little curtsy.

"Very well, Ms..."

Byron flailed his arms in a gesture of frustration, and said, "Oh, I swear, where are my manners today?"

"Warwick," the girl said, curtseying again, "Anne Warwick."

"Well, I am pleased to meet you, Ms. Anne Warwick." Star presented the girl with a neat, little curtsy of her own, holding her shooters instead of a dress.

"And I am Troll," he said, bowing as low as his staff and back would allow, "at ye'r service, wee lass."

"It is very nice to meet ye, Mr. Troll." Anne curtseyed again.

"No, just Troll, thank-ye," he said.

Beard jiggling, the Dog sat a few yards away, sniffing at a random patch of dirt.

"Dog, come!" Troll called and the Dog galloped entreatingly over to the bunch. "And this here is the Dog."

The Dog nodded, offering Anne a short but accommodating " _ruff_ ".

Annie screamed shrilly and ran away.

"Very nice," Troll said as the Dog lowered his head bashfully.

"Children," Byron said with a nervous chuckle. He kneaded his hands about his robe, and said, "Come, for there is much yet to see." Byron led the troop further into town. "Over there is Steven Randal's goat farm." The eastern side wasn't much to look at after the animal pens and the unmarked cemetery. "That there is Doc McCoy's place over there." Byron pointed toward a small, wooden building that appeared nothing more than a quaint shack. "He is quite the efficient physician indeed." Byron's flabby chest puffed as he held his head back in pride. "Over there is George Hawkins' bar."

"A bar ye say?" Troll scratched at his beard, an eyebrow shot up into a half-moon.

"Aye," Byron replied, "the only watering hole in the entire town so it is. Best mead in all the land, though I have yet to sample it personally."

"Why is that?" Star asked.

"Because I'm a man of the cloth," Byron said, smiling, beard hitching.

"So, as such, ye are not permitted to drink?" Troll quizzed.

"Well, t'is not a written rule," Byron said, "though the reverend does not imbibe, and so neither have I." Byron strolled on.

Star glanced toward Troll, who merely shrugged before hobbling after Byron.

Byron escorted them further into the center of town where he pointed out the shelter and the town meeting hall (where the masses were held until the new church built). They looked the same as every other building in town -- drab and poorly constructed from wooden planks. A few farm pens dotted the area before they moved into the more residential part of town.

"Just what sort of stock do you have here?" Star asked as Byron led them to the town's well in the center of this quaint hamlet, and let his guests refresh themselves.

Byron said, "Aside from the dogs and goats, just chickens."

"Goats, ye say?" Troll asked, winking at Star.

"Why yes, they're good for milk, cheese, meat, and of course, fur; the four basic food groups," Byron replied.

Grinning, Troll snorted.

Star shot him a warning glance. "That's _it_?" she asked, disappointment thickened her voice.

"Well, there are about a handful of horses on the northern side of town, up at Tooker's barn, but obviously we don't eat them."

"Well, that's good," Troll said. "Horse meat is awful salty and tough to chew."

Byron did not respond to this, but Star did, with a look of growing disdain and impatience.

Byron continued, "And over there is where we're building the new church."

"New church, ye say?"

"Aye, the old one was struck down by God and set ablaze last season." Byron pointed to a plot of crisped dirt that lay only a few hundred feet from the new church's work site. Construction wasn't very far along, in fact, they barely had the supports up yet.

"Why would God do such a thing?" Troll nearly snickered but managed to restrain himself.

Byron glanced around as if some villain might be vigilant. He leaned in close to his new friends. This time the Dog didn't even bother trying to interject the good brother. "'Cause of the heresy, 'cause of the blasphemy," he whispered.

"Ah," Troll said.

"Wait," Star said, "so you hail from God-fearing people?"

"Yes ma'am, say true as true," Byron declared, head back, chest puffed out in pride.

"So, you must certainly have a praisin'?"

"Pardon?" Byron's brow furrowed as he scratched at his shaggy, red beard.

"A mass," Troll said.

"Ah. Aye, yes, ma'am," Byron said to Star, "we conclave in the town meeting hall."

"And where is that?" Troll asked.

"Ah, come, my friends, for t'is just a toss of a pebble from the shelter." Byron ushered them onward down the dirt street, jabbering all the way. The shelter wasn't all that far, at all. In fact, it was pretty much the next large building past the town jail and doctor's office.

The shelter looked like more of an orphanage. Strike that -- it _was_ an orphanage. The town just referred to it as a shelter, no-doubt because they sought shelter there during the winter's devastating storms.

Star asked, "Excuse me, but why would a town such as this have need of an orphanage?"

Byron peered at his feet. He had this sullen look on his face like he was about to cry. "Many are called to the king's war. Some fight him, others fight for him, but none who leave Silverdale ever return. There are too many children to bunk with citizens so they all stay at the shelter."

Star hadn't noticed at first glance, but sure enough Byron was right, the majority of Silverdale's population consisted of children. Kids ran around at play while others toiled.

"Oh, here comes my friend Ms. Danvers, she volunteers relentlessly at the shelter," Byron said without even breaking stride. "Oh, Sarah, Sarah!" Byron waved his arms to get the woman's attention.

A young, pale woman with freckles and dark red-hair trotted toward them. She clutched a wicker basket of fresh linens in her thin arms. "Greetings, Byron," she said with an awkward smile, before casting her gaze downward. "And how fare thee on this fine afternoon?"

"Very well," Byron replied, "and ye?"

"Always well," she said, readjusting the basket in her arms.

Byron turned to introduce Star and Troll respectively, saving the Dog for last.

This time the cur did not bark. He stared at her curiously, tilting his head as if he'd just heard some strange sound.

Sarah grimaced, as if just seeing or sensing something repugnant, and quickly diverted her gaze back to the ground. "It was very nice to make your acquaintance, but I have my duties to attend to, excuse me."

"Of course," Troll said, bowing cordially. He smiled.

Sarah smiled back (but without meeting his gaze), before taking her leave of them.

Star felt the angry-green pinch of jealousy, but why?

Troll turned to the Dog, and asked, "What is it about ye? Nobody seems to like ye but me."

The Dog lowered his head in shame, concealing his face 'neath the lip of his hat.

"Aye, well," Byron stammered nervously, kneading his hands in his clothes. "Come, we will meet more of my neighbors tonight at mass, along with the esteemed Reverend Lowell. But first, we dine!"

****

Byron's tour led them to a tall, slat-wooden house about a mile or so north of town. From way out here, amidst rolling hills of tall-grass, Troll could just barely make out the peeked roofs from town.

"Y'all can stay as long as ye like," Byron said, escorting them toward the largest and grandest house in all of Silverdale.

Unlike the other domiciles in the hamlet, the reverend's house was painted, white with red shutters. A wide porch jut out from the building's façade, covered by a lean-to for shade.

"Thank-ye," Troll said, examining the monumental foyer that led to the other parts of the enormous estate. Lush draperies and rugs of extravagant color ornamented the main hall. The reverend's house seemed unnatural compared to the humble abodes of the rest of the town.

"It's beautiful," Star said with a dreamy sigh. "Is it yours?"

"The reverend's," Byron said, beard hitching as he puffed his chest out in pride.

Why did the reverend live so far from town? Or where the church would be? And why did the reverend's house dwarf nearly every other building in size and glamour? Troll held his tongue for now. A twinklin' told him that he'd discover the answers soon enough. And then he'd regret ever asking such in the first place.

A lean, old man hobbled into the large room with a cane. He wore denim overalls and a brownish shirt. Half of the man's wrinkled and stubbly face seemed solid and steady, while the other side appeared to droop. His long, grey hair tied back in a pony-tail. A wide-brimmed ranger's hat rode high upon his liver-spotted brow.

Byron said, "And this here is Roger Wilcox, he's the caretaker of the estate. He collapsed in tremoring fits two winters ago and now he don't walk too well."

Slightly trembling, Roger replied, "Nope, but I piss straighter'n any of ya young bucks."

Troll laughed.

"Roger, I'd like ye to meet Ms. Star, Troll, and the Dog."

"Nice to meet ye," Roger said. He didn't bow or tip his hat. He just stood there, clutching onto his cane.

Troll hoped he didn't look like that when he Roger's age. Then again, he'd be lucky just to live that long.

Eyeing the Dog's faded, blue cap, Roger said, "Say, that's one odd-looking helmet ye got there. What's that there script upon it?"

Troll replied, "I believe it's the letter 'D'."

"'D' huh, what's that stand for?"

To this, Troll had the answer, or at least believed he did. But, he wanted to see if anyone else, namely Star, was that perceptive. Did Star ever actually stop to ponder over such a trivial thing?

Shaking, Roger smacked himself in the forehead, and chuckled, "Roger, ye poor 'ol fool, it stands for Dog, right? Course it does."

The Dog pointed at Roger's ranger hat and gave him a thumbs up.

Star said, "He likes your hat, too."

"Oh, he do, do he? Well, want to trade?" Roger removed his cover, revealing a bald and flaky scalp. The hat shook in the air as he held the accessory out in offering to the Dog.

Dog shrugged, removed his own cap, and proffered it to the elderly caretaker. His matted and tangled hair seemed surprisingly short in comparison to his beard. The Dog's hair consisted not of one color, but a mix of gnarled browns, reds, and blonds (as did his beard). Troll couldn't remember ever seeing the Dog without his hat (besides when he was feral), and quite surprised the cur would give it up so easily.

Wearing a broad, tobacco-stained smile, Roger said, "Well, all right, partner, got yourself a trade."

Byron gave his guests the grand tour, showing them the plethora of huge rooms, corridors, and seemingly bottomless closets. All the while, the Dog lay coiled on the kitchen floor, watching Roger's every move as he prepared supper.

The three returned just as the savory aroma of simmering 'shrooms and garlic wafted through every room of the reverend's home. Roger pulled a pan of biscuits from an old, black-kettle stove while Byron set the table for his guests. Roger placed two biscuits and a steaming bowl on the floor for the Dog. The Dog scrambled for the bowl, sniffing before plunging in face-first, and slurping loudly at the still boiling contents. He didn't even bother with the biscuits.

Troll snorted in disgust. He turned to the others at the table, held out his hands, and asked, "Shall we pray?"

"But of course," Byron said.

They joined hands, even Star, though she did not pray.

"Dear Heavenly Father," Troll said. "We thank thee for such a hearty sup, of which we have not had in many a mile. We thank thee for guiding us to this haven called Silverdale, and thank ye for allowing us the privilege to meet and dine with our fine-new friends here. Bless us all, even the Dog. Amen."

Then they dug in.

Troll split a biscuit in two, spread a swatch of butter on one half, and dipped it into the stew. Troll's taste buds exploded in a rich amalgamation of subtle flavors. Hot, salty (but not over-seasoned), and best of all -- filling. Even the Dog had more than his share as Byron would excuse himself from the table every time the Dog's bowl licked barren, and refill it. The good brother still seemed convinced that the Dog had taken quite a shine to him, 'though Troll suspected otherwise.

After dinner, Star napped in the parlor while Roger attended to the dishes. The Dog disappeared somewhere, as per his custom. Troll and Byron sat on the porch and smoked a pipe. Well, Troll smoked. Byron partook of a few hits, but gave it up after a round of spastic coughs. Byron had never smoked a pipe before, had never smoked tobacco in any capacity, for that matter. And Troll suspected that was only one among a long list of things Byron never experienced.

Troll asked, "So, Ms. Danvers, does she live at the shelter?"

"Why, no. Why do ye ask?"

"Sometimes I get these twinklin's, kinda like I know something, only I don't know how I know."

"Oh." Byron gazed down at his twiddling thumbs.

"It's just that ye said she spent a lot of time there, and I kind of got the feeling that the place was like a home to her."

Byron replied, "Well, certainly. Even though she doesn't live at the shelter, she has a small shanty around the back. She used to have a house in the residential part of town." Byron's plump face washed over in remorse. "But after her parents died, and seeing as how she was an only child, some of the town's folken built the shanty for her so she could be closer to the shelter. As that was where she spent the majority of her time, anyway."

Troll thoughtfully stroked his beard, and said, "I see."

"Well, we should probably rouse your friends," Byron added after a brief pause.

"Oh, and why is that?"

"Mass will start soon, and as I am a brother, I'll need to get there early."

"Well then, let us not be tardy."

Troll roused Star but couldn't find the Dog. Typical. So Troll, Roger, Byron, and Star set off toward town. The closer they got, the more people shuffled out of their homes and ambled toward the town meeting hall.

Quite possibly the only structure in Silverdale that rivaled the reverend's house (but only in size), the hall had been furnished with pews enough to seat the entire town, and crowned by a stage where an alter sat. Candelabras lit the vast room warmly enough 'neath cavernous wooden rafters.

Troll and Star sat in the front pew, put on display for all the townsfolk to gawk at. Out of respect, Troll insisted that Star not wear her hat to the mass. She tied her long, curly hair down tightly about her face. Troll introduced himself to a few of the folken sitting around them.

Troll met Jeffrey Rush, a tall, skinny drink of water around his thirties. Just like Roger, Rush, the town blacksmith, tied his greying brown-hair back in a ponytail. Troll also met a woman by the name of Goodie Sawyer, a round older woman who worked at Tooker's barn and took care of the town's handful of horses.

Byron sat next to Troll in the front row when he wasn't helping with the sermon, which to Troll, seemed a bit cold and preachy.

Tall and of considerable age, the reverend appeared confident in his demeanor. His long, white-hair also tied back in a ponytail. Probably the chosen style of the town's hierarchy. His beak-like nose wriggled and danced as he spoke. Sometimes he accentuated his proclamations with a grand, flailing arm gesture accompanied by tilting his head. His robes were brightly colored and extravagant, unlike the other townsmen and women's garbs.

Surprisingly, Byron's part in the ceremony was actually quite minimal, almost non-existent save for during communion (which Star did not partake in, and drew stares because of this. Troll on the other hand, did receive the right of communion, causing the townsfolk to leer all the more).

Dog stood in the back, leaning against a wooden post, smoking a cigarette. His new range-hat slung low over his eyes. Roger didn't wear his. No one paid the Dog any mind because no one but Troll knew he was even there. The cur showed up after the mass already underway, stayed extremely quiet, and would leave early so that no one would ever even have guessed him there. Dog surely cared little for mass. He probably just wanted the chance to size-up the town as a whole in its natural habitat. That, and his obligation to protect his master and _his_ female companion.

"And now let us kneel in prayer," the reverend beckoned of his congregation, who reverently complied.

A little girl with long black-hair peered over the back of the pew in which she sat. She stared right at the Dog. Her sheer honest curiosity had taken the Dog off guard, making him nervous. And when the Dog got nervous, he took needless action. Troll's heavy gaze fell upon the wee girl. Sensing his gaze in turn, the little girl, known as Anne Warwick, looked back at Troll. Smiling brightly, she waved. Troll waved and resumed his silent prayers, knowing that when Anne glanced back, the Dog would be gone.

After a few minutes of prayer, Byron ventured to the stage to join the good reverend. Byron whispered something to the reverend and though Troll's ears keen, he couldn't quite hear the brother's words. Byron's hands trembled slightly. The reverend peered at Troll and Star, and for the utmost of brevity, Troll thought the reverend's gape filled with a bitter disdain.

"Ah, yes," the reverend muttered to Byron before turning to address the congregation. "People of Silverdale, let us welcome our visitors into our house and hearts. Accept them with open arms and break bread together."

At this, the people turned to their guests, waving and saying, " _Hi_." Star and Troll did likewise, though Star seemed quite reserved. She kept her hands folded over her buckle, never far from her shooters (which drew even greater gawks). Her head downcast, trying the best she could to hide her face without the cover of her hat.

The reverend extended his hands over the crowd. Sweat plastered his wrinkly brow and stained the pits of his arms. "The mass is over. Now go in the ways of the Lord. Peace to ye and ye'rs."

"And also with ye," the congregation responded in unison. "Amen," they hailed, and even Troll was right on cue.

Star just sat there, arms crossed, head down.

People got up to leave, 'though many huddled around the newcomers; chatting and carrying on in good humor.

The reverend, followed by a bashful brother Byron, ventured toward Troll and Star. "Hello," the reverend said. "Greetings to our humble town, I trust ye are finding yourselves comfortable and well received."

"Indeed," Troll replied.

"Byron here has told me all about ye."

"I sincerely doubt that."

Star snapped, "Troll!"

"I beg ye'r pardon?" The reverend crossed his arms and leaned backward with an air of pride.

"I'm sorry," Troll offered, not really all that apologetic, "it's just that we've only just met the good brother, not even he knows everything about us. So, how could he possibly divulge to ye that which he does not know?"

Smiling, the reverend replied, "All the more reason for acquaintance. Come, for the night is still young, please reconvene with us to the town's square where we can welcome ye with propriety. Where we shall eat and drink and dance."

Star nodded toward Byron, and said, "Thank you, but we're pretty tired and have already eaten, thanks to Byron."

Byron bowed. His face donned a crimson hue as he kneaded his hairy hands.

"Nonsense," the reverend said, smiling shrewdly. "The whole town shall be there, and besides." He leaned closer toward Troll. His long nose almost brushed Troll's cheek. His breath stank of wine and rot, 'though Byron had assured Troll that the good reverend never imbibed. "If God didn't want us to relish in drink and dine, then he would have forbid it."

Troll asked, "And what not of gluttony?"

"Troll!" Star elbowed him in the ribs again. "You're not making too many friends by belittling this man."

"Right ye are, my dear." Troll turned to Reverend Lowell, and said, "I apologize. I meant neither to offend nor to preach. That job I believe is reserved for thee."

"No one is perfect," Byron said, clasping Troll firmly on the shoulder. He had to stand on his tip-toes in order to accomplish such a feat. "Come, let us break bread in celebration."

Troll was about to say something when Star replied, "We'd be honored."

****

The ceremony took place in the town square. The whole place grandly lit with tee-kee torches and paper lanterns that festooned the surrounding meeting hall and shelter. Tables and chairs were swiftly set up, as all able-bodied helped to pitch in where they could.

A band composed of a fiddle, tambourine, guitar, sitar, drums, and woodwinds belted out upbeat and danceable tunes. A puppet show had been set up for the children. George Hawkins, the local tavern owner, dispensed watered-down mead and whiskey. The banquet comprised of soggy fried chicken, goat's meat, cheeses, milk, and different types of breads as well as some peta-like wrap made from tree bark, used to hold berries and cabbage.

The Dog waited until everyone slaked before creeping toward the deserted buffet tables. The Dog's slightly elongated nose worked this way and that, enamored with one dish in particular, mesmerized by a scent so familiar, he found himself hard pressed to decipher the aroma. He barely noticed the young girl approaching the table until she stood only a few feet away. The very same girl who had screamed merely at first sight of the Dog, and then later stared at him during mass -- Anne.

She halted in her tracks, as if just seeing him. Both stood there, watching each other. The Dog cautiously returned to sniffing the mystery meat. Anne just stood there, gawking at the beast in quiet fascination.

"Come away from him," Sarah said. Her ample bosoms and wavy red-hair bounced as she trotted over. She took Anne by the hand and diverted her from the buffet tables and toward the puppet show, where most of the children uninterested in dancing congregated. "I want ye to stay away from that...that thing. Understand?"

"Okay," Anne replied.

The Dog heard but took no offense. Curious, the Dog followed Anne, circling the crowd from a distance, his impeccable hearing picking up all being said.

A young chap waltzed over to Sarah and asked the fair maiden for her hand in dance. Sarah readily accepted and Anne was left alone, standing at the back of the crowd, watching as the puppets comically bludgeoned each other.

"What are _ye_ doing here?" asked a boy slightly older than Anne. The boy had shoulder-length blond-hair and wore a menacing scowl over his long face. Two red-headed kids, obviously brothers, and another two boys lingered behind the lead boy. Of the two non-brothers, one stood tall and lanky. Tufts of short, black hair jutted out from his over-sized head. The other boy appeared much shorter and younger than the others. And while the other boys glared at Anne, the smallest lad gazed down at his nervously shifting feet, as if he didn't belong.

Anne whimpered, "I'm just watching the show."

"Well, why don't ye watch it someplace else?" The lead boy shoved Anne to the ground.

Wincing, Anne quavered, "I won't bother anyone, I swear. I just want to watch the show."

The lead boy replied, "If ye didn't want to bother anyone, then ye should-a never came out of that whore of a mother of ye'rs!"

The short red-head added, "Yeah, why don't ye go scrub some floors or something?"

Anne scrambled to her feet, sprinting away in tears.

Against his better judgment, the Dog followed in the shadows.

****

Star (still full from stew and biscuits), pecked at the food on the plate in front of her. A sense of boredom filled her soul. How long would they be here? Already she longed to be out on the open road, camping out under the stars, away from prying eyes. Large crowds made her nervous.

Byron plodded toward her, and asked, "Not hungry?"

"Not really." Finding herself alone at a big table, she said, "Please sit with me, Byron."

"With pleasure," he said, plopping down next to her.

"Too bad there aren't any more morels."

Smiling, he replied, "Aye, say true. But fear not, for God will eventually send more. He always does."

His mood seemed surprisingly hopeful, so much so that Star found herself a little taken back by it. "Byron, can I ask you something?" She pushed her plate away.

"But of course."

"Why didn't you speak at the mass?"

Head hunched, shoulders hunched, he kneaded his hands in his robe.

Star said, "I mean, you really didn't do much at all."

"Aye, well, there already is a reverend."

"I know that. But you could've given a prayer or at least introduced us yourself at the end of the service."

Byron exhaled a long, low sigh. "Well, ye see, I have this problem with speaking to crowds...sort of. It's just a shame. I've always wanted to preach to the masses, even as a wee sprout. T'was always a dream of mine to make some kind of a difference, no matter how minimal or significant."

"It's all right, Byron," she said, offering the good brother an empathetic hand on his shoulder.

"No, it isn't. Every time I try, I get all weak and shaky. My mouth refuses to work. I bet brother Troll doesn't have that problem when he preaches."

"No, he sure doesn't." Star shook her head and smiled. "Speaking of which, where is the big galoot? I haven't seen him since the mass."

Star scanned the area. Nothing. How could she lose sight of someone so big?

Pointing, Byron said, "He's over there with the reverend."

Star followed Byron's finger and found Troll about fifty-feet away, talking with the white-haired sage. The two were surrounded by people, though they kept their respective distances from Troll and the reverend. Probably out of respect and intimidation at being so close to someone who could snap any one of them in half with his bare hands.

****

"So, this is quite some town ye've got here," Troll said to the reverend. Striving to be as pleasant as pie after the precarious start he'd had with the parson after the evening's services.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" the reverend replied, craning his head back in pride.

Troll asked, "Are there any other villages nearby?"

"No, not a one."

"Are there many crimes from outsiders?"

"Oh, not at all," the reverend assured before continuing in almost a whisper, "well, there was this one group of scoundrels about a month ago. Nothing more than a small band of hoodlums, who came to try and steal booze and livestock."

"My word, how did they get through such a massive fence?"

"The gate is usually open to anyone coming or leaving. We take care of our own here in Silverdale, and crimes against others are virtually non-existent."

Troll liked the use of the word: _virtually_. "Then why the need for such an elaborate and forbidding blockade?"

"The fence is for protection." A younger looking man stood tall and proud in clothes fancier than even the reverend's. The man had a long ghost-white ponytail running down to the small of his back.

Revered Lowell said, "Troll, this is the esteemed Constable Silas Withers. Sai Withers, this is Troll."

"How do?" The constable offered Troll a neat, little bow before returning his attention to the reverend. "Sorry the council missed the mass, but I assure you--"

Troll asked, "Protection from what?"

Squinting, Withers replied, "Pardon?"

"Ye said the fence was for protection."

"Aye, of course," Withers replied.

Troll lectured, "Protection from what? If ye'r going to barge into a conversation, ye should at least have the good taste to let the people talking before ye finish what they were talking about." Like with the reverend, he was testing the limits of how far he could impose himself upon these people. Not that Troll was trying to be rude; just that these people possessed an air of secrecy about them, as if something underhanded was going on behind the scenes. And Troll would make it his personal business to find out just whatever was afoot. So that he might remedy it.

"Of course, where are my manners?" Withers said through clenched teeth, his dialect dry and insincere. "The fence is for protection from invasion."

"Oh."

"Now if you don't mind--"

"Invasion from whom," Troll asked.

"Invasion," the constable said, "from the king." Withers sneered with a smile that resembled more of a rodent's than that of a man's.

Troll erupted in such roarous laugher that it drew gawks and stares from the encompassing town's folk. "I have heard much of the king as of late."

"Really?" the constable tilted his head, beady eyes narrowing as he grinned.

Smiling widely, Troll said, "And I have also heard that he is of no more consequence than a skeeter-bug."

Withers leaned in close, his eyes narrowed to the point where they were almost shut. "I assure ye, the king is _much_ more than that."

Now it was Troll's turn to grin. He liked the fact that he could get a rise out of these people with but only a few words. It told him much of the citizens of Silverdale without appearing too nosey.

"The king is the bringer of death and dismay, and he _is_ coming."

"Is that so?" Troll prodded.

Withers replied, "For certain, all the baronies in the north and east have already fallen under his heel."

"Say true?" Troll asked in a playful tone that only seemed to aggravate the constable further.

Face flushed red, Withers hissed, "The king is a dark wizard who sees far and knows all. And he would _not_ take pleasure in your insolent tone."

"Wow, that is impressing indeed."

"In fact, were he here now he'd--"

"Forgive ye with the utmost of gracious apologies," said an elder.

Troll and Withers turned, finding three men standing before them.

The first (the one who spoke), an old, haggardly yet pleasant looking fellow, extremely well dressed (also adorning the long, white ponytail-do), was being helped along by a strapping, young lad. The young lad sported far less exuberant garments and had long brown-hair, also in a ponytail.

The third, a hunched, elderly man (though not quite as old as the well-dressed one), had long, black, spidery hair through which his liver-spotted scalp was plainly visible. The man wore a long, black cloak, stunk horribly, and was a hideously twisted sight to behold.

Reverend Lowell said, "Troll, this is Mayor Thornton Godfrey, his steward, Jonathon Steward. And this here is the constable's steward, Mortimer Steward."

"Mort, at ye'r service." The steward extended a funky and mangled hand toward Troll.

"Please to meet you all." Troll bowed graciously to his hosts via the aid of his staff before turning to Mort, and addressing him directly. "I would gladly shake with thee, but I fear my strength knows no limits and has crushed hands greater than ye'rs."

Mort responded by cautiously extracting his limp appendage from the "danger-zone".

Mayor Godfrey smiled brightly but weakly, and said, "I've heard that we had guests in town, though I had not suspected they would be so cordial and courteous. Ye've come at a grand time indeed, for the festival of the fall is less than a fortnight away. Aye, what a grand party it shall be." He wheezed, face turning red as a slight sheen of perspiration smeared his thinning forehead.

Troll asked, "Greater than this? For I've not seen a celebration this grand in many a year."

The mayor replied, "Aye, even grander than this." He turned toward Withers, and said, "I see ye've already been spreading ye'r gossip to our guests, my dear constable." The mayor's voice sounded husky and raspy with age.

"I only thought he should know the dangerous truth." Withers folded his hands behind his back and tilted his head with an air of pride.

"Truth?" The mayor coughed and wheezed. "The only truth is that this king is only rumor. The truth is that we've simply had no contact with the nor'easter baronies for many a season."

Withers began, "Exactly, that can only mean--"

The mayor said, "Could only mean that we've lost contact and nothing more, there is no proof of the raiding forces of which ye so vehemently proclaim." Cough. Cough. Wheeze.

"Of course," Troll added, "besides, if these invaders truly were as formidable as ye claim, then ye'r sleepy little town would've fallen under heel long ago."

"Exactly," the mayor said. The phlegm in his lungs rattled around like soggy beans in a tin can. "Why would they wait so long and risk revolt?"

"Perchance it because they can," Withers growled lowly.

Undeterred, Troll turned to the mayor, and said, "I understand ye are building a church."

Defeated, Withers, followed by Mort and Reverend Lowell, receded into the background. Yet, still people gravitated toward the mayor and his newly be-friended giant.

"Oh, yes," wheezed the mayor, "and what a magnificent structure it shall be."

Troll asked, "Have ye need of good hard workers?"

"Do ye offer the assistance of ye and ye'rs?"

"Certainly," Troll replied, "in exchange for food and shelter, of course."

"Or course." The mayor began to laugh but was quickly interrupted by a fit of heaping coughs.

Troll groaned empathetically again as the mayor's spasms incipiently dissipated.

"Of course," he finally managed in a wheeze. His face red and sweaty.

"There is one small thing though," Withers said, slithering up between the two.

"Such as," Troll asked.

Brow cocked, the mayor iterated, "Aye, such as?"

"Ye'r weapons," Withers said, smiling shrewdly. His teeth were short, pointy, and yellow, like a rat. "They of course, must be relinquished." He rubbed his long, boney hands together.

Troll snorted, "I beg ye'r pardon."

"Aye, he's right, I'm afraid," the mayor wheezed, phlegm rattled in his lungs.

"One moment, please," Troll said, raising a large digit up to Withers' face, a bit too close for comfort.

"Why yes, of course," the mayor said.

Troll scanned the area for Star and found her sitting alone at a nearby table. He rested his gaze upon her lithe shoulders. She peered up from the plate she absently toyed with and glanced toward him. He had a look in his eyes that seemed to say, "Come hither."

Star sashayed through the glaring crowd toward Troll.

"Now what's this about?" Withers jittered nervously. "They're uniting, rising against us and our good nature!"

"Relax, ye'll live longer," Troll added, not even bothering to glance at Withers' anxious face.

The mayor added, "Aye, for peace's sake, relax Silas."

Star moseyed on over to the three, and asked, "What's up, boys?"

Troll introduced Star to the three men and her to them in turn.

She tipped her hat to them before gazing up at Troll.

Troll said, "They say, we're welcome here as long as we want."

"Really," Star asked, eyebrow raised, smiling coyly at Troll.

"Yup," Troll replied.

"As long as we want?" Star questioned as if the deal were far too good to be true.

"Even the Dog," Troll added, motioning as if the offer decisively unbelievable, and thusly impossible to pass up.

"Even the Dog?" She gasped animatedly in disbelief.

"Aye, but there's a catch," Troll continued.

"A catch, you say?"

"Aye."

Rolling his dark-brown-eyes Withers snapped, "Unbelievable!" His irises were so dark, they looked almost black.

Troll said, "They want us to give up our weapons."

Star asked, " _Really_?"

"Really," Troll affirmed.

"Really-really?" Star smiled so wide her teeth showed. Her emerald-gape twinkled briefly before she lowered her oval face, hiding it 'neath the wide brim of her hat.

Withers groaned, "Aye! Really for God's sake! This is unbelievable."

"Really," Star asked, turning her gaze upon the mayor.

"Aye," Godfrey nodded, wheezing and struggling for breath, "I'm afraid no personal weapons are allowed here."

"Oh _really_?" Star and Troll both said in unison, exchanging a glance of amusement.

"Besides," the mayor continued, "ye'll not need them here, and they shall be returned to ye upon ye'r departure."

Troll didn't much care for the mayor's use of the word _departure_.

Star shot Troll a look similar to when the Dog "asked" Troll if he had to go and sniff Star's bouquet.

Troll nodded.

Star reluctantly un-strapped her two cross-shooters. She hesitated before finally relinquishing the weapons. All gazes rested upon her now. She grimaced sourly before peering up at Troll. She had this look about her that seemed to ask, "Do I really have to go through with this?" Troll answered with a slight nod. Then, with all the grace the stewing vixen could muster, she handed over her bandoliers and shotgun.

"Anything else?" Withers asked as Mort came slinking up out of the background to store and document the weaponry.

Star lifted her leg up on a chair. This drew gawks from all the boys within sight of her, as she removed a pea-shooter out of her boot. She then switched feet, extracting a ten- inch bowie knife from the other. Someone whistled a cat-call at Star's voluptuous, long legs.

Troll didn't offer his staff. In fact, no one even thought to deprive him of it, nor his "magic cloak", though Troll did abdicate the rusty hook-cuffs adorning his thick wrists and forearms.

"And ye'r companion's?" Withers persisted.

Troll put his index and ring finger in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

The Dog popped up, right behind Withers.

Withers jumped back.

"I'll disarm him," Mort said, reaching for the Dog's belt.

Dog snatched the steward by the wrist and squeezed.

Troll was impressed, proud in fact. But when he heard Mort's wrist began to snap, Troll roared out, "Dog! Relinquish your weapons immediately!"

The Dog glared at Troll. His brow furrowed, nose and mouth in a snarl. He tilted his head, like he didn't understand.

Troll added, "And that man's wrist. Now!"

Dog released the trembling steward.

Mort collapsed to the ground.

Withers sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. He squinted as if in pain.

The Dog glared at them, gaze darting rapidly back and forth between Mort and Withers. The Dog snorted and his beard jingled. He curtly removed his gauntlets. The Dog (as reluctant as Star) dropped his weaponry into the constable's outstretched hands.

"And the belt," Withers said, meeting the Dog's golden-gape.

The Dog unbuckled his belt at the metal-discusses, relinquishing all but his big hunting knife.

"That one two, please." Withers pointed, but made no attempt to actually confiscate the blade.

The Dog stood there statuesque, as if waiting to receive Troll's next supplication.

"I guess he's keeping that one," Troll said, shrugging his massive shoulders as if to say, "If you want it that bad, just try and take if from him."

"Frankly, I'm surprised he gave you that much," Star added.

Withers began, "But it must be--"

"Allowed," Mayor Godfrey said, once again hindering Withers' insufferable whimpering.

"What!" the constable nearly shrieked in repulsion. His face turned red as he began grinding his teeth.

Star and Troll just looked at each other.

"It shall be allowed," the mayor said, hands resting on his belly. He turned to the Dog, addressing him personally (which Troll found quite impressive, indeed). "Granted it is used only as a tool, not a weapon." The mayor coughed wetly.

The Dog nodded.

"Then it is settled." Mayor Godfrey wheezed heavily, leading to a fit of raspy coughs that doubled him over.

"Are you all right?" Star asked in genuine concern

Genuinely, everyone was concerned. Everybody (including the band), stopped what they were doing in order to get an eye-full. Well, not all eyes. For, the Dog's glittering gape still affixed upon Withers.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." The mayor raised his hands beseechingly to his people. "Go on, everyone dine, dance, and be merry."

The band reluctantly revived their waltzing tempo. People danced and prattled on.

"I think I shall retire now," the mayor said to his steward, who nodded accordingly. Mayor Godfrey turned toward Troll and Star. "Good-night," he said pleasantly, weakly, yet pleasantly. "And thank ye again for volunteering ye and ye'r friends to help with building the church. Just see Edward Barley in the morning and he'll fill ye in. Have ye met Mr. Barley yet?"

"Why, yes," Troll said. "I met him before the mass, fine fellow indeed."

"Aye, well, just see him in the morning. Goodnight."

Where did the mayor live? Was his house as extravagant as the reverend's?

"Can I talk to you for a second, in private?" Star asked Troll.

"Why of course, my dear. Excuse me," Troll said, bowing cordially to the others.

Star ambled back in the direction of the reverend's house at a hurried pace.

Troll trotted after her, followed by the Dog (on all fours). Troll chased Star until they were far out of earshot from others.

Star whirled around, hands on her hips, footing tapping. She glared at Troll 'neath the brim of her hat, and asked, "You mind telling me why the mayor thinks we're gonna help him build a church?"

"Because I have offered our services."

"Without consulting _me_?" Star's foot tapped faster. "And on top of all that, you let them take our _weapons_."

"Ye knew what was happening, ye were there."

"I thought you were joking!"

"Calm down, my dear," Troll said softly. "God brought us here for a purpose."

"No," she said, slightly tilting her head. "Byron brought us here because you were hungry."

"One and the same my dear."

"No, they are not one and...uh!" She grunted, and ran a hand through her hair. She crossed her arms about her waist, and said, "Look, we have to get to Krin and amass an army, not build a church in po-dunk where-ever. 'Cause whether they believe it or not, the king _is_ coming."

"Yes, I know," he said calmly enough, "and I agree, but there is an army here, at least the start of one, anyway."

"Are you fucking crazy? Take a look around you, the majority of the population here are children. The rest, who _aren't_ woman, are farmers and politicians. There is _no_ army here."

"Yet, any man with stick and stone and determination can be taught to engage in battle."

"Oh, cram it!"

Conceding his palms, Troll said, "Listen, I understand ye'r plight and ye'r thirst for vengeance, believe me I do. But even ye must agree, we've been wanderin' many a-mile, surely a rest is in order."

"Yeah, but--"

"After all these years, can Krin not wait another few weeks?"

Head hunched, foot tapping as she twirled the chain of her compass around slender fingers. "I don't know," she said. "I just don't know."

Troll clapped, and said, "On a lighter note, the Dog behaved smashingly."

"Yeah," Star said. She gazed up at Troll and smiled. She chuckled, and said, "I reckon he did."

Without another word, Troll led his friends back to the reverend's house. Star immediately retired inside without so much as a glance or "good-night". Troll knew she wasn't mad, not anymore, just exhausted. Roger occupied himself with the last of the day's cleaning as the Dog and Troll sat on the porch, waiting for their gracious hosts to return. Troll smoked a pipe while the Dog merely sat on his haunches, peering out into the night. When reverend Lowell and Byron did finally return, it was fairly late indeed.

"Has brother Byron made sleeping arrangements yet?" the reverend asked as Troll and the Dog followed him inside.

Star sat in a chair, rummaging through her knapsack (the only thing that hadn't been taken at the dinner).

"No," Troll said as Roger, wearing the Dog's cap, hobbled into the foyer.

"Well," the reverend continued, "Ms. Star can have the guest bed. If ye don't mind sleeping in the parlor that is," he said to Troll, not bothering to address the young woman directly.

"Not at all," Troll replied.

"Excellent, then Roger here will make ye up a cot and bring some fresh linen from the pantry."

Roger bowed cordially. Troll and Star thanked him respectively before he took his leave.

The reverend continued, "And as for ye'r dog...uh, where is he?" Reverend Lowell glanced around (as did Troll and Star). The Dog was nowhere to be found. He simply disappeared in the few, short minutes that the sleeping arrangements were being discussed.

"Oh, I reckon he's around here somewhere," Troll said.

"But where shall he sleep?"

Troll and Star almost laughed at the reverend's good nature -- almost.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be just fine," Troll reiterated.

"Well then, right this way." Lowell led them invitingly off into the depths of his house. "If ye'll kindly change out of ye'r clothes, I'll personally see to it that they'll be washed in the morning."

"But what shall we wear in the meantime?" Star asked, successfully hiding the hesitation in her voice. Albeit revealed to Troll and Troll alone.

"Don't worry, for there are plenty of extra garbs around here from those who have gone off to war," the reverend said as they entered into the parlor.

Roger, getting right down to business, immediately opened a cot, and fetched some pillows and blankets from one of the reverend's many closets.

"While the thought of fresh garb is enticing indeed," Troll spoke with the utmost of sophistication, "I'm afraid ye don't possess enough cloth in all of Silverdale with which to encloak me comfortably."

The reverend's gaze grew stern and cold over his beak-like nose, while'st grinding his teeth. "And as for Ms. Star?" Lowell asked, once again speaking about her to Troll rather than addressing her directly.

Star opened her mouth, as if to say something no-doubt defensive.

But Troll, as per usual, beat her to the punch. "I'm sure she feels more comfortable in her own skins."

"On the contrary," Star said without looking at either of them, "I would love something to sleep in."

Finished with turning down Troll's bed for the night, Roger said, "Believe we got some sleeping gowns somewhere 'round here."

Troll hoped the cot would be bigger, for the concept of bed enthralled him greatly. Perhaps he should have taken the guest room. Though in the end, he surmised that bed wouldn't be much bigger than the cot, and thusly, remained mute about the subject.

"That'd be just fine," Troll said for Star. "But please, find some new wear for the Dog. Even though he is absent now, I believe his clothes could use a good hemming, and would need substitute while such massive surgery is accomplished."

"Very well," Lowell said.

Roger hobbled back with a white evening dress for Star. Hands slightly trembling, he held it out to her.

"Thank you, it's beautiful," she said.

Why would the good reverend have women's negligee?

Troll asked Lowell, "Whom do ye recommend for such a chore as mending the Dog's clothes?"

He replied, "Why, Ms. Sarah Danvers is by-far the best seamstress in all of Silverdale, ye've met her already I assume?"

"Aye, for Byron was kind enough to introduce us."

Smiling, Lowell said, "Then all will be settled upon the morning."

Roger escorted Star off to the guest room, leaving Troll alone in the parlor as Lowell closed the doors behind him. Was the reverend off to see Star comfortably tucked in for the night? Feeling the slightest pinch of jealousy at this, he removed the pillow and blanket from the cot and relocated them to a spot he designated on the rugged, plank-fissured floor. In the end he decided not to worry so over such frivolities. He spread the blanket across the floor before lying down on the ground. He drew the pillow up to his head as he curled up in a ball. And as soon as Troll closed his eyes (but not before saying his prayers), he instantly drifted off to sleep.

****

And just where was the Dog, ye ask? Where did he go when he darted off into the night? Well, like most nights away from the campfire, Dog (like most animals), likens to find hisself a high place, somewhere safe from danger. Some place where he could stay vigilante over all that lurked in the darkness of night. And this night, the Dog sat perched atop the reverend's house, facing the town. Here he would protect all under its roof. Here, the Dog stayed watchful all night, and into the dawn.

****

5

Dawn. Troll strolled through the town's dirt-trodden streets as the early morning's fog drifted lethargically about. He wandered here and there, just trying to get a feel for ol' Silverdale.

Surprisingly enough, many of the town's occupants were already up and at 'em, such as Goodie Dantry, a stout woman with freckles and red-hair underneath a brownish bonnet. Troll greeted her warmly. The woman bowed before returning her attention to the goat she milked. The goat, of course, lapped up some sort of slop from a bucket, and paid no mind to the woman tugging at its teats. Peter Dantry, the husband, had been a farmer who marched off to war, leaving the poor woman alone with seven children. She couldn't manage and now only the two youngest of her kin lived at the shelter. The eldest child journeyed off in hopes of finding his father and bringing him home. They have heard from neither.

Next, Troll met Sheriff Thurman Wood, making his morning rounds. The sheriff sported a pea-shooter around his hip. Probably the extent of the town's artillery. Troll finally understood why the constable had so eagerly wished them free of weapons.

Was the Sheriff a lefty or did he simply prefer the cross-draw? Troll didn't ask. Though, he did inquire as to why a town that already had a constable and a mayor would have need of a sheriff.

The sheriff drawled, "It's to watch over the prisoners."

"So, who is keeping guard right now while ye are here?"

"Well, no one really," he replied. He removed his sheriff's hat and scratched his short dirty-blond hair. He did not sport the usual patriarchal pony-tailed-do as the other higher-ups in Silverdale. Was the sheriff even from Silverdale?

"My word man!" Troll snorted in amusement.

The sheriff put his hat on, hitched his thumbs into his buckle, and said, "Don't worry, the prisoners are all asleep round this time, anyhow. Criminals like to sleep in. That's how you can tell who's a badden' and who's a goodin'."

"My word, man, just how many prisoners are there?"

"Uh...only one," he said after a brief pause to ponder the question.

"Oh, well then, move along."

"Yes, sir!" He smiled, waved, and then continued on his rounds.

Troll hobbled toward the center of town via his staff. When he arrived at the church site, he met up with Edward Barley, a tall muscular man with a bushy red-mustache that matched his pony-tailed hair. A decent fellow, 'though rather soft spoken and not much as a foreman. Of course, no one else seemed more qualified than the man who built the animal pens. Most of the men were already at the work site when Troll arrived. None older than thirty, except for Ed Barely, which made him the oldest resident on the job -- yet another qualification. The rest of the crew consisted of boys from the shelter old enough to endure physical labor. No females. Women were forbidden to engage in manual labor other than that of farming or child rearing. This seemed laughable to Troll, who viewed farming and child rearing among the most vigorous of manual labors.

Troll gazed upon the assortment of young men all toiling away at different tasks. The whole job appeared counterproductive, and it reminded him of the story of the tower of Babel.

"I was told there'd be two a ye." Barley's mustache danced slightly as he spoke.

"Why yes, of course," Troll turned toward the direction of the reverend's house. "Dog, come!" His booming voice caused everyone in earshot to startle. Birds took flight from the trees and all stood silent and still.

From further on down the road, the Dog could be heard racing through the town's streets, trotting and panting from buildings away as a trail of rising dust billowed behind him.

Troll said, "Ah, there he is."

The Dog strutted toward Troll, standing at attention and awaiting order. He wore his new duds and just the site of him had Troll grinning from ear-to-ear. Surely, this was a glorious day to be in a good mood.

The Dog's new clothes were simple: brown trouser pants that were both too big and too long for him. A cincture tied taught around the Dog's waist, yet he constantly had to keep a hand on the pantaloons to keep them from falling. His shirt was a throaty cotton number, also far too big. And he wore Roger Wilcox's ranger hat, also too big for him. He resembled a child dressed in the garb of his parents, and he almost looked like an adolescent if not for his long, gnarly beard. With the outfit so loose and baggy, it was a wonder the cur could even run at all without falling on his ass.

The job seemed equally basic as it did frivolous. A poorly supported wooden structure braced with stone bricks, but no mortar. And so they could build no higher than half-a-man's stature before the structure toppled over, forcing them to start again. Troll learned this was their sixteenth attempt at the church, though they seemed extremely optimistic this time would yield fruition. Troll enjoyed quite a good laugh at this, but unfortunately, was alone in this action, as no other realized the jest of their endeavors. Had they, they may have been privy to draw offense. Troll quickly informed them of the problem and told them they would have to start over anew. The crew seemed rather distraught by this, but he assured them this time success.

They spent the better part of the morning tearing down the walls and upper part of the structure, salvaging as much material as possible. Byron passed by around eight of the clock, on his way to the shelter to see that all was well. He promised Troll to come back to help with construction just as soon as his chores completed.

With the demolition accomplished, Troll showed the men how to correctly support the beams by crossing and buttressing them. It was a marvel they managed to construct anything at all in this town. Perhaps, they hadn't built anything here, perhaps their ancestors simply stumbled into Silverdale, finding it abandoned or driving out the previous occupants as to take residency here. Or maybe all the old trudged off to war, never to return. But Troll remained skeptical, especially when a huge wooden-wall surrounded the entire town to prevent invasion from the king – no-doubt, recently assembled.

The supports took no time at all. And since this job needed only half the men, Troll decided the rest of the crew should begin mixing the mortar.

Otis McClure, a savvy, elderly gent (though still younger than Barely), asked, "Well, where's we gonna get the water to mix with?"

"Is there not a water supply in this town?"

"Aye, sure there is," Ed Barley replied.

"Is it of considerable stature?" Troll hoped Barley wasn't referring to the town well.

Sucking his teeth, McClure scratched his head, and asked, "Beg ye'r pardon?"

"Is it big?"

Nodding, Barley said, "Ayuh, it's pretty big aw'ight."

"Then quick man, take me to it!"

Silverdale's water supply, located in the center of town, consisted of a meager well and a bucket tied to a length of rope. Just as Troll feared, Mr. Barley intended to exhaust their well in order to mix mortar.

Troll asked Barley, "Is this it?"

Mustache dancing, Barley replied, "Ayuh." He hawked a loogie into the dirt, and wiped his chin.

Troll chuckled, "Well, this will most certainly _not_ do."

Barley and McClure's brows furrowed as they exchanged a vague glance.

The Dog sat on his haunches; holding up his pants while peering up at Troll with grey-green-eyes.

"Why's that?" Barley asked, hawking up another ball of phlegm.

Troll replied, "Because, what would ye have to drink, or wash clothes in, or yourselves for that matter? That's why."

Sucking his teeth, McClure added, "Yeah, that's why."

Balling a fist, Barley snarled, "Ye'd shut ye'r trap, if'n ye know what's good for ya."

"Dear, Lord, however do these folk get a thing or two done 'round here?" Troll asked the heavens.

Brow furrowed, lip curled, McClure asked, "Who's that ye'r talkin' to?"

"I'm talkin' to the master of this, here, house we're building."

If Barley and McClure hadn't been confused before, they were now. Their brows so furrowed, noses wrinkled, and lips curled, they looked like the faces of deteriorating jack-o-lanterns. Though briefly entertained by the two men's antics, Troll couldn't let them bicker forever, not with so much left to do. Fortunately, this frivolity did not last long, and (after a bit of clarification on Troll's part), Mr. Barely promptly informed him that the good people of Silverdale did not use the well water for bathing. They had a pond just outside of town for that specific chore. Was the pond even fresh? Furthermore, would draining it for mortar yield detrimental consequences? Troll let those questions fade away, and focused on the most important one.

"Exactly, just how far out of town is this pond?" he asked.

Mustache dancing, Barley replied, "About half-an-hour north bound."

"Sounds 'bout right," said McClure.

Troll quickly calculated how much water, how many men, and thusly, how long it would take to acquire enough water to suit their needs.

Troll said, "Of course, we could always let the rain do the work for us." He asked McClure, "Quick man, how often does it rain?"

Mustache bobbing and jiving, he replied, "Well, it'll be the rainy season in about a month or so, but it doesn't matter anyway."

Troll and the Dog exchanged a curious glance. Rainy season? Hadn't it been pretty damn rainy the last two weeks? But alas, one quandary at a time.

"Oh, and why is that?" Troll ran a hand through his mangy hair, along his scar, and down his beard. Instantly his thoughts turned to Star.

Barley gulped and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "'Cause'n we don't work in the rain."

McClure just stood there, head down, and sucking on his teeth.

"And just why is that?"

Barley glumly replied, "It's 'cause when it's rainin', God's a-cryin', so we all stop a workin' an' a start prayin'. 'Cause'n if'n we don't, then God gets angry and sends the storms. That's what happened to the last church, 'cause Reverend Lowell didn't--"

McClure punched Barley in the arm, abruptly shushing him.

Something seemed deeply troubling about this, almost ominous, something Troll couldn't put his finger on. Surely, he would have to do a bit of investigating into what happened to the old church. But for now he let the issue slip and returned to the problem at hand. "The pond it shall be. And what of clay?"

McClure began, "Well, what about him, I mean he's only--"

"No, I mean malleable material found in dirt."

Barley replied, "That's even further, there's a big pit of dirt about half a day south."

Troll asked, "A big pit of dirt?"

"Ayuh," Barley said, spitting again.

Scratching his head, McClure asked, "What about shit?"

Troll said, "I humbly beg ye'r pardon."

"Couldn't we just use shit from stock to make the mo-ta? Shit would pro'lly stick better'n dirt anyhow."

"First off," Troll said, grimacing, "that's just disgusting. And secondly, ye don't have enough stock to produce that much mortar." He made sure to enunciate the word properly.

"Well, what if we used our own shit?" McClure added, as if he'd discovered the cure for the king's disease.

Barley and the Dog just shook their heads in disbelief. Although the poor lad was trying his best, he continued to elaborate on how they could use the feces from every man, women, child, and stock in town. And to that, Troll had no response.

****

Sarah didn't see Star watching her. But that was the thing -- here in Silverdale, no one paid Star a lick of attention. Sarah just finished scrubbing linen on an old washboard and was just about to start hanging them out to dry when Byron came strolling up to the shelter, whistling and nearly skipping in his usual adolescent gait.

Beard hitched in a big, goofy smile, he said, "Good morning, Ms. Danvers."

"And a good morning to ye as well, brother, how fare thee on this oh, so fine day?"

"Very well," he said. "And ye?"

"Fine as well." Sarah brushed a bit of hair from her freckled face before staring at the ground.

"Might ye be in need of any assistance with chores this morning?" he asked.

"As always, the dishes are in dire need of attending, and I'm sure Goodie Sawyer can find ye a few other things of the like as well." Sarah wafted a sheet out in the air and pinned it to the clothes line.

Byron asked, "Something troubling ye?"

Gaze downcast, she said, "Well, it's just that, this used to be such a really great place to live."

"What do ye mean?"

"I dunno, it's just that things have been getting pretty bad around here, what with the war an' all."

"Aye, well, things will get better. Just ye wait and see, this war will be over before ye know it. Then things will return to normality."

"Aye, I'm sure. But it's just..." She sighed, and brushed back the hair from her face again.

"Please, go on." Byron gestured with his hands.

"Well, with these newcomers and all, well..."

Bushy brow furrowed, Byron kneaded his hands, and asked, "What about them?"

"Yes, what about us?" Sarah and Byron jumped at the sound of Star's firm voice. Her clothes had been washed and dried by Sarah, herself. Something about freshly cleaned duds made Star feel like she could take on the world -- or Furion, for that matter.

Sarah bowed, and said, "So sorry, I meant no offense by it, it's just that, the last people from out of town were violent criminals."

Star replied, "Well, let me assure you, Ms. Danvers, we are neither violent nor criminals."

"Aye, of course. I know ye and Mr. Troll to be most cordial indeed, but--"

"It's the Dog isn't it?" asked Star.

Sarah said, "Aye, but not in offense, it's just that with the children and all..."

"Understood." Star nodded under the cover of her wide-brimmed hat. "But don't worry, Dog would never harm a child. You have my word and the word of those whose company I keep."

"Aye, ma'am," Sarah said as she scurried back to her laundry, attempting to slink away in embarrassment.

Star put a light, reassuring hand upon Sarah's shoulder, staying her from her chores. In a softer tone, she added, "And it's Star, not ma'am."

"Okay." Sarah smiled. "Star it is."

"Wonderful!" Byron clapped gleefully. The good brother so beside himself with joy he nearly danced in place.

The shelter doors burst open and little Anne Warwick retreated swiftly out into the sunshine pursued by a cadre of young boys.

"Little Anne, little Anne, reserved in hand to the witches' clan," the children pattered in vertiginous motion.

"Children, children!" Sarah howled, already moving to physically interject the children's ridiculing taunts.

"Enough!" Star roared.

The children ceased, frozen by her thunderous authority. Even Sarah halted to ascertain the situation, which now seemed under steady a hand.

Sarah yelled, "Baylon Wood! What do ye think ye'r doing here?"

"What? It's a public place." Baylon, the oldest and meanest of tormentors, shrugged implacably as his cronies laughed. This of course, only further egged him on.

Sarah said, "Only children who stay at the shelter may take sanctuary behind its doors. Ye've no right to be in there messin' about."

"Is it _my_ fault my pa didn't go off to some stupid war, or worse?" The boy snickered. This time his cronies laughed not. For, his gird hit just a little too close to home.

"Ye have no idea just how lucky ye' are," Sarah continued while Baylon laughed arrogantly.

"No, Baylon," Star said, glaring at him, "you really have no idea how lucky _you_ are."

Baylon slunk away in shame, head down, shoulders slouched, and bested by an outsider.

"And shame on the rest of ya." Sarah reprised her lecture, waving an admonishing finger at the children. "Don't follow that spoiled brat around, and don't pick on someone who lives with ye. Ye really should be ashamed of yourselves." Sarah exhaled a long sigh of vexation, and ran a hand through her long dark-red hair. In a gentler voice, she asked, "Byron, will ye please take the children back inside and occupy them?"

"Why yes, of course." The brother excused himself and herded the children back beyond the shelter's large, double doors, leaving Anne standing there by her lonesome.

Averting her blue-gaze, Sarah smiled awkwardly, and said, "Thank ye."

"Anytime," Star said, smiling back.

"Hello, Ms. Star." Anne crept toward the two women.

"Hello, young Ms. Warwick, how fare you this morning?" Star smiled, one of those genuine smiles that Troll often toiled so to attain.

Anne replied, "Very well."

"Anne," Sarah said, pulling the girl close and running her hand through Anne's jet-black hair. "Do ye not have something to say to Ms. Star?"

"Aye," Anne affirmed, bowing her head bashfully.

"Well, go ahead then, out with it," Sarah prodded.

"Ye'r beautiful," Anne said, shyly shrinking behind Sarah.

Genuinely flattered, Star replied, "Thank you."

"I think ye mean, _thank ye_ ," Sarah said, patiently correcting Anne.

Star said, "I'd rather be complimented than thanked any day, so thank _you,_ Ms. Warwick."

"Ye'r welcome." Anne blushed, stepping forward as Sarah warmly wrapped her arms around the young girl.

Star said, "You're so good with her, are you kin?"

"Thank ye," Sarah said.

"Thank ye," Anne reiterated.

Sarah's smile widened. "No, just good friends. Anne is the daughter of the late Reverend Warwick, and as her mother died in childbirth, I took charge of her." Sarah's gape grew dark as she frowned, head down. "Most of my family are either dead or have gone off to war."

"I see." Star's smile faded slightly.

"Do ye?" Sarah asked.

Star replied, "Yes, she needs you to take care of her, and you need her to take care of."

"Exactly," Sarah replied.

"'X'actly," Anne bashfully reiterated.

"Now that," Star said in awe, "is what I call beautiful."

****

Things were progressing swiftly with the revisions to the church's foundation (both figuratively and literally). Troll considered a church to be the actual members of the congregation as averse to the building where religious observances were held. To Troll, a church, much like a home, was what one made of it. And the workers went about their duties a lot smoother under Troll's knowledgeable leadership. Within the first day, the job of foreman had been relinquished into his massive, capable hands. And who else better to do it? In Troll's opinion, no one, that's who. For, God hisself brought Troll and his companions here. And it was here that God wanted Troll to build a church, at least for the time being, anyway. And when the good Lord proffered his decree, who could ignore? Not Troll, that much was certain.

Dog worked stronger and faster than any two men put together, and followed Troll's instructions verbatim. Dog presently stacked rocks, which would later be used as the walls when the mortar was ready. An older gent by the name of Cooper walked into the Dog while the cur's back turned, attentive to the task at hand. But the Dog stood firm. And William Cooper stumbled backward, dropping his hammer listlessly to the ground.

"Watch it, you clumsy mutt," Cooper snapped as the workers nearest to the incident backed away.

All gazes, especially Troll's, rested upon the Dog as the spectators waited anxiously to see how the cur would react to such slander. Troll had the utmost of faith in the Dog combating such offense reasonably. The Dog took a step toward Cooper, and for the utmost of brevity, Troll doubted the depths of the Dog's civility. But the Dog merely squatted to the ground, never removing his hazel-gape from Cooper as he retrieved the cast-away hammer. He offered the handle of the tool out to Cooper.

"All right, then." Cooper sounded unsure, yet well sated in the results with his encounter with the cur (as was Troll).

A couple of the younger boys were yearning for confrontation, desiring to see bloodshed. Troll could sense this as he was sure the Dog did as well, yet the Dog made no accosting advancements.

"Anything wrong?" Star asked, strolling toward Troll.

"Not at all," Troll replied, turning to greet her accordingly.

"And how goes the church?"

"Splendidly! And how was ye'r morning?"

"Pretty boring, actually." She ran a hand through her hair, shackles jingling as she hid her face 'neath the brim of her hat. "I see you've already taken charge of the situation here."

Troll chuckled, "But of course, these people would be lost without me. Did ye know they were actually planning on using dung for the mortar?"

Glancing around, she asked, "Where were they gonna get all the dung from?"

"Well," Troll continued, "let's just say that the whole town was _moved_ to pitch in."

"Eww, that's gross," she said, holding out her hand as if it would help ward off such disgusting reveries.

"Good day, Mr. Troll," Anne called, skipping toward them and waving excitedly.

"Good day, Ms. Warwick!"

"Star," Anne said, grabbing the older woman's shirt.

"Yes, what is it, sweetheart?" Star bent low to hold congress with the wee lass.

"Would ye care to come pick wild flowers with me?"

"Why, I'd love to," Star said, taking her hand.

"Pleasant days, sai," Anne said. She giggled before leading Star away in nearly a skip.

"And to ye as well," Troll called. "Have fun."

"Oh, we will," Anne called back.

Byron (his morning chores completed), approached the worksite. Troll gave the good brother an acknowledging nod. Byron reciprocated, and then turned his attention to the church's progression. He, like most people, also watched the Dog. The cur toiled away, all the while keeping a hand on the waist of the large pants he wore.

"I think we need to get him a belt or something," Troll said, denoting the good brother's gape.

"Aye," he said nodding, "I believe I have just the remedy."

With the church well under way, Troll allowed himself and the Dog to accompany Byron back to the reverend's house.

Heaven here Lord this I know

Feel it through me from toe to bone

Troll and Byron belted jovially out to the heavens above. Under the protective veil of Troll's thunderous singing voice, Byron's own voice carried, as if Troll's very presence elicited a new-found confidence within the good brother.

And in the skies the sun doth shine

And we shall sing our praise to thee, Lord

With whole a heart and soul

And on and on it goes

We shall sing this song some more

Until our heats stop beating

We shall never cease in song

And on and on it goes...

They crooned all the way up to the reverend's front porch (the Dog traveled several paces behind the dueting due as if saying, "I'm not with these two!").

Byron led them into the living room.

Troll asked, "And just where is the good Reverend Lowell, for I have not seen him all day?"

"Well, he _is_ the reverend," Byron said, shuffling toward the chandelier hanging decadently in the middle of the ceiling.

"And that means what, exactly?"

"That means he must remain in private Pentecostal prayer until he is needed for mass." Byron searched for a specific chord interspersed among various other chains hanging from the room's candelabra.

"Of course," Troll replied.

Byron found the chain he sought, and pulled down on it, exposing a hidden staircase that led up into what Troll could only surmise was the domicile's attic. Well hidden indeed, the entrance to the attic was probably a secret to even Reverend Lowell, himself.

Troll asked, "There aren't any bats up there, are there?"

"Not that I know of, why?"

"Oh, no reason."

"I haven't been up here in years," Byron said, leading the Dog and Troll up through the hidden interstice.

Dog sneezed in the dust-littered air.

The contents of the attic were concise, stacked up in neat columns of boxes only discernible to Byron. A window obstructed from outside view by the house's tall peeked veneer, bathed the room in a dusty, almost preternatural light.

"Wow," Troll said.

"Impressive, is it not?"

"Indeed. Quick man, where is your armory?"

"My what?" Byron's bushy-brow furrowed as he scratched his beard.

"Your weapons hold? I'm sure it is quite extensive indeed, considering the mass of this clutter." Troll scanned around with earnest while the Dog sat on his haunches sneezing every so often.

Byron said, "I regret to report nothing of the sort. These are merely the things of my personal gatherings over the years, clothes, books, and other things of the like."

"And ye have acquired no weapons, gizmos, or gadgets?"

"Sorry sai, but no," Byron replied, head bent as if in prayer.

"What a shame." Troll rummaged through Byron's collection of personal effects.

"Oh yes, please do help yerself." Byron spoke in such a whimsical manner that Troll couldn't tell if he was being sincere or not. Fortunately, Troll didn't care in any case.

"Let's see," Byron said, searching through the sundries. "There must be a belt here somewhere."

The Dog whistled, attracting the brother's attention. Troll and Byron pivoted. The Dog stood there, holding a brown, leather belt.

Byron said, "I'm afraid I can't let ye have that one. T'was my father's and holds great sentiment even though I wear it not." He frowned and his beard seemed to sag just as the Dog's pantaloons. "But fret not, for I am certain there be another here somewhere."

Rifling through a box, Troll asked, "How long do ye think it will take Ms. Danvers to hem the Dog's tattered garments?"

"Not long, she really is the best seamstress in all of Silverdale. Aha!" Byron said, producing another brown, leather belt.

"There are no belt loops on his pants," Troll said without removing his attention from Byron's collection of personal effects.

"By so there ain't. Well, this will not do." Byron returned to his search.

"So, who is this child constantly in Ms. Danvers' company?"

Byron replied, "T'is young Anne Warwick, sole daughter of the late Reverend Warwick."

Troll handed the Dog a piece of rope to tie gird upon his waist, and asked Byron, "Ms. Danvers is the mother?"

"No, no. The mother died during childbirth, and so the girl was adopted by the Danvers ever since--" Byron seemed to catch himself before disclosing something he shouldn't.

"Ever since what?" Troll peered at the good brother with great interest.

"T'is not a happy tale," he finally said, eyes growing dark and wide, his youthful face shriveled up as if sensing something accosting.

"Tell me," Troll said, "for I have great interest in tales of Grimm."

Byron glanced suspiciously around, and said, "All right, but not here."

"Why not?"

"T'is a tale best told during the brightness of day."

The Dog wrestled with the rope, trying to fashion it about his waist with little success.

"I don't think it is long enough," Byron said, as if trying to change the subject.

"What is this?" Troll asked, poaching a small book from the box before him. The brown, leather bindings crinkled as he opened it and flipped through the yellowish pages. Every one blank.

"I traded the farmer Lager a looking glass for it," Byron said. "I meant to fill it with prayers that I write, but the words never seem to linger in me brains long enough for me to pen them. Once they come out of me mouth, they just a-float on up to heaven."

"May I have it?" Troll asked, clutching the prize to his breast.

"Of course, but may I ask why? Ye already have one that didn't look but half-full last time I saw you scribbling in it."

"How observant ye are! But t'is not for myself. I mean to give it to Ms. Star."

Grinning oafishly, Byron replied, "Ah, she's a fair enough one, indeed, is she not?"

"Indeed." Troll protected the book within the confines of his cavernous cloak.

"At last!" Byron produced a pair of suspenders.

The cur merely eyed them with un-interest; grimacing before reluctantly adorning them. This, of course, required the assistance of Troll. Apparently the Dog had never worn suspenders before. With the task accomplished, the Dog stood there in the attic. His eyes turned grey and sullen, a frown so big he almost scowled. His gaze darted from them to the ground and back again in uncertainty.

"I don't think he likes them much," Byron said.

Troll replied, "So what, he'll be over it sooner than his own clothes returned." He peered at the Dog, who stood there skulking in the gloom. Troll snorted, chuckled, clapped, and said, "He looks like a Quaker farmer."

****

"Wow, look at this one!" Anne bent over and plucked a tiny pink and purple carnation from the tall-grass.

"Yeah, that _is_ pretty." Star sniffed the bouquet of yellow and white wild flowers she held, her thoughts turned to Troll and the Dog.

Anne trotted toward Star. Her wild black-hair and tattered dress flowed in the breeze. "How many is that?" she asked, handing the carnation to Star to hold with the others.

"Quite a lot," Star said, smiling.

"No, silly, I mean how _many_?"

"Well, how many do _you_ think it is?"

Anne's little face wrinkled like a puppy's, index finger placed on her bottom lip. "Uh, thirteen! That's a baker's dozen."

Star squatted, and asked, "Anne, do you know how to count?"

"Why, of course I do, silly-head." Smiling, she swayed back and forth, pulling at the bottom of her dress. She stopped, brown-eyes growing wide, she said, "But don't tell anyone, it's a secret."

"Why is it a secret, sweetheart?" Star handed Anne the bouquet, the stems ruffled together ever-so slightly.

"'Cause people already don't like me 'round here, on account of my parents." Anne hid her face behind the flowers.

It reminded Star of the way she concealed her own.

"What about your parents?"

Anne replied, "I dunno, people say they were evil. They say _I'm_ evil. Most people just ignore me while'st the other kids in town pick on me. But I'm not evil, am I?" Lip quivering, Anne's eyes shimmered in tears.

"No, sweetheart, you're not evil." Star rested a hand on Anne's shoulder, and gazed directly into her eyes. She wished she could do something more, but assuagements were never her forte. So she lightly patted Anne's back.

Anne sniffled. A single tear strolled down her freckled face before she wrapped her arms around Star, and hugged her tightly.

Smiling, Star said, "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

****

Journal entry,

Around noon, the crew broke for lunch. The younger men returned to the shelter to be fed with the rest of the children. I presume that Star and Ms. Danvers were attending to this task. I also suspect Byron was with them as well, for he certainly wasn't with us -- the men. As the townsfolk and children were all enjoying their meals, the elder workers convened to George Hawkins' bar for sandwiches and watered-down drafts. The bar was surprisingly the closest building to the church site. No-doubt, resting at the bar for lunch was a long-practiced observance here in Silverdale. We ate sandwiches stacked with a slice of goat's meat and cheese, topped off with a piece of cabbage and a slice of tomato. They were decent enough indeed though the bread was a bit hardened with staleness.

Mr. Hawkins was a tall, skinny drink of water, with a curly, blond beard. Hair pulled back in a pony-tail. A twitch in his right eye constantly had him winking at his customers. Chest puffed out, he proudly brewed and served his own concoctions, which was hardly anything to rant over. The beer was clear, flat, and tasted of tree bark. Yet, it was the only spirit offered in town other than whisky, and that was a beverage best consumed after the close of the work day.

The Dog helped himself to a few slices of meat and cheese, hardly making pains to construct a sandwich for himself before inhaling his lunch, not even tasting the food. Dog didn't drink any of the beer. Nobody even offered it to him. Nor did he make any pains to acquire some for himself. Perhaps it for the best.

Afterward, we still had some time left over, as lunch was customarily broken for an hour at least. So I engaged the Dog in practicing sparring with staffs. Strolling over to the church site, I tossed the Dog a smaller staff before removing me cloak. We were right out in the open, and at one point, I noticed a few children and elder boys had gathered to watch. We started slow, mere back-and-forthery before warming up to setting up combinations. I must say, dear journal, the Dog is getting quite good. At one point, he was even able to knock me from my feet. Though, naturally he had not the leverage to bowl me over, yet his precision was well executed. So, I let him take me to the ground, anyway.

" _Good," I said, offering my hand out for him to help me up. At first I didn't think he would assist me, but finally he did. Though, he did not grasp me by my hand as I had hoped. I think because he knew I was trying surreptitiously to make him shake. And that was one thing Dog still refused to do with anyone. So he merely squatted low, grabbing the end of my staff and helping me up that way. I must say, dear journal, I am quite pleased with the Dog's progress, not just in training, but in his social interactions. If things continue, we should be done with the church in no time._

Troll reclined comfortably in the rocker on Reverend Lowell's porch, satisfied with a day's work and writing. 'Though he thought the men could have labored a few more hours at least. But it was supper time, and after that -- church (which Star had already decided she would skip), and after that -- bedtime; only to rise in the morning and do it all again. Star sat on the railing, whittling next to Roger, who relaxed his bones in his favorite wicker chair. He wore his new cap. Roger sliced methodically into the grain of his block of wood, carving a dog. Not _the_ Dog, just _a_ dog. He curdled his blade through the softened pine with masterful strokes.

Lord knew what Star whittled. She shaved peel after peel with broad, determined swipes. Perhaps, that _was_ her masterpiece, just a bunch of leafy peels of wood. Really more therapeutic than artistic, but if it helped to occupy her mind, then so be it.

Sarah came trudging along the dirt-trodden path that led from town to Eldred Lowell's house. She hefted two large pails of water, probably for the good reverend's cooking (which thusly was _their_ supper too).

"Good evening," Sarah said as Troll, Roger, and Star all greeted respectively in turn.

"Oh hey, let me get that for ya, little lady." Roger uncharacteristically exploded from his chair and journeyed down the porch steps as he crutched precariously upon his cane.

"Thank ye," she said, handing over the pails.

Remarkably, Roger grasped both one-handed, the other still curled around the top of his cane for support, and perilously ventured back into the house.

Sarah said to Troll, "And I'll have ye'r dog's clothes mended by the 'morrow. I'll bring them on by."

"Excellent, thank ye," he replied.

Hunched over, Mort shuffled up the old, dirt path, obvious his destination was Lowell's grand accommodations, for no other domiciles resided this far out of town. With his hunch, bum leg, and restrictive robe, he strived up to the reverend's house and straight toward Sarah. He sweated profusely.

Sarah recoiled a bit, kneading her hands in her dress as Byron might. Her gaze downcast, a sour grimace robbed her freckly face of its natural beauty.

Mort dropped down on one knee, gazed into Sarah's blue-eyes, and said, "My dear, Sarah, please take my hand in holy union."

Sarah blushed, her face turned redder than her dark, wavy hair. She rested a hand on her bosom and sighed.

Smiling broadly, Troll glanced around.

Star (entranced in her whittling, or more aptly, her shaving), barely even took note of Sarah's appearance in the first place.

Roger had gone inside to attend to supper.

Byron and the Dog were nowhere to be found.

"Sorry, Mort," Sarah said, face wrinkled in disgust, gaze glued to the ground, and arms clutched tightly about her waist. "But I just can't."

Mort arose dopily to his feet, as if the wind knocked from his chest. His mouth hung agape, like he meant to say something. He couldn't even meet Sarah's gaze before he hurried off, head slung low.

"Are ye not in need of a suitor?" Troll called from the porch. "Do ye not desire companionship?"

"Aye, say true, good sai, but..." Gaze downcast, she blushed deeper.

"But?" Troll persisted.

"But a woman longs to be romanced. The men of this town know little if nothing about chivalry or romance."

"Ah, yes," Troll said as he reclined further into the rocker. "T'is true. Women fantasize about a tall, handsome stranger emerging to sweep them off their feet. Is it not so, Star?'

Star, who hadn't been paying a lick of attention to their conversation, startled at the sound of her name. "I beg your pardon?" She shot them a sideways glance.

"See." Troll smiled.

Sarah laughed, and pressed a hand lightly to her heart. "It's just that Mortimer asks for my hand nearly every day."

"Really? Ye wouldn't think it based upon his reaction." Troll couldn't help but visualize that gut-punched look Mort had after her rejection.

"Aye, I know," Sarah shook her head despondently, "he's so predictable."

"And ye yearn for the un-predictable."

"Aye." Sarah blushed, brushing her hair back, gaze darting to the ground as her cheeks turned a sanguine hue that resembled that of the buxom berries.

"Take heart, my child, ye'r prince charming is not far off."

Star snorted, "Oh, I know you're not talking about _yourself_ , now."

Troll and Sarah shared another light-hearted laugh.

"Well, time for church," Byron said as he and Roger ambled out onto the porch.

"Coming with us?" Troll asked Star.

Star shook her head, not even glancing up from her whittling.

Troll, Sarah, Byron, and Roger set off. Many times, they had to stop and wait for Roger to catch up. At the center of town, Sarah parted company. While the adults communed in the town meeting hall, the children had church schooling at the shelter, where Sarah and many other Goodies sought to mold their young minds.

The second mass Troll attended in Silverdale seemed very much the same as the previous night, just as dry and repetitive 'though he still sang the refrains in vehement boisterousness. He still received communion. Still drew strange stares 'though he'd met nearly everyone in town worth meeting. Star did not attend (which only grew greater gawks and a bit of gossipy murmurings). Throughout the entire service, Troll found his thoughts returning to Star. Where was she? What was she doing?

Dog was absent as well, probably hiding somewhere, having himself a nice little nap.

Once again, Byron's role in the service remained minimal at best. At one point the good brother approached the pulpit as if to give prayer, but quickly shied away into the shadows, hands trembling.

From his place in the front row, Troll sensed the growing anxiety within the good brother that ate away at him like some malignant force. And for the utmost of brevity, Troll felt a great swell of pity for Byron.

No festival after the mass. A few patrons relinquished their tired souls to the local tavern, but Troll felt exhausted. Well satisfied with a good, hard day's work, he retired back to the reverend's house. Byron and Lowell still had a few things to do around the church (at least, that's what they told Troll, anyway). So, Troll made the long journey back both in solitude and in silence. When he finally returned to his gracious host's home, he found Star waiting for him on the porch.

"Have fun?" she asked coyly from under the confines of her wide-brimmed hat.

"Certainly," Troll said, "though I could've done with a little more a-praisin' and a little less a-preachin'."

"Hmm." Star stood and pitched the piece of wood she'd been whittling into the weeds. She leaned back against the porch railing, arms crossed, eyes hid 'neath her hat.

"What's wrong?"

"You tell me," she said, tapping her foot, fingers twirling amidst the chain of her compass.

He shrugged, and said, "I thought we agreed on resting here a spell. Surely, there is nothing wrong with doing the Lord's work while'st on a bit of down-time."

"That ain't what I'm talkin' 'bout."

"Oh, and what are _ye_ talking about?"

Star sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. The shackle rattled ever-so softly. She paced around on the porch.

What could she be thinking? Surely, Troll could read the Dog's thoughts, and the Dog in turn, his. But what was Star thinking? Just what sort of bug crawled up her ass and was currently gnawing away at her?

As if sensing his thoughts, Star halted mid-stride, whirled toward him, and said, "You know it's wrong here."

"How do ye mean?" Troll asked, hobbling toward her.

"I don't know, it just feels...wrong,"

"I'm afraid ye'r gonna have to be a bit more claritive."

"I...I...I dunno." She ran another hand through her hair before crossing her arms again. "But...it's just _wrong_ here. You know it too, I can tell so don't even try to say otherwise."

Troll considered her words for a moment. "Perhaps."

Star narrowed her gaze upon him, head tilted as she tapped her foot faster. The look on her face said she wasn't angry, just wondering what Troll meant.

"It means, simply, that while their customs may appear odd to us, seemingly even strange, it doesn't necessarily mean there's anything _wrong_ here. And unless ye can supply proof to the contrary then there's nothing more on the subject to say. _Do_ ye have any proof?"

Star shot him a long, hard look from under the brim of her hat; making pains to tilt her head in just the right way so he could see her eyes. "No. I don't."

"Well, when ye do, be sure I the first to know," he said, strolling toward the door.

"Answer me this, then, when we first met, would you not agree that it was nearly summer."

Troll stopped mere feet from the screen-door, and pivoted toward Star. He knew where this line of thought was headed, for Troll had thought about it himself only earlier this day (but had either neglected or forgotten to write of it in his journal).

"Aye," he replied.

"And would you further concur that we've been traveling for little more than a moon?"

"Aye,"

"And yet here, in Silverdale, it is nigh _fall_."

"Aye."

"Don't you find that to be a bit peculiar? You don't have to answer, just something to think about." She sashayed past him (bumping his shoulder), and retired into the house for the evening.

Troll stood there pondering this very thought for several minutes. In the end, just before he too retired, he decided that he most certainly didn't think this un-accounted-for slippage of time peculiar, at all. Troll remembered his false memories of how he and the Dog took refuge with the Wachati tribe after their encounter with the spiders. How the chief assured him that the events he described happened nearly half-a century ago. And then, as if to add insult to injury, the fact that Star insisted that the native tribes had been extinct for over a hundred years. Or, what about how the math in Star's story didn't add up? Everything. No, Troll didn't find this odd, at all. In fact -- it seemed to be happening a lot as of recent.

****

_Journal entry -- 2_ nd _day in Silverdale_

Today started much the same as the previous, and mostly, remained so. When I awoke, Star was nowhere to be found, neither was the Dog for that matter, though I was not worried. For the Dog was perfectly capable to tending to his own. Lowell was absent as well. I know not where the "good" reverend retreats to during the light of day. He isn't at the shelter, and he most certainly helps not at the church building.

I once again partook of a leisurely stroll through town after waking. For, I find it most invigorating and an excellent way to attune to the day's vibe and rhyme. Plenty of townsfolk were well on their way to doing the day's deeds. I made my greetings where appropriate and the townsfolk returned their salutations, though cold and un-lively as they were.

When I arrived upon the work site I found the Dog was already there, vigorously putting up support posts so that we may continue construction.

The rest of the day's events were rather un-eventful. The work went without a hitch, though we have yet to acquire water or clay for mortar. I'm still working out the finalities of that endeavor in me brains.

Lunch was the same. Same sandwiches. Same beer. And still some time in which to train the Dog. Today it was fencing, both foils were supplied by the infinite armaments of me magic cloak. Interesting note, while yesterday, we had a few passer-byes who watched the Dog and I train, today there were even more in attendance in which to watch the spectacle. A young, short lad with even shorter blond-hair, named Booth Wilkins, marveled at the confines of me cloak and inquired as to how much "stuff I had in there." As to which I replied, "Quite a bit, indeed." A look of sheer curiosity struck his wee face and he asked me, "How?" As to which I responded, "A bit of magic, deep pockets, and such." As to which he said, "Oh."

The rest of the work went on without incident and I only write about such mundane events because of what transpired toward the end of the work day. We were cleaning up and squaring away all the odds and ends when Jonathon Steward came riding up to me with carriage, led by two dust-speckled mares. Apparently, with the success of my appointment as foreman, I was offered an invitation to the mayor's house for sup. I and I alone had been extended such an invite, and so the Dog merely followed Byron back to Lowell's house to dine on something no doubt grander than anything anybody else in town would be ingesting this evening.

Steward jumped down from the carriage to open the portal for me, as if expecting no less than royalty. Yet, as I watched the dirt-and sweat-soaked young men slink off into the sunset only to have their many endeavors awarded by cold dinners and a-churchin,' I hardly felt of regality in the slightest.

" _I fear the vessel not capable of holding one such as I," I said, which was the God's honest, and graciously refused the ride only to stroll through town at my leisure._

Steward seemed hurt by this, or possibly, my belatedness to dinner would cause him penalization. Not that I wanted as such, for I was most enthused at gazing upon the mayor's no-doubt grand estate. And so, disconcerted, Mr. Steward rode off to the mayor's house to inform him of my tardy yet gracious acceptance to the sup. Before his departure, Steward informed me the way to the mayor's. T'was further north of town than anything else, past the reverend's house and rolling hills of tall-grass. Since I was going that direction anyway, I trotted off to accompany the Dog and Byron.

Star wasn't at Lowell's when Byron and the Dog parted from my company. I hoped that I would run into her on my way to the mayor's, as I desperately wanted to gaze upon her beauty. But alas, t'was not meant to be.

During my two mile trek from the reverend's to the mayor's, I denoted that there were no roads to the mayor's house, or carriage tracks. And I couldn't help but wonder at how this could be.

****

Star sat cross-legged in the tall-grass out by Tooker's barn. She watched as the day's failing light danced across the sky. Silverdale's five horses grazed in slothful malaise (every once in a while one broke into a playful trot before the others chased after). She plucked strands of grass out of the ground and peeled them in two, before ripping them to shreds. She did everything and anything to keep her mind off the boredom bearing down upon her lithe shoulders.

God, she was just _so_ bored, with literally nothing to do, she couldn't help but wish she was back in the wilderness, traveling with Troll and the Dog. Her prophets -- her saviors -- her...whatever, should be accompanying her to Krin right now. They should be amassing an army and readying themselves to take on Furion's legions. They should be anywhere but here doing anything but building a church. But what could she do? Troll's mind was made up, and he was quite tenacious.

So, where did that leave Star? As an outsider, almost nobody talked to her. And as a woman, she wasn't allowed to work, well, sort of. She could volunteer at the shelter, but except for Anne, Star really didn't like children. But that wasn't true; she just didn't have much experience around kids. Then again, Star could scarcely remember being a child, herself. But what was worse, as a female-outsider, Star's life in Silverdale seemed virtually non-existent. What should she do? She could leave; take off without so much as a word or her prophets by her side. But then what? No, she could not leave Troll. She didn't know why. She just couldn't.

Feeling utterly hopeless, she sat there in quiet contemplation far into the evening, wondering if she'd ever see the day that Silverdale was to their backs.

****

"Pardon my tardiness," Troll said, bowing his head, "t'is quite a hike from the church site."

The mayor's house was grand indeed, and far more decadent than that of the reverend's residence. 'Though Troll would've been surprised had this not have been the case. The mansion stood tall and wide. Five stories in all and fashioned with brick, stone, and oak, and flanked mostly by tall pine trees. Nothing resided further but the north side of the immense wooden fence that encompassed Silverdale, protecting it from the outside world.

Balconies jutted from the windows of the top two stories. Would the Mayor's dinner be served out on one of them? For, it would do Troll's heart good to feast in the open air as much as possible. A twinklin' told him that might be a limited luxury here in Silverdale.

Troll was met at the front gate by a young boy with dirty-blond-hair. He, like many other orphans, offered various services at the mayor's house in exchange for the privilege of claiming sanctuary in such a grand establishment. And though Troll had been excited to explore the mansion, any chance of a tour had been thwarted by his truancy, and was promptly led into the dining hall on the first floor.

The mayor sat at the head of a long cylindrical table in the center of a large, lushly decorated room.

Henry McCoy, the town's bowlegged physician, sat at the end furthest from the mayor. Across from McCoy sat George Hawkins, owner of the town's watering hole, and next to him sat Reverend Lowell, which meant that _his_ guests were left in the care of Byron and Roger Wilcox. Who would be giving the evening's service while Lowell was here? Troll discovered that the town observed a short service while he strolled leisurely across town. Peculiar, though, that he never saw Lowell pass him on the way. Across from Lowell sat Edward Barley. Even the constable attended, seated the closest to the mayor and across from where Troll would sit. All men present, the town's elders and council, sported the same long, greying hair-do. They dressed in the finest of clothes. Fine white cotton shirts. Freshly pressed pantaloons. Sashes, ribbons, and shiny buttons. Garbs they'd never dare (besides Mayor Godfrey and Constable Withers), wear outside the mayor's hall.

Dinner came in three courses. Desert, the main course (roast goat's meat and boiled veggies), and of course the bowls of steaming hot soup currently being served and savored. Troll tarried longer than anyone anticipated and the council's bellies refused to wait. Mayor Godfrey apologized for this with the utmost of respect and sincerity.

Troll merely shrugged. "T'is not necessary for ye to beg _my_ pardon. As I said, I was the one who was late."

Everyone talked lightly of the day's events, mainly the progression of the church, as Edward Barely had been kind enough to inform the mayor of the revisions to its structure in Troll's stead, as well as his plans for gathering water and clay for the mortar.

"Perhaps ye should replace sai Barley as foreman." The mayor slurped at his soup, face puffy and red, as if having trouble breathing.

"Certainly, as long as it's okay by Mr. Barely, me taking his job n'all, that is."

"Hmm, what," Barley asked, droplets of soup fell from his mustache.

Of course, Troll had already unofficially taken over the job, but he wanted to make sure it was all right with Barely.

"Oh, yeah sure," he said with an honest smile, "don't bother me none."

"Then it's settled." Mayor Godfrey clapped, wheezing wetly, satisfied with the arrangements. "Just let us know if there is anything else ye will require in order to better aid ye'r endeavors."

"Well, there is something else," Troll replied.

Smiling wanly, he said, "Ye've only to ask it."

Troll blurted, "I shall require a map of the town in scale."

Withers lurched back in his chair, back stiffened. His beady eyes grew wide, jaw slack, as if Troll just requested permission to take a shit upon the church site.

Troll continued, "I believe it will aid in both planning and retrieval of the materials necessary to successfully build the church."

The council grew silent as the mayor contemplated Troll's request.

Withers sat there scowling into his bowl of soup.

Godfrey replied, "I would be more than happy to oblige, though if there is a map of the town, I know not of it. That and I fear we have no one in town able of making a suitable map. For, these are skills that no one in Silverdale possesses. I think it may serve ye better to just have escort to both the pond and the quarry."

Running a hand down his scar, Troll replied, "Aye, if ye think it best."

Something felt slightly off-putting both in Withers' demeanor and in the mayor's response to an otherwise perfectly reasonable request. Withers switched his gaze from Troll to the mayor, glaring hatefully at the ailing sage. Troll immediately sensed something dark. Something like the storm clouds that the Dog had growled at, even though neither he nor Star sensed any danger. And that's exactly how it seemed. Something nefarious was afoot here, Star could not have been more right about that. Something lingered dangerously overhead while everyone else just guffawed, slurping at their bowls with loud ignorance. And suddenly it all made sense. All was justified. They were here to stop something from happening. Star's feelings may have been correct, even though she would differ on the theory and thusly, the outcome. Never-the-less it was true, they were here for a reason -- all of them -- even the Dog. If not for him, Troll would never have detected it. For all the things he had taught to the Dog, and of all the things he had yet to instruct to him, the Dog's lesson was of far more importance, something far more primitive and yet vital. For if not for the Dog, then Troll would never have learned to sense the storm clouds.

Troll sat quietly for the remainder of the dinner, just listening to the council's small-talk.

Afterward, Troll thanked his gracious hosts and then trekked off toward the reverend's. His belly full, thoughts forever circling on Star and the Dog.

When Troll returned to the reverend's, he found Star waiting for him. She sat in the rocker on Lowell's porch, enjoying the night's air. A small shiver ran down Troll's spine, just the very sight of her reminded him of her rocking back and forth in front of a campfire, hypnotized in her own torment.

"Have a good time?" she asked.

"Always." Troll hobbled up the steps and toward her.

"So what's the story?" Star leaned forward, head tilted upward, 'though she concealed the majority of her face 'neath the brim of her hat.

"What story?"

"You know, what's the deal with these guys? Is there something goin' on 'round here that I should know about?"

"Nothing yet."

"Hmm." She reclined in the rocker.

"But if'n ye have further inquiries, perhaps ye can ask the mayor himself?"

Star crossed her legs and folded her hands on her lap, shackles jingling, and face still hidden. "How's that?"

"The mayor has invited us to sup at his mansion tomorrow night."

"What do you mean _us_?" Star lifted her hat and met his gaze.

"I mean all of us. You, me, and the Dog."

"Do you really think that's such a good idea, bringing the Dog along and all? I don't think he likes these people all that much."

"On the contrary, I think it a splendid idea. If we're going to be here for a little while -- and we are -- then it does us no good to hide the Dog. In fact, that may only prove detrimental. We should try to implore the Dog to engage in everyday activities with the town's folk as much as possible, as to get the Dog familiar to the town, and the town familiar to the Dog."

"And just exactly how _long_ are we gonna be here?"

"Only as long as necessary and not a moment more."

Star leaned back as far as the rocker would allow, hands steepled, head tilted so much that Troll could actually see the emerald glint of her eyes.

Troll asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothin,' don't worry about it."

"Oh, come now," Troll scoffed, "don't give me that, speak ye'r mind."

Star leaned forward, bringing her hands down below her knees as the shackles jingled. "Why don't you speak your mind and tell me what you _really_ think is goin' on here."

"Don't change the subject."

Star cocked her head, trying to conceal the sigh and wry smile 'neath the brim of her hat.

"Okay, well, when you're ready to tell me, you know where to find me." She stood and stretched the kinks out of her lithe body before sashaying toward the screen-door. "But I still don't think it's such a good idea to force the town upon the Dog or vice-versa."

"Yes, well, I'm not entirely certain it's the Dog who is untrusting of the town's folk."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't think the Dog is the one with the problem here, I think it's you."

Star only stood there, screen door open, gazing at him. Before she retired for the night, she peered deep into his eyes and said two, little words. Two words he couldn't recall her ever saying, nor did he ever expect to hear her say: "You're right."

Troll stood there, making sure she didn't come back. When certain she had indeed retired, Troll eased into the rocker Star occupied only moments ago, and retrieved his trusted journal.

Journal entry,

I must confess dear journal, when Star retired for the evening, I felt a desperate compulsion to chase after her and embrace her in my arms. Tell her everything would be all right. Tell her -- everything. But that I cannot do for one simple reason. She sensed something foul afoot here as much as I. But, where as her compulsion to this was to flee, mine is to stay and see the thing through till the deed is done. So where does that leave us now? Here, building a church, for the time being, anyway. And yet I feel our purpose here is far more complex than that.

Dear, Lord, what's a weary servant of ye'r will to do?

****

Hot. Damn hot. And the sun showed little sign of relent. Mayor Thornton Godfrey stood in the desert, or rather, below it. In some sort of cavernous alleyway that ran deep into the earth. But yet, not so deep as to provide shelter from the battering sun.

There were bodies -- everywhere. They were just lying there, on the ground, in the pits, hanging precariously from the cliff edges -- everywhere. They weren't dead, not yet. But they were close. And oh, how they stank.

Thornton was the only one not already dead or dying, or keeled over in a heap, for that matter. He stood at the bottom of the cliffs, among and on top of a pile of festering bodies. He was alone. The madness had stopped -- for now, though the air was still thick with the scent of blood. It was a dream. It had to be. It just had to be. But alas it was not, for deep within the recesses of his mind, a thousand whispery, echoing voices assured him this reality. The dream was over.

Mayor Thornton Godfrey tossed and turned with visions of invasion, rape, and murder. Dark reveries of torture and enslavement danced merrily in his head. He awoke in his bed. Darkness. He wasn't alone. Oh, no, he certainly was _not_ alone. Someone, or rather, _something_ was there with him. He began to tremble and shake, thrashing against invisible hands that caressed him coldly in all the wrong places. Those hands raised his limp body, carrying him to the open window through which the curtains ominously flew. As if in walking slumber, awake but relinquished to the dark forces of night, he fought. Eyes fluttering, mouth desperately working away, yet unable to articulate the smallest of sounds. He floated toward the window while still in his own bed.

Godfrey pleaded, "N...n...n...No...no... _No_!"

The cold, elongated fingers of a shadow encapsulated his throat, restricting his cries for help.

_Shhh, don't fret,_ the figure soothed in a thousand echoing voices. _All will be well._

"Yes," the mayor said.

_All will be well,_ the voice reiterated.

"All will be well," the mayor repeated in absent imitation as the shadow sank many a mangled fang into his supple neck.

****

On their third day in Silverdale, Troll's plans for acquiring materials to make the church's mortar went under-way. His scheme was so grand that the entire town's dealings had been put on hiatus in order to achieve such a goal. Unfortunately, Troll never procured a map. However, Otis McClure seemed quite knowledgeable as to where both the pond and the -- as he put it, "Big pit of dirt" were. Since the pond was the closest thing to town, a group of volunteers were positioned there to extract bucket-fulls of water that were placed into the mayor's carriage and carried back to town. Even Star helped out, as well as the other Goodies. As a major project this required the participation of the entire town as a whole. That is, if they wished the church to be completed ever before the festival of the fall.

Once things were underway at the pond, Troll declared his decision to tour the other job site: the big pit of dirt. At first McClure tried to stop him, assuring Troll that such travel would not be necessary and that the pit team would have things well under control.

Smiling, Troll replied, "But I insist on inspecting the second team's progress, as it would be far more beneficial to find mistakes now than it would be later on."

Troll took the Dog with him. He still didn't quite trust the Dog by himself around these people. And even though Star stayed back at the pond site, Troll just felt more comfortable keeping the cur by his ever-vigilant side.

The pit was a long trek, far out of town, 'though the duo double-timed it, reaching their destination much faster than any of the workers.

The dirt pit lay just past a clearing in the woods south of town. And just as Barley assured, it looked pretty big, indeed. Really resembling more of a canyon filled with soot and clay that hadn't been disturbed in only God knew how long. The gorge wasn't nearly as deep as it was long, and if Troll stood on tip-toes, he could just almost see out of it.

Troll split the group into two teams: one inside the pit to collect bails of clay and dirt. And the other to stand at ground level, receiving the earthen parcels from those in the pit. The ground team would then stack the bails in the back of horse-drawn carts, which would be governed back to town and to the church site (as well as the pails of water collected).

The horses looked bloated and unkempt. Black flies darted about the animals. The mares whisked their tails and reared their heads to keep from being bitten. The horses appeared so aged and haggard that they'd probably fall over dead. But fortunately, that did not occur.

Something seemed ominous about the canyon site, almost off-putting, as if some sort of forcible energy emanated from somewhere just a little farther south, past the pits and over a few rocky precipices. Troll inquired of Edward Barley as to what lay farther out past the hills and rocks.

"Just desert and sand," he answered, "desert, sand, and nothing more."

"Has anyone ever traversed past this point?"

"Not except the people that have left town in order to go off to war."

"And those people never returned, right?"

"Aye." Barley's face grew dark and sullen.

"Then how can ye be certain of what lies over yonder?"

Jeffrey Rush heaved another bail of clay into the back of an old wooden cart, and said, "Town history, maps, and what-not."

Troll replied, "I was told that no maps of the town existed."

Lip curled, sweaty brow furrowed, Rush snarled, "Well, maybe they don't. Hell, I dunno."

Troll asked Barley, "So, then how do ye know what lies beyond the forests outside of town?"

Mustache dancing, he replied, "I reckon I don't, not entirely that is."

Why would such a grand source of building material never be touched? Perhaps that weird energy in the air was what kept people from harvesting the clay for mortar, and kept them from exploring the areas surrounding town.

"How old are ye, my good man?" Troll asked Barley as Rush held a bail of clay high over his head for the Dog to grab and place into the cart.

"I don't rightly know," he said, scratching his head. "Late twenties I reckon."

"And ye've never explored the outskirts of Silverdale?"

"No, nothing really to explore, I reckon."

"Blasphemy! There is so much of the world out there, how can one not search for answers and to their purpose in it?"

"I dunno?" Barley replied.

"And what about ye," Troll asked Rush, who handed the Dog another bail of clay. "Have ye never been outside of town?"

Rush replied, "Nope, I mean, except for today."

"Really," Troll asked, unable to come to grips with the reality of how much these men had been sheltered from the world.

Rush added, "Yup, this is as far out as I've ever been."

"And how do ye find it?"

Peering off into the distance and in the direction of that watchful and malevolent energy, he replied, "Ye know, I don't much care for it.'

Troll felt a tingle course through his spine, radiating out through every cell in his body as the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on-end. As he gazed off into the forest surrounding them, he realized that he didn't much care for it either.

_**_ * _*_

Star couldn't remember _ever_ seeing a room as beautiful or extravagant as the mayor's dining hall. Like all other chambers in the mayor's mansion, the hall was vastly magnificent. Red-cedar floors 'neath a huge ornamental rug, walls stretched high with paintings and colossal crimson-curtained windows. An enormous cascading glass chandelier alone couldn't even light the massive room, and so tall candles had been placed upon the long, cylindrical table where the mayor dined.

On one side of the table sat Withers, Mort, John Steward, and Reverend Lowell. Flanking them were Troll, Star, and the Dog respectively. (The Dog and Star, out of respect were hatless. Star's hair pulled down tight, concealing her face.)

Of course, Mayor Godfrey crowned the end of the table, seated at the head position.

A small troupe of children emerged from the kitchen, all neatly attired and balancing large trays of soup and libations that they hurriedly bussed toward the table. They looked like miniature waiters, though Star surmised that these children performed a number of services at the mayor's house in exchange for being allowed to live in such a grand estate as averse to the shelter.

Godfrey clasped his hands as a glass of wine and bowl of soup were placed before him. "So, things are going very well with the construction of the church, I trust."

"Absolutely," Withers replied. "Things could not be better, and we've--"

"I was talking to Troll." Cough. Cough.

"Yes, quite." Withers sipped at his wine.

Troll said to Godfrey, "Don't worry, we'll be done before the next moon."

Slurping at his soup, he replied, "Good, for, it would be grand to have the church completed before the festival of the fall. Any later than that and we might not finish before the rains come. Then we'll surely not finish 'till next season."

Star asked, "I don't understand, why won't you be able to finish until next season when you've at least another three moons before the winter?"

Godfrey cleared his throat, and said, "Simple, my dear, there would be too many rainy days for us to finish construction."

"Pardon? Rainy days? What?" she asked.

The mayor began, "Well, see--"

"Allow me to explain, ye'r excellence, for I'm keen to the female's mind," Withers said, glaring at her. His leer wasn't like the scraggily vagabond from before she met Troll, this was worse. Something about Withers looking at her like that made her skin crawl.

Star snorted, "I beg your pardon?"

Withers said, "Ye see, we don't work in the rain."

"What? Why?"

"It's against their religion," Troll replied.

Withers sneered, "I wouldn't expect a foreigner, especially that of the female persuasion, to have any sense of deep theological practice or propriety."

Troll scoffed, as if just as offended by this as Star.

The mayor jumped in, and said, "That's enough of that. Alas, where is the roast?"

"Quite right," Withers said, turning to Mort. He tilted his long, narrow head, and cocked his brow at his steward. No one else saw this, but Star did. "Go see what's taking so long."

"B...but, sai..." Mort stammered.

Godfrey groaned, "Aye, please do."

Mort's shoulders grew slack, face turned a deathly pallor. He pushed back his chair and scurried off into the kitchen.

The Dog (who, until now had been sitting quiet and statuesque as per Troll's command), began to growl lowly.

"So, how have ye found the town?" Lowell asked of the newcomers.

Troll replied, "T'is quite accommodating, we thank-ye for it."

Star stirred her soup with the same ennui she displayed at the banquet upon their arrival into town. The dish smelled good, like salt and garlic, with just a feathery amount of pepper. Smells like Troll's cooking, Star thought. But when she sipped at the steaming broth, it tasted of watered-down tomatoes.

Troll inquired, "May I ask something of the town's history?"

Withers lurched back, shoulders stiffening. His nose wrinkled as he glared at Troll.

Reverend Lowell just sat there, grinding his teeth.

"Why yes," Godfrey said. Cough. Cough. Wheeze. "Of course."

"It's about the church."

Withers shifted nervously about in his chair as his beady gaze darted about the room.

Troll continued, "The other day, while examining the town's well, a Mr. Otis McClure began to say something about why the old church was destroyed, because Reverend Warwick didn't--"

" _We do not speak that name_!" Lowell exploded from his chair and the room fell dreadfully silent.

Even the Dog gazed questioningly at Troll. What was _that_ about?

"Settle down, Eldred." Cough. "Settle down." Wheeze. "There is no anger at my table."

"I cry ye'r pardon," Troll said, "for I have drawn offense."

"Nonsense, ye didn't know." Through pained breaths that sounded like a dry husking noise, Godfrey explained, "The last reverend was banned from Silverdale for treason and collusion, and thusly his name has become a word of curse."

Troll said, "Oh."

Wheezing, Godfrey continued, "And furthermore, that was years before the church was destroyed. The good Reverend Lowell was chaplain when the atrocity of the destruction of the church occurred."

"Please, sai," Lowell persisted, "if there is to be no anger at ye'r table, then be it ye'r mercy that this conversation be prohibited as well." His hands were folded as if in prayer. A pleading look washed over his face.

Palms out in concession, Godfrey replied, "Very well, very well." His face puffy and red, a line of sweat beaded on his thinning brow.

The kitchen doors flew open and miniature waiters scrambled in to serve the debutants as the alluring scent of roast filled the staunch dining hall.

"Shall we pray?" the reverend rhetorically asked.

Everyone bowed their heads and folded their hands in observance.

Star did this, but only feigned to respect their religious beliefs -- she would not pray.

Dog bowed his head over his plate in mimicry while sniffing vehemently at the roast. He growled, sniffing ever more ravenously at the meat.

"Dog please, not now," Star whispered as the Dog turned his attention to her plate.

Sniffing, the Dog growled all the louder.

Withers broke out in a nervous sweat.

Everyone turned toward the Dog. Before anyone could say anything, the Dog jumped upon the table, crawling along on all fours and knocking things off onto the floor as he ravenously inspected everyone's plates.

Godfrey wheezed, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Dog, down!" Troll commanded, but the Dog would not cease.

Lowell shrieked, "This is sacrilege!"

Star said, "Dog, get down from there this instant!"

The Dog tore into the slices of roasted goat's meat, devouring or destroying it by rolling around and over the guest's plates on top of the table. Not a single sliver left unsoiled and all the while people hollered out objectively, helplessly watching their succulent dinners ripped to ribbony pieces of juicy flesh.

Oh, what a sight it was, the Dog bounding from dish to dish in no discernible order. Blood and flesh flailed through the air as he stripped chunks of meat away, rocking his head back and forth violently and splaying juice and grease upon the other guests. Everyone on their feet yelling and flailing about angrily as children dressed as waiters shuffled about in horrid confusion. Oh, what a sight it was indeed.

****

"I'm sorry," Troll said, now outside with Withers and the mayor, "it's just that the Dog isn't used to enjoying such an elegant feast within the company of others." The remorse was true in his voice. And yet, he couldn't help but recall the time he found the Dog rolling in a pile of mutilated animals.

Withers snarled, "He ruined dinner."

Godfrey pleaded, "Now relax, Silas, there is plenty to eat left inside."

"Aye, but no roast," he grumbled.

Godfrey asked Troll, "Is he really so feral?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he will always belong in the wild."

Withers pointed toward the Dog, and said, "Then he must be banned from all social interactions."

"Silas, please." Cough. Cough. Wheeze.

"If he insists on acting as an animal, then thusly he shall be treated."

"Silence!" Godfrey hacked, nearly falling over before Troll steadied him with a massive hand. "Constable Withers, that is quite enough indeed, now if ye please, leave us. For, I wish to speak to Troll in private."

Withers' face turned red. Beady eyes narrowed, darting spitefully back and forth between the mayor and his new consigliore. His mouth scrunched up as if biting his tongue. "As ye wish, sai," Withers muttered contemptibly before shuffling away, head down, shoulders hunched. His long, ghost-white ponytail swished back and forth like a real tail.

Star reprimanded the Dog over by the edge of the tall-grass, out of earshot from the others. The Dog gazed up at Withers and belched loudly as his eyes glazed over with an iridescent gold.

"Dog!" Star said, "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

The Dog obliged, returning his shameful gape upon her as Withers retired to his chambers.

Godfrey chuckled, "It seems I must apologize for my company, as well."

"No need," Troll replied.

"Withers is just paranoid and gravely untrusting of strangers."

"So I have noticed." Troll crossed his trunk-like arms about his torso.

Godfrey continued, "But I'm afraid the constable is right. From hence forth, ye'r Dog must sleep in Tooker's barn and is banned from all public activities."

"May he still be allowed to help in the construction of the church?"

"Well, I don't know." Godfrey glanced at Star.

She squatted on her haunches, hand rested on the Dog's shoulder.

"What was it, boy?" She whispered, though, Troll's ears were keen. "Ya smelled something in there, didn't you?"

Troll added, "I feel it would be good for his disposition."

Godfrey said, "Very well." He sighed, phlegm rattled loudly in his chest. "Unless otherwise decreed, ye'r Dog may continue to work."

"Thank-ye." Troll cordially bowed before taking his leave. When the three were well on their way back to the reverend's, Troll said, "Well, that went well."

"Could'a been worse," Star replied. "Could'a been a _lot_ worse."

****

When Troll exited the screen-door of the reverend's house it was late, 'though he sensed he was not alone. At first, because of the knife and Dog's cap, Troll thought it was the Dog. "Ye were told to stay...oh, it's ye," he said once he realized it was Roger.

Roger sat in his old rocker, whittling away by starlight. He'd finished his dog and was now busy shaving the bustling frame of a badger. "Can't sleep?" Roger asked without so much as averting his gaze from the gnarled wood curdling away at his skillful blade. Whittling was the only time when Roger's hands _didn't_ shake.

"How could ye tell?"

"'Caus'n ye'r awake, cracker jack."

Troll laughed.

Roger continued, "C'mon and sit a spell if'n ye ain't so high-up from settin' with regality that ye can't set with an old man."

"But of course I am," Troll playfully replied, "but for ye I'll make exception." He sat down in a wooden chair next to Roger and packed a pipe. They sat in silence as tranquil old gents do, one whittling and the other smoking.

Troll leaned over and gazed directly into Roger's faded-blue eyes. "Tell me, if I asked ye something, would ye answer it honestly?"

Roger replied, "I imagine as such."

"What _did_ happen to the old church?"

Roger set the knife and wood down on the porch railing, reclined in the rocker, and said, "Burnt."

"Yes, of course. But how did this occur?"

Shrugging, he replied, "Got me. Fire burns, air blows, shoot, don't ask me how the world works." He picked up the knife and wood, and resumed whittling.

Aye, he's a savvy one indeed, ain't he, Lord.

Troll forced a chuckle, and asked, "And what of this former revered? What was his name? Ah, yes -- Warwick."

Roger's entire body clenched up, eyes nearly popping out of the socket as he dropped the knife and wooden block from his trembling hands. "Now...I, uh...I don't know nothing 'bout that."

"I see," Troll said, running a hand down his scar and beard.

Heat lightning crackled in the skies. As an epiphany, Troll remembered Byron's vague tale about Anne Warwick, and how it was a tale best told in the brightness of day -- suddenly, Troll had an idea. "Would ye like to see something neat?" Before Roger could answer, Troll fetched his medallion from the throat of his shirt and held it out.

"Say, that _is_ something." Roger's gape grew wide and full of wonder, like that of a child's.

"Now, take a gander at this." Troll dangled the medallion in front of Roger, holding the chain with his thumb and index finger. He worked his fingers across each other, as if grinding grains of salt as the medallion began to spin. "Now look closely," Troll added in a soft voice.

Roger leaned forward in his favorite chair, peering deeper into the spinning object as the heat lightning flashed all around them.

"Are ye looking?"

In a drowsy voice, Roger replied, "Aye, I'm looking."

"Now, I'm going to ask ye a few questions and I want ye to answer them truthfully."

"I will answer ye truthfully." Roger's eyelids drooped, voice sounding as if drifting further and further away.

"Good. Now then, who is Reverend Warwick?"

"Hansel Warwick was the reverend before Lowell."

"And Anne is his daughter?"

"Aye."

"What happened to the wife?"

"Gretal Warwick died in child birth."

"What happened to Reverend Warwick? Why is his name considered one of curse?"

"The reverend and his wife tried to have children for many years without success. One day, she became pregnant. As she began to show, Hansel began to turn into some sort of hideous monster. When Gretal died, Hansel killed the mid-wife, Connie Danvers, Sarah Danvers' mother. Then the reverend fled off into the woods. Jeffrey Rush witnessed the murder and followed Hansel to a small shack just outside the nor'easter woods."

"Then what happened?"

"There in the shack lived the Mistress of the Trees, a witch who was said to have lived in those woods for hundreds of years."

"So what did this witch have to do with Hansel or his wife?"

"No one knows. A group of town's men confronted the two, burning the shack down."

"So they got Warwick, then?"

"No."

"Why not, what happened to him?"

"No one knows. He just disappeared."

"Who led this group of men against the witch?"

"Silas Withers."

"Really?" Troll performed his characteristic running of a hand through his hair, down his scar all the way to his beard, where he vehemently scratched.

"Aye, really," Roger replied.

For a moment, Troll forgot the man still hypnotized. The screeching of a bat echoed and Troll jumped in a start. He supposed he had pumped enough information out of old Roger. Plus, Troll started to feel a little creeped out by all this bat and witch business. He returned the medallion to its rightful place around his neck, settling his stern gaze upon Roger's drooping eyelids. "When I snap my fingers, ye shall awake and have no knowledge of the previous conversation, do ye understand?"

"Aye."

Troll snapped his fingers.

Roger twitched back to life. "Fine night," he said, continuing his whittling, as if nothing happened.

"Aye, indeed." Troll sat there, running the tips of his fingers under his stubbly chin.

Roger yawned. He set aside the knife and wooden block in-lue of his cane. Slowly the old man got to his feet and stretched out the kinks in his frame with loud pops and clicks.

Troll could've sworn he heard the old man's bones actually groaning in agony.

"Well, I'm off to bed. G'night."

"Good night," Troll said. He waited until Roger hobbled into the house before repacking his pipe, smoking as he pondered over all he'd learned over the past few days. What did it all mean? It was all connected somehow, Anne, Lowell, his differing memories, Star, Furion, and of course, the Dog -- all of it.

Thunder rolled through the land as lightning continued to flicker across the sky. Troll took out his journal and opened it to where he'd last left off. He read through the previous passage but found himself growing weary after just a few sentences. He didn't want to read, he didn't want to write, hell, he didn't even want to think. And the prospect of sleep seemed far off, indeed.

In the end, Troll elected to stay awake and watch the sky. Even through the blackness of night, he felt the ominous presence of storm clouds gathering in the distance. And thusly, Troll knew that the time for intermission was over, for now the plot must surely thicken.

****

6

Troll stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Star.

Star leaned over the table, her back to him, so she probably didn't even know he was there.

Troll just couldn't stop staring at her.

Chopping carrots and potatoes into slices for stew, she wore the nightgown Roger found in one of the reverend's infinite closets; a pearl-white frilly number. Star's long, curly blonde-hair fell haphazardly across her shoulders and back. She appeared to glow as the morning's golden sunshine cascaded down upon her from a nearby window.

Troll had never seen her in such a light, her hair down and all a-tussle, not drawn down tight about her face like the other times without her hat. Her behind swayed back and forth as she skillfully worked the blade.

"Good morning," she said without turning around.

"Indeed, and a glorious morning to ye, as well."

"Sleep well?"

"Certainly."

"And just how long were you going to stand there staring at me without saying anything?"

"I's only admiring."

"Oh, yeah." Star pivoted, golden locks twirled. Stray curls concealed her face and emerald-eyes. She pointed the knife at Troll. The light behind her gave her a sort of halo. "Like what you see?"

"Indeed," he said, ambling toward her. "And how did ye sleep? Well, I trust?"

"Not really." She lowered the knife, resumed slicing carrots, and said, "Bed's too soft. I'm used to sleeping on the ground." She arched her slender back in an attempt at stretching it.

Troll sauntered up behind her, grabbed her thin shoulders, and kneaded massive, sturdy hands into her tender muscles. She tried to turn away from him in protest, making a weak noise that vaguely resembled a _no._ Yet, he just continued working the knots out of her shoulders. She moaned pleasurably as he moved his hands down her back, tenderizing all the twists and tangles. Star reached around and ran a feminine hand smoothly into Troll's kilt and up the side of his thigh. Troll would've found this most arousing if not for the sudden sharp object pressing uncomfortably into his genitals. With the blade that Star used to slice and dice morning veggies, she now threatened to do the very same to Troll's eggs. Troll backed away from her, hands in the air, and grinning slightly.

"You don't do that without _my_ permission," she said, once again brandishing the steel blade toward him. "Understand?"

"Certainly."

Roger shuffled into the kitchen with the aid of his cane. He halted when he saw Star holding a knife to Troll.

She lowered it and turned back to the veggies. She almost used it before raiding the kitchen cabinets and drawers for one that hadn't been up Troll's kilt.

Troll hobbled toward the table and picked up a few pieces of carrot, munching away as if nothing happened.

Roger shuffled toward the stove to make himself some coffee.

The Dog sat perched in the window, Roger's long-brimmed hat hung low over his eyes.

"Morning," Roger said to the Dog while tapping his own cap with a gothic letter "D" stitched upon it.

"Well, ye'r up early," Troll said to the Dog. "Hope ye'r not too full from last night."

The Dog lowered his head in shame.

Troll added, "For, we have much to do today."

"Helping with the church?" Star asked. She pulled a small, slender knife from one of the reverend's many kitchen drawers.

Troll hobbled toward the window sill where the Dog perched, and said, "Aye, but later."

"Training?"

"Later still."

"Then where on earth could the likes of Dog and Troll be getting off too so early in the morning?" She chuckled, and brushed the hair from her face. "On another grand adventure, is it? Tell me, I pray of you."

Smiling, Troll said, "Hansel and Gretal, my dear."

Roger dropped the pot of yet un-prepared coffee, spilling its contents over the plank-fissure floor.

Troll reclined against the window sill and the Dog shuffled to one side, making room for his master's hefty frame. Troll watched Roger's every move as the old man gathered a broom and dust pan. He asked Star, "What shall _ye_ do today, continue in adding the collection of materials for the church's mortar?"

Star shrugged, "Mhmm."

"Why not? For, the good Lord says that a hearty day's work does a body good, aye so it does."

"Does he, now?" Star asked without looking at him.

"Aye."

Roger's joints popped and cracked as he bent over and swept up the mess.

Star said, "I don't really find gathering water or dirt to be all that exciting. Especially when every time I try to lend a hand, I'm constantly cast aside for someone else." She glanced at Troll before her gaze returned to the task at hand.

Troll asked, "Ye mean someone male?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I shall pray for thee." He clasped his hands together, and said, "But for now, we are off. Come, Dog."

Troll and the Dog ventured northbound. Then Troll realized he had no idea where he was going. Probably should've asked ol' Roger _where_ Jeffrey Rush followed Hansel Warwick to. No-doubt, Hansel tried to sneak out of town. But even the gates, while open, still had torches illuminating them at night. But, unless Hansel slunk through some other exit, perchance a hidden one, then there would have been no need to follow him at all, right? Troll didn't know -- he just _didn't_ know.

With no other options, Troll and the Dog hiked along the interior of the wall, marching toward the mayor's house. But, no fear of being spotted, for, the large pines that surrounded the estate easily hid the duo. From the tree lines, the back of the mayor's house stood clearly visible. Besides the mansion, three smaller buildings tucked neatly behind the mayor's, hidden from view.

Troll spotted a barn and stable lot where the mayor's two horses and carriage were stored. To the right of that lay a building that resembled the shelter yet much smaller. Probably where the children employed at the mayor's estate took quarters. Next to that sat a much smaller building that looked more like a shack than anything else. What could that be for, the storage of tools? Perhaps. Troll spied a neatly worn path that ran directly from the shack to the back of the mayor's mansion. Yet a path to either the barn or the servants' quarters there was not. Most peculiar, indeed.

Following the back of the tree line, they marched along the great fence in search of passage. Between two tall oak trees they found an interstice big enough for even Troll to squirm through. The oaken beams twisted and twined back into each other toward the top of the fence, as if something unnatural had merely willed a door there.

They worked their way through densely twisted bramble, traveling almost a full hour. The vines and dark forestry seemed aware of their presence, adjusting itself accordingly and making the journey all the more tedious.

The Dog scurried ahead on all fours, sniffing at the ground, as if following some invisible trail. Finally, the Dog led Troll to an ominous clearing where he stopped and sat upon his haunches, growling lowly at something Troll's eyes un-keen to.

Troll whispered, "See anything?"

The Dog shuffled nervously in place. Troll found this quite odd indeed, for the Dog, who just moments ago seemed so ready to pounce, now appeared almost frightened. The cur whined lowly, trembling slightly as his golden-gaze darted about the clearing.

"Yeah, me neither, let's take a closer look," Troll poked the Dog in the ribs.

The Dog seemed hesitant to enter into the clearing, 'though a few sharp jabs and pokes set the ol' boy into motion sure as shingles.

They crept closer. Soon Troll sensed what the Dog was so wary of. A strange sensation like someone or _something_ was watching them. Troll felt the same tingling he experienced at the pit. And he didn't like it. As if the air itself seemed to squeeze Troll's head, vibrate his teeth, and rattle his eyes. He couldn't be certain, but Troll could have sworn he heard the chattering of Star's teeth and the "clickity-clacks" of the spiders, all mixed with the "Scrippity-scraps" of the beast they fought with the Wachati. Oh, what were their names? He couldn't remember. Troll's memories, once so keen, now felt like they were under the depressing weight of fog, or worse yet -- storm clouds.

"Wait," Troll whispered. But no need, as the Dog would, in fact, advance no further. "Something is wrong."

The Dog peered back, head tilted, face slightly feral. His brow wrinkled, a look in his golden gape said, "What the hell d'ya think I was tryin' to tell ya?"

Scanning the forestry, Troll said, "Come, we are being watched and have lost the element of surprise."

****

"Howdy," Star said, strolling toward Sarah and Anne. Anne washed linens with a basin and washboard. After a good scrubbing, Anne handed the sheet to Sarah, who wrung the cloth out before smartly wafting it out in the air, and pinning it to the line before it could even settle.

"Hello, Ms. Star!" Anne replied.

"Good morning," Sarah responded in turn.

Star asked, "Would you like to go and pick wild flowers today, Anne?"

Smiling, Anne replied, "Maybe later, right now I'm helping Sarah with the wash."

"Oh, okay." Star's mood depressed slightly.

Anne grabbed another sheet and dunked it into the basin. She gave the sheet a good ten runs across the washboard before turning it over, and going over it another ten times. Each time she ran the cloth down the board, she nodded slightly. She also hummed, and that coupled with her head-bobbing looked like she was rocking out. But, Star knew she was counting.

Star glanced at Sarah, who also hummed. Did Sarah know what Anne was doing? She did say it was a secret.

Mort sidled up to Sarah in a hurried shuffle. He came seemingly out of nowhere, causing her to startle.

"Mortimer Steward, ye scared the blue-heck out of me." Sarah gasped, her hand lightly pressed against her bust.

"I'm sorry," Mort said, leering at her. A bit of drool ran from the corner of his mouth. "I only wanted to bid thee a fare morn'."

"Oh," Sarah said. "Well, thank ye, and to ye as well." She promptly returned to her chore.

Mort stood there gawking at her.

Mort ran his wrinkled gaze up and down Sarah's body.

"Is there something else?" Star asked, glaring at the ghoul of a man.

Mort continued staring at Sarah. He didn't even flinch at the sound of Star's flat, assertive voice, as if Mort was completely oblivious to Star's presence.

Sarah asked, "Will there be anything else, Mortimer?" She whirled toward him, hands on her hips.

"Not unless ye'll marry me today," Mort said with a hopeful gleam in his eye, the drool now hung from his dry, chapped lips.

Sarah exhaled a long sigh, and said, "As I tell ye every day, Mortimer, I'm too young to marry, yet. Too young to start a family and raise youngins when I've still so many too care for now. So if'n ye don't mind, I have a lot of work to tend to and must be getting on with it." She turned back to her linens, which were beginning to stack up (as Anne kept right along a-scrubbin' and a-countin').

Mort pointed a crooked finger at Sarah, and snarled, "Ye say that now, but come next season, ye'll have to marry. And no one will ever love thee as much as I. Remember that, my deary." Mort's beady brown-eyes shimmered with tears before he trotted away in a hunch.

To Star's amazement, Mort wore a sort of gut punched and shamed look upon his face, as if it were the first time he'd asked Sarah to marry him. Star turned to Sarah and asked, "What did he mean by that?"

Sarah sighed, brushed away a shock of dark-red-hair from her freckled face, and said, "In Silverdale, when a girl reaches the age of child-bearing, she is considered to be a Goodie, and therefore, expected to marry and have youngins."

"That's _horrible_ ," Star said.

"Perhaps it may seem that way to out-ward eyes, but t'is customary. Such is the way of life." Sarah shrugged, and returned to the laundry. The sheets were really piling up now, as if Anne had become totally absorbed in her counting.

Star said, "But you're _so_ young."

"Perhaps, but if ye beggin' my sayin' so, you're not married and I would think ye older than me by at least five years." Sarah flinched at her own words before adding, "Forgive me, for I meant no offense."

"None taken," Star said. "And it's actually a couple more than that, I think."

"Then why are ye not married, if'n ye don't mind me asking?"

"Well, that's different."

"What about Troll, I think him a fine suitor indeed, and ye do fancy each other do, ye not?"

"Well, I..." Star blushed and chuckled nervously. "That's complicated."

"What is so complicated about it? He's a man, ye'r a woman. Like I said," Sarah added, brushing another shock of dark-red from her brow, "such is the way of life."

Star stuttered, ran a hand through her hair, and blushed even deeper.

Gaze downcast, Sarah blurted, "Forgive me, I have embarrassed ye. Please accept my humblest of apologies."

Star replied, "No apologies necessary. But what about you? Don't you want to be married and have little Anne's of your own?"

Sarah glanced at Star; blushing a little herself before returning her gaze to the ground. "Perhaps, one day. But not to Mort!" she said, laughing.

Star peered off in the direction Mort retreated, and said, "I don't blame you."

****

The temperature had dropped a few degrees. A soft breeze blew across the land. Very low humidity. The perfect working weather. Making Troll's fourth day in Silverdale the most prolific by-far. The structure's frame (or what Otis McClure referred to as the church's skeleton), completed. Oh, what a magnificent sight it would be. The rafters alone stood fifteen-feet-high, 'though the peeked roof would make it even taller. Originally, the rafters only came to ten foot off the ground. But at Troll's insistence, they built higher. They had plenty of timber (probably leftovers from the wall).

"It must be taller, grander!" Troll proclaimed to McClure, Barley, the Dog, and anyone else within earshot. "So that ye'r voices can radiate the heavens themselves!"

They broke early for lunch, yet again held at Hawkins' bar. Yet again cold sandwiches and watered-down spirits. The Dog didn't show. Did anyone else know the Dog banished from all social interaction _except_ to build the church? If they did, no one made any mention of it. Furthermore, would anyone have said anything if the cur _had_ gone to lunch with them? Surely, not to Troll's face.

With neither the Dog nor Byron around to stimulate adequate conversation, Troll found his own spirits a bit watered down as he took another hearty swig of the luke-warm concoction in his grasp. While most of the men crowded around Hawkins (standing behind the bar, eye twitching), Troll sat at a table in the corner. His thoughts instantly turned to Star and the first time he saw her, sitting at a table in a pub not unlike this and sipping at a bowl of soup, hat slung low. For a moment, Troll toyed with the idea of writing in his journal. But what would he right about? His boredom here in Silverdale? True, he thoroughly enjoyed church building with the locals. But without Star and the Dog by his side, he felt empty. Abandoned. Blasphemous ashes! How it peeled his onion having nothing of worth to report. Oh, how he missed writing of their fabulous adventures -- the adventures of Troll and the Dog, and of course, Ms. Myriam Star.

When the crew returned from lunch, they found the Dog stacking bricks that would later be assembled into the walls. He toiled away as if he'd never even left.

Shortly after work resumed, Byron stopped by to lend a hand (his morning chores accomplished).

Thunder rolled off in the distance. Dark, billowing clouds slithered their way across an otherwise warm and sunny sky.

"How long did ye say it was until the rainy season?" Troll asked, handing a brick to a young lad named Morris Wheat.

Morris appeared around the age of fourteen. His short, dark hair, wild and unkempt, as if he'd never heard of a comb. A terrible case of acne blotched his greasy, adolescent skin. "Not for about another few weeks or so, but that don't mean it won't rain before that."

"I see," Troll said, running a hand down his scar and beard. "Barley! Byron!" The two presented themselves promptly, awaiting command. "We must make ourselves a tarp. Quick ho, man, what is thy swiftest remedy?" The two merely stood there dumb-struck, as if Troll spoke in an entirely different dialect. "A tarp," he slowly reiterated.

Sucking his teeth, McClure scratched his head, and asked, "A ta'p?"

Troll said, "Aye, a tarp, a cover, a really big sheet."

Bushy brow furrowed, jaw slack, Byron scratched at his beard, turned to Barley, and said, "Why, I have never heard of such a thing, have ye?"

Mustache dancing, Barley replied, "Nope."

McClure said, "I thought a ta'p was some kinda fish."

Troll sighed. "Good God, man, that's a carp, not a tarp."

Byron's face brightened, as if a bolt of wisdom just struck his brains. "Well, if it's cover ye want, I reckon we could use sheets."

Sensing the gathering storm clouds, Troll said, "Well, then quick, man, where is there an abundance of sheets?"

"At the shelter," Byron replied.

"Well then, let us not tarry!"

Troll and Byron moseyed over to the shelter, right across the way. Even from the shelter, Troll still kept a keen eye on the Dog.

The shelter appeared a far cry from its usual bustling self. Most of the chores had already been accomplished and all the children were out making the most out of the day.

Ironically enough, they found Sarah around the side of the shelter, pulling and folding freshly dried linens from the clothes line.

Troll effectively relayed the problem and how to solve it.

Sarah listened intently, nodding every so often, fore-finger pursed against her bottom lip. "I don't foresee a problem with that at all, for we have more than enough extra sheets."

"Excellent!" Troll beamed, clapping so loud it caused both Byron and Sarah to flinch.

Head bowed, she kneaded her elegant hands into the hem of her dress, and frowned. She said, "Though I regret that I must take time from mending the Dog's clothes in order to do so. I would've been done already but his tattered garbs need more work than I originally thought."

"T'is quite all right," Troll said, "for the Dog seems to have forgotten entirely about that."

"Oh, well then, in that case I'll get started immediately."

Smiling, Troll replied, "Most excellent, indeed! How long do ye surmise it'll take, for we'll need it before the morrow'?"

"Not long at all, I imagine it shall be done before the evening's mass."

"Very Excellent."

"Thank ye for ye'r time," Byron finally said, "we appreciate it very much so."

Sarah blushed, gaze averted. She smiled, and said, "Anything for thee."

****

Star had never been inside Hawkins' bar before, and she had a suspicion that was because women weren't allowed to drink. Well, she would just see about that, wouldn't she? Oh, yes indeedy.

After the workers returned to the church site, Star strolled over to yonder saloon. She sashayed right up to the double swinging doors, holding them open as she surveyed all within. Not a soul in sight. Barren wooden tables and chairs spotted the sawdust floor. A bar furnished the other end, where three and a-half stools stood along its façade (the half-stool being one that was broken, and thusly wobbled precariously underneath anyone who dared rest their bones there). The whole place was deserted, or so it seemed.

Star inched toward the bar, gaze darting back and forth as if she expected some assailant to pounce from the shadows at any time. She stood there for a long moment, glancing over the faded liquor bottles and empty mugs setting on the shelves behind the bar. Star waited for someone to come and attend to her needs. No one did.

"Hello," she eventually called out, "is anyone there?"

A brief moment of silence elapsed before a low and muffled voice called from somewhere unseen. The clicks of boot heels approached. The footfalls sounded only feet away before halting. Her hands dropped to her hips, searching for holsters that weren't there. From behind the bar, a hidden door opened at the wall.

The bar's proprietor, George Hawkins, emerged, wiping his hands off on a soiled rag. "Oh, hello there," he greeted, "didn't know anyone was still about, thought everyone went back to work."

"They did."

"Well, ye must just be lost." Hawkins smiled, eye twitching. "What can I help ye find?"

"A good strong drink."

Hawkins' eye (the one that didn't twitch) grew wide. His round jaw grew slack, mouth open.

Star had half-a-mind to reach over and shut it for him.

"Sorry, ma'am, but I can't do that." But, he didn't sound all sorry, at all.

"And just why is that?" Star asked, glaring at him. She knew full well the answer. She just wanted to hear him say it. In fact -- she _dared_ him to.

He quavered, "'C...'c...'cause I just can't, that's why."

" _Why_?"

"T'is forbidden."

"Who told you it was forbidden?"

"Well...no one, really."

"Then how do you _know_ it is?"

"I...I...dunno, just is...th...th...that's all," he stammered, shrinking away. Hawkins lurched back, flinching, as if he were afraid she'd hurt him.

Star liked that. After all women were subjected to here in Silverdale, she relished the fact she could make this man cower in his shit-kickers. Oh yeah, she liked that _a lot_.

Star snarled, "Then what can you give?"

"I...I...dunno, mayhap some empty bottles."

"What the _hell_ would I want those for?" She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

"I dunno," he said, shrugging. "I reckon' if ye'r really bored, ye could just smash 'em."

After a moment's worth of contemplation, Star said, "Sold."

****

At the end of the day's work, Troll escorted the Dog to his new quarters -- Tooker's barn.

Sarah managed to finish the tarp well before the close of the work day. Upon its completion, she sent Goodie Sawyer to inform Troll that it was done, and to send transport (for that would be considered manual labor). Troll collected the tarp himself, as the shelter was just across the way. When he returned, he called out for Barley and McClure. He instructed them how to twist the corners of the tarp and entwine them amongst lengths of rope. The men would then toss the rope over the top of the structure, pulling until the entire thing covered, before tying the ends firmly to wooden stakes and pinning the sheets taut.

Troll entrusted all of this to his two foremen before taking his leave with the Dog at his side.

Troll found it slightly amusing that nobody named Tooker actually lived in Silverdale. In fact, no one by either the first or last name of Tooker _ever_ lived in Silverdale. And Troll thought to point this fact out to the Dog as he escorted the cur to his new home after the work day's end. Upon arrival, Troll took note of Goodies Miller, Butters, and Sanders walking the opposite way. They headed back toward town, their respective chores accomplished. The Goodies all gave Troll a brief, acknowledging nod as they passed. Not speaking a single word to the behemoth, as it was not customary for a Goodie to speak outright to a man of Silverdale (unless instructed to of course), although Troll _did_ talk to them, or tried to anyway.

"Excited about the festival of the fall?" he asked of the silent assembly who responded not to his query. Obviously, they weren't that excited about the festival at all.

As for the Dog, they ignored him completely, heads down, and gazes glued to the path in front of them as they passed the cur. After the work day's end, the Dog had this lovely ranch all to his lonesome (horses not included).

Troll said, "Now, ye be sure and mind what little manners ye have, and try not to scare the horses."

The Dog tilted his head, peering up at him with curious hazel-eyes. His ears twitched at the slightest of noises. His nose wriggled this way and that, sampling every molecule of scent in the air.

"Yes, well...good day."

Sitting on his haunches, The Dog whined lowly as he watched Troll hobble away.

****

After spending the entire day with no one else than Maddy, the rag doll, Anne just wanted to hang out with the one person she _thought_ would want to be around her -- Sarah. But she was busy stitching linens together. Far too busy for Anne.

Anne just wanted to help, but she accidently tore the fabric when grabbing for it. Sarah had been most displeased, indeed. Scowling, she yelled at Anne, and told her to go away. Alas, no one wanted to be with her.

Little Anne, little Anne,

Reserved in hand to the witch's clan...

The voices' of her tormentors fell upon her. And no matter how fast she ran, those pursuing thoughts kept gaining and gaining upon her until they were close enough to leap. And when all those horrible thoughts and feelings finally descended upon her, she was nearly at Tooker's (though she didn't realize it, she just ran, and here her subconscious brought her). She fell into the deep tall-grass in a heap of blubbering and snot-filled sniffling. Why did _everybody_ hate her? She didn't know. It wasn't fair. And one day (not today and probably not tomorrow), she'd leave this horrible place, but not to any _stupid_ war \-- no. She didn't know where she'd go, nor did she care. She just wanted to be away from...everyone. If no one wanted anything to do with her -- then so be it -- she was done with the world. Even Sarah, who Anne always considered more of a sister than a friend, wanted to be rid of her. Boy, she would sure be sorry when Anne was gone and Sarah was left all alone to the advances of Mort. Anne realized this to be quite an adult thought indeed, and yet, there it was -- saying " _howdy do_ ". She just couldn't understand how after all they'd been through, how Sarah could be so...so...cold to her.

And as Anne lay there in the tall-grass, she fell apart. She cried so hard, soon she was taking long, snotty gasps and hyperventilating. And for the ump-teenth time -- Anne went un-consoled.

****

Mass was over. Troll sat outside, enthralling the minds of some of the town's children. They sat around him in crescent formation so that all could see clearly just what Troll was brewing in the pot resting betwixt his lap. Feeling a bit feisty (and rather alone), after such a dreary service, he simply plopped down on the ground and began mixing a concoction in front of the town's meeting hall. Even a few of the adults ventured over to take a gander.

Troll said, "Now watch closely, children." He took a pinch of black powder from a pouch from within his cloak and sprinkled the peppery smelling granules into the pot. A flash of white-light bloomed from within the kettle-like dish as the children recoiled in caution. "No, no, t'is all right." The contents of the pot began to smolder as tiny, white tendrils of smoke circled up in the air.

"Witchcraft!" a young boy known as Baylon Wood touted.

"Witchcraft? Ha!" Troll roared. "Don't be dense boy, t'is science -- magic God reveals to us through nature, ain't it true, oh Lord." Troll gazed toward the heavens before resting his gape upon Baylon. "He says, yes."

"Same difference," Baylon said. An air of defeat polluted his otherwise prideful countenance. He glanced around, finding he lacked the support of his peers. Baylon's "friends" were all too mesmerized with the smoldering pot to back up their courageous leader. Bested by an outside yet again, Baylon tucked his hands into his pockets. Shoulders hunched, he shrunk away.

"Science is natural," Troll continued to anyone who would listen. "Witchcraft, however, is not."

"And just what would _ye_ know of witchcraft?"

Troll turned toward the sound of the voice.

Reverend Lowell stood there, hands steepled, glaring at Troll like a vulture staring down its prey.

Byron hid behind him.

Smiling, Troll said, "I know that such magics are considered evil because of the control factor." He propped to his feet, via the aid of his staff. He dusted off his kilt, bent over, and tossed out the still smoldering contents of the pot before restoring it to its rightful place within his bottomless cloak.

Lowell snorted, "Control factor?"

Troll gazed toward the heavens again. "Shall I tell him, Lord? Very well," he said, sighing. "Ye see, such magics like witchcraft are an attempt at controlling the fates. Trying to make things happen that aren't supposed to happen. And that is wrong. Why, according to the Good Book, and thusly, God, not only is it _wrong_ to take matters of nature into one's own hands; playing God, as it were, is also an affront to the Almighty, himself."

Those gathered around Troll clapped and hollered in approval.

Grinding his teeth, Lowell glowered at the crowd.

They quieted before dispersing into the background.

Troll hobbled toward the reverend, and asked, "Have I done something to offend thee?"

"Ye should not take preaching to the masses so lightly," Lowell snarled through yellowish teeth, face turning red. "Every word uttered is not without consequence."

"I could not agree more."

"And yet ye speak without prudence or forethought." Lowell lumbered toward Troll, glaring up at him with narrowed eyes.

Grinning, Troll stared back.

"And all the while, the children look to thee as if ye were--"

Troll roared over the reverend's meek voice, "I'm only looking out for their best interests. The Almighty Father would not look too favorably upon me if I spoke to such young souls in anyway misleading."

"And perhaps ye'd like to be the one taking care of them, then?"

"Not particularly, no. But I will do what must be done."

Lowell spat upon the ground. He inched closer to Troll, and said, "Ye'd do well not to be poking ye'r nose in business that is not your own." He pivoted, pastoral vestments twirled as he stormed off.

Troll glanced at Byron.

Grimacing sourly, Byron shrugged.

"God has put me here to make it my business," Troll called after the reverend.

****

Star attempted to occupy herself by practicing with her slingshot. She had ventured far off into the hills where no one could bother her. Not like that would be a problem for her anyway, as the residents of Silverdale all gathered in the town meeting hall for evening mass. These people observed mass every day, though Star hadn't been to a single one since the night they first arrived. Dog hadn't either but that was mainly because he'd been banned from it, or maybe he just didn't care for church anyhow. Either way, Star bet her ass that Troll was there in the front row every night.

She pulled her sling shot back and took aim, imagining Furion's hooded face on a beer bottle before shattering it into a million reflective pieces from a good hundred paces away. She was a dead shot. Of course, she'd been taught by the best. And after the tournament -- she forced that thought away.

Silverdale was utterly boring. Here, the life of a woman's consisted of nothing more than mere chores of domestication. Too much like slave labor for her tastes. Something Star would _never_ do again.

So while the boys were off constructing the church, Star confined herself to the hills to sharpen her skills and meditate. That was, of course, after she checked in on the shelter every morning.

She enjoyed Byron's company immensely, for the good brother reminded her of _her_ brother, Mikhale. She also found herself growing fairly fond of both Sarah Danvers and little Anne Warwick. All of whom seemed so familiar, so friendly, so fond, and yet she couldn't place from where this feeling hailed.

So there she was, target practicing with her slingshot; a good way to stay sharp without wasting bullets (which she didn't have anyway). She had a bag of steel bearings, but she saved those as well, electing to pluck small stones off the ground, using those instead. She would save everything, including her anger \-- just bidding time 'til they got back on the road, and onward to Krin.

" _Just save it all -- rage, mastery, and enough ammo to take on a small army."_ Her grandmere's fiery spirit spoke in her head. _"Just sharpenin' and biddin' time 'till that Dog gets ya kicked out and onward homes ya roll."_

****

Dusk in Silverdale was quite the gorgeous affair. Ribbons of pinks, blots of purple splashed with reds and oranges that cascaded brilliantly across the skies in pillars as the sun shimmered across the tops of towering pine and oak trees. For some reason, it was quite cool in the tall-grass beyond Tooker's barn, and surprisingly few skeeters.

The Dog rolled around in the grass and sniffed about his quarters. He didn't wear Roger's hat. No, that he left in the barn as if it established his claim to the territory. He liked it here at the barn, where the small handful of Silverdale's only horses resided. Tooker's barn was divided into two parts: The stables, which connected to a fenced-in pen for the horses to run about during the day. And the barn, where all the hay and farm tools were kept, this was also where the Dog now sought refuge nearly every night until his _departure_ from Silverdale. No other free-range animal dared go near Tooker's now that the Dog slumbered there.

Basking in the cool shade and dozing lazily, the Dog felt at peace. He moaned pleasurably as a dog does when receiving a good hearty scratchin.' A warm buzzing reverberated into a synchronous humming. _Hum. Hum, hum, hum-dee-dum-dum._

Startled, the Dog jumped into a haunch. He squatted low in wait, hidden in the tall-grass where he could see any interloper, but not the other way round.

A young girl with long, black-hair bounded merrily through the high-weed with a rag doll. She held it by its tattered and frayed excuses for appendages, as if dancing with it.

And on and on it goes

I shall sing this song some more

Until my heart stops beating

I shall never cease in song

And on and on it goes

She sang over and over as she danced 'round and 'round with the doll. The girl's name was Annabelle (though everyone merely called her Anne or Annie), daughter of the late Hansel Warwick.
She didn't see him. For, the Dog was quite the proficient of hiders and she probably would've literally waltzed right past him, too. But the Dog, flustered by the girl's ignorant brashness, swiftly scampered backward, making distance between himself and the girl.

She shrieked at the very sight of him. They both stopped dead in their perspective tracks at the sound of her shrill voice. Anne even crouched low to the ground herself. Curious, she moved closer, crawling on her hands and knees. Fascinated, the Dog did the same. She stopped about two feet from the Dog. He did the same, eyes changing from a dark-green to a dazzling gold.

"Wow," Anne said.

The Dog tilted his head. Anne mirrored his movement, before titling her head in the other direction. The Dog mimicked her. The Dog whined lowly so she did the same. Then she barked at the Dog (still on all fours) and the Dog barked back. She released a slight _"Eep"_ and shrank away. The Dog shrank back, as well. Anne giggled lightly and leaned closer to the Dog. The Dog leaned closer to her. Anne smiled, Dog did the best he could to imitate as the girl giggled with delight. Although more than capable of laughter (as well as a few other things), the Dog let out a short, huffing noise. Anne stuck her tongue out at the Dog. Panting, he did the same.

"Oh, ye'r just a puppy." The freckles on her cheeks danced as she giggled.

The Dog barked in retort that he was most certainly _no_ puppy.

Anne squealed in delight, clapping her hands. The Dog barked again before falling low on his forearms and growling. Anne halted, backing away. Panting, the Dog shuffled on his haunches. He rolled around on the grass with his nose anchored to the ground. Anne clapped and laughed. A sudden wind arose, blowing her jet-black hair about. The Dog stopped and stared at her with interest. He was rather feral now, eyes blazing gold, fangs and ears elongated with a slight wiry fur broken over his skin. Yet, the girl seemed unafraid.

"Like to dance, puppy? Maddy likes to dance too, see." She held the rag doll outstretched, wriggling it this way and waggling it that way.

Dog leaned forward and sniffed the doll earnestly. Something smelled off about the doll and he was about to growl at it when a familiar voice called out for the wayward girl.

"Anne, oh Anne," Sarah called from over yonder. "Where are ye, Annabelle Warwick?"

Waving Maddy in the air, Anne called, "Over here!"

"What are ye doing way over here? I've been looking all over for ye."

"I was here," Anne replied, "playing with the puppy."

"What puppy?" Sarah asked, glancing around and cupping her hand over her eyes to shield them from the setting sun.

Anne pointed to a spot only a few feet in front of her. Nothing there but matted down weeds, as if someone or _something_ had been lying there.

"Come on," Sarah said, offering her hand. Anne took it as Sarah's gaze darted around suspiciously. "Time for supper."

****

Troll, Star, Roger, and Byron were helping themselves to a late super of chicken stew and dumplings -- considered a delicacy in Silverdale.

Only the best, Troll thought.

Even Reverend Lowell attended, slurping loudly from his spoon. A rather rare occasion indeed, for neither Troll nor Star ever saw the good reverend out of public service. Even at the dinner on their first night in town, Lowell donned the same ceremonial vestments he wore while preaching. Now he merely wore pantaloons and a white cotton shirt supported by suspenders. If he was still salty about his heated argument with Troll, he didn't display it.

After the previous night's "conversation" with Roger, Troll had many questions lumbering about. Mainly, he wanted to ask the reverend of his past. Yet, all remained silent for the duration of the dinner. An ominous air descended upon the room, as if the slightest of sounds or movements would cause the entire world to erupt in a cacophony of chaos. Yet, that only stayed Troll's brash curiosity for so long. And in the end, his own inquisitiveness got the better of him.

He blurted, "So, I've been led to believe ye not a native of Silverdale."

His thunderous and sudden voice took the aggregation by surprise and for what seemed like a long moment, the table's occupants all glanced around at each other dumbfounded, as if Troll were a man amongst apes.

Lowell leaned over his soup, glared at Troll with dark-brown-eyes, and asked, "Who told ye that?" The grinding of his teeth was clearly audible.

"Small town, word gets 'round," Troll said, lounging back in his chair, resting his hand on his belly.

"Oh, yes, quite." Lowell stared at Troll beneath his beak of a nose.

Troll leaned over, elbow resting on the table. "So tell me, as a man of the cloth, are ye allowed to marry?"

Lowell continued slurping at his soup, as if Troll hadn't even spoken.

Troll continued, "Probably not, I surmise. Of all the vows to God one could make, that of celibacy is the most devout. I could never deny the warmth of a good woman." Troll grinned widely. "Take for example, Star. She is quite the fetching figure of femininity, don't ye think?"

Rattled, Star clinked her spoon on the bowl, eyes growing wide as her head shot up, gaze directed at Troll.

"Not really," Lowell said. "Brown skin, blonde, curly hair, green-eyes; such traits are unnatural amongst colored folk."

Star sneered, "Actually, everyone from where I'm from looks like me."

Lowell asked Troll, "Oh, and just where is _she_ from?"

"My dear lady is from a land known as Krin."

Lowell startled, dropped his spoon as his eyes grew wide and suspicious.

Troll asked, "Have ye heard of Krin?"

Lowell stuttered, "Why, no...I...uh, haven't."

"Besides," Star said, "what would _he_ know of colored folk?"

Eyebrow cocked, Troll said, "Oh, did ye not know? Our good reverend has met many a fine and different folk under his captivity."

Star glared at Lowell, emerald-eyes narrowed 'neath the brim of her hat.

"In fact, before the good reverend _was_ a reverend, he was a slave under the king." Troll smiled at Lowell, and asked, "Weren't ye?"

The whole table grew silent, gapes wide; mouths ajar as the bowls of stew steamed forgotten in front of them.

Lowell said, "I...Uh--"

Troll asked, "If ye don't mind me asking, how long were ye a slave?"

Lowell replied, "Well, I'm not entirely certain, for time seems to lose all meaning under such circumstances."

"I see. I only inquire into such as because Star here was a slave as well."

Star's face shot up in shocked horror, though Troll didn't tell why. "Did ye know that?" Troll asked the reverend after taking in every luxurious facial feature Star had to offer.

"No, I certainly didn't," Lowell said straight to Troll's face, still completely ignoring the young vixen. Lowell then went back to his stew.

"What can ye tell me about the king's armies?" Troll asked, not caring if Lowell considered the matter closed or not.

"Please, sai," Byron pleaded, "such things should not be...uh...be..." Byron stammered. Surely, he had a logical and well thought-out retort, yet once the glaring gazes of his peers fell upon him, he lost all nerve.

"T'is quite all right," Lowell said, "for, what is said at this table does not stray forth from it."

"Never has," Roger replied.

"Then tell me, I pray of thee," Troll prodded, "what has't thou learned under captivity?"

"I learned a lot," Lowell said. "I learned of loss, of death, and of tyranny. These are only words to most folk. But the feeling, the... _experience_ of it is one thing entirely."

"Certainly," Troll said, as if he'd gone through every sensation himself.

Lowell continued, "Mostly I learned about myself and the way the world truly is."

"Indeed, but what did ye learn of the armies?"

Lowell replied, "I learned, that once one took the mark of the king, they lost their last name. Under the king's command, one's last name was replaced with their occupation. For instance, if one was proficient at archery, their last name would become Archer, and so on and so forth."

Star grumbled, "Slaves didn't even have first names, let alone last ones. We was just referred to as _slaves_."

A foreboding silence fell about the aggregation as they all, as if on cue, returned to their stew. Star, on the other hand, merely sat glaring at Lowell in ominous disquiet.

After dinner, Troll, Star, Byron, and Roger convened on the porch. Lowell retired to his chambers.

After a while, Byron and Roger withdrew into the house for the evening.

Troll and Star sat out there in silence for a long time, until the moon dipped behind the overcast cloud coverage and the crickets chirped blissfully away. Troll stood and stretched, meaning to call it a night.

Star tugged at his shirt and motioned for him to follow her. She led him down the porch and out into the lawn. Obviously Star felt uncomfortable conversing on Lowell's porch.

The night's dew seeped in between Troll's sandaled toes.

Star whirled around, and whispered, "Did you see that? Back there at dinner, did you see?" Her eyes were wild and wide. "Lowell knows something, or is hiding something -- I don't know. But there's definitely something fishy about that guy."

Grinning, Troll crossed his arms, and asked, "I agree, but what would ye like me to do about it? Torture him until he confesses?"

"That'd be a start."

"True, but I'm afraid t'is not according to God's will."

"I don't give a damn about God's will."

"It matters not," Troll said with an arrogant smile. "In either case, we have not sufficient evidence in with which to do anything."

Star sighed, and ran a hand through her hair as her shackle rattled. "So where does that leave us? Building a church? That's all well and good for you, but what am _I_ supposed to do?"

"Well, if'n ye really feel that strongly about it, ye could always follow the reverend about. I am most curious to know what he does during the day."

Twirling her compass chain, Star replied, "Okay, I'll look into it."

****

On the fifth day in Silverdale, it rained like God hisself had to piss like a race horse -- all day. And so in Silverdale fashion, all was at a stand-still. All the residents (excluding the children and those Goodies watching them), convened in the town meeting hall for a brief, three-hour sermon, followed by silent prayer time that would last as long as the heavens decided to leak like a siv with a case of the runs. (They would also fast while it rained, and Troll was remise to find his stomach a rumblin' just as it had while his trio traversed through the rains before meeting Byron.)

Troll sat in the front pew next to Star.

Hair drawn down tight, her emerald-eyes followed Lowell's every move.

Reverend Lowell stood at the alter preaching, glaring at Troll the entire time. Did anyone else notice? Probably Star, she wasn't about to let the good reverend slither out of her sights for a moment.

Like usual, at one point, Byron approached the pulprit, ready to speak. He trembled, jaw twitching as his green-gaze darted about the assembly. A dry fear filled Byron's eyes, it reminded Troll of the Dog's gape when they were in the cave, moments before the spiders descended. Troll, stuck to the webs, hadn't been able to see what was coming for them. But he could see the Dog's eyes. Byron had that same look. After a few awkward moments, Lowell approached Byron.

"That's all right, my son," Lowell said, resting a hand on Byron's quivering shoulder.

Head down in shame, Byron swiftly retreated to his seat in the front pew next to Troll.

Troll whispered, "Ye'll get 'em next time."

The mass ended. But still it rained. And as the residents of Silverdale all bowed their heads in silent prayer, Troll felt Star's gaze falling upon the reverend, watching his every move.

****

Completely drenched, the Dog sat on his haunches, peering longingly at the construction site. The only thing worth doing was work. But apparently these people toiled not in the rain. What a waste -- a waste of time, a waste of energy, and a waste of a perfectly good day. Dog shook his head admonishingly as he did on the day when Troll threw Star's compass off the cliff, and thusly, had to spend the better part of the day searching for it. Ah, those were the days, traversing with his friends. Dog didn't like these people here, didn't like people anywhere for that matter. He took one last look at the building's pseudo-structure as rain drizzled down his long beard. He didn't wear Roger's hat, and the rains cascaded refreshingly down upon his upturned face. He loved this weather. And once again he wondered why these people wouldn't want to work in such playful conditions.

He wasn't working. Not yet, but not because of the "little talk" Troll had with him about respecting the cultures of other people. He wasn't working for one simple reason \-- it was just no fun by hisself. But if _those_ people continued to huddle inside for days at a time, then the Dog just might have to build this church on his lonesome.

He was about to leave when encroaching footsteps sloshed through the rain and muck. Someone was coming fast, plodding through puddles and apparently crying. Dog intended to retreat stealthfully back to Tooker's when he recognized the author of those tears. The little girl called Anne. The child who had no fear of the Dog. And she sounded distressed.

As Anne came tearing around the corner, Dog stood tall, ignoring his initial impulse to hide or crouch. Anne saw him immediately and stopped in her muddy tracks. She didn't scream. Seeing her crying, Dog crept lowly toward her as a dog would when attempting to console a child.

"No, go away." She sobbed, but the Dog neither receded nor advanced. "I said go!" Her voice cracked with woeful torment.

The Dog whined.

"Stop it! Just leave me alone! I hate you!" She picked up a stone and chucked it at him.

The rock struck the Dog squarely on the side of his head (had he been wearing Roger's hat it probably wouldn't have hit him at all). The Dog hadn't really expected her to throw the object. Had he, he probably would've made some measure of aversion. But since he did not, the rock hit hard. The Dog yelped, and warbled backward a few paces while still on all fours. The Dog gazed ruefully up at Anne. She had hurt the Dog, and not just by hitting him upside the noggin'. The Dog thought her his friend. But now, like all the rest of his so-called pals, Anne wished him away. Not just that, but she was willing to resort to physical violence if the Dog did not.

Anne fell to her knees in a pool of viscous, brown water. Her shoulders slumped, head hung low, jet-black hair plastered to her face. She bawled on and on.

Not knowing what else to do, the Dog inched toward her, weary of another sudden attack, as he whined and whimpered in synch with Anne's tears.

"Oh, I'm so sorry puppy!" She sloshed toward him (still on her knees), arms open. "I'm so very sorry, puppy."

The Dog darted into her arms.

She squeezed him tightly, crying as hard as the rains fell about them.

Snot and drool ran down the Dog's shoulder, but that was all right. The rain would take care of that.

When was the last time the Dog _allowed_ someone to hug him? He couldn't remember. A hundred years? A thousand? Possibly more.

She squeezed the Dog tighter, as if he'd slip porously through her frail arms as thunder clapped in the distance. From then on, Anne was a friend to the Dog just as Troll had become after their ordeal with the spiders. From then on, the Dog would protect Anne with his very life.

****

Around late afternoon, the rains _finally_ ceased. Star, along with Troll and everyone else, stood, stretched, and got the hell out of the meeting hall before Mother Nature changed her mind. Before filing out with the others, Troll glanced back at Star. She nodded and straggled behind the crowd. As the last patron left, Star darted behind a pew, squatting low as she listened to Byron and Lowell, who stood upon the stage on the other end of the hall. Even though the two were almost 200-feet away (and whispering), the acoustics in the hall were amazing. Star could hear every word.

Byron said, "That went well."

"Mhmm."

"Something troubling ye, sai?"

Star wished she could see every groove on the reverend's face, but she didn't want to chance them spotting her. So she stayed hidden.

Lowell scoffed, "Did ye see that Troll character, grinning at me the entire mass? As if he was thinking disturbing thoughts about me."

Perfect. Once again, Lowell never even saw her. For once, being invisible had its advantages.

Byron replied, "Now sai, I believe he was just a-smiling. He's a smile-er, that one."

Lowell snorted, "Is that what ye think?"

"Aye, sai. Say true."

Lowell cooed, "My dear, poor Byron. Ye are so honest, so innocent, yet so utterly, utterly naïve."

"Beggin' ye pardon, sai?"

"Are we not friends, Byron?"

"Aye, sai! I should think we are."

"Then heed my words, do _not_ trust the newcomers." Lowell left, leaving Byron standing there, hunched over in thought. Star couldn't follow the reverend with him standing there. No matter. Byron could linger as long as his heart desired. Star already knew where the reverend was going.

****

"Ye'll look so pretty once I've done your hair," Anne squealed in delight as she assiduously put braid after braid into the Dog's long beard. "Don't ye think?"

Well, the Dog didn't think much of being pretty. After years of living in the ugly world, no he didn't seem too fond of "pretty" at all, and this, his scowling face more than aptly conveyed.

The two sat in the tall-grass, facing each other, as they had on their first "play-date." The Dog squatted on his haunches while Anne knelt before him, running small delicate digits through the Dog's tangled beard. He'd found this to be one of Anne's favorite pastimes, as this was something she could never perform on Maddy the rag doll.

"Boy, that Baylon gets on my last nerve, he sure does." Her brow furrowed in concentration, bottom lip protruding. Anne told the Dog about how cruel the people in town were to her. The children picked on her, the Goodies snubbed her, and damn near everyone else simply ignored her all together -- everything. "Makes me so mad," she said, finishing another braid.

That made six, tiny, frizzy braids jutting out of the Dog's gnarled beard. No, the Dog did not like this at all.

"Sometimes I wish I could just run away from home."

The Dog asked, "What is?"

"A home?"

"Yes."

"A home is where ye live," Anne said with a nod. "Why, where do ye live?"

"Everywhere."

"Ye know we really don't belong here, ye and I. Nobody really cares for us, do they?"

"No," the Dog responded after a reflective pause.

"Except, ye'll be leaving soon while I'm left here all alone, won't ye?" Her hands fell to the ground, shoulders hunched. Her head bent, as if in prayer. Her rain-drenched hair concealed her face.

"Yes."

"Do ye think...?" Anne paused, as if considering the weight of her request, and whether it valid. "Do ye think, when ye leave, ye could take me with ye?"

The Dog gazed at her for a long time before responding with the slightest tilt of his head, as if he didn't understand the question.

Anne returned to the Dog's beard, humming as she worked. "Oh, how I long to leave Silverdale forever and travel to distant lands. Seeing the world and learning all it has to offer. I bet ye've seen a lot, ain't ya?"

The Dog did not respond.

"Accompanied by ye, and being accepted wherever I go. We could make more friends like thee and live happily ever after." Anne ceased her braiding and released a long, woeful sigh, head downcast, lip pouting. "But that's never gonna work out as long as all the Baylon's of the world are still at large and running the show." Anne sat back as all the expression leaked out of her face, eyes growing cloudy and distant. "This isn't going to work. This isn't going to work." Her eyes were glassy and distant, as if under some kind of enchantment, she repeated, "This isn't going to work. This isn't going to work..."

The Dog growled lowly.

"This isn't going to work. This isn't going to work. This isn't--"

The Dog barked, breaking her of her trance.

As if never skipping a beat, she asked, "I think we're going to have to make it one long braid, what do ye think?"

The Dog sat there peering at her in uncertainty.

"And perhaps a ribbon. Pink! That's it! We'll put a big, pink bow in ye'r beard. What do ye think, puppy?"

Once again, the Dog growled.

****

Dark purple hues washed across the evening skies when a drenched and dirty Anne returned to the shelter.

Sarah waited, arms crossed and foot tapping with impatient cadence. "Good God, child, just look at yourself! What in heaven's name have ye been doing?"

"I was playing with my puppy."

"Oh so it's _ye'r_ puppy now?"

"Yes, well..."

Sarah thundered, "I don't want to hear it, Annabelle Warwick! I've known ye for far too long to have ye start lying to me now."

"I'm not lying." Her voice sounded small and meek.

"Forget it," Sarah said, sighing in exasperation. "Just come inside before ye catch ye'r death of cold."

To think, Anne had actually been looking forward to seeing Sarah and telling her all about her day with the puppy. Suddenly, Anne missed the Dog more than she could bear.

****

Journal entry,

After the mass, I returned to the reverend's with Roger. I left Star behind to tail Lowell. But when she returned later that evening, she said not a word to me about what she had learned.

We (Roger, Byron, Star and me) had a pleasant dinner of steamed cabbage, carrots, and potatoes. T'was quite the delectable dish, indeed. 'Though it reminded me way too much of Star's wild salad, and I regret to report, dear journal, that while I was most hungry, I simply could not enjoy the dish that Roger so studiously prepared. Reverend Lowell was not there. How odd. What did he have to gain from hiding from me? More importantly, what did Star have to gain from not disclosing the fruits of her investigations? Alas dear journal, I knoweth not.

****

"What does he think he's _doing_?" a woman uttered lowly in disgust, though Troll couldn't identify who.

Sheriff Thurman Wood grumbled, "He can't do that."

A woman cried, "Someone stop him!"

Raining again, as perhaps would be the custom in town from here on out, for it seemed the rainy season had come early this year, and the whole town was in a somber mood because of it. All work was suspended. The adults converged at the town's meeting hall for another excessively long mass as the youngins hunkered down at the shelter.

No one noticed it until about an hour or so after the mass. And the first one to witness the blasphemy at hand was of course, Troll.

Byron approached him, followed by Star, who sashayed behind.

Byron toward the window and the heresy taking place outside, and whispered, "My friend, ye must stop him. What he's doing is forbidden."

Troll could've easily taken control of this situation, but he decided to let Star handle things. Might be good for her to be in charge of something and blow off a little steam. And if the residents of Silverdale couldn't handle a woman's touch then tough shit.

Troll gazed out the window.

Star said to Byron, "He's building your church, all by hisself and doing a magnificent job, I might add."

Looming out the portal, they found a rain-drenched Dog armed with only Roger Wilcox's hat and the spare clothes he'd gotten from the reverend. Troll found this quite ironic, as the Dog wore not a thing of his own as he toiled away in heresy at the betterment of the town. Troll couldn't help but smile as he watched the Dog stack brick after brick from the pile that would later be set with mortar and hardened (weather permitting, of course).

"I understand he's trying to help," Byron said, mouth drawn up as if he had to take a shit. Kneading his burly hands about his robe, he added, "But it's sacrilegious for us to work in the rain."

"Well," Star shrugged, "he isn't one of you."

Yet still, Byron's face pleaded for reason.

"All right, all right," she conceded.

Byron folded his hands in thanks. He offered her a neat, little bow before taking his leave.

When he was out of earshot, Star murmured, "He has to come inside, _now_."

"Why? You're right, he really is doing a magnificent job all by himself."

Through clenched teeth, she snarled, "They don't work in the rain."

Once again, it reminded Troll of Withers, and once again, he shivered.

"It's against their religion." She moaned, taking pains to keep her voice as low and under control as possible.

"T'is a stupid observance," Troll blurted, not even bothering to turn away from the window. The Dog's toiling seemed entrancing.

"Maybe, but this is _their_ town, you have to respect their beliefs."

Troll remembered a time when he told the Dog the very same thing, or a reasonable facsimile. "Ye'r right," Troll said. "So, go get him."

Gape wide, mouth agape, Star asked, "What? Why _me_?"

"Because he likes ye. He'll listen to ye."

"How can you say that?"

Troll finally turned gazed into Star's eyes. He tapped his index-finger along the three concise lines running down the left side of his handsome face. "Besides, if things should turn ugly in here, I am better apt to quell such a dispute."

"What could happen?"

Smiling he replied, "Ye haven't known the Dog as long as I. Ye'll just have to trust me."

Star glared at Troll. She shrugged and trudged away. She was nearly at the hall's double-wide doors when Sheriff Thurman Wood approached her.

"Y'all best watch ye'r selves," he drawled.

Hands on hips, Star asked, "Excuse me?"

The sheriff snarled, "Don't ye raise such a tone with me. Know ye'r place, woman!"

Star's head reared back, eye's shimmering in anger. She opened her mouth, about to say something.

Troll said to the sheriff, "My good man, surely ye are not complaining about such heresy, and then try to thwart us when we attempt to rectify the situation, are ye?"

"No, I...uh, no."

"Well, good then, please return to ye'r seat."

The sheriff complied.

Troll glanced at Star, and gestured for her to continue.

Star snorted, glaring at Troll with disdain before marching out into the rain.

Troll returned his attention to the Dog.

How many rainy days they would be forced to endure in Silverdale during the fall season? Would the town's religious sloth yield poor harvests? How else might the banality of the town affect their economy?

"It's sacrilege." Once again the itchy-trigger-fingered sheriff Wood spoke out in disgust. "We oughta do something about it!"

Troll said, "Sit down."

"The hell with ye." The sheriff rose from his chair in protest.

Troll pivoted, and peered intently at the sheriff.

Sheriff Wood reunited his seat with his ass without further comment.

****

"Don't you think it's about time to call it a day?" Star called, approaching the cur.

The Dog glanced up at her impassively, hitched at his baggy pants, and plodded through the muck to fetch another brick from the diminishing pile.

"Come on, it's raining out here," she paused briefly to consider how best to coerce him. "You don't want to catch cold, do you?" She couldn't think of anything better to say.

The Dog turned toward her, head tilted, brow furrowed. A beguiled look on his face seemed to say, "Don't you know who I am? I'm the Dog. I don't get sick."

"Yeah, I know, that was pretty lame."

If Troll were there he'd just command the Dog to halt and come. But Star wouldn't do that. Why not? Why did she refuse to do so when she believed the Dog to be part of a prophecy that purported him as an animal? Weren't animals, especially dogs, meant to be commanded? How come every time she peered into the Dog's eyes, she saw the soul of an old, lonely man? She didn't know. The answers evaded her, and so there she stood, getting wet while the Dog toiled away.

Spying a trowel lying abandoned in the pooling muck, she said, "You know, there's not much you can do besides this. I mean, it's not like you can work on the walls 'cause the mortar would be too runny." Of this, she was not entirely certain, for construction was one of the few skills she'd neglected to pick up during her travels. But the Dog merely shrugged and continued about his task, so it mattered not.

"Why don't you come inside? Get some dry clothes, hot foo--?"

The Dog pivoted. Droplets flew from his baggy clothes, beard, and hat. He scowled at her, eyes sullen and cold, and in her mind she heard him retort, "You know why! Because _they_ won't let me. Because _they_ hate me."

"Dog, please, these people don't work in the rain. Can't you just go back to Tooker's...barn?" The last word almost fell into oblivion and she couldn't help but hate herself for this plea.

The honesty in the Dog's face was so acute that he didn't even need to talk: "So now you're sending me away too?" The dejection in his eyes broke Star's heart, and once again she found herself wishing him away.

"Please, Dog, just stop."

But the Dog only worked faster (all the while hitching absently at his pants), sloshing though the mud and muck with an armload of brick, stacking the blocks one after another to be laid later.

"Stop it and go!" Her voice lacked its usual persuasive harshness, as if begging him. "Damnit! You're pissing these people off, can't you see that? Just get out of here!"

The Dog slammed the bricks down on the wall with such force as to crack them in twain. He glared at Star.

She couldn't quite read what was on his mind this time. Probably for the best.

The Dog stared at her for what seemed like an agonizing eternity before bounding away, one hand on the waist of his pants as he splashed ruefully through deep puddles of muck.

"Dog..."

The Dog took no notice.

Star turned to inspect the layer of bricks neatly constructed and awaiting placement, which the Dog had accomplished during their "conversation".

Impressed, she muttered, "Damn."

The Dog whistled shrilly, extracting Star's attention from the stack. He was already at the barn's big double-wide doors (as it was right across the way) when he pointed at her, then up to the sky. She followed his outstretched finger, and cupped a hand over her eyes to shield them from the rain as she peered up into the dreary skies. And just as she looked up, the rains drove harsh, stingy pelts all over her face.

****

Journal entry, Sixth day in Silverdale,

The rains continued well into the evening mass. T'was a rather short service. But not just short, t'was more uneventful than any of the other ceremonies. They didn't even have communion tonight, as they were only allowed to receive the Blessed Sacrament once a day, and had already done so at the day's earlier mass. Byron did not give a small prayer that night. He meant to, but in the end, his nerves got the best of him. Alas, what a dreary town this is.

Star sat next to me in the front pew. She hadn't taken her eyes off the good reverend since my charge to watch him. At least, finally, she has something to occupy her mind.

Just as the mass was closing Byron informed me that Lowell wanted a word in private. I already had a pretty good idea what it was about. And as it would turn out, I was right. I excused myself to Star, but this was only for Byron. For, I knew she would follow us.

The reverend merely wanted to inform me that word had gotten to the mayor about the Dog's sacrilege. And thusly, the cur banned from even working on the church, making him unwelcome in any part of town (except for Tooker's) and barred from doing anything.

Then Lowell excused me, and I walked home alone in the rain.

****

Unlike its predecessors, the seventh day in Silverdale started off warm and sunny. Star left the reverend's house early, before anyone else awoke. But she didn't go far. She merely lingered in the weeds behind the house, waiting for Troll and Byron to leave. That only left Roger to worry about, but no matter. Star had slithered past worse odds. She waited until ol' Roger went outside to tend to the garden. Then Star crept back into the home.

Star tip-toed through the lavish house; creeping laconically through the long, dark corridors and hallways that riddled the reverend's home. How many twists and turns filled the mayor's mansion? She didn't know, but had a feeling it wouldn't be long before she found out. Star snuck her way to Lowell's chamber door. The fissured floorboards creaked. Star halted, crouching low as her hands shot toward un-holstered hips. Should she continue? She hadn't come this far for nothing. There was something about the good reverend -- something off. And it was her charge to find out what that _something_ was. Star waited there on metaphorical pins and needles, straining to pick up the slightest of noises. Nothing. Star crept closer and peered in the keyhole. At first she saw nothing, only darkness. Then a brilliant, blue ball of flame erupted within the chambers. She spied Lowell, naked as the day he was born, kneeling for so long that his knee-caps blistered and bled like bed sores. The room went dark.

" _Fiego_ ," Lowell said in the tiniest of whispers. Again, a blue ball of flame instantly arose from the lines of his opened palm. Something else, something Star couldn't quite make out before Lowell shut his hand, extinguishing the small ball of hellfire.

" _Fiego,_ " he whispered again, passing a hand over the other. Once again, a blue spark bloomed before a ball of flame literally flickered within the palm of his hand.

Star thought she saw something on the reverend's sagging chest, something gnarled. But it was far too dark to view with any clarity. All she could make out before Lowell clasped his hand shut again and the room fell dark, was the reverend smiling like the devil himself.

****

Troll supervised while his crew placed logs within the supports of the church, constructing the walls. The work itself progressed in tiny leaps and bounds. Alas, if only the Dog were there.

"Excuse me, sai," said Mayor Godfrey.

Troll turned.

Godfrey stood before him, white hair all a-tussle, his eyes blood-shot. The mayor's skin had taken on a deathly pallor. The man looked like he hadn't slept in eons.

Standing behind the mayor and further away so Troll and the mayor could converse privately, was Jonathon Steward. Jonathon didn't look as haggardly as the mayor. But with his wide, untrusting gaze, Troll could tell he was worried.

Godfrey asked, "Might I have a word with ye?"

"Certainly," Troll said, smiling. "Is there something wrong?"

"Well that's just the thing...I'm not sure." Godfrey blotted his sweaty hands on his neatly pressed jacket.

"I'm not certain I understand."

Godfrey's eyes shimmered with tears, lips quivering, but he didn't cry. Slowly, he met Troll's gaze, and asked, "Ye are a man of God, are ye not?"

"But of course. But if it's contrition ye seek, I regret to inform ye that I am quite busy at the moment and kindly remind ye that there already is a reverend in town to hear ye'r sins."

"Of course." Godfrey chuckled nervously. "But t'is not reconciliation I seek. That and I fear what I have to say, I cannot disclose to the reverend or any other citizen, for that matter. For, I fear they may think me off my rocker."

"I see." Troll ran a hand down his scar and beard.

Godfrey glanced around, leaned in close. A dark madness coursed through his narrowed gape. "It's the dreams," he blurted.

Troll wrapped an arm around the mayor's shoulders and escorted him away from the church site. Jonathon Steward tried to follow, but Troll ( _not_ the mayor), waved him off. He said, "Tell me about these dreams."

Godfrey wheezed, "It's always the same. I'm standing alone in the desert, a place called the fields. But, they're not fields, that's just what _they_ call them."

"I see. And who are _they_?"

Eyes bulging, face incipiently pallid, Godfrey replied, "The dead." Cough. Cough. Hack. Wheeze. "They're everywhere. Lying in piles on the ground. Hanging from the cliffs. Stuffed into carts. Their putrid stench fills the air. And yet, even though they are dead, they can speak." The phlegm in his chest rattled with a dry husking noise.

"What do they say?"

"I can't remember. There's a lot of voices, and they all speak at once, as if echoes. I can't make out what they're saying. But they sound angry -- vengeful." Godfrey's voice hitched, a single tear ran down his un-kempt beard.

"Why are they mad?"

"Oh, it matters not." Godfrey snorted, shucking his arms out in hopelessness. "For that is only a dream."

"I don't understand, I thought--?"

"My real distress stems from what happens after."

"After?"

Godfrey pivoted toward Troll. He wavered and might have fallen had Troll's trunk-like arm not been around him. The mayor wheezed heavily, eyes wide and full of terror. He clutched at his breast, as if about to keel over right then and there. But that didn't happen.

He continued, "I scream. When I awake, I mean, I scream out, or try to. But I can't. I can't even move. And I can feel all these hands on me, rubbing me, scratching, and tickling me as I lie there motionless, unable to scream. I try to fight it, to wake up. But it's like something's holding me down."

"How often does this happen?"

"I don't know, few years, ever since..." the mayor trailed off, eyes vacant as if elsewhere.

"Ever since?"

"Ever since...ever since..."

Troll retrieved the medallion from his neck, held it by the chain, and spun it with his thumb and index finger. "How often do ye have these dream attacks?"

Eyelids drooping, Godfrey vapidly replied, "Every new moon, but now, it's increasing with regularity."

"When was the last time this happened?"

"Last night."

"Tell me again, what happened when ye awoke from this dream?"

"It was like someone was there, holding me, touching me, keeping me from moving."

"But ye broke free, correct?"

"Aye."

"And what happened then?"

"I sat up in my bed and looked around."

"And was someone there?"

"Yes -- no. There was _something_ there?"

"What was it?"

"I don't know."

"What did it look like?" Troll half-expected the mayor to describe something that looked like some large animal but wasn't. Hopefully not a bat.

"T'was a shadow. A shadow so dark it could be seen even in the darkness. It floated above me, glaring down at me with piercing, red eyes. And it spoke to me. I heard it in my head, a thousand different voices all chattering away. It spoke to me."

"And what did it say?"

"I remember. It was glaring at me, and it spoke, and I remember..."

"What did it say?"

"See me not...it said, see me not. But I could. I could see it, and it _knew_ I could see it. And it didn't like it."

"Then what happened?"

"It came for me." Godfrey's voice broke, eyes growing dangerously wide as his face shriveled up in terror. "Oh, God, it came for me!" He sobbed like a child with a scraped knee, his wheeze steadily worsened. "And when it came -- Oh, God! Oh, God!" The mayor began shrieking.

Jonathon trotted over to his master's side.

Troll said in a blur, "When I snap my fingers, ye shall awake and have no knowledge of this conversation and feel fine and refreshed." He snapped his fingers and the mayor awoke just as Jonathon approached them.

Jonathon asked, "Are ye well, sai?"

Smiling brightly, Godfrey replied, "Why, yes of course." The hue of his skin regained a healthy color, and even his breathing seemed to ease. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because, ye--"

Troll said, "Nothing to see here, Jonathon. Move it along, steward." Jonathon tilted his head, brow cocked, reminding Troll of the Dog and once again, he found himself wishing the cur in his company.

Thunder rolled across the land as the skies clouded over in stony pigments. Just over yonder, the _church'n_ bell rang, warning the town of the impending storm while'st calling them to conclave.

Shrugging, Troll smiled, and said, "It appears the rainy season has come early."

Smiling back, Godfrey replied, "Why, my friend, ye've yet to see anything like the thrashers that are to come." He clasped Troll on the shoulder and said, "Well, my friend, until next time."

"Indeed." Troll bowed with the aid of his staff.

Godfrey (and his steward), reciprocated the courtesy before taking their leave.

Troll noticed Mort standing between the shelter and Sarah's shack (also just over yonder). Mort glared at Troll, rubbing his long, crooked hands together. Troll stared at him.

Mort's gape grew wide, sneer wiped from his face. He slunk back into the alleyway as the rain began to fall.

****

While everyone else attended mass, the Dog lay warm and cozy, stretched out along one of the church's rafters. Aye, the tarp was a grand idea indeed. The light pattering of rain against the sheets made for beautiful music to fall asleep to. Of course, the cover wasn't completely water proof, yet that hardly _ever_ stopped the Dog. Sure, he'd been banned from the church site, yet nearly everyone in town convened at the meeting hall for no-doubt, another mundane mass.

Dog was bored, unable to work, unable to even go outside (although he _was_ hanging out at the church instead of Tooker's). He arrived here before the rains began to fall heavily. He had no intention of working since his banishment from such. He just wanted to see how far the citizens of Silverdale progressed without his assistance. Now he was stuck here until the fall showers abated. For, while the Dog had no problem with the rains itself, he was simply sick and tired of being wet. He was sick and tired of being banished to boredom. Frankly, he was just sick and tired of being sick and tired.

The Dog yawned, stretching comfortably along the slender beam fifteen-feet above ground level, just as a man in a hammock would. God, he was bored. And what of Anne, how was her day faring? Would she be having a good time at the shelter, or was she once again being tormented by the other kids of Silverdale? Dog didn't like the way his best-good-friend was treated by others; it reminded him too much of how people treated him. But that was fine, he could take it, he was the Dog, he could take anything. But that poor, little girl, how much could she take? Probably a lot more than her fair share. And that angered the Dog. Why, were he allotted only two minutes alone with that Baylon brat--

With precision hearing, his thoughts were cut short by the sound of an encroaching intruder sloshing through the muck. The footsteps stopped underneath the partly completed roof of the church. The Dog rolled over on his belly, and peered down through the rafters to investigate. The angle was bad, so the Dog saw nothing. But someone _was_ there. Then, as if in affirmation, the figure coughed wetly. From that rattling cough alone the Dog discerned that it was not Troll, Star, or Byron. No \-- it wasn't any of the Dog's so-called friends. The Dog waited patiently for something to give confirmation of the voice's owner. Nothing more than a few more random coughs. The Dog lethargically dozed in and out.

"Where is he?" The voice finally spoke.

The Dog attached it to a face -- Constable Silas Withers. Alerted, the Dog listened in earnest, waiting a long time.

Withers snarled, "Finally, that twit."

The plodding of footsteps. Panting and wheezing. Another presence trudged toward Withers.

"Were ye followed?" Withers asked of his rendezvous. A pause as the second party checked the perimeter.

"No," Mort's croaking voice answered in subservience.

"Are ye certain?'

"Aye, for true," Mort replied.

Another pause before Withers continued, "What word have ye from the Mistress of the Trees?"

"She requests ye'r council this very eve."

" _Really_. To what end?"

"She said not. She only sent for ye."

"What could that old witch be up to now?" Withers muttered lowly, the Dog assumed the constable addressed himself. Another long pause elapsed before Withers asked, "Something else?"

"Aye, sai."

"Well, then, come now, out with it."

"Just before the rains that now fall, I bore witness to our good mayor engaging in private conclave with that giant, Troll."

"I see. Thank-ye, my friend."

Someone (probably Withers), scratched at a stubbly chin.

"Uh, sai," Mort said.

Another pause. A flickering sounded, followed by a muted thud.

"Go' on now," Withers croaked, "Off with ye."

Dog knew what the sound was even before he heard the thud (which of course, was so low no human ear could have possibly perceived it). _"For the ferry man,"_ Troll's voice said in Dog's head. For what the Dog heard was unmistakable. The exchange of money -- namely -- silver.

****

Star stood on the reverend's porch, leaning against the railing, peering out into the rains. Too many things weighed upon her mind. Too many old thoughts and memories plagued her. She knew what Lowell was doing. She'd seen it many times among the king's _magi_. True, she originally set off to dispatch of Furion. Then, somehow, _she_ miraculously stumbled across her prophets. And best of all, they readily agreed to join her. But now that she was here, she just didn't know if she could go through with what needed to be done. And the hell of it was, she had no idea why.

"Mind if I join thee?" Troll asked.

Star jumped in a start. Unlike earlier (in Lowell's kitchen), she didn't sense him standing there. Shale would've been most disappointed.

"Sorry," Troll said. He grinned, hands out in concession. "I didn't mean to cause ye to fright."

"S'okay. I was just thinking."

Troll lumbered toward her, and asked, "How's that going for thee?"

"I don't know...it's like I can't focus on my thoughts here. Like I was back in the fields. And whenever I try to...uh..." shackle rattling, Star switched an arm in the air in an attempt to grasp the word she searched for.

Brow cocked, Troll smiled, and proffered, "Deduce?"

"What's that mean?"

"It means to draw upon a logical conclusion based on observation and a-good thinking."

"Yeah, okay, anyway, it's like every time I try to _deduce_ , my thoughts, they just kinda fuzz out. And, all I can see are my memories."

Troll scratched his beard, and said, "Hmm, I too have experienced many-a muttled thought here in Silverdale."

"What about the memories?" Star crossed her arms and leaned back against a post.

"As I've told ye, my dear, I have no memories before meeting the Dog."

Star nodded, lowered her head, and hid her face once again 'neath her hat.

"Troubled?"

She snorted, "Yeah, but only by my own thoughts."

"Perhaps, this will help." Troll dug into his cloak. He reached in deeper, squinting, tongue slightly protruding from the corner of his mouth as he searched the confines of his infinite cloak. "Call it a gift," he said, producing a small, leather-clad book.

Star looked at in uncertainty.

"To record ye'r thoughts," he added.

Star gazed at Troll, searching his crystal-blue eyes.

Troll blushed, and asked, "Ye do know how to write don't ye?"

" _Yeah_ ," Star shot back. "Along with a few _other_ things."

Palms conceded, he smiled, and said, "I apologize, I meant no offense by it. I just suddenly realized that I never even had the good taste to ask if'n ye could read or write. My dearest apologies." Troll stopped grinning and dropped his hands. He pouted his lips and looked at her like a forlorn and mistreated puppy.

It reminded her of the Dog and the way he looked at her when she told him to stop working and go away.

Star uncrossed her arms and sashayed toward Troll. She wrapped her arms around him, and before she knew it, they were kissing as the rain fell and thunder and lightning crashed around them. Star planted her hands upon Troll's barrel-like chest and pushed herself away.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I...I just can't."

"Can't what?" Troll cocked an eyebrow as the lightning danced in his crystal-blue eyes.

"I just can't allow myself to get close, to feel, not anymore, not after..." She turned away and crossed her arms tightly about her waist. Thoughts of a life long-lost cascaded upon her like a waterfall. Krin, Grandmere, Mikhail, Furion, Shale -- all of it -- it was too much for her. She sniffled, and brushed a tear away from her cheek with the back of a hand as the shackle jingled again. She smiled, but she couldn't meet his gaze. She tapped the book against her breast, and said, "Thank you." Then she strutted past Troll, leaving him alone on the porch.

****

The Dog followed Withers around town for the rest of the day, lurking just well enough behind constable n'ere-do-well as not to be noticed. It wasn't hard being invisible; not another soul wandered about. And the rain provided perfect cover for a covert pursuer (though the Dog could be quite covert enough on his own, if need be).

After his meeting with Mort, the constable retired to the mayor's mansion. And there, the Dog waited among the top branches of a tall pine tree for Withers' return. The wind wasn't bad, but with the rustling branches and steady rain, it felt very windy indeed thirty-feet above ground-level. The Dog had no clear line of sight to where Withers may or may not emerge, but that didn't worry the cur. He merely wrapped his legs and arms around the trunk (resting his bum on an outstretched limb, of course), and closed his eyes. He didn't go to sleep but neither was he (what one would call), awake. He drifted into a higher state of awareness, one that only the most enlightened of human minds ever achieved. He heard for miles, but more importantly – he _sensed_ for miles. He could sense every movement and hear every breath within the mayor's estate -- and even more than that. As he zeroed in on Withers' location, a low vicious growl grew within the depths of the Dog's gullet.

****

Bedtime at the shelter was one of the busiest times. The Goodies of Silverdale had their hands full, what with getting the kids to put on their pjs and retire to their respective quarters, and what-not. So busy in fact, that not a single Goodie (including Sarah), could help poor Anne Warwick from being picked on night-after-night.

Little Anne, Little Anne,

Reserved in hand to the witch's clan

God, was that the only song they knew? Why did they have to croon it every night, as some sort of twisted bed-time song?

Anne cried, "Stop it! Stop it!" The children backed her into a corner. She clutched Maddy tightly to her breast, as if he would spring to life and defend her. But that didn't happen. That _never_ happened. "Why can't ye just leave me alone?"

But the children merely continued their tormenting chant. Anne shrank to the floor, curled up in a ball, and bawled. She continued to sob for several minutes before Sarah came and dispersed the crowd. But before that happened, Anne just sat there crying. For the first time, a strange thought crossed her mind. For the first time, she didn't want to run away. She wanted to die.

****

After the fall of dusk (but probably more importantly, the cessation of the rains), the constable snuck out the back of the mayor's estate and into the trees. From there, the Dog followed Withers through the interstice in the massive wooden wall. Dog tracked the constable, who went on foot, for nearly an hour. Quite the hike, though one the Dog had made with Troll a while ago. 'Though unlike then, this time the twisted contortions of bramble easily gave way for the Dog's passage, as if they wanted him to proceed. And so the Dog followed in the shadows as he remained a considerable distance, tailing the constable's scent.

After a while, the Dog entered an all-too-familiar clearing in the middle of the dark forestry where Withers' scent had gone cold. But that wasn't quite the right word for it. The scent wasn't gone, it was just muffled. The Dog scanned the trees. His impeccable night-vision picked up nothing, nor did his ears. Soon even the constable's scent vanished. Flabbergasted, the Dog remained still for a long time, hours maybe.

Did Withers still linger someplace close by? Perhaps, the furtive son-of-a-bitch managed to slink away without him noticing. Perhaps, this was just a trap for the Dog. That would certainly explain why the bramble gave way so easily this time. Dog felt an ominous discomfort and desperately wanted to flee. But he couldn't do that, wouldn't do that, not when Troll was counting on him. Yet after a while, the Dog's boredom and earnest to leave that cursed place was more than enough to sway him to vacate.

Nothing. No scent, no unusual noises to point him in the right direction -- nothing. The Dog pivoted on his haunches and zeroed-in on the location of town. He was about to leave when muffled voices rose within the trees around him. He couldn't quite decipher what the voices said, for they sound like fragmented echoes. He made out two distinct voices, and apparently they were arguing. A light emanated in the shrubbery. A doorway of piercing, radiant blue-light seeped into the clearing, vibrating its madness throughout all that it surveyed, as if sentient.

Frightened yet fascinated, the Dog stared hypnotically into the bluish-light. His breathing escalated faster and faster, as if having a panic attack. His eyes turned a dazzling gold, so gold they almost glittered in rhythm with the piercing blue radiance. Dog's teeth, nails, ears, and nose elongated. His body broke out in wiry brown-fur. Terrified, the Dog somehow managed to break free from that devouring light's hold, and got the hell out of there.

****

The eighth day in Silverdale was warm and muggy. Despite previous superfluous rains, the church remained nearly finished. Just a few touches to the veneer, and of course, still a bit to do yet within the brick walls themselves.

At some point after lunch, Star strutted over to the work site. Her eyes were narrowed upon Troll 'neath the brim of her hat, a determined look painted her face as she sashayed toward him.

Smiling, Troll said, "Well good afternoon, St--"

Star grabbed Troll's sleeve and slithered her arm around his, taking his hand.

What's this? He thought her incapable of such attachments.

She stood on tip-toes. Troll stooped. She leaned toward him, and exhaled into his ear. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on-end, and his heart went all a-flutter.

She whispered, "We have to talk."

"All right, what seems to be the--"

"Not here," she said, leading Troll away.

What was this about? Had Star learned more about Lowell? Had it anything to do with the Dog's recent abolition from all social and civil activities? Troll's mind wandered upon its own accord as he attempted to decipher what possible offense the Dog had drawn upon him this time.

They marched arm-in-arm toward Tooker's barn. Troll figured the Dog would be off playing with Anne somewhere. But he was wrong. Once Star ushered him past the barn and out into the tall-grass, there he was, setting on all fours, waiting for them.

Troll asked, "So, what's this all about?"

Star took a moment to collect her thoughts as she paced back and forth, one hand resting on her hip and the other thoughtfully cupping her chin.

Troll waited patiently, leaning upon his staff, watching her cadent, cat-like strides.

She sighed, ran a hand through her hair, and said, "Okay, you said you wanted to know what the reverend does when nobody else is around, right?"

"Indeed, I did. And have ye discovered such?"

"Yeah."

"Well, tell me, I pray of thee, don't keep me in suspense."

"Dig this, he spends all of his time when he ain't at church, and I do mean all of it, locked in his room, practicing magic."

"What sort of magic?"

"Hand magic." Star twirled the chain of her compass around her fore-finger.

"I see." Troll ran a hand down his scar and beard. "Did he see ye spying on him?"

"No, I don't think so. He seemed way too absorbed with what he was doing."

Smiling, he replied, "Excellent, my dear, truly excellent."

"There's more, Dog says he overheard Mort and Withers talking about some meeting with a Mistress of the Trees."

Troll asked the Dog, "Is that true?"

The Dog nodded.

Star continued, "Says he followed Withers to a spot outside of town through a secret gate."

This of course, perked Troll's interest, 'though he acted as though he struggled to keep pace with her rants.

Hands on hips, she gazed off into the distance, shook her head, and added, "He said he saw something strange but couldn't say what."

Oh, he couldn't, could he?

She whirled toward Troll, and said, "Whatever it was it scared him pretty good."

"Dog said all that?"

"Yeah." She stepped combatively toward him, and asked, "Why?" Hands on hips, her hair fluttered freely under her low slung hat. She cocked her head upward, a questioning look spangled her eyes.

"And just how did the Dog manage to say all that?" Troll's query had been directed at Star, 'though he was looking at the Dog.

"You know, same way he talks to you, a series of grunts and hand gestures and what-not."

Scratching his beard, Troll replied, "Impressive."

Arms crossed, foot tapping, Star asked, "So, what do we do now?"

"This changes little if anything. The church is almost complete. In the meantime, I want ye to continue following the reverend." Troll turned to the Dog, and said, "And ye, stay on the constable's tail."

The Dog nodded again.

"So what are you gonna do?" Star asked. "Continue building the church while the Dog and I do all the real work."

"Fret not, my dear," Troll said, peering off into the direction of the mayor's mansion. "I fear my own trials are just about to begin."

****

Night. As per Troll's request, the Dog sat perched upon the tallest peak of the mayor's mansion, sensing all within its decadent halls and lavish rooms.

Mayor Thornton Godfrey strolled somberly back and forth down the maze-work of corridors, his steward ever by his side. Their gait appeared purposeful, yet they were merely passing the time (plus the exercise was good for ol' Godfrey's ticker, which the Dog sensed beating in haphazard cadence). Constable Withers, also marching through the mansion, saw the mayor coming the other way and pivoted to avert contact with the ailing patriarch.

Smiling, Godfrey beckoned, "Ah, Silas, please come before me."

Withers grimaced shrewdly in a faulty attempt at a friendly smile, as if the very prospect of conversation with that wheezy-old-gas-bag pained him terribly.

"Aye, sai." Withers rubbed his temples with his fingers, before trudging toward the mayor.

"Leave us," Godfrey instructed of his steward, who obliged.

"How can I be of assistance?" Withers asked with a slight bow, all the while keeping his gaze locked on the mayor's.

"Please." Godfrey motioned for Withers to walk-and-talk. When certain his steward out of earshot, he continued, "The council has come to me in unrest."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"They have stated their grievances with ye, the council that is."

Withers hissed, "Of what grievances do ye speak? And who is it that grieves?"

Cough. Wheeze. Cough. "Listen, Silas, my friend, I don't want the town in upheaval. Things are bad enough without ye spreading word of the king."

"But, sai, all the baronies to the east have already fallen under the king's heel, and soon the north as well. I assure ye, his armies are nigh."

"That may very well be." Hack. Wheeze. "But it's not wise to have the whole town uneasy."

"I only request that we be prepared."

"For what purpose?" Hack. Wheeze. "To fight?" Cough. "My dear constable, let me assure ye of what I know." Hack. Hack. "If the king's armies really do approach, then like the lands before us." Cough. Wheeze. Hack. "We shall certainly fall." Cough. Cough. Hack. Wheeze. Cough. "Anyway, fighting only brings death; better to hand our town over peacefully than to elicit needless bloodshed."

"Ye callous old fool. Would ye really just relinquish our fates into the hands of the devil? Ye must be blind."

"Enough!" the mayor shouted through a tirade of coughs. John Steward rushed to his ailing master's aid. The mayor, still hacking away, held up an outstretched hand, telling his steward that all was well, even if it really wasn't. "I will not hear the ignorance ye suggest. Not after ye already talked the council into approving that travesty of a wall. I am the mayor, not ye!"

Withers muttered, "Perhaps, but not for long."

Teeth clenched, Godfrey replied, "While it may be true that I am but a few knocks shy from entering death's door, in order to become mayor, ye'd need the election of the people." Wheeze. "And the approval of the council, something ye collectively lack." Cough. Cough. "Heed my words dear constable ye'r avarice for power shall be ye'r down fall."

Jonathon Steward ambled forth, took the mayor's arm, and led him away.

The Dog (silent and still), followed Withers as he stormed down the hallway of the mayor's mansion, grumbling.

"Sai," Mort called as Withers approached the door to his study.

"What is it?"

"Something to see ye, sai," Mort stammered. His eyes were wide and bulging. He appeared paler than usual. "In ye'r chambers, sai." Mort pointed a shaky finger toward the heavy, oak door that led to Withers' study. The door hung ajar when it should have certainly been closed and locked.

Withers gave Mort a little bow, letting him know that it was okay for him to take his leave. Cautiously peering inside, Withers entered the room.

"Come in, please." A voice resonated entreatingly throughout the room in a myriad of whispering voices. The heavy, oak door slammed shut behind Withers.

The Dog's senses fuzzed out like static.

****

"Who is there?" Withers boomed at the vacant walls. He trembled, gaze darting about the empty room as the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on-end.

"A friend," the echoing voices said jovially. The study, already dark from a gloomy and cloudy night, obfuscated even more.

"Where are ye? Show yourself!" Withers pleaded more than demanded.

"Right here." The voice ceased its reverberation.

Withers spun around.

A dark, hooded figure crouched in the corner of the room among deep shadows, as if sitting on an invisible stool several feet off the ground.

"From who are ye sent?" Withers strained not to stammer.

"I think you know who sent me," said a voice like rusty nails running down a chalk board.

"Are ye he?" Withers stammered uncontrollably. "The Furion?"

The banshee wailed, "Noooo!"

"Then who art thou?"

The apparition answered in a thousand different whispering voices, all coming from inside Withers' head. The voices said one word -- WRAITH!

Floating down to the constable's eye-level, the Wraith said, "It seems as though we've a mutual problem."

"How did...ye know?" Withers stepped backward, leaning away from the demon, as if its very presence accosting.

"Nothing escapes my father's sight," the Wraith confirmed.

"They...are...of no...consequence."

"My master doesn't seem to think so, and unless you do something about it: _all the king's horses and all the king's men will never put poor Withers' skull back together again_."

"But the Furion is nigh, is he not?"

"Furion is not in charge here!" the phantom with red glowing eyes shrieked within the confines of Withers' mind. " _I am_!"

"What does the king command?" Withers stammered just like Mort.

The phantom admonished a large, taloned finger, and said, "All that is required of you is to keep our enemies in the dark until the cavalry arrives."

"Is that all?"

"No. First, kill their mutt. Then you may make your move against Godfrey."

"And what of the other two," Withers asked as he walked to the window behind his desk, as if in a dream. He peered out in the direction of the church site.

"Leave them to me," the Wraith replied as its shadowy talon-like fingers encircled the constable's trembling neck. "Just do your part, and everything will be just fine." The Wraith whispered, "Everything will be just fine."

"Everything will be just fine." Withers' voice sounded hollow and distant.

"Yes, that's right," the Wraith cooed before sinking many a-mangled fang deep into the constable's wrinkly neck.

****

7

Star was bored -- again. She didn't need to linger about the reverend's homestead. As usual, Lowell remained locked away in his chambers, enamored with his own magical prowess. Soon he would be consumed by it, and then _it_ would consume him. Star had seen it dozens of times.

Her thoughts upon her friends (namely Troll), Star found herself heading toward Tooker's barn. The Dog wasn't there, of course. He wouldn't be lurking around until after the Goodies left for the day.

Star retrieved her sling-shot and a few bottles, but quickly grew weary of target practice. Her skills had been sharpened to a razor's edge long ago, plus she only had a couple bottles left. Distraught, she planted her fanny onto the cool, wet grass and tried to meditate. But she couldn't clear her thoughts.

Not knowing what else to do and feeling restless, she walked. She strutted from the east side of town all the way past the hamlet's small huts, clear to the western wall. Un-sated, she marched on.

After circumnavigating the town, she was still full of steam, so continued on. She made five-and-a-half laps before something caught her attention. She was now on the south end of town near the chicken pens. During her previous trips around the enclosures, all the sounds and noises had been obvious. Yet after a while, all the clucking and barking and panting and bocking and baaing and so on and so forth, just became so common place and mundane (like all other noises and voices), they receded into the background. But this time was different.

From out of the clear-blue heavens came a scream so shrill and blood curdling it froze Star in her very tracks. Sounded like the scream of a child or elderly person, she couldn't tell which.

SQWUAAAA-CKKK

Star squatted low to the ground, hands shot directly for the assurance of holstered grips that were not there. From inside the pens, chickens clucked frantically. 'Though the dogs and goats went on about their usual business without hindrance, as if even them bewitched.

BAWK-bock-bock-bock-cluck-bock-bock

A muffled voice sounded, followed by a stream of menacing laughs. She crept low toward the side of the pen. Now, the folks of Silverdale didn't have chicken-wire or wire-fencing or anything of that sort. So, the pens were wooden slat (which got really hot inside, yet not much shelter against the elements). Star couldn't really see what was going on inside, so surmised whoever was in the pen couldn't see her eith--

SQWUAAAA-AAACKK-KKPFFF

_Holy shit!_ She dropped lower to the ground, her hands once again going for grips that were not there. What the hell _was_ that? Her mind raced as she crawled on hands and knees up to the slat, constructed veneer. Voices groaned in disgust. Star peered in through a space between boards.

Baylon Wood and three of his nearest and dearest stood inside. Chickens scurried amongst their trousers and worn, leather shoes.

"If ye thought that was bad, check this out." Baylon spoke with a slight inflection, as if either about to burst into laughter or tears (probably the former). Baylon crept toward a couple of chickens huddled together in the corner. Arms menacingly raised, he trounced toward them.

BAWK-bock-bock-bock-cluck-bock-bock

The hens fled in terror. The other three boys all grimaced in repulsion, yet none of them made any attempt at halting--

SQWUA--

Baylon had cornered the hen only a few feet from where Star huddled. A situation like this might have caused the Dog to fluster, thusly giving away his position, but Star stayed there, crouching low to the ground, silent and motionless. Peering through the slat-work, she was presented with an up close and personal view of Baylon stomping chickens to death for kicks. He caught this one by the neck, severing its spine and causing instant death. Star had never heard a chicken scream before, not until now anyway. And throughout all her experience with live fowl (while fairly limited), she never surmised they the capacity for skirling.

"Ha!" Baylon snorted, "D'ya see that one."

Grimacing, nose wrinkled, a tall red-head replied, "Yeah."

The shortest boy said, "Say, Baylon, maybe ye should'na be doin' that." His voice sounded meek and unsure.

Baylon whirled toward the boy, and snarled, "What'd ya say?"

Eyes bulging, the short dirty-blond replied, "N...Nothin'." He backed away.

"That's right!" Baylon advanced upon the boy. "And ye remember that!" Baylon shoved the smaller boy down into a pile of gooey, white chicken scat. The pungent excrement coated his shabby clothes and short blond-hair.

Baylon pivoted, glaring at his crew he said, "All y'all remember that."

The young boy (still on the ground) began sobbing.

"Say, Bayl," said a tall red-head. His green-gaze darted nervously about. He shifted his lean weight around, bit his lower lip, and quavered, "Maybe ye shouldn't--"

Baylon yelled, "Shut up! Shut up the lot of ye! I'm the leader of this here gang, I'm the boss. That means y'all do as I say, and if'n ye don't like it -- tough. Y'all ready been inishitid an' there ain't no backing out now." Baylon's face seemed to darken. He smiled coyly, and in a lower, calmer tone, said, "An' if'n ye don't do as I say," a wide, menacing grin spread across his face like a plague, "I'll have my pa throw y'alls in jail."

The three boys gasped.

"Ye'll be in there with that...criminal, an' ye know what he'll do to ya?"

The shorter red-head asked, "What?"

Baylon smiled like the devil hisself, leaned in close, and said, "He'll corn-hole the lot of ya."

The short red-head cocked his round face to the side, and asked, "What's that?"

Baylon shot the taller red-head a look that seemed to say, "Tell him."

The older brother leaned over his younger sibling and whispered something into his ear (he even cupped his hand over the boy's ear to give better reception).

The younger brother stood there, his gaze vacant, round jaw slack, mouth open. A brief moment of contemplation elapsed before the boy shrieked, "Dear God, no! Not that!"

Grinning, Baylon nodded, and said, "That's right."

The little, blond boy, still sitting in chicken scat, examined his clothes and hands. He wore this dumbfounded look, as if just discovering that he was covered in shit. His face wrinkled up, bottom lip quivering as his blue-eyes shimmered with tears.

For a moment, Star couldn't tell if he was about to cry or crap his pantaloons. But then the boy began to bawl and wail -- loudly.

"Shut up!" Baylon charged over and kicked him in the side of his rib cage.

The boy most definitely stopped crying before crumbling over in a heap.

The other two boys' freckled faces drew back tightly as they gasped in horror.

Baylon pummeled the young, blond boy, and roared, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, ye miserable whelp, shut up! Ye sicken me!" Snorting, he grabbed the lad by the collar of his shirt and hoisted him out of the pile of fecal material. "Get out of my sight, ye miserable bastard!" Baylon shoved the younger boy toward the door. Baylon kicked him smartly in the ass, expediting his removal from his sight as chickens fluttered about in confused horror.

What should Star do? Sure, she could teach Baylon and his friends a lesson. She could easily take on the whole group. But how would that look to the citizens of town? She _wanted_ to do something, but could she? Did she even have the right? Before she could finish that thought, Star snuck away. She had seen enough.

****

Crying and holding his behind, a little, blond boy ran toward the center of town. Covered in chicken scat, he collapsed in a blubbering heap just on the outskirts of the shelter. He seemed invisible to all except one -- Troll (who stood just across the way at the church site).

The workers were busy carving pieces of wood and assembling them into pews. Troll (the observant fellow he was), closely examined every shaved peel. The boy (lingering just on the edge of his peripherals), caught Troll's attention. Neither hurrying nor dawdling, he hobbled toward the boy, via the aid of his ever trusty staff.

Troll called, "You there."

The boy's head shot up in attentiveness, round face puffy and tear streaked.

"What is ye'r name, boy?"

"B...Booth," the boy blubbered, "Booth Wilkins."

"Ah, yes, we've met before have we not?"

"Aye." The boy wiped his face with the cusp of his sleeve.

"How old are ye?"

Booth held up seven, pudgy digits, and replied, "This many. I think."

"Are ye of abled body?"

"I reckon."

"Then quick-ho, man, give us a hand."

Beaming, he chirped, "Aye, sai."

"But first, let's see about getting' ye cleaned up."

The work progressed slowly. The day's humidity helped not a bit. The crew grew weary, not just with construction, but with each other. Surprisingly, no one seemed peeved at Troll. Probably because _most_ people were too intimidated to raise their voices around him. 'Though, he didn't know why.

Booth Wilkins stayed in Troll's company the entirety of the work day, following him along like a puppy (further driving Troll's thoughts toward the Dog). The boy had been cleaned and re-dressed; though he still stunk to high-heaven (the stench wasn't nearly as horrid as that of the spiders).

Toward the end of the day's work, two laborers (Troll couldn't remember their names. He wasn't sure if it was the humidity or his inability to focus that caused his sudden lapse in cognitive recollection), erupted into a heated argument. The whole thing started so fast, Troll didn't even know how it began. Before anyone knew it, both men were shrieking at each other, faces red, veins protruding.

"Whoa, whoa," Troll said, approaching the two men he now recognized as Barley and McClure. "What seems to be all the hub-bub?"

Barley began, "Well, ye see--"

Troll roared, "It matters not, ye are neighbors, brothers. Whatever petty squabble ye _were_ engaged in veils in comparison to what's important."

Sucking his teeth, McClure asked, "And what _is_ important?"

Troll replied, "What's important is that ye'r all coming together for the greater good. Ye'r coming together to build a church. A place to worship the Almighty as a whole -- as a community."

Byron added, "And to seek shelter from the storms."

"Aye, of course, and that, as well." Troll paced back and forth, voice rising, addressing all who would hear. "Do ye not see how ye'r bickering is not unlike the story of the Tower of Babel? Do ye not see how ye'r anger toward one another brings negative energy into such a house of spirituality?" Troll halted and propped his staff in front of him. He gazed toward the heavens, and said, "Tell them, oh Lord, tell them how disappointed ye are!"

The workers stood motionless, jaws slack, brows furrowed. Half the men looked upward, while the others (Booth included), stared at Troll.

After a moment, Troll turned back to the crowd, and said, "Ye see! Let that be a lesson to the lot of thee."

The men glanced around at each other, scratching at their collective heads and cocking their collective brows.

Troll asked, "Barley, what day be this?"

Barley's forehead wrinkled over in splotchy waves as he scratched his head. Small flakes of dandruff danced in the air. The corner of his mouth curled up so much his cheek puffed out, making it appear bruised. His bushy mustache jingled and danced. "Uh...well, let's see here--"

"Byron! The day of the week, if'n ye please."

"T'is Saturn's day, I believe." Byron nodded.

Troll replied, "Well, that's close enough."

"Close enough for what, sai?" Booth tugged at Troll's cloak. The boy always had a fascination with it.

"Close enough to rest. Why, even the Lord rests on the Son's day, just as ye rest when it rains. We have toiled long and hard. T'is true the church nearly complete. But perhaps we should take the remainder of the day off and give thanks and praise to God for bestowing upon us the knowledge, strength, and brotherhood to come as far as we have. I know ye'r all desperate to finish, but think of all the other times ye rushed in vain. Where did that get ye?"

The crowd murmured in agreement, heads downcast in shame, hands penitently folded.

Troll said, "Come, let us retire to the pub, where we shall break bread together and share an ale or two!"

"Or three!" hollered Morris Wheat, who was _way_ too young to drink.

The entire assembly erupted in laughter before dispersing off toward Hawkins' bar.

Satisfied, Troll stood there, Booth Wilkins ever-by his side. Troll smiled at Booth. He smiled back (craning his neck to do so). Troll glanced back at the church, nearly complete. My, what a magnificent structure it would be. Troll couldn't remember if he'd ever built a church before. But if he had, surely it was not as fine as this.

Troll said, "Come, help me put the tarp up, just in case."

Booth asked, "But, don't it take a whole mess of men to do that?" His chubby cheeks jiggled just like Barley's mustache.

Smiling, he replied, "My dear boy, I _am_ a whole mess of men."

"Preaching to the masses again, I see." Reverend Lowell appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Hands folded behind his back, teeth grinding, he glowered at Booth, and said, "And _ye_. How dare ye. Ye should be ashamed of yourself."

Booth shrank behind Troll and clutched onto his cloak.

"T'is all right, boy," Troll said, gaze glued upon Lowell's scowling face. "G'on off to the bar and join the others."

"But--"

"Tell Hawkins I said it was all right, he shall not refute."

"Okay." Head hung and slouching, Booth stuffed his hands in his pockets and trudged toward the tavern.

"I'll see ye tomorrow," Troll added.

Booth nodded then trotted off.

Lowell spat, "Did I not warn ye about the consequences of preaching?"

"Did ye? Refresh my memory."

The creases in Lowell's forehead flattened as his beady gape narrowed. His scowl turned into a crooked grin. "Do not play games with me, paper-preacher. This is the last time I shall warn thee," he said, admonishing a bony and blistered finger. Was that his magic finger? "The next time, it shall end in more than just words."

"Well, I certainly hope so."

****

The day appeared sunny and bright, though the Dog easily perceived the rain promised by late afternoon. So, he was determined to enjoy himself as best he could while he could. Anne hadn't come to see him earlier on in the day. And as the Goodies arrived, ready to start their labor, the Dog left the tall-grass to venture north outside of town. Though, not through the northern gate (i.e., the hidden interstice leading to _darker_ woods). He headed east, but he didn't take that one either. He didn't use any gate to exit the town's perimeter. He merely headed in a northeast direction until he found a few, tall pine trees flanking the wall. After climbing to the top, he bounded up and over. Probably a good forty-five-foot drop to the ground once over the wall's sharp and forbidding points, though the Dog worried not. For, once he scaled to the top, he could easily see over to the other side, and plenty of trees stood within leaping distance.

The Dog had no destination as he raced playfully through the _good_ woods. Bounding joyously onto a tree trunk to an outstretched limb to a stone and so on and so forth, doing whatever he could to get some semblance of a work-out.

Dog landed behind a fallen tree trunk. There, perched decadently upon the moss-covered wood sat a big, colorful butterfly. Splashes of purple, pink, and yellow painted its scaly wings. Anne would simply love it. Dog gazed at the bug in quiet fascination as it fluttered its wings. His eyes glittered in a brilliant golden hue. He thought about snatching at it. Perhaps the thing would taste good. After all, if it looked good, then no-doubt the same would be true of its meat. But he didn't snatch at it, for a sweet melodious sound seemed to fill his head with compassion. He watched the tiny creature flutter away in peace. But when the butterfly was gone, the song remained. He hadn't been swayed from violence by the beauty of the bug, but rather from someone singing softly not too far off, as if some siren lulled the Dog at ease. Not an entrancing verse, for the Dog did not feel compelled to go to the source of the song against his will. Curious, the Dog let himself by lured toward the voice's origin.

Anne and Sarah bathed in the pond just outside of town. Certainly a good time to do so indeed, for the weather turned sultry and sticky. Sarah stood naked as the day she was born while Anne wore a night gown a bit too big for her. Sarah sang a lullaby while'st working on untangling Anne's mangled hair. Her voice low and sweet.

Mother constant, mother wise

Your lessons stand the test of time

Loving hand and centered soul

Ye taught thee well, now grow thee whole...

"My word, child," Sarah said, breaking the song, "how does ye'r hair manage to collect so much dirt?" Her brow furrowed, nose wrinkled, and tongue slightly protruding as she struggled with an exceedingly impossible tangle imbedded in the younger girl's hair.

"I don't know." Anne shrugged.

Smiling, Sarah asked, "What do ye do, roll around in filth all day?"

"My puppy does."

"Oh, right," Sarah said, playing along, "ye'r imaginary friend."

"He's _not_ imaginary."

"Oh, then why can't I see him?"

"Ye _can_ see him," she said, squinting as Sarah pulled at the snared ball in her hair.

"Oh, really?"

"He's right...ouch!" Anne squirmed as Sarah simply ripped through the stubborn tangle.

"What's that?"

"I said, he's not imaginary. He's right over there." She pointed to a tree limb outstretched over the stagnant waters.

"Oh, sure," Sarah's gaze followed Anne's finger. Startled, she covered her exposed breasts with her arms, and screamed at the Dog, "Get out of here! Go-on, get!"

The Dog jumped down to the pond's bank and scurried off in a whimper.

Anne whirled toward Sarah, and said, "Don't yell at him!"

"But Anne--"

"He's just a puppy!" Anne sloshed swiftly up the bank. "Puppy, come back!" Anne stumbled out of the pond and toward the brush line where the Dog vanished into the trees.

But he didn't go far. He crouched low to the undergrowth, watching as Anne waded out of the water and toward the brush.

"Anne, Anne wait!"

The Dog trotted out of the woods.

Sarah, still in the water, clutched her naked, freckled body.

Anne squealed in delight as the Dog picked her up and set her on his shoulders. The Dog sprinted through the forests while Anne giggled and clapped. The Dog pressed through the dense shrubbery before finding himself in a strange place. He'd never been this far out of town before (except for when he went to the pit, which was in the other direction). Here, after the trees ended, shelves of long, rocky cliffs stretched on for miles in both directions, as if it the end of the Earth. Further out, past the cliffs, and hundreds of feet below, lay a vast, barren desert -- and nothing else -- anywhere.

Catching his foot on his baggy, over-sized pants, the Dog _very lightly_ tossed Anne into a patch of weeds before reeling head-over-heels off the side of the cliff. He fell about thirty feet, landing on a sturdy, flat shelf. Had he drifted another few feet to either side, he would have been impaled by racks of stalagmites. Hell, he'd shaken off the impact and was already shimmying his way back up when Sarah (wearing a long, sun-dress that clung to her wet skin), found Anne giggling in delight. Sensing her presence, he froze there, clinging to the cliff's face, unsure of how to proceed. Should he just wait there until the two left all-together?

"Poor, poor puppy," Anne managed through a tirade of laughter. "He's so clumsy."

"Annabelle Warwick, don't ye _ever_ do that again!"

Anne sat there on the ground, literally holding her sides in gayety.

Sarah ventured toward the edge of the cliff and peered down. But she couldn't see the Dog.

Then something _odd_ happened. As if some veil had just been draped or possibly undraped, across the world.

Sarah nearly swooned, yet Anne steadied her. Sarah's face drew blank and questioning, as if just waking from a terribly vivid nightmare, only to find herself unsure of her surroundings. Anne, however, had a strong and steady look etched into her small, oval face.

The Dog sensed the miasmic veil shrouding the two girls, yet he was unaffected. Unease seeped into his gullet, causing a low growl to stir. At first he flinched at the sound of it. He didn't want them to take note of him. But that didn't matter. They couldn't even see him -- not anymore. The Dog sensed this, as well.

"Come on," Anne said, her voice sounded sure and aged. In a voice that wasn't hers, yet at the same time, was, she giggled, and said, "Let's go back to town and comb ye'r hair before it dries all a-tussle like that."

Somehow, the two switched roles. Sarah now seemed the frightened child while Anne transformed into the loving, motherly figure.

"Yes, back to town," Sarah replied. The two turned in dreamlike sloth before taking each other's hand and heading home.

****

Where was Lowell? Just where in the green-hell was he? Star didn't know. She shouldn't have abandoned her post to go spelunking in the tall-grass beyond Tooker's. Where did that get her? Nowhere. And now she had lost the reverend.

When she returned, Roger was fast asleep on the porch, reclining in his rocker, knife and block of wood resting in his lap. Star slid off her boots, tucked them in her knapsack (her thoughts turned toward Troll and his bottomless cloak), and crept up the porch and into the house. Star tip-toed up the stairs, peering around every darkened corner before advancing. She couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

The reverend's door was locked. Nothing out of the ordinary there. She crouched down and gazed through the keyhole. Dark inside. Pitch-black. But once again, nothing unusual about that. Star sat on her haunches, waiting for a blue ball of flame to illuminate the innards of the esteemed reverend's chambers. Nothing. She waited there a long time, until her knees ached and her teeth began to chatter, _a-scrippity-scrackity-crickity-clackity._

What was she doing here? She couldn't remember. Troll's voice boomed from outside. Smiling, she raced downstairs and out onto the porch, finding nothing but Roger still asleep in his rocker, the Dog's cap low over his face. Just what in the green-hell _was_ going on here?

Star sat down on the steps and slid on her boots. She remembered why she was here, what she was here to _do._

Star crept around the side of the house, covering a hand over her eyes as she peered up toward Lowell's bedroom window. The dark, wool drapes were tightly drawn. Was the window locked? More importantly, how would she get up there in the first place?

"Hey, you!"

Star pivoted, hands shooting toward her hips.

Thumbs hooked in his belt buckle, the sheriff asked, "What'cha think ye'r doing over there?"

She glanced at the pea-shooter looped around his bulbous belly, and smirked.

"I said, what'cha think ye'r doing?"

Star sashayed toward him, and said, "Why don't you tell me. Big, tough manly-man like you, must have this whole thing figured out by now, right?"

"Uh...what?" The smile faded from his round, double-chinned, and stubbly face

"Don't tell me you don't know these folks have been playing you for a fool." Star strut closer, hands on swaying hips.

The sheriff warbled backward. "Hold it right there, woman!" He pulled his shooter, aiming it at her with unsteady a-hand.

Star halted. She didn't hold up her hands or back down. She stared into his eyes, and asked, "Do you really think you can go through with it? Killing a woman, and all?"

Leering at her, he replied, "Ain't nothing new, women been dying of accidents 'round these parts ever since the rainy seasons first started and them dumb-asses marched off to war. No one would pay so much as a memory or never-mind to the likes of a woman such as ye, especially an outsider."

"Oh, yeah?" Star unslung her knapsack and slipped her hand inside.

The sheriff steadied his gun, aiming it between her eyes, he said, "Drop it!"

Star obeyed, letting the satchel fall to the ground. The hand she worked into the knapsack held a brown bottle by the neck.

He licked his fat lips, and asked, "That what I think it is?"

"You bet'cha, big boy. C'mon and get it."

Sheriff Wood lowered his gun and lumbered toward her. Leering, he snaked a hand into the crotch of his pants.

Star dropped to a knee and thrust the bottle at his eyes.

He hollered as the glass shattered, fragments dug into his flesh. "Ooow, you _bitch_!" He staggered backward.

Star pounced. She wrestled the gun from his grasp, burying the barrel into his temple. "The next time I see you reaching for your cock, I'm gonna shoot it clean-off."

"What, my hand?"

"No, you dumb-ass! Your dick." Star twirled the gun around her index finger, and smashed the butt into the sheriff's skull, rendering him unconscious.

She stashed the shooter in her satchel. Her thought turned to the band of scoundrels who tried to rape her outside the tavern she found Troll and the Dog in. This man, this _sheriff,_ was not unlike those men.

Star spat on the sheriff and kicked him in the ribs for good measure. Attacking the sheriff and taking his gun would be considered an act of hostility. But right then and there, she couldn't help but smile like Reverend Lowell did within the confines of his chambers.

****

The Dog sat perched atop a tall pine tree just behind the mayor's mansion.

Godfrey strutted about the grounds, exercising his heart. His face red and puffy, perspiring as the phlegm in his lungs rattled around like beans in a coffee can. He ambled toward the open barn. Plenty of shade and a few stacks of hay called for the mayor to come and rest his bones, lest he keel over. Wheezing, Godfrey waddled toward the entreating bales.

Withers, who waited within the shadows, jumped out, startling the mayor before he could even reach the safety of shade. "Good day, sai," Withers said friendly enough through his rat-like grin.

"G...g...good L...Lord Withers..." The mayor struggled to catch his rattling breath. He nearly collapsed but Withers caught him.

"Dear Lord, why, ye should not be out in such heat, come let us get ye into the shade." Withers led Godfrey toward the hay stacks, as if knowing the man's destination all along.

Perhaps he did. The Dog could sense a good-many thing, but not thoughts (unless they were Troll's).

Withers helped Godfrey take a seat, and asked, "My graciousness, who is it that would have thee out in such burdensome conditions?"

Godfrey was hacking and gasping and coughing and wheezing away.

"Boy, ye there, I say, one of ye two boys!" Withers called out to the errand boys, who came rushing right over. "Fetch the mayor some water, quickly now."

The boys stopped and immediately whirled around to grab a pail.

"T...t'was...Mc...Coy." The mayor struggled desperately, as if his final breath.

"Beg ye'r pardon, sai?"

"T...t'was...McCoy wh...who...advised..." Godfrey's chest heaved up and down. No matter how big a breath he took, he still attained no oxygen.

The boys quickly returned with a small bucket of water. With that accomplished, Withers dismissed the young hands to resume their duties. The mayor took a few minutes to calm himself and catch what little breath he had left. Wincing, Withers massaged his temples and the bridge of his nose.

"I say," the mayor wheezed, "ye nearly were the death of me."

"I meant nothing of the kind. I only meant to extend ye an invitation."

Sweaty brow wrinkled, he asked, "Say true?"

"Aye, sai." Withers smiled, exposing yellow, rodent-like teeth. "Ye'r good friend, Mr. Troll, has expressed an honest interest in going fishing with ye before the rain season comes."

What? That never happened. And if Troll had extended such an invitation, surely the Dog would have known about it.

"Really," Godfrey asked, a slow, steady wheeze rattled his breath.

"Indeed, sai, he was in fact, most vehement about such."

"Well, it must certainly be before harvest season, or before the festival." Cough. Wheeze. Cough. "For, there is still much to do in preparation."

"Of course, Mr. Troll was most thoughtful in his considerations, and has already planned on a date, he suggests the morning before the festival. Tomorrow morning, if'n it pleases ye."

"That sounds most agreeable, indeed." Godfrey lurched forward in an attempt to rise. He failed, rolling backward.

Withers clasped a hand upon the mayor's shoulder, the other upon Godfrey's back, and aided the ailing patriarch to his feet.

"Now if'n ye'll excuse me." Wheeze. Hack. Cough. "I believe I shall retire to my quarters for a wee rest."

"Certainly, sai, be ye in need of assistance?"

"No thank ye, my dear constable. Please be sure to inform Troll that the date set."

Smirking, Withers uttered, "Oh, don't worry, I will."

****

Eyes half-closed, Byron slurred, "Y...ye know what? Th...this the firs' time I've ever been a dr...drinkin' 'efore...now."

Aye, he seemed quite soused, indeed.

Grinning, Troll asked, "Really?"

"Aye."

"Aye," chimed Roger, who unlike Byron, could handle a drink or two quite well, aye, so he could.

Troll still couldn't get over him wearing the Dog's cap. It just didn't seem right, and yet he hadn't seen the Dog don his new lid in a few days now.

Troll asked Byron, "And how do ye find it?"

"M...most agree-edly-able," he stammered. Droplets of beer clung to his beard.

"Well then, this is quite the auspicious occasion, indeed." Troll salubriously raised his mug, and cried, "To Byron!"

"Aye, to Byron." Roger saluted as did Edward Barley and Otis McClure, who sat next to them at the bar. The two were quite inebriated now, swaying back and forth in besotted rhythm.

"To Byron," Hawkins said as he poured himself a shot from behind the bar, eye twitching.

Byron sighed, and replied, "Aw, y...ye guys." He tottered from his stool, spilled his drink, and landing upon his head with an audible thud.

Troll feared Byron incapacitated after that, but he arose, as if nothing happened.

The barflies erupted into hearty, guffawed laughter.

McClure said, "Way to go there, Byron!"

"Wha...wha...wha's so funny?" Byron asked, stumbling over his own feet as he examined the contents of his now empty mug.

That only caused the lot of them to roar all the heartier.

"S'not funny. A...all I wants is to be a preacher-man. And a beer." Byron peered into his empty glass once again. His chubby, bearded face grew slack. "How come's I canna preach, T...Troll?" He wavered in inebriation, eyes small and glazed, and his hair all a-tussle.

Troll replied, "Ye can preach, good brother. All ye need to do is talk."

Roger chimed, "Aye."

"Aye," the barflies concurred.

Roger said, "And look at'cha, ye'r talkin' right now."

"Yeah, but I can't in public." Head lowered in shame, Byron's lip curled, as if about to cry.

"Just the shake-fright," Roger colloquially proffered, "t'will pass in time, as all fear does, aye, so it will."

The barflies released another round of, "Ayes."

"R...really?" Byron's head shot up, smiling oafishly, glazed-over gaze resting upon Roger as he wavered back and forth in besotted cadence.

Troll said, "Kind of, see what ye have to realize is that ye'r problem is one of yerself. Ye'r fear of speaking is--"

Byron said, "I...I...I ain't a-feared."

"Yes, ye are a-feared. I can see it in ye'r eyes."

Moaning, Byron buried his face in his hands.

Troll patted him on the back, and said, "Do not be vexed, my friend."

As if it the greatest idea in the history of ideas, Byron replied, "Perhaps, I sh...should preach drunk!"

Eye twitching, Hawkins laughed.

"Probably not," Troll said.

Barley motioned for a refill, and sneered, "Why not, might make mass a bit more fun."

Troll said, "Listen to me, Byron, what ye have to understand is that ye'r fears are just demons trying to block ye from the light of the Holy Spirit."

Hawkins nearly jumped at the "d" word while the others at the bar crossed themselves in protection from hex.

Byron pounded his chest, and said, "There's no demons in me!"

Troll continued, "And ye have to realize that ye'r better than that, and that ye can overcome these obstacles. And when ye do that, ye embrace the Holy Spirit, and the Holy Spirit will cradle thee in turn. Assisting ye as ye transcend all that ye thought was impossible."

"Amen." Roger raised his glass salubriously.

"Amen," Hawkins reiterated, leading the barflies in an "Amen" of their own as Byron crossed himself.

Byron slurred, "Th...think so?"

"Aye!" the crowd concurred in unison.

"Aw, y...ye guys are gr...great, just great."

With that, they all raised their mugs to Byron, toasting to his health before draining their collective cups. Byron tried to follow suit, once again, bringing the ceramic mug to his lips fore'st remembering it empty.

"He...Hey, I need another one, s...so's I can join ye's." He offered his glass to Hawkins to be refilled.

Hawkins reached for the cup.

"No," Troll said, covering the empty mug with his hand. "He's had enough."

Byron whined, "W...wha, why?"

"Idz do domu i idz do lozka," Troll commanded.

"O...okay," Byron said before falling from his stool again.

The barflies roared in guffawed laughter.

As if it a secret, Roger leaned toward Troll, and whispered, "What'd ye say to him?"

"I merely informed the good brother that it was time for him to go home and go to bed."

"Are ye even certain that Byron understood ye'r jargon?"

Troll didn't need to answer, for no sooner had Roger asked this, than at the end of the bar (the building in which they drank as adverse to the bar at which they sat) Byron arose. He had crawled along the floor and now braced himself between the saloon's double swinging doors, staggering briefly before exiting the bar without so much as another word.

Within a quarter of an hour after Byron's departure, Star bust loudly through the entrance. Her gaze low and cold, mercurially eyeing the tavern and its occupants 'neath her wide-brimmed hat. After a moment, she sashayed up to the bar. Glancing cursorily at what was offered for drink, she wedged herself between Troll and Roger Wilcox. She leaned over the bar, and said, "Whiskey."

Troll sat there, sipping at his brew.

Eye twitching, Hawkins stammered, "Uh...um, well--"

"Don't tell me you don't have whiskey."

"Well, no...I mean we do, but--"

"Then what's the problem?" Her silky, dark skin quivered with adrenaline.

Hawkins began, "Well, now, I believe I already--"

Star's deadly glare bore down upon him as her nostrils flared.

Hawkins lurched backward, trembling slightly.

Impressive indeed, and Troll couldn't help but smirk. His stature and overall appearance, while far more daunting, veiled in comparison to Star's aura. Everyone around her (except Troll), shrunk away, recoiling in fear.

Without so much as a further utterance, Hawkins adroitly poured the shot.

Star slammed the hot liquid down without a grimace or gag. Directing her steady (and slightly hidden), gaze upon Troll, she rapped the glass twice upon the bar for another.

Hawkins refilled the shot as swiftly as Star drained it, her eyes never faltering to match Troll's steady gape. She rapped the glass upon the bar yet again.

Once again, Hawkins poured and Star partook.

Then, finally, after three shots, she set the glass gently upon the bar top and tipped her head back. Her eyes closed and her beautiful face was once again visible to the world, as well as the nape of her neck. Troll's gaze traveled down toward her open-throated shirt and further down to her breast-line, the golden chain of her compass seemingly highlighted this area in particular. God, she was gorgeous.

Hawkins snatched away the shot glass, as if his failure to do so would cause the woman to drink more.

Star released a deep sigh, her chest rose satisfactorily before returning her attention to Troll. "Can we talk?"

"But of course, my dear. What is it?"

"In private."

"There's nothing ye can't say to me that ye can't in front of the boys." He called, "Is that not right?"

"Aye!" the barflies concurred in unison, raising their mugs.

Brow furrowed, hands resting on cocked, hips, she asked, "You sure about that?"

Troll tippled from his draft, and said, "Aye."

"Aye!" the tavern's patrons touted.

Star shrugged, and said, "If you say so." She sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. The shackle rattled. "You should know that the sheriff is probably looking for me."

"To what end?"

"To put me in jail, I presume."

"Why, what have ye done?"

"Just so you know, he attacked me first."

"I see." Troll ran a hand down his scar and beard. "Well, don't worry, if'n they want thee, they'll have to go through me."

Star snapped, "I can fight my own battles."

"Of that, I have no doubt. But still, as long as ye'r in my company, no harm shall come to ye. Of that I swear."

"Well, whatever," she said, rolling her eyes. "I just thought you should know."

"And for that, I am most grateful." Troll raised his mug and hollered, "Cheers!"

"Cheers," the patrons touted, glasses raised.

"Pardon my interruption, sai," said a peculiar voice. Not peculiar because it unfamiliar, but rather because the occupant of said voice (as far as Troll could remember), wasn't in the bar.

Troll turned toward the voice.

Mort leaned against the bar, in the spot were Byron spilt his libation only minutes ago.

Mustache dancing, Barley asked Mort, "Where in the hell'd ye come from?"

"From the mayor's house," Mort replied, signaling for Hawkins to pour him a brew before returning his attention to Troll. "He requests the company of ye and Ms. Star go fishing with him at dawn of the 'morrow."

Hawkins slid the beer into Mort's mangled, supplicating hand.

Troll asked Mort, "If this be at the mayor's request then why does he not send _his_ steward to offer the invitation?"

Without hesitation, he replied, "For, his steward is busy attending to other matters."

Troll and Star exchanged a glance.

****

Journal entry, ninth day in Silverdale,

Mort's explanation for relaying the mayor's invitation was an obvious lie, and I'd briefly fancied inquiring as to what other matters Jonathon was attending to, though no doubt Mort would simply shrug and say that he knew not. Something was amiss, yet I was hard-pressed to say exactly what, as a strange sense of excitement washed over me. Perhaps, this was the event I'd been waiting for. Perchance, the three of us (Star, the mayor, and I), would be put at risk. Or maybe Withers just wanted the three of us absent while attempting something no-doubt dastardly nefarious.

Above all, I was certain of one thing: That the constable himself would no-doubt be extending a similar fishing invitation to the mayor, only his would be from me. In any case, Star and I readily accepted the offer.

Troll stopped writing and stared blankly at the journal open in his lap for quite some time, as if in a trance. When he finally returned to documenting his thoughts and memoirs, he left a blank space between paragraphs. He didn't do this purposely, nor did he realize such an egregious waste of paper occurred until much later. As if a hearty chunk of his memoirs had simply been omitted, yet the space remained. A space about the size of this paragraph.

In either case, I was relieved to know Silverdale would be under the watchful eye of the Dog. Yet, what if the Dog was off playing with Anne while'st the constable made his move? What if...

_***_ *

Unable to sleep, Anne awoke early. She just couldn't stop thinking about last night. Like usual, Anne had been taunted and teased until Sarah hurried over, and rescued her before tucking her in for the night.

"I love ye," Anne had said.

"I love ye too," Sarah replied, smiling tenderly. Her smile fading to a frown, she said, "Which is why I want ye to stay away from him...ye'r puppy."

"What, why?" Anne pleaded, instantly on the verge of tears.

"Because I don't trust him, I don't want ye to get hurt by him. I don't want--"

Anne yelled, "Why? Why would ye do that to me? I haven't a friend in the world. Everybody hates me. _I_ hate it here! And someday soon, I'm gonna leave and _never_ come back!"

But that was then, and this was now. Pulling the covers off and dangling her bare feet over the edge of the cot, she could already feel the early morning chill attack her toes. She draped her blanket about her shoulders before proceeding along the planked, wooden flooring. She tip-toed the entire way, taking great pains to ensure that no other would awaken and interrogate her as to where she was off to.

She reached the door and placed her hand upon the brass handle. Cold. She stood there for a moment, contemplating whether to adorn sandals. No-doubt, the grass outside still wet and chilly from the night's dew.

" _Ye wouldn't want to catch ye'r death of cold, now would ye?"_ Sarah's motherly words echoed within her head -- _smotherly_ was more like it. How dare Sarah presume to tell her what to do? After all the years and how close they'd become, the nerve, the arrogance. Anne finally made a true friend and Sarah tells her to stay away.

She opened the shelter's door with the cautious determination of a child who's going to run away but instantly changes their mind and goes back to bed before authority should wake and notice them truant. Well not her, no siree-bob, she was going to run away for good. She was never going to come back. And she didn't care if she ever saw Sarah again.

****

Troll rolled out of bed hours before dawn. Restless and unable to sleep, eagerly anticipating what Withers held in store.

Troll roused Byron first.

"Noooo," Byron whined, pulling the covers taught. "I've never felt so bad in my entire life. Me head pounds, so it does. Throat dry. I think I might vomit." Byron's face grew pale and clammy. "Please, just leave me be."

Troll said, "Nonsense, t'will do ye no good lying about all day. Come now, up and at 'em."

When they entered the kitchen, Star was already there, fully dressed and making scrambled eggs and coffee.

Troll explained to Byron, that after he'd left the bar, Mort swung by and invited the three of them to go fishing with the mayor. Troll also told Byron how going outside would make him feel better (though, he said nothing of his suspicions of Withers). At first Byron seemed reluctant, but Troll cajoled him into going.

After breakfast (which Byron didn't feel like eating, but Troll made him at least drink a cup of coffee), the three ambled up the path to the mayor's mansion in total silence. Byron felt like shit, and Troll and Star were too tired to converse with each other. Was Star as antsy as he? If so, she hid it well.

Their heads bowed as if in penance, they trudged through the chilly, dew-stamped grass.

When close enough, both Star and Troll looked in the same direction in unison. Something subconscious, like flinching. Or better yet, when you saw something in the corner of your eye and you whip your head around to look at the anomaly, only to find nothing. That's what Star and Troll did now, and even though they couldn't have possibly seen it through the early morning darkness and dense fog, when they passed it -- both looked in the direction of Tooker's barn.

****

The barn stood tall and wide. Plenty of room for stacks of hay and farming equipment, feed for the animals, and what-not. In the middle of the domicile sat a small, wood-burning stove. The ceilings were high and riddled with cross beams and spider webs. Up there somewhere, far out of sight, the Dog, lay docilely on his back, stretched out across a beam.

"Anything yet?" a voice asked.

The Dog rolled over on his stomach and peered down.

Baylon Wood and his three cronies stood in the barn's open entryway. The Dog knew all four boys by name. How could he not? Baylon and his friends were pretty much all Anne ever talked about.

"Nope," Stitch replied, ruffling a hand through short red-locks.

"What about you, Spits?" Stich asked his younger brother. "Ya see or hear anything?"

"Nope," Spits replied.

"What about you?" Baylon asked Fred, who merely shrugged.

Spits said, "Yeah, I don't see no wasps in here."

"They're not wasps stupid, their hornets," Stitch corrected.

"Ye'r stupid!" Stitch shouted angrily at his brother.

"Nuh-uh, ye'r stupid!"

Baylon snarled, "Shut up, the both of ye! I don't care if there are any wasps _or_ hornets, or what."

Fred began, "But, Mort said the Goodies were allergic--"

"I don't care about that neither!" Baylon roared. "Mort paid _us_ , the bravest bunch of lads in all of Silverdale, two pieces of silver each to come over here and get rid of whatever pests are about."

The Dog was taken a-back. Mort sent them? Why would Mort, a steward, be enlisting anyone's services, let alone with silver?

Wearing a crooked grin, Baylon added, "And we ain't leaving 'til we kill somethin. Now, y'all spread out. Leave no stack of hay unturned."

The boys searched.

Crawling along the rafters, the Dog followed Baylon.

"Hey, guys, check it out!" Spits pulled a glowing-hot branding-iron from the oven, and waved it around the air.

Smiling, Fred replied, "Cool."

"L'emme see that." Baylon trounced toward Spits, and snatched the hot tool out of his hand. He held it high above his head, as if a torch.

Stitch waltzed toward his brother, Spits, and punched him in the arm -- hard.

Spits punched back. Soon the two wrestled and rolled about on the ground.

Fred pleaded, "C'mon guys, knock it off." He said to Baylon, "Make 'em break it up, boss."

Baylon's gaze affixed upon the glowing brand. "Yeah," he said. His words sounded vacant and hollow. He drew the brand close to his face, and murmured, "Kill."

Fred asked, "Baylon, Baylon what's wrong with ye?" Nothing. "Knock it off, guys, something's wrong with Baylon!"

"Good," Stitch muttered, pushing his brother. The two stood, and dusted off the hay stuck to their clothes and red-hair.

Baylon pivoted toward his posse.

The Dog sensed something _off_ about the boy. He didn't seem like Baylon, at all. Something was inherently wrong with Baylon's eyes and voice, as if the boy were simply absent, like he wasn't really there. Like someone or something were using him, wearing him as if nothing more than a winter's coat. A shiver ran down the Dog's spine, hairs stood on-end. His nose and ears slightly elongated.

A twisted gleam shone in Baylon's eyes as he assessed his friends. Then, the thing that looked like Baylon, spoke with a sort of hollowness. "I have an idea."

A low growling emanated within the Dog, sensing what was to come.

Baylon strolled toward a bale of hay, plunged the hot iron into the stack, setting it ablaze as pillars of smoke rose up into the rafters.

The Dog dropped down, plummeting right into a burning stack of hay. As soon as he hit, a plume of blazing straw scattered across the barn's earthen floor, spreading the flames. The children hit the deck. Baylon just stood there, still entranced.

The fire scattered more rapidly than anyone could've anticipated. Spits' pants caught at the cuff. He rolled around on the ground. Stitch sprinted over and plowed into his little brother, attempting to smother the flames.

Dog sat there hunched along the ground looking curiously at the Baylon/thing. The Baylon/thing stared right back at him, brandishing the still burning iron. The Dog growled, but did not advance.

Fred cried, "What are ye _doin'_ , man? C'mon, Spits is on fire!"

Spits screamed as the fire ate its way down to his flesh. His brother, out of pure desperation, simply grabbed the burning cuffs, wringing them out as the flames turned to charred smolders.

The Baylon/thing roared, " _He_ did it!" He pointed the branding iron at the Dog, and said, "That mutt over there set the barn on fire, we must stop him!"

Fred said, "But Baylon, ye set the--"

The Baylon/thing chanted, "Kill - the - mutt! Kill - the - mutt!"

The fire spread furiously, consuming all that it touched.

The cur squatted low, preparing to spring to the side and run for safety.

Then, Anne sprinted through the barn's open doors in a panic.

"Puppy!" she cried. Her eyes were wide and tear-streaked.

The Dog startled at the girl's presence.

Baylon lurched forward, thrusting the rod (which by now wasn't red-hot, but still hotter than hell), into the Dog's rib cage, charring his shirt and skin. Dog yelped and knocked the brand out of the Baylon/thing's hands.

"Grab her!" the Baylon/thing commanded.

Spits and Stitch complied with their leader's supplication.

"No!" Anne kicked and screamed in protest.

"Knock it off," Stitch said as he and his brother struggled to restrain her.

Dog glared at the Baylon/thing with golden, fiery eyes as he growled fiercely.

"Guys, help me!" The Baylon/thing backed away from the foaming mongrel. "Help me, guys, he's gonna kill me!"

Fighting like a wild stallion, Anne cried, "No, he won't! Just leave him alone, please."

Stitch slapped her across the face. Anne floundered to her knees.

Spits asked his brother, "Wha'da ya do that for?"

The Dog bounded toward Anne, knocking the two boys over in his wake. The fire spread, engulfing the barn. The Dog cradled Anne in his arms and leapt to safety. A few burning rafters fell, obstructing the exit. The other children were trapped, screaming in terror. The Dog gazed deep into Anne's brown-eyes.

"Go," she said. "Save them. I'll go get help."

The Dog planted Anne on the ground and watched her sprint away before bounding over the heap of burning rubble. He rescued the red-headed brothers first.

Trapped behind walls of smoke and flame, Fred shrieked, "Help, Help! Oh, God, someone please save me!" He began choking. The boy shielded his eyes from the shimmering waves of heat. When he opened them, he was safe in the Dog's arms.

Dog went back for Baylon. Nothing. Where did he go? Where _could_ he have gone?

"Die! Die!" Screaming, the Baylon/thing emerged from the undulating flames. He drove a pitch-fork through the Dog's thigh. The Dog tried to push the boy away, but couldn't. Baylon was strong -- stronger than he should have been for a child. Not even Troll, during his best efforts, could faze the Dog. Yet this boy, this creature, seemed to possess the strength of twenty.

The Dog roared as the Baylon/thing twisted and turned the pitch-fork into his flesh. The Dog flailed his arms wildly in the air. And just as Anne came back with the Goodies, the Dog's claws connected with the Baylon/thing, shredding the boy's face and destroying his left eye. An audible "pop" sounded as blood and puss oozed from the socket.

All fell silent except for the crackling of burning timber. The Goodies covered their mouths with their hands as the other boys looked on in shock and awe.

"What...What happened?" Baylon peered around, hands outstretched and searching. "I...I can't see." He raised a blood-soaked hand toward the tattered remains of his once princely face. "Wha...what?" He stammered. He pressed his fingers down and blood squirted out of his many lacerations. Then he screamed.

****

Journal entry, tenth day in Silverdale,

The fishing trip was quite enjoyable indeed. We traveled by carriage. The lot of us, crammed into the tiny vessel as Jonathon Steward led us out of town and past the pond where we'd collected water for the mortar. At first I doubted the carriage would bear the heft of our combined weight, but it did.

We traveled to a point by the river where the water was deep and moved swiftly, but not too rapidly. We sat there along the river's bank in a neat, little row with me on one end and Star at the other. Star kept mainly to herself. She was quite the proficient of fishers as well, though only conversated with Byron (who caught not but a nibble). I had a sinking suspicion this might be another of Byron's famous firsts. A few times I'd attempted to elicit Star in conversation, though the mayor demanded most of my attention. He constantly jabbered on about this or that, but mostly about how grand this year's festival of the fall would be (which of course, was tomorrow. Even I was excited about such an elegant gala).

The mayor was quite the fisherman as well, highly prolific in a form I'd not seen in ages. Something called "fly," or "on the fly," something like that. All the while, I used but only a simple hook and line I'd gotten from the confines of me cloak. Everyone else used the poles that Godfrey supplied. The mayor even caught a bass so big, just reeling it in caused him to seize uncontrollably. He clutched at his chest before falling to the ground in a desperate struggle for breath. Naturally, Byron and Star were in panic, but I took hold of the situation and was able to calm the mayor's seizing. In the end, the fish got away but the mayor put himself forever in my debt. I of course refused, assuring him that no debt was necessary.

He proclaimed, "Oh, but I insist."

Then it started to sprinkle. I remember wondering if fishing was considered work and would be have to be put on hold. But no matter, after the mayor's "attack", he was feeling quite fatigued. Star had gone off by herself further down the bank, though still clearly visible. And I believe Byron was still a bit hung over. Needless to say, the trip was pretty much a wash, and so we headed back to town a little after noon. I couldn't place it. I was sure something was to happen out there. Of course, I'm more than relieved no tragedy did occur, yet somehow I feel at unease, perhaps...

Troll stared at that last sentence in his journal, unable to recall where his train of thought was heading. The words were clear, legible, understandable, yet when he attempted to colligate his thoughts into a coherent sentence, when he tried to recall what he was just thinking, all grew hazy.

Frustrated, Troll clasped the journal shut.

Star strolled out onto the porch, crossed her arms, and leaned against the railing. Hat slung low, she said "What's up?"

"Ye tell me," Troll replied, returning the journal to the confines of his cloak.

"Thinkin' about going down to the bar, maybe have a drink or two. You in?"

Smiling, he said, "Ye just love to impose yourself, don't ye?"

"Well, shoot, I just figured, if the Dog could do it, so can I." Smiling, she glanced up, 'though everything above the tip of her nose was hidden 'neath the brim of her hat.

"Why must ye constantly hide ye'r face from me? T'is quite beautiful, ye know. I would think ye'd want to flaunt such fabulous features."

"Wh...what?" Blushing, she turned slightly away from him.

"T'is only truth, I speak."

"Okay, you wanna talk about truth? Let's talk about how you're terrified of bats."

"Ha! I am not afraid. I just find them to be utterly repulsive--"

"You're afraid. Just admit it, Troll the magnificent is afraid of bats."

"Perchance ye are right." Sigh. "I _am_ magnificent."

Star scoffed and shook her head. "You know this is the great outdoors, right? Bats are everywhere. You're gonna have to get used to it eventually." Star tipped her hat, allowing Troll to see her face. She strode toward him, hands cocked on sashaying hips, she said, "Either that, or just get over it."

Byron lumbered out onto the porch. Squinting and holding his head, he grumbled, "What's all the racket?"

Troll replied, "We were thinking of perusing on down to Hawkins, care to join?"

"Oh, no, really, I still feel a bit ill from last night." His stomach gurgled as his face donned a sickly green-hue. Byron held his rumbling belly, eyes growing wide, cheeks puffed out as if about to spew chunks. Thank God, he did not.

Smiling, Troll asked, "My son, do ye know what the best tonic for a drunk-sick belly is?"

"No, what?"

Troll gazed upward, hands out in supplication. "Should I really tell him, oh Lord?"

"No," Star replied, "let me."

"Very well, my dear."

A smile slowly cracked across her firm veneer as she said, "Another beer."

****

Star sat at a table with Troll and Byron in Hawkins' bar; secluded in a corner table. The sheriff stood before them, a gun in each hand, both pointed at Star and Troll, respectively. Whatever the sheriff and the constable's intentions were when first entering the bar, surely, it was not supposed to go down like _this._

When Star and her friends first arrived, the tavern had been empty (except for Hawkins). But as the work day drew to a close, some of the laborers from the church site moseyed on over.

The sheriff burst through the double-swinging doors and marched up to the trio's table, arms swaying, his flushed face still riddled with cuts and bruises.

Wearing his rat-like grin, Withers strolled with his hands folded behind his back.

The sheriff quavered, "Ye'r mutt mutilated my boy!"

The bustling bar fell deathly silent.

Brow cocked, Troll asked, "Beg ye'r pardon?"

The sheriff blubbered, "My boy was playing with his friends when ye'r fucking mutt attacked them! He mutilated him, took his face."

Troll replied, "I assure ye, that while he may appear quite the unpleasant fellow, the Dog would never hurt a child."

Star never saw the Dog maliciously hurt anyone, but Baylon Wood, that was a whole 'nother box of crackers. Glaring, she leaned over the table, and said, "Listen close, Sheriff, I've bore witness to your son stomping chickens to death for _kicks_. He picks on damn near every child in town. If the Dog did _anything_ to your boy, I'm sure it was justified."

Fists balled, face flushed red, the sheriff trembled. His clenched teeth grinded like sand-paper polishing one of Roger's latest masterpieces.

For a moment, Star thought he'd lunge at her. And she was ready. But, he just buried his face into his meaty hands, crying all the louder.

Withers rested a hand on his shoulder. He stepped forward, scowling at Troll, he said, "I have also been informed by our good sheriff that just yesterday, ye'r woman there attacked him."

Troll replied, "As I understand it, her actions were purely out of self-defense. And another thing, if this happened yesterday, then why wait to bring it up _now_?"

Withers replied, "Well, I didn't want to ruin the mayor's fishing trip. He's quite fond of the lot of ye, and the only reason I bring it up at all is because ye'r woman took the sheriff's gun."

The sheriff blurted, "My beautiful Baylon!"

Troll asked Star, "Is that so?"

Star picked up her pack and rifled through it, retrieving the sheriff's pea-shooter. She tossed it on the table. The gun spun around on the beer-stained wood. Weary of being shot, Troll, Byron, and Withers all flinched (the sheriff still sobbed).

Star snorted, "Ain't loaded. Never was." She said to the sheriff, "Let that be a lesson to ya, never pull a gun on someone when it ain't even loaded."

Sniffling, he replied, "I'll remember that." He reached both hands behind his back, and drew the shooters tucked into his waist-band -- Star's shooters.

All gazes locked upon the two as the sheriff cocked Star's side-arms. Troll cocked an eyebrow. And Byron, well, he was so scared that he actually pissed himself.

Star asked, "Is this how you settle things here? Don't even give us a fightin' chance?"

Withers nodded at her, but said to Troll, "Ye'd do well to bridle that mouth of hers."

Smiling, Troll steepled his fingers, and scoffed, "I believe when faced with the barrel of a gun, even a woman is entitled to last words."

"Very well," Withers replied. He gestured for Star to continue.

"If'n ya really want to shoot me, you could at least challenge me to a duel." Star didn't want to duel. She _never_ wanted to do that again. Not after the tournament Shale _volunteered_ her for. But if there was another option, another way out of this, she didn't see it.

Withers asked Troll, "Does she really intend for our esteemed sheriff to fight the both of ye?"

Star replied, "No, just me."

****

Withers declared, "Rules are simple. Backs to ten paces, turn, and fire. Are we clear?"

Star grumbled, "Yeah."

"Aye," the sheriff replied.

Troll noticed the scarf tied smartly about Withers' hand. Was that why Withers kept his hands folded behind him back at the bar? Troll just thought he was being smug.

Damn near the entire town, gathered to bear witness (except of course the mayor, who rested comfortably in his mansion).

As if spending the entire day upon his knees (expected of a man of the cloth), Reverend Lowell hobbled toward the duelers, and gave each their last rights. Then Lowell nodded to Withers, signaling the go-ahead.

Withers passed out Star's loaded weapons, giving one to her and the other to the sheriff. He cried, "Duelers to the ready!"

Star and the sheriff approached, facing each other.

Star glowered at the sheriff. He responded by turning his back to her. She had no choice but to do the same.

Withers counted, "One...two...three..."

The sheriff cocked his pistol.

Star did like-wise.

"...four...five..."

The entire world seemed to fall silent in anticipation.

"...six...seven..."

"Oh, I can't look," Byron exclaimed morosely as he covered his eyes with his hands.

"...eight..."

Troll grabbed Byron by the forearm and made him lower his guard to watch the fight.

"...nine..."

The world stopped.

"...10!"

They turned, almost in unison. The sheriff fired first. Star rolled to the ground and out of the way, dodging the first bullet. Troll grimaced. From her position on the ground she would not easily dodge another. No way around it; she had to return fire. She hesitated. The sheriff fired again. Star lunged the other way. The bullet narrowly grazed the side of her waist. Instinct took over after that. She fired. Her aim was true. A small hole exploded squarely in the sheriff's chest. He flew backward. A pink mist wafted out of the wound before blood seeped out in tiny rivulets.

Star rolled to her feet, unloading the entire arsenal of bullets, as her other hand fanned the hammer. She was on a rampage.

Byron wet himself again, and fainted.

When the reports receded, Star sashayed toward the sheriff's corpse. She bent down, retrieved her other shooter, and said, "Dumb-ass."

"See that?" a man called from within the amassed crowd. "She killed him!"

"And their Dog mutilated his son!" another cried.

"They're ruining our town," yet another clamored from the huddled assembly.

"Let's get 'em!"

"Whoa, whoa," Troll said, hands out in concession. "Let's not do anything too hasty. What about turning the other cheek? Forgive and forget? Kill 'em with kindness?"

But the citizens would not be swayed by Troll's words, and they closed in on the two out-siders.

Star raised the shooter the sheriff had held, and fired into the air.

The townsfolk recoiled at the sudden noise.

"Halt!" Withers bellowed. "This man challenged her to a duel and lost. His death, while tragic, is hence justified. And no man or woman in _my_ town shall take up arms against them."

"But the boy," a citizen called, "Baylon--"

Withers replied, "Baylon will be fine. We shall bury the late Sheriff Wood this very eve. We will mourn his death today. Then tomorrow, during the festival of the fall, we shall celebrate his life. That is all."

After a moment's worth of hesitation, the crowd began to disperse; mumbling disquietly amongst themselves.

"Take heart," Withers said, strutting toward Troll and Star, "for ye did no wrong."

"Thank ye for that," Troll replied.

"Not at all, the mayor told me how ye saved his life today."

"T'was nothing." Troll glanced at the scarf wrapped around the constable's right hand. How and when had that happened?

Withers continued, "Even so, I know we haven't been on the best of feet since ye'r arrival, but I just wanted to extend my hand in friendship."

After a brief contemplative pause, Troll accepted.

Hands on hips, Star asked, "Is it true about Baylon? About the Dog?"

Addressing Troll, Withers replied, "I fear so. T'is true that I may have thwarted the town from riling against ye -- for now. But I fear that unless something is done, some sort of penalization due, then the town's folk shall not be sated."

"Very well," Troll said. "What do ye suggest?"

Grinning like a rodent, he replied, "Only justice, and nothing more. But firstly, we must round up everyone involved with this Baylon business and find out exactly what happened."

"I could not agree more."

"In the meantime, once again, ye'r woman's weapons must be relinquished."

Star snorted, "What! I don't think--"

Troll said, "Consider it done."

Star glared up at Troll 'neath the brim of her hat, hands cocked on her hips, and a snarl on her lips.

Withers held his hands out, ready to receive the weapons. For a minute, it didn't appear she would turn them over -- again. But she did.

Glaring at Troll, she snarled "That's the last time you let someone take those away from me." The she pivoted and stormed away.

Withers said to Troll, "Now, about ye'r dog."

"Ah, yes, I believe we shall find him at Tooker's barn. Then we'll get to the bottom of this."

"Very good." Withers snapped his fingers and Mort trotted over. "Grab a few men and go fetch their dog from Tooker's."

"Aye, sai," Mort replied. He bowed, turning to leave. "Uh, sai?"

"Yes, Mort."

"Where _is_ Tooker's?"

Wither's began, "Why, my dear, sweet, steward, it's right over--" He stopped, beady gaze bulging.

The three men turned, and peered in the direction of the barn. They saw no building, of course, only a pillar of black smoke rising listlessly in the air.

In almost the same pondering tone that Mort employed, Withers asked, "Where _is_ Tooker's?"

****

At sunset the town buried the late Sheriff Thurman Wood. Most of the citizens of Silverdale (Troll included), came to pay their respects. The ceremony took place in the cemetery, near Doc McCoy's house and both church sites. In a way, it made sense that they buried their dead near the doctor's and holy ground. Did the people of Silverdale put up markers for those who'd gone off to war, never to return?

Star did not attend the service, or the Dog. The constable's men still hadn't found him.

On top of that, not long after Star's duel, Sarah came rushing through the streets in a panic. "Anne, Anne! Has anyone seen Anne?"

Troll asked Byron to help Sarah look for the wayward girl. They did not find her.

And at that very moment, Sarah continued to search. But Byron had civil duties to attend to.

Lowell gave a nice enough sermon and as per usual, Byron assisted but addressed the public not. Perhaps, if he'd had a few drinks in him things would be otherwise.

Baylon stood in the front row. His face stitched and bandaged and the boy appeared heavily sedated (apparently McCoy was quite the prehensile physician, indeed). Baylon's slaughtered facial features were hidden by the heavy wrappings around his head. Said bandage had soaked through with streaks of crimson from the blood-seeping wounds. Such a dressing would need changing around-the-clock in order to avoid infection. Boy, oh boy, the Dog sure got him good.

Baylon's friends also attended, though they showed no sign of grievance toward either the dearly departed or his bastard boy. That is of course, except for Booth Wilkins, who stood next to Troll, holding his hand and weeping softly and steadily. All the while the two red-headed brothers glared spitefully at him. Booth, of course, didn't notice as he was too busy sobbing.

Troll's thoughts kept drifting to Baylon. He was an orphan now, scarred, scared, and alone. He'd lost everything and yet, seemed surprisingly stoic. Perhaps when the drugs wore off, and if his severed tear ducts would allow it, he'd cry his heart out. Perhaps.

_**_ * _*_

Anne followed the Dog ever since the incident at Tooker's. She'd catch up to him, and then he'd just run off again, leaving her in the dust, only to have her show up again later, as if they playing tag. But Dog wasn't playing anything, he wanted solitude. All day they did this mercurial merry-go-round.

Darkness had fallen before the Dog _finally_ lost her. He entered into a clearing where a small pond lurked. The very same pond where Troll gathered water for the church's mortar, and where the Dog had been drawn by Sarah's siren voice, only to have her scream at him. The water tonight, like any other time, looked quiet and stagnant. The brightness of the full moon cast off the pond's reflective surface.

Parched from running, the Dog bounded toward the bank. He crouched low, lapping up the cool water as tiny rivulets ran down his braided beard (though he no longer wore the bow). The surface ripples abated and he saw his face -- feral and monster-like. Angrily, he slashed away at the water, destroying the image. But the reflection did not fade, it mutated into horrid refractions of its former self, making it far more hideous. Roaring at the water, spitting and hissing, the Dog extracted his hunting knife from its leather sheath connected to a rope tied around his waist (and otherwise concealed within his baggy shirt) -- the only weapon not confiscated by Withers. The Dog slit a wrist in a downward motion before doing the same to the other. He howled, proclaiming his woe to the heavens. The blood streamed down his claws before slowing, then stopping. Veins and muscle healed. Skin regrew in seconds.

He roared at the darkness. Carelessly tossing the knife, the Dog flailed his arms and legs about in a tantrum for several minutes before collapsing upon his knees. Then he rocked back and forth as Star might.

"There ye are," Anne said after catching her breath, "boy, ye sure can run fast." She plodded toward the Dog. "Oh, puppy is sad." She frowned, bottom lip protruding. "Don't be sad, puppy." She smiled and knelt beside him. "He had it coming. Boy, that Baylon is some bad news all right. He sure is. There, there, puppy." She embraced him as tightly as she had that rainy day when they first became friends.

"Girl, where in the green-hell have _ye_ been?" Sarah's livid tone startled Anne but the Dog fluttered not. "Half the town's been looking for ye."

"I've been here with my puppy."

"I see," Sarah said, hands on her hips, "and it's lucky that I found ye instead of someone else, or they might try and kill that, that..."

"But he's just a puppy! Baylon had it coming, my puppy would _never_ hurt anybody, honest!"

Sarah shuffled toward her, and groaned, "How many times have I told ye? He's not your puppy!"

Brow wrinkled, Anne pouted, "Uh-huh."

Sarah rolled her eyes, hands on hips as she sighed in exasperation. "He's not even a puppy."

"He is so!"

"He's a man!"

"Nuh-uh. He's a puppy--"

Sarah thundered, "He is _not_!"

Anne recoiled, flinching, as if afraid of being struck. "Look," she whispered.

Sarah snarled, " _What_?"

"Look at his face."

Sarah crouched down by the Dog, still rocking away. She halted, peering at Anne in uncertainty.

Anne gestured for her to go on.

Dog didn't wear Roger's hat, didn't wear any hat. In fact, what remained of the accessory was nothing more than smoldering rubble.

Sarah leaned in closer, examining his face.

A wave of anxiety surged through the Dog, causing his hairs to stand on-end. He hadn't felt this nervous since he and Troll went witch-hunting deep within the nor'easter woods.

Sarah whispered, "My God, what are ye?"

"A puppy," Anne touted, jumping in place. "A sad, sad pu--"

"Quiet Anne," Sarah snapped. She turned back to the Dog.

"Wow," Anne said. She held a large hunting knife in her tiny hands. Rotating the blade, as the moon light danced merrily upon the serrated, blood-stained steel.

Sarah roared, "Annabelle Warwick! Put that down this very instant." Sarah snatched the blade away from her. "Girl, ye are in some kind of trouble."

With the two girls' backs turned, the Dog darted silently off into the brush. 'Though, as usual, he didn't go far.

"Sorry," Anne said, brow wrinkled, bottom lip protruding. She gazed up at Sarah with her big, brown doe-eyes, and said. "I love ye."

Sarah sighed, crossed her arms, and said, "Don't ye start with me, girl." She glanced at the spot the Dog had been. Her freckled, oval face grew slack, wide gaze searching the tree lines.

Perfect, she couldn't see him. Now maybe the Dog could finally be alone.

"C'mon," Sarah said, grabbing Anne by the arm, "let's get out of here."

****

Troll sat in the rocker on Reverend Lowell's porch, drawing reflectively from his pipe. More than enough moon-light to write in his journal by and surely this was a day worthy of documentation. But he needed to reflect before choosing what words to put down on paper. After all, words had a tendency to be misleading. What really happened at Tooker's? How come no one noticed the barn and half the high-grass fields burned to the ground until much later? Where had the Dog gone afterward? On top of that, what consequences might arise from Star killing the sheriff? Sure, the constable deemed such an action justified, but Troll didn't trust Withers -- not one bit.

These thoughts and questions plagued Troll as he drew another puff of smoke. They bedeviled him so much, that he almost didn't notice the rustling in the grass -- almost.

He said, "I was beginning to wonder if ye'd show yourself ever again."

Dog set at the top of the porch steps, resting on his haunches.

"I didn't know ye had a taste for wild-boy."

A glint of shame danced within the Dog's hazel-grey gape before casting his gaze downward, head lowered. He whined.

Troll sighed, and said, "I'm sorry my friend, I was just joshing thee. T'is probably not the best time for such." Troll ashed out his pipe, and continued, "Listen, I know what happened today is a direct result of what's been influencing the town. So, I hold no blame with thee. But in the mean-time, I think it best if ye kept out of sight."

The Dog's shoulders slouched, head bowed, as he slunk away.

"Wait," Troll said. "T'is one more piece of business we must discuss."

The Dog peered up at Troll. Head tilted. That usual questioning/feigning-understanding-look spangled his gaze. As if sensing what Troll was going to say, the Dog's eye-color changed from hazel-grey to a glimmering gold.

Troll leaned forward in the rocker. In barely a whisper, he said, "I must ask something of ye."

****

8

The morning of the festival of the fall seemed calm enough. People went about their daily routines as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Later in the day, the town square was being preparing for the night's festivities. Streamers were strung about as tables and chairs were set up. The aroma of fried vegetables and salty grease filled the air as the maiden at the shelter bustled away in the kitchens. Some of the older boys built a grand fire pit, and a grand pit they built, indeed. And while everyone toiled away, Troll and Anne strolled about the tall-grass, touring the scorched remains of Tooker's barn. Troll perambulated about, via his staff. Anne skipped along, holding his hand.

"Tell me, my dear, what really happened out here?"

"It burnt," she said, nodding.

"Aye, of course, but how did that occur?"

"I don't know. Puppy and I had a play date, but that mean ol' constable made me late. By the time I got here, the place was already on fire. It was pretty, but powerfully hot."

"What do ye mean, the constable made ye late?"

"He made me late, that's all."

Troll twirled his finger around the chain of his medallion, his thoughts turned to Star. Clearly, Anne didn't know much about what happened either. Or did she? He could hypnotize her, as he did with Roger and the mayor. But putting a child under could be dangerous. More to the point, what if it didn't even work? Hypnosis was only useful on the weak-minded, and surely, Anne was anything but.

"Hey, look!" Anne said, trotting toward a random spot in the tall-grass, and plucked something out of the weeds. "Look, it's Maddy!" Anne waved the doll in the air, hopping around, and smiling brightly. She stopped. Tilting her head as her brow wrinkled, bottom lip protruding. She brushed the jet-black hair away from her face, and said, "That's odd. Maddy shouldn't be out here. I remember..." Anne peered off into the distance. Her gaze glazed over, as if someplace else.

"What's that ye say?" Troll knelt via his staff.

Anne plodded toward Troll, and said, "I remember now. I was over by the chicken pens, dancing and count -- with Maddy. Sai Withers was there too, like he was waiting for me."

" _Was_ he waiting for ye?"

"Mhmm." She shrugged.

"That's all right, what happened next?"

"He said good morning, then I said good morning. Then he asked me where I was going. I told him I was going to play over by Tooker's. He asked me why, and I said, 'cause that's where Maddy wanted to go. And then he grabbed me, and I dropped Maddy. That's how come I remember, 'cause Maddy wasn't over here."

"She was back at the chicken pens."

"That's right, except Maddy isn't a she, silly, he's a he."

Bowing, Troll said, "My humblest of apologies, sai, Maddy."

Anne giggled, clutching the doll tightly to her chest as she swayed back and forth.

"Ye mentioned that the constable grabbed thee."

"He sure did."

"Do ye know why?"

"He, uh..." Anne's gaze dropped as she danced nervously in place, Maddy dangling from one hand. "He said..."

"T'is all right, my dear, ye can tell ye'r friend Troll."

Anne drew Maddy close to her ear, as if he whispered secrets to her. "I don't wanna talk about this no more," she said.

"Why not?"

"It scares Sarah."

"Did ye tell Sarah about this?"

"No. She was already pretty sore about me runnin' after the puppy."

"She didn't even try to ask ye what happened at the barn?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I tried to tell her, but she didn't want to talk about it, like she was afraid."

"Did she tell ye that, that she was afraid?"

"No."

"Then who told thee, was it Maddy?"

"No, silly-head." Anne giggled, twirling in place.

"I don't understand, then why do ye think she was afraid?"

"Well, she didn't really say that. She just pretended like she didn't remember about the barn burning down."

"Really?"

"Yup, really-really."

"I have just a couple more questions for thee, then we can return and help the others with the festival."

"Yeah!"

"Do ye remember a scarf being wrapped around Wither's right hand?"

"Yup, I sure do."

"Why did he have his hand wrapped, do ye know?"

Beaming, she clutched Maddy tightly to her breast, and giggled, "'Cause I bit him."

"Ye bit him?"

"Aye, like I said, he tried to grab me, so I bit him."

Troll laughed.

****

The fall festival was magnificent, grander than the welcome feast held on the trio's first night in Silverdale. Tables _full_ of roast chicken and goat permeated the air with a salty (and slightly garlicky), aroma. Five kinds of potatoes, cheeses, fresh fruits, vegetables, and deviled eggs, all elegantly spread out. And what celebration would be complete without libations?

Where to start?

Troll's stomach rumbled. Now he understood why the people consumed soup and cold sandwiches most of the time \-- they were stock-piling for special occasion.

A stage had been set up for music and dance, but lay barren. For, now -- the feast.

Troll, as per usual, sat at the mayor's table, along with all the other higher-ups. He had extended an invite direct from the mayor's mouth to Star's ear. "There be a place reserved for thee, if'n ye like," he told her.

"And what of the Dog?" she asked, hiding her face while'st twirling her fingers around the compass's chain.

"What of him?" He had not yet told her about his secret charge to the Dog. But then again, if he had, it wouldn't be a secret.

Star scoffed, "I'd rather hang out with Byron and the others."

When everyone filled their plates and found a chair, Mayor Godfrey clinked a spoon against his glass. "Attention." Cough. Wheeze. Wheeze. "May I have ye'r attention, please?" Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze.

The crowd chattered on.

Troll stood and bellowed, "All right, ye ornery bunch of church-building buzzards!"

The townsfolk cheered and raised their mugs salubriously in the air.

Palms out, Troll called, "Settle down now, the mayor has something he'd like to say."

The citizens quieted.

"Aye, thank ye," Godfrey said to Troll before turning to address the town. "T'is been another long year, and another hearty harvest."

Withers said, "Here, here."

Sweating profusely, the mayor's face turned as red as a tomato. "Now," wheeze, "Reverend Lowell," wheeze. Gasp. Wheeze. "The prayer."

Lowell said, "With pleasure."

Godfrey collapsed into his seat.

Troll rested a hand on the mayor's shoulder, and whispered, "Are ye all right?"

The mayor waved him off.

Lowell continued, "Dear brothers and sisters, please, bow ye'r heads. Dear God, we thank ye for the fine food and fellowship ye've gracefully bestowed upon us. Amen."

"Amen," the crowd touted in unison.

Hmm, fine grace indeed, Troll thought, smirking.

"Now, let us eat," Lowell proclaimed.

The people cheered and applauded, before digging in, and prattling away.

"If it pleases ye," Troll said to his party, "might I make I small request?"

Phlegm rattling, Mayor Godfrey inquired, "To what would ye ask?"

Troll continued, "While I can appreciate the fact that ye already have a parson who has given grace, yet I would be most remised if I did not extend my own thanks to the Lord, Almighty. Bear in mind, I wouldn't dare to ask the attention of the entire town. I was just wondering if ye, at this table, here, would kindly refrain from eating until I have said a few words. I swear to keep it brief."

Wheezing, Godfrey replied, "Very well, that is, if no one has any objections."

None did. Or, at least, they didn't voice it.

Lowell glared at Troll.

His teeth grinded so hard Troll thought they would break.

Godfrey gestured for Troll to continue.

Troll said, "Thank ye." He bowed his head and folded his hands. The others did the same. "Dear Lord, thank ye so much for everything. We have faced many hardships but with ye'r grace and guidance, we have persevered. Our thoughts and prayers go out to those who have trudged off to war, or tragically killed by some sort of freak farm accident. We thank ye for this food and bless it to the health and nourishment of our bodies. In ye'r name we pray. Ame -- Ah!" A sharp object penetrated Troll's side, digging into his flesh. He flailed his arms, hitting something solid, yet giving. He opened his eyes and peered down.

Booth Wilkins lay sprawled on the ground next to where Troll sat. His short blond-hair all a-tussle. He glared up at Troll with hatred spangling his eyes, brow furrowed. A small, pointy stick curled in one hand. Teeth barred, he snarled, and leapt to his feet. He charged at Troll, stabbing him in the guts again.

Troll hollered in pain. He could have easily defended himself, but he was so taken back by the sudden trespass. The nerve. He thought the boy admired him. Had he really been nothing more than an assassin in waiting?

The occupants of the other tables ceased what they were doing in order to get an eye-full of the action unfolding.

Troll wailed, "Stop!"

Booth stuck him again.

Withers cried, "Someone, restrain him."

Mort scurried up and grabbed Booth by both arms, dragging him away.

"T'is all right," Withers called to the crowd. "Go back to ye'r gayety. Nothing more to see here."

Holding pressure on the wounds, Troll grunted. Splotches filled his vision as searing bolts of pain coursed throughout his body. A cold sweat broke out over his skin.

People gasped, murmured, and scurried about. The attack caused quite a stir, indeed.

Lowell and Doc McCoy rushed to Troll's aid.

"C'mon," McCoy said. His unkempt, black beard and hair swayed in the breeze. His breath stank of booze and rotting teeth. Eyes glazed, he slurred, "Le's get ye back t'my office."

Troll grunted, "T'is not necessary, I assure thee." The excruciation in his abdomen spiked with every uttered syllable.

"Nonsense, get'cha back to my place." McCoy weaved in inebriation.

"I agree," Lowell said. "T'is better to be safe, then sorrowful."

Feeling slightly faint, Troll allowed the two men to lead him off. As they strained to hoist the gentle giant to his feet, Lowell leaned over and whispered, "I warned ye there'd be consequences."

****

When Star noticed that someone was _trying_ to harm Troll, a surge of angry-energy coursed through her. For some inexplicable reason, she saw Mikhail's face. That shocked expression, seconds before she bashed his skull in. She couldn't quite remember what he looked like, or her parents, for that matter. But just then, she was unable see anything _but_ those wide emerald-eyes. Narrow jaw slack, mouth open, before exhaling his final breath. Blood, brain, and gore stained his brown face and curly blond-hair. Trembling, he had gazed up at her. _Why?_

Star bolted up from her seat, hands dropping toward her hips. Would she ever feel the assurance of iron and wood 'round there again?

"Go back to ye'r gayety," Withers said. His hands held above the crowd, as if to abate their collective unease. "Nothing more to see here."

Troll was led away by Lowell and Doc McCoy.

_You missed, Star._ A thousand echoes whispered within her brains. _Star, you missed._

"Ms. Star," Byron said. Brow wrinkled, bushy red-beard hitched tightly up his face in a grimace. "Be ye well, Ms. Star?"

Star pulled her thoughts away from a life-long-past, and gazed at her friends.

Byron, Sarah, and Anne, all peered at her in uncertainty.

"I'm sorry," Star said. "I don't know what came over me."

Gape averted, Sarah brushed away her dark red-hair, and said, "T'is all right. T'is only natural ye should be concerned about ye'r love. I only wish--"

Star stood, slammed her fists on the table, and said, "He's not _my love_!"

Her friends (including the others occupying the crowded table), flinched.

Suddenly, Star was a lost child again. Suddenly, she felt like she had when first emerging from the deserts -- from captivity. Strangers had peered at her -- almost mockingly -- almost cackling. They had pointed and laughed, and then...and then...

"Besides," Star cleared her throat, swept back her hair, sat down, and said, "I'm sure he's just fine."

_***_ *

After being stabbed thrice, nine stitches was all Troll suffered, the worst of which being barely a moderate flesh wound. He'd been very lucky indeed. But then again, Troll knew this not a _real_ attempt at his life, if it had, who in their right mind would send a child? No, this was yet another warning. A rather stern one, but a warning none-the-less. Just what exactly _was_ going on here? Troll thought Withers the one behind it all. But now...

He prayed, dear, Lord, I thank thee the cuts not deep. And even though Troll felt the evening spoiled, the rest of the celebration went on without a hitch.

When the festival ended, Star and Byron set off, side-by-side. She hadn't so much as said a word or even glanced at Troll since the attack. How odd. What had he done to provoke such a cold shoulder? The jealous twinge Troll felt stung worse than his wounds. He wanted to be the one to escort Star home. The entire day, he envisioned the two strolling home, arm-in-arm, laughing and carrying on after a glorious festival. And when they reached the reverend's steps, perchance he would dare to steal a moon-lit kiss.

Now Troll stood alone in the center of town as the party patrons staggered home.

A cold wind arose.

The mayor waddled over, puffy and wheezing. "Be thee all right, my friend?"

"Yes, quite," Troll said, still holding his stomach. He put his arm around the mayor and began to walk and talk. "Any word from the boy, Booth?"

"Not a whisper." Sigh. "He refuses to speak to anyone."

"And where is he now?"

"At the shelter, with the rest of the children."

"If it's all right with ye, I'd like the opportunity to question the boy myself."

Godfrey's bushy eyebrows shot up into half-moons. He arched back, and said, "Why, sai, I don't think it custom--"

"If ye'r concerned about the boy's safety, I would gladly allow chaperon. After all, I would much like to know what provoked such heinousness."

"Very well, I shall consider it. In the meantime, shall we talk of who shall replace ye as foreman while ye'r on the mend?"

"Not at all." Troll snorted. "T'is only flesh wounds. I highly doubt they shall impede my services. While we're on the subject, I have good news."

"Say true?" The mayor wheezed excitedly.

Troll slowed his pace in order to avoid another fishing trip incident. "Aye, should everything be on schedule, the church shall be completed within two days, possibly even tomorrow should the weather permit."

"Excellent!" The mayor clasped Troll on the shoulder. "And, uh..." he continued, leaning in and lowering his voice. Troll hunched down so they could converse as privately as possible. "And what of ye'r Dog?"

"He is gone," Troll answered without hesitation, "he no longer travels in our company."

"Oh, I see."

"Aye, he is a dangerous burden to bear, so he has gone back into the forest from whence he came."

"Do ye not fear reprisal from this?"

"No. The Dog may not be able to live harmoniously in any civil society, of that I am certain. But he has not the complexity for vengeance."

"Even so," Cough. Cough. Hack. "I believe it sensible to post watch in any case."

"That's a good idea."

"Pardon me, sais," Sarah said.

"Oh, Ms. Danvers," the mayor said, offering a polite little bow. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Just as others had a tendency to do when around the behemoth, she all but dismissed the mayor (but not before giving him an acknowledging curtsy), turned to Troll, and asked, "Do ye speak the truth? Is the Dog really gone?"

"Say true, my dear. Why do ye ask?"

"I inquire because of Anne." Gaze averted, hands folded penitently at her waist, she said, "For, they have become great friends, she calls him her puppy."

Troll nodded. "I have so been informed."

"I always told her he'd not stay forever, yet still, she will be most disheartened when she hears of this."

"Aye." Troll nodded again, and gently placed a massive hand on her slender shoulder. "But fret not, for she is young and will recover from her loss. In the meantime, I suggest not telling her until the 'morrow."

"I agree," the mayor clapped merrily, "marvelous!"

"Thank ye, sai." Sarah bowed cordially to the both of them and was about to leave when she extracted something out of her sleeve. "I suppose this should belong to ye, now." She handed Troll the Dog's hunting knife (along with the sheath, which the Dog had also angrily discarded).

"Aye, I believe so." Troll casually accepted the weapon.

She shrugged, and then returned to her shanty next to the shelter.

Beaming, the mayor said, "What a grand constable ye would be."

"Since ye mention such, I fear fair Withers may be up to something most foul," Troll said as they continued their leisurely stroll.

"Why, these are serious accusations, my friend."

"Aye, I know. Yet, I can't help but believe that which I feel to be true."

"Of what do ye speak?"

Troll ran a hand down his scar and beard, and said, "I'm not certain. But with gathering word of the king's armies steadily approaching, I merely suggest watchfulness and nothing more."

"Ye are most wise indeed, my friend." The mayor staggered a little.

Troll grabbed the ailing patriarch and allowed him to lean upon him just as Troll relied upon his staff. "God is wise," he said. " _I_ am suspicious."

****

The shelter had always been dark at night, but tonight, it seemed almost too dark to bear. The lanterns were lit, yet even their comforting glow was far too drab to pierce the ubiquitously black emptiness. The shelter's newest occupant, Baylon Wood, tossed and turned restlessly in his cot, plagued by the day's still lingering demons. From somewhere off in the depths of slumber a familiar voice called out to him over and over again.

"Baylon, where are ye? Where are ye, Baylon? I can't find ye."

Baylon awoke with a start. "Pa? Is that ye? Are ye there?"

Nothing. No one. Everyone was fast asleep. He sat up in his cot. His face still mutilated. His pa still dead.

A far-off voice whispered, "Baylon, where are ye? Where are ye, Baylon? I can't find ye."

"Who's there?"

A child stirred in the cot next to him.

The whispering continued, "Baylon, come here, my son. I can't see ye."

Baylon quavered, "Who is there? Answer me!"

A slight rapping arose at the window, as if someone were tapping a finger listlessly against the glass.

"Come here, my son," the voice called.

Trembling, Baylon eased out of bed, and inched toward a nearby window.

"Hurry, Baylon," the voice beseeched, "before it's too late."

Peering out, Baylon saw nothing. Then, as if materializing out of the fog, the late Sheriff Wood appeared.

"Pa!" Baylon cried. "Pa, is it really ye?"

"Who's there?"

"It's me, Pa! It's Baylon! It's ye'r boy!"

"Baylon, is it really ye? Show me ye'r face son, take off those wrappings and show me ye'r handsome face."

Baylon raised a quivering hand to his bandages.

"Come now, son. Show me ye'r face. It's all right."

Baylon unrolled the blood-soaked gauze, letting them fall carelessly to the ground.

"That's it, that's my boy."

Baylon hesitated before removing the last bit of bandage.

"Go on now, it's okay."

So, Baylon did. With his one good eye, he saw the gruesome features now adorning his once princely face in the glass's reflective surface. Blubbering loudly, Baylon recoiled in horror at the very site of himself. And still, no one else awoke.

"There's my boy," the phantom smiled, "my beautiful, beautiful Baylon." The apparition made a gesture with his thumb. And on the other side of the glass (Baylon's side), a small breeze arose and dried the boy's tears.

He cried, "I've missed ye, Pa, I've missed ye so much."

"I've missed ye too, son, but now we can be together again."

"Forever?"

"Forever."

Baylon sniffled and sobbed.

Smiling, the apparition said, "Now quickly, go to the door, and let me in."

****

Something was wrong. Something was _definitely_ wrong.

Star was in the desert again. Though, just how she got there was beyond her understanding. _Where am I?_ But she knew the answer to that -- the fields. Well, the place the fields _used_ to be -- before Furion buried everything. _What am I doing here?_ But that was obvious -- she _deserved_ to be here.

A dry wind arose. Specks of dust and stone pelted her sweat-stained clothes and skin. The shackle rattled as she shielded her eyes with the back of a hand. The wind picked up, stirring a wave of sand that plowed into Star, driving her backward into the ground. When the breeze died down, she opened her eyes. Her father hovered over her as she lay weary in the surmounting desert sands. She couldn't see his face, too blurry. He desperately tried to tell her something of vital importance, something she couldn't make out. But, she was way too hot, way too tired, and her brain simply refused to articulate what her father was saying.

Frustrated, he began to shake Star forcibly by her lithe shoulders. He was trying to warn her of something. But what? He shook her harder, repeating the same two words over and over again. What were they? What did they mean? As the haze of sleep drifted docilely off her like rain drops, those two words began to materialize. He was telling her to wake up.

"Wake up," Troll said. "Star, ye must wake up."
"Huh?" Star wiped the sweat and sleep from her eyes. "Troll, what's going on? I was having this dream--"

"Never mind that now." His gape grew dark and wild, a drained and pallid look hung ornately upon his face, as if about to sick-up. "Get up! Get up _now_."

Star sat bolt-right. She read the urgency in his face and she accepted it as an old friend. She was ready. "What's wrong?"

Troll gulped. A sense of terror lurked behind his gaze. He ran a hand down his scar and beard, and said, "Something sinister."

****

Anne awoke slowly; shivering and trembling. She pulled the covers tight, but they held no protection from the invasive frigidness that crept over her as she slept. Her fingers searched blindly for Maddy. Nothing. Becoming fully aware of her surroundings, she sat bolt-right. She glanced over to Baylon's cot. Empty. The boy was gone. And something about that vacant bed sent shivers down her spine, making her feel far colder than the encompassing chill. Her gaze darted cursorily about, searching cot after cot. No sign of Baylon. Peering down the hall, she spotted an eerie, pale-blue light spilling onto the floor. The winds blew, swirling leaves about and she knew where the frigid chill emanated from. Apparently the shelter's doors were wide open, though they should've been shut.

Anne shivered, desperately wanting the doors closed. But, she feared what she might find over there. She wished someone else would awaken from the invading cold, get up, and close the doors for her. But, that wouldn't happen, for everyone else slumbered away in ignorant bliss. She had a bad feeling about this, and possessed half-enough sense to trust her instincts -- at least, so she thought. She glanced around the room again, debating on whether to call-out for someone. Though, for some odd reason, she feared her own voice over the terrifying possibilities awaiting her down the hall. What should she do? Distraught, she lay back down and drew the covers tightly about her. She shut her eyes and prayed that sleep overtake her soon.

After a few minutes, she heard a noise over by the open shelter doors, something like a muffled choking.

"Baylon," she whispered, "Baylon, is that ye?" She sat up again, her blanket wrapped around her like a shroud as she trembled from a horrid amalgamation of cold and fear. For the utmost of brevity, she felt as though a mangled hand of some unimaginable monster might creep out from underneath her cot and snatch her away into the darkness forever. Though, as she warily arose to inspect the noise, this happened not.

"Baylon, is that ye?" she called out in a whisper. Her voice held a fanatical air. "Ye better not be fooling around, Baylon." She tip-toed down the hall, and toward the open shelter doors. As she rounded the corner she found that Baylon was most certainly not fooling around.

For there, at the doorway was Baylon. And in front of him, loomed a tall, amorphous, shadowy figure. The shadow's cracked and ragged claws were wrapped around Baylon's face and head, suspending the boy several feet off the ground. Baylon hung there, motionless. His face held up to the phantom's, as if the two embraced within the deepest of kisses.

Anne quavered, "Ba...Baylon..."

The figure released the boy. Baylon's lifeless body fell to the floor in a sickening heap. His uncovered face, while already gruesome, was twisted in agonizing horror.

Anne wanted to run, to scream, anything. But she couldn't. She stood frozen in a dream from which she could not flee.

The figure stood upright, towering over her, eyes blazing gold and burning with a hatred visible even beneath its hood.

"Pu...puppy?"

The figure growled lowly.

****

The commotion Troll and Star made was more than enough to rouse the entire household. As they burst through the screen door and onto the reverend's porch, he could already see it. Off toward the center of town, flames reached high into the night's sky.

Troll uttered, "Dear, Lord, I pray thee not too late." Then he dashed toward the disaster.

By the time they got there, half the town gathered to watch in horror as the shelter burned to the ground.

Star screamed, "The children!"

Not even breaking stride, Troll hurtled himself into the shelter doors, bolted shut. The wooden barricade held not against Troll's massive weight. McCoy and Hawkins followed Troll in to rescue the wee-ones. Once inside, all was silent. No screams, no cries for help -- nothing.

Troll nearly tripped over the corpse of a young boy with a horridly mutilated face. All the children (or what appeared to be all of them), were dead, brutally slaughtered by some kind of animal. Body parts strewn all over. Half-eaten corpses littered the blood-soaked wooden flooring. Blood, gut, and gore congealed from the fire's heat. Burning rafters fell from the thick, black smoke swooping about the ceiling. Flames crept along the floor-boards and walls. The place embodied the very definition of Hell.

Troll muttered, "My God, what has happened?"

Hawkins puked.

"Come on," McCoy called. "Let's get out of here! Whole place is coming down!"

Troll grabbed Hawkins by the scruff of his shirt, and dragged him outside.

"Well?" Star asked Troll as he came rushing out with McCoy and Hawkins.

Sarah knelt on the ground, head in her hands as Byron held her.

Star iterated, "Where are all the children?"

Troll tried to say something, but the words escaped him.

"Troll, what happened to the--?"

Ka-boom

The nearly-completed church exploded into a massive ball of flame. The shock wave knocked everyone on their asses. Except for Troll, who saw the fiery burst and dove to the ground. Also the first to revive from the blast, Troll arose, shaking and peering around. People were scattered about, some crawled, others motionless. Troll's ears rang at a head-splitting decibel. The wind knocked out of him. Every fiber of his being vibrated from the after-shock. Fiery timber cascaded down from the skies. Troll scrambled to his feet and raced toward his friends. They all huddled together on the ground, still shaking off the concussive impact. Troll collected the lot of them within his massive arms, and forced them away from the scene. Instinctually, Star pulled away. She snarled, roaring something. But he couldn't hear it. A brick ensconced in fire landed smartly where she'd _just_ been standing.

Fire and brimstone continued to fall for several minutes. People scurried about, screaming. Yet amazingly enough, none of the denizens of Silverdale actually tried to flee the disaster area. And after the first initial chaotic moments passed, and the heavens ceased raining fire, and after the deafening buzz in Troll's ears began to recede, Withers rode up on his steed. Frankly, Troll was a bit surprised that the forceful detonating hadn't frightened the gelding.

"Gather ye'r arms, men!" Withers shrieked. He pointed a long, boney finger at Troll, and said, "Find that mutt of theirs!"

"Come on," Byron said, leading Troll and Star away from the devastation, "t'isn't safe here."

****

The Dog awoke upon a random, outstretched branch. A familiar fragrance wrestled his nostrils. An aroma he hadn't sampled in centuries, yet one he would never forget -- charred flesh and gun powder. The Dog was about to investigate the source, when an earth-rattling explosion rocketed across the land. The Dog, with superior hearing, had been deafened into shock.

He sat there for what seemed like a long time, perched watchfully on an outstretched limb, peering toward the direction of town.

The ringing in his ears began to abate, and that was when he heard it -- the dogs -- barking and baying away. Next, came the plodding of hooves and snorting of horses. After that, the shouts and voices of angry men. How did they find him so fast? A wave of anxiety coursed through the Dog. His muscles coiled, preparing to flee. But then he remembered what Troll had asked. So, the Dog plopped down on his haunches (still on the branch), and waited for the cavalry. He didn't even put up a fight as the men lobbed sticks and rocks at the clearly visible Dog. He hadn't bothered to hide. He scanned the faces of the men who came for his blood -- Withers, Wilcox, Barley, McClure, and many others. Men he'd known and worked alongside during his brief stay here in Silverdale. He whined lowly, his head hung even lower. He didn't know what he'd done, or more to the point what the town _thought_ he did. But it mattered not, for the Dog always knew (even since first entering the town), that one day this would happen.

So there he sat, whimpering and not even attempting to avoid the weapons the amassed crowed hurtled at him.

Otis McClure hurled a large club-like branch, and roared, "Die! Ye cursed mutt _die_!"

The blunt object hit the Dog square across the forehead, causing him to fall limply to the ground in a loud thud. Someone bashed the Dog in the face again. The last thing he remembered before unconsciousness overtook him was Withers standing over him, smiling wickedly.

****

Troll readied his staff over the slowly opening trap door, prepared to bash the bloody hell out of the intruder.

"Don't," Byron said. "Please don't hit me."

"Thank God, man!" Troll opened the door and offered Byron his hand. The brother accepted, and Troll pulled him up into the attic. "It's about time! Ye've been gone so long."

After Byron hurriedly hid the duo away in the reverend's attic, he headed back toward the center of town to gather information.

Troll spent his time praying over the poor souls of the children and those who died in the explosion. Now he'd never get a chance to find out why Booth attacked him.

Star sat quietly in the corner, twirling the compass chain, face hidden. After a long time, she peered at Troll, and asked, "Where's Dog?"

"What?"

"I was just thinking, I haven't seen Dog around since the _last_ fire."

"To what are ye implying?"

"I'm not implying nothing." She stood, arms crossed, 'though still twirling her fingers around the golden chain. "I asked a question. Where's Dog?"

Troll lumbered to his feet via his staff. Grunting and holding his wounds, he hobbled toward her, and said, "I know'th not. I haven't seen him either. But don't worry, the Dog would never perform such travesties. Ye have my word." He rested a hand on her shoulder.

Star (arms crossed), drew away from him, hiding her face 'neath the brim of her hat.

"My dear, what have I done to receive such coldness from ye? Do ye not know how I feel about thee?"

"I know, but look..." She sighed, uncrossed her arms, and gazed into his eyes. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

Before Troll could answer, the creaking of the hidden staircase echoed throughout the dank attic. Now, the three stood there in triangular formation, as uncertainty rested its massive behind upon Troll's once-capable shoulders.

Star asked, "So what happened out there?"

"Well, the shelter has been burned to the ground." Byron's voice broke. Tears streamed down his bearded face as his lips quivered. "All the children within its walls are dead."

Troll asked, "And the church?"

"It blew up," Byron said, gulping after a long steadying pause. "There is nothing left."

Troll asked, "How did such a thing occur?"

"Upon searching for the Dog, Jeffrey Rush found the remains of large kegs with some sort of black residue that smelled of pepper smeared within them."

Troll and Star exchanged a sudden look of disquiet.

Byron continued, "The town recalls Troll using such a foreign concoction before, and now the town is convinced the Dog behind the slaughter at the shelter while'st holding the two of ye accountable as accessories to treason."

Another long pause elapsed as Star and Troll stood there in shock. After an immeasurable amount of time, Star finally spoke, 'though Troll remained quiet and contemplative.

"Did they catch him?" Star asked, arms crossed, face hidden.

"Aye," Byron said. He kneaded his hands in his robe, trembling. His gaze darted about the room, biting his lip as if he had more to say.

Troll said, "What? What is it, man, quick, out with it."

"I don't quite know how to put this,"

"I find bluntly usually to be the best!" Troll blurted.

Byron cleared his throat, and said, "The town is having an emergency meeting in ten minutes. All in town are called to attend."

Troll wasn't much of a betting man, never really mixed too well with his unwavering faith. But if he had been one, he'd let it all ride on torture of the Dog -- followed by execution.

"It's not what you're thinking," Star said, hands on cocked hips as she gazed into his eyes.

He ran a hand down his scar and beard, and asked, "How's that?" Did she really, in fact, know what he was thinking?

She continued, "They already know what they're gonna do about the Dog, of that much you were right. That meeting they're gonna have...it's to decide what they're gonna do with _us_."

****

Barley and McClure drug a netted Dog into the jailhouse. The Dog did not reject, refute, or fight.

The newly appointed Sheriff McClure unlocked a cell (one of only two), while Barley removed the net. Still, the Dog sat there. Barley kicked the Dog in the back. He yelped and fell into the cell. McClure kicked the Dog a few times in the stomach. The Dog curled up in a ball. McClure spat on him, and then closed and locked the cell. The Dog waited until the two men left and closed the jailhouse door behind them. But, the Dog didn't hear the knocking of the bolt into the lock. The Dog peered up, surveying his surroundings.

The jailhouse was small, nothing more than a shack, really. The musky aroma of rust and rotting wood hung heavy in the stagnant air. The other cell, occupied by a young man in dirty, tattered clothes, and red 'neckerchief tied around his neck, stared questioningly at the Dog with green-eyes behind strands of greasy dirty-blond hair.

The man strode toward the Dog. He pressed his handsome, stubbly face up against the bars, and asked, "What they get you for?" He smiled, teeth surprisingly white compared to his gritty façade.

The Dog sniffed at the man, his salty aroma seemed vaguely familiar.

The man's brow cocked, jaw slack. He hung his arms through the bars, and drawled, "Yeah, well, anyway, my name's Jethro Allen Jessip, at ye'r service. Most folk's just call me 'Ro, I reckon you can do the same."

The Dog just lay there, staring impassively at 'Ro.

"Ain't much of a talker, huh? Well, that's all right, I can talk 'nough for the both of us." 'Ro ambled back to his cot, sat down, and produced a harmonica from underneath the gunny sack he used for a pillow. He blew softly into the instrument a few times, searching for just the right pitch, and sang:

Had me a tough time, I cannot refute

Had me some hard times, got a rotten root

Fell in with a bad crowd, lived and died by the gun

Now I'm in the man's jail house with a harmonica I hid up my bum...

The Dog crawled underneath his cot, curled up in a fetal position, and whined lowly.

_***_ *

Withers roared, "Nefarious n'ere-do-wells, the lot of them! I move we burn them at the stake!" The assembly responded with thunderous approval.

Byron insisted that Troll and Star flee town immediately, and simply leave the Dog to his no-doubt indescribably, painful death. To this Troll vehemently refused. If Byron was scared for them then, he'd surely have pissed his pantaloons had he known the duo secretly followed him to the town meeting. The two waited until all assembled and the doors closed before creeping toward an opened window.

"Enough!" The mayor pounded his gavel upon the alter where, were this any other day, Lowell would be standing and preaching. Withers, on the other hand, ominously perused the aisles, gaining momentum as he ranted on. All the while, the mayor's gavel still called for command of the situation. "We are civilized people!" Wheeze. "We are not about to execute everyone associated with the trespasser!" Cough. Cough. Wheeze. Wheeze. "If we did that, then we'd have to kill young Ms. Warwick as well."

Withers boomed, "May I remind ye that the daughter Warwick is dead, along with all the other children who sought refuge at the shelter!"

The mayor hung his puffy red face in shame.

The constable's rant continued to build catastrophic momentum. "And why not kill them all? They were probably all in on it, conspirers!"

"Hogwash!" the mayor roared. He pounded the gavel as fiercely as the whooping coughs he endured.

"They are spies of the king!" Withers declared, and at this, the crowd (including Withers), crossed themselves (which of course, was intended to ward off evil spirits). "Sent to pave way for invasion! The day of reckoning is coming!"

The crowd roared again.

"Silence!" Cough. Wheeze. Hack. Godfrey continued slamming his gavel, calling for order. "Silence, for I am still mayor and there is no evidence of that which ye so boldly suggest." But the mayor's supplications were drowned out by random argumentative babble.

Pumping a fist wildly in the air, Withers continued, "We open our hearts and homes to these strangers, and this is how they repay our succor? They are traitors of peace and God, and must die as such!"

"No! Ye can't!" Byron shrieked. He pressed his hands over his mouth, eyes wide.

The meeting hall fell silent and all gazes rested upon the good brother.

"Why, Brother Byron." Reverend Lowell shuffled toward the brother. "Please tell me that thou hast not sided with the interlopers, surely ye know where their allegiance lies." Lowell grinned, and steepled his fingers.

Gape averted, Byron muttered, "I...I...haven't..."

Unheard by all but Star, Troll whispered, "Come on, kid, ye can do it." Though, deep down in his heart of hearts, the good brother must have heard it.

"I have sided with no one but the Lord our God!" Byron roared in a voice never before used. His back straightened, head held high, finger sticking up as he made his proclamation. "My allegiance sworn to the cloth and no other."

"That a boy," Troll whispered.

Byron called, "And besides, ye can't kill them."

"And just why is that?" Lowell asked, leering at Byron.

"Because they have already fled town," Byron replied.

The congregation responded with more baffled ramblings. The mayor pounded his gavel, once again attempting to regain order.

Starting a little rant of his own, Byron continued, "T'is true, they fled Silverdale immediately, running with their tails betwixt their legs. Shamed they were!" The crowd's approval began to sway away from Withers and toward him.

Troll was proud, damned proud. Though, now was not the time to revel in pride. "Come on," he whispered to Star. "Let's go."

****

That night after the town meeting (but wisely before it ended), Star and Troll returned to the reverend's. They didn't hide in the attic or even go inside. Instead, they lingered out in the tall-grass. The two sat there in silence. After a while, Byron, Roger, and Reverend Lowell returned. Many hours after the town fell asleep, Star crept back into the house to wake Byron.

Byron nearly screamed when she shook him. Star pressed a finger against his pursed lips. He smiled brightly, not just with his bearded face, but also with his eyes. Byron nearly bolted out of bed in excitement. Star held her palms out, halting him. She pressed a finger against her own lips, and then motioned for him to follow her.

Now they stood outside in the open. Sure, the town posted sentries, though soldiers they were not, and simply could not stay awake ('though that didn't stop the good brother from continually peering over his shoulder nervously, as if any minute the three would be found out).

In a rushed whisper, Byron said, "Why, my friends, I thought ye'd be on ye'r way."

"Not without the Dog," Troll replied. He ran a hand down his scar and scratched his beard.

"B...but, sai." Byron trembled, gaze growing dark and wide as he kneaded his hands in his nightgown. "What sai Withers has planned--"

"Ye needn't worry about that." Troll rested his hands on Byron's shoulders. He gazed into Byron's green-eyes, smiled, and said, "For, I have made a preparation or two, as well."

Arms crossed, foot tapping, Star asked, "Really? Would you mind explaining it to _me_?"

"All in due time," Troll replied. He turned back to Byron, and said, "If ye need us, we shall be waiting just outside the southern part of town. The Dog's incarceration aside, I feel our business here in Silverdale not yet finished."

Star asked, "Another twinklin?"

"Not quite, my dear," he replied.

Once again, Star couldn't shake the feeling there was something he wasn't telling her. Just what was Troll up to? Did he really know what was going on? If he did, he was playing it fairly tight to the vest.

****

The Dog was back on the Reverend's porch, after the little incident at Tooker's.

Troll sat in Roger's favorite rocker, smoking a pipe. "I must ask something of ye, something I have no business asking."

Voices, footsteps, the jingling of keys. The Dog awoke, drawn back to the here-and-now, finding himself curled up underneath a cot that stank of vomit, urine, and blood.

Sunlight shone through the barred windows and cascaded slender shadows about the cold, earthen floor; reminding the Dog, that he was in fact, imprisoned.

Glancing toward the next cell, he found 'Ro snoring away in ignorant bliss.

The door opened and in waltzed Constable Withers, followed by Barley and McClure.

"Rise, Dog," the constable commanded.

'Ro awoke in a start, peering at the men.

Yet, the Dog responded not.

"I said, rise."

Still nothing.

"Just as well." Withers chuckled, it sounded like a choking weasel. He scowled, exposing rodent-like teeth, and said, "I just thought ye should know that the town demands ye'r blood by way of public re-purification. So, by the powers invested in me as constable of Silverdale, I decree that ye are to be executed at three of the clock this very day." Withers leaned in closer to the bars of the Dog's cell before lowering his voice menacingly. "I was going to divulge to ye the details, but..." he paused for obvious dramatic effect, "but I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise now, would I?" His smile widened, creating creases throughout his narrow face. "Nothing to say, have ye? Very well." His voice seemed disturbingly calm despite all the anger and hate the Dog sensed boiling beneath the constable's skin. "See ya at 3."

'Ro exploded from his cot, and called, "Hey!" He pressed his face against the bars, and said, "If he don't eat his last meal, I'll take it."

Withers snarled, "What?"

"I mean look at him, all comatose and what-not. Probably don't even know what the hell you're saying to him. He's a simpleton. And I ain't been fed last two days."

"And kill that wretch as well," the constable said casually to his men before leaning in toward Jethro, "we'll make a day of it." Withers smiled wickedly before he and his entourage took their leave.

'Ro turned to the Dog, eyes wide, jaw open, and asked, "Damn, boy, how many goats did _you_ steal? Wait, don't tell me, ya didn't steal 'em -- ya fucked 'em, right?"

****

Troll and Star sat in the woods, exactly where Troll told Byron they'd be. A rustling sounded in the bushes. The duo glanced over in unison.

"Didn't mean to startle ye," Byron said, smiling awkwardly. He emerged from the thicket, holding something behind his back.

Troll asked, "What have ye got there?"

"They're ye'r weapons," he said, handing over the sundries.

Troll handed the armaments to Star. They were mostly hers anyway.

"And this," Byron said. He reached into his robe, and produced the Dog's hat. "Poor ol' Roger is so ashamed that he cannot wear it, and asked me to dispose of it." His gaze downcast, face shriveled up as if about to erupt in tears.

"These aren't ours," Star said, holding a pea-shooter in each hand (which of course _were_ the sheriff's).

"Well, they were with the others Mort confiscated and collected, just setting there in a drawer in the late Sheriff Wood's house. I snuck in there during the morning's wee hours and got them back for ye. I figured ye'd need 'em."

"Rightly so," Troll replied.

"I just figured them ye'rs, considering the extent of Ms. Star's arms," Byron said, nodding toward her.

She bent over in front of Troll and flaunting her long legs and luscious behind, restoring _her_ dagger and pea-shooter within their respective boots.

Probably doing it just to toy with him.

As if sensing his thoughts, Star slowly stood, and stretched out her long, slender body. With the brim of her hat concealing her eyes, she smiled coyly at Troll.

For a moment the two just stood there in silence, gazing at each other before remembering Byron standing there. The brother's head downcast, biting his lip, and kneading his hands in his clothes. Not quite the specimen of confidence Troll witnessed hours earlier.

"What is it?" Star asked before Troll could.

Byron replied, "Ms. Danvers requests a word with ye."

"Fine," Troll said, "when we return to town--"

"That won't be necessary." Byron shuffled nervously in place. He peered directly into Troll's eyes. At least some semblance of Byron's newfound spine still remained intact.

"And why is that?" Troll asked, already knowing the answer.

"Because...she's here now, she followed me here."

Troll hobbled toward where Sarah crouched hidden in the bushes.

"I tried to stop her but--"

"T'is all right," Troll said, "what can I do for ye, my child?"

Sarah stepped forward, tear streaked and trembling, gaze averted, she quavered, "I, I need..."

"Go on," Troll said.

"I visited the Dog last night while everyone else was at the town meeting." Her gape glued to the ground as she kneaded her hands nervously amidst her blouse. "He didn't do it," she blurted, "I know how that must sound, but I believe it."

"It's okay," Star said, "we believe him innocent as well."

Sarah said, "Please, ye must do something, I couldn't bear it if... oh God!" Her knees failed her and she would've fallen had Troll not caught her. "If only Anne were here..." She sobbed uncontrollably.

"Take heart, child," Troll said while'st stroking her long red-hair, "for we shall be there."

****

9

The Dog (alongside 'Ro), were shackled by his hands and feet, connected to a wooden cart without seats, forced to stand the whole way. The disgruntled citizens of Silverdale followed the little parade that stretched from the jail to the center of town; excited to witness the execution of the infidels. Not only had they come to watch, but to participate, brandishing eggs, stones, tomatoes, and whatever else they could carry in multitudes, and not spoiled food either, but good produce.

Someone spit in 'Ro's face and the snotty residue ran down his cheek. Squinting and scrunching against the public's bombardments, He said to the Dog, "Thanks for this, no really. Before we die I just want ya to know how much I appreciate ya dragging me into this, thank you very fucking much."

The Dog stood there, head down.

The cart rolled over a slight dip, causing the carriage and its occupants to sway like stalks of tall-grass.

People booed and jeered, encircling the small horse-drawn cart (which had been constructed earlier that day).

A stone struck the Dog in the side of his head. 'Ro laughed. Another stone pelted the Dog's temple, and then an egg. As they ventured further into the center of town, the Dog glanced upward. He could see the very thing he'd been dreading since first hearing of his re-purification -- the gallows.

"Shit," 'Ro mumbled. Then, as if God hisself had willed it, a glob of feces plastered the side of his face. And not human feces either, but chicken scat. 'Ro glared at the Dog, as if he had thrown it.

The Dog's attention stayed fixed upon the splintery wood beneath his bare feet.

"Fuckers," 'Ro mumbled as the shit ran down his face and pooled around the corner of his mouth.

They were beaned with so much vegetation and feces that purplish soars welled upon their exposed flesh. And when the cart finally pulled up to the stage (set up in the middle of the town square), two hooded guards marched onto the carriage and unlatched the Dog. They escorted the Dog on stage and re-shackled him to a bolt in the middle of the platform in front of the gallows.

They completely ignored 'Ro. For now.

All eyes fell upon the trembling Dog. Just what sort of horrors did Withers have planned? The Dog scanned the crowd -- so many angry faces. Where was Troll? Where was Star?

The assembly settled as Constable Withers took to the stage, and said, "People of Silverdale, we will now begin. Please, if any of ye have small children in the crowd, now is the time to turn them away."

The denizens gazed around, dumbly shrugging.

Withers roared, "Oh, that's right, there are no children anymore." Scowling, arms swinging, he strode toward the Dog. He reared back and punched the Dog in the stomach.

" _Oooof,_ " The wind knocked out of him, Dog crumbled to his knees in a heap.

Withers shrieked, "Without progeny, our town shall die! Because of ye, _we_ shall all die!" Spittle flew. His face red, veins throbbing in his temples. "And so, it has been decreed that ye also must die. But, not before ye are re-purified."

The crowd roared approvingly.

****

Unnoticed, Troll and Star stood about fifty paces behind the assembled mass. Troll drew his cloak about him to avoid identification. Star wore her poncho, hat slung low over her face.

"And now," Withers continued, "let the re-purification commence."

And once again the crowd responded with thunderous approval.

Two hooded mean approached the Dog. Each man brandished a small sickle, which they used to relieve the Dog of all his clothing but his undergarments. (This, they had to put on him earlier as the Dog had no need for underwear.) Small and skinny, the Dog appeared as no more than a hairy, bearded child in front of his captors.

First came the whipping. Withers put all his strength into it. The leathery tail sliced neat, little slivers of red into the Dog's flesh. The cracking of the whip echoed over the roaring crowd, yet still the Dog howled not.

Withers snarled, exposing his rodent-like teeth, and said, "Bring me the cat-o'-nine tails!"

Yet still, no reaction from the Dog. His gaze stayed glued to the wooden platform's floor.

Withers unleashed all that he had, opening the Dog's back in long bloody open sores.

Jaw quivering, the Dog squinted. Still, he did not cry-out.

Withers dropped his arm mid-air, right before whipping the Dog again. His breathing heavy, shoulders hunched, a thin line of perspiration dampened his brow.

Star whispered, "How much longer are we gonna let this go on for?"

Troll replied, "Patience, for everything shall unfold as is God's intention."

Withers motioned to one of the hooded guardsmen. He trotted over and handed Withers the _other_ cat-of-nine-tails. Unlike its predecessor, this one had rusty barbs fashioned into its leathery lengths. Withers took a deep breath, and continued.

What was left of the Dog's mangled back tore away in long, meaty strips. And still he did not cry-out for mercy. His downcast face remained motionless, as if he no longer felt the lashes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Troll saw something (or more to the point, _someone_ ), perched atop the town meeting hall. Troll whipped his head in the direction of the figure. Nothing.

Withers snarled at the Dog, "Do ye not call-out for mercy? Do ye not wish for reconciliation?" Frustrated, he whipped the Dog forcibly in the back of his knees. Chunks of flesh splayed so far they almost rained down upon the people. "Very well." Withers smiled. He turned to the crowd, and said, "Shall we continue?"

The people roared in thunderous approval.

A hooded guard brought Withers a long, knarred staff.

The staff wasn't nearly as grand as Troll's, 'though he surmised it would no-doubt create the desired effect the constable sought.

Withers bashed the Dog squarely in his face. A loud _crack_ , as Withers hit one out of the park.

The Dog's head whipped back so fast it was a wonder it didn't snap right off of his spine. He went down hard. Blood seeped from his mouth and nose. The Dog's jaw fractured and his nose broke into a crooked rendition of its former self. But he would not stay down. Quivering, he arose wearily to his feet.

Withers checked the cur in the gut with the end of the staff.

The Dog's legs buckled, but he managed to hold his footing. Withers bashed him in the skull again. This time no cracking sounded, but rather a muffled thudding noise. The Dog fell. Blood poured out of his mouth along with a few emancipated teeth. Gore flowed from his nose, ears, and eyes. Pools of dark crimson seeped out of several places around the Dog's face and head. Yet, still the Dog struggled to his feet.

Grimacing, Withers bashed the Dog in the head over and over again, trying in vain to drive the mutt to the ground so hard that the cur wouldn't even think about rising -- ever.

But even after his skull split open and the blood poured profusely down his face, the Dog still tried to regain his feet, and every time he did, Withers thrashed him in the head again.

Troll murmured, "Stay down, Dog, just stay down."

Star clutched his hand, squeezing tightly.

But stay down the Dog would not, or could not, of this Troll was not entirely sure. Not only that, but he suspected that at any moment now, the Dog's lacerated back would begin to heal right before his tormentor's beady, little eyes. But it didn't. And once again, out of the corner of his eye, a shadowy figure crowned the roof of the town meeting hall. The phantom mimicked Withers' staff-wielding actions, as if controlling the constable, just as the puppeteer controlled the puppet. Yet when Troll turned in the direction of his peripherals, the figure simply dissipated, as if rolling fog.

As the Dog was once again being cracked in the cranium, the thunder rolled ominously and the skies began to drizzle.

In his proud-voice, Byron cried, "Stop! Stop the execution! We must not proceed in the rain."

The crowd fell in hushed silence, wondering what to do next.

Beak-like nose wagging, Lowell proclaimed, "But the infidel must die!"

Byron replied, "But Reverend Lowell, it rains. Our religion, nay, our _God_ forbids it."

For the utmost of brevity, it seemed as though Byron's infallible logic would hold sway.

Out of his peripherals, Troll watched the shadowy figure wave a long, mangled talon through the air, instantly halting the rains.

Sarah said to Byron, "Nice try." She had no one else to stand by and comfort her.

"See!" Withers roared. "The rains cease. God _wants_ this beast dead, dead and rotting in the lowest, fiery pit of Hell!"

The crowd could not agree more.

Withers thrust out his arms, and said, "Let us continue with the re-purification!"

The two hooded guards brought a large crucifix-like object onto the stage. Just a few feet behind where the Dog cowered lay a small trap-door. Withers opened it, and the men set the cross in the hole, and placed it up-right.

"Are we done here?" Star asked Troll. "Have you seen enough? Let's end this before it goes any further."

Troll squeezed her hand.

A guard unshackled the Dog, while the other placed a noose around the Dog's neck. The two men dragged the cur backward, hoisted him up, and positioned his appendages along the x-like beams. That accomplished, they then drove long rusty spikes through the Dog's wrists and ankles, securing him there, spread eagle. The Dog didn't wail, but he made a sharp, arching motion each time a spike hammered home. Withers then fastened smaller nooses around each wrist and ankle. Withers gave the go ahead to another masked man (who stood before a crank).

The idea was simple. Basically, the four small nooses were to pull the Dog, as if being drawn and quartered, except this was worse. For, the Dog would not be torn apart, not while nailed to the wooden apparatus supporting him. After several minutes of slowly stretching out the Dog, the flesh around the spikes began to split. Blood poured like rain. The Dog was ripped free from his bonds, hands and feet tore in twain. Bone, blood, and tendon splayed out upon the stage in sickening chunks. The Dog fell to the stage, landing hard on his knees. The Dog did not try to rise, he no longer could. He lay there in a motionless heap.

Byron gagged as Sarah held him tightly.

Troll started to feel a bit queasy, as well.

Circling the Dog, Withers said, "Rise Dog. Rise like the insolent cur ye are, and receive ye'r due and proper."

Nothing.

Withers grimaced, and said, "Oh, bloody hell! Let's just get on with it."

Via his peripherals, Troll witnessed the apparition make a come-hither motion.

Down on stage, Withers gestured for the guards to collect 'Ro.

'Ro said, "Now, hey guys, wait a second--"

A blow to the jaw silenced him.

The Dog gagged as he was drug backward by the noose around his neck. His bare heels dug into the splintery wood, shredding down to the bone.

The guards ordered 'Ro to stand on a stool. They tried to make the Dog do the same, but he couldn't. He staggered briefly upon his knees before collapsing to the ground.

The crowd (except for Byron and Sarah), pointed and laughed.

"For God's sake," Withers hissed, "just hoist him up."

They guards grabbed the Dog by his thighs, propped him up, and shortened the noose to a more desirable length.

Withers said, "Dog, for crimes against humanity, we hereby declare that thou art to be strung from the neck until ye expire. Has the guilty anything to say before the sentence is carried out?"

The Dog gazed upward, head rocking. After a long moment (and through a shattered jaw), he released a blood-curdling bay. From across town, the hounds heard and howled back, as if sharing in the Dog's misery.

The people (Dog's tormentors included), drew back in silence.

Sarah sobbed uncontrollably in Byron's arms.

Star whispered, "Now?"

"Almost," Troll replied. A wave of anxiety coursed through him.

Withers moved on to the next prisoner, and said, "Jethro Allan Jessip, for crimes against humanity, we hereby declare that thou art to be strung from the neck until ye expire. Has the guilty anything to say before the sentence is carried out?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling wryly, "I do." He paused for obvious theatrical effect. "Okay, stop me if y'all heard this one. So, a priest and a pig farmer walk into a bar--"

Withers hissed, "Execute them!"

'Ro's last words were cut short as a hangman kicked the stool out beneath his feet.

The two guards holding the Dog dropped him.

They hung. Their tongues fell listlessly out of their mouths. Their eyes rolled up in the back of their heads, twitching and a-fidgeting as their skin turned from peach to blue to purple.

Star asked, "Now?"

"No."

Gaze wide, lips quivering, Star peered up at Troll, and said, "Look, if you're planning to do something, the time is _now_."

"My dear, we are doing more than ye know."

"What? But you said--"

"I said we would be here in attendance, nothing more."

She snarled, "But, he didn't do it!"

"I know, Myriam, I know."

The two prisoner's kicked wildly in the air.

The people cheered all the louder.

Star reached for her shooters. Troll grabbed her firmly by her arms, restraining her just as the noose cut off the Dog's breath. She cried, "What are you doing? Let me go!" Her pleas were drowned out by the roaring crowd.

****

Star struggled to break free when she saw it. A posse of five riders raced toward the back of the stage. Clouds of dust billowed up behind the galloping steeds. The riders wore heavy range coats. Neckerchief-covered faces and wide-brimmed range hats hung low to distort their features. From almost a hundred-feet away (and on horseback), the lead rider drew, aimed, and fired.

Withers, the crowd -- everyone, recoiled in a start.

The noose detached in a frayed spiral only inches from the top of Jethro's skull.

Good shot. At least _someone_ was taking action. Was this what Troll had been waiting for? Had he set this up? If so, when? She glanced up at Troll, finding he still held her.

Troll's gaze grew wide, mouth gapping.

Jethro plummeted to the stage, gasping for breath.

In sheer panic, the people of Silverdale screamed, running this way and that; trampling each other as they tried to evade the wild gunmen.

"Get them!" Withers shrieked at no one in particular. "Get them all! None shall escape!"

A gunman leapt from his steed. He landed hard upon the stage, and rolled to his feet.

Withers screamed, fleeing in terror.

The gunman strode toward Jethro and helped him up. The posse covered them, firing wildly into the air and galloping around.

"Need a lift, pretty lady?"

Still in Troll's arms, Star pivoted.

A handsome, young man in denim sat tall upon a salt-and-peppered mare. He looked familiar.

Troll said, "You!"

"That's right," he said, smiling brightly, "Alistair James Jessip, at ye'r service."

Star returned the outlaw's brilliant smile.

Alistair nodded toward the mob coming their way. "Well, need a lift?"

Star glanced back at the crowd rushing head long at them, and they weren't just scared. They were angry. Their collective eyes narrowed, teeth barred, hands curled into claws, it reminded Star of the Dog. "We gotta go back," she said to Troll.

"No time."

"What--"

Troll grabbed her, and placed her in the saddle behind Alistair.

She asked, "But what about the Dog?"

"Go, take her!" Troll said, smacking the steed in the rear. "Yah!"

Pissed, she reached for a shooter, meaning to put it to the back of Alistair's head and demand he go back. But Star hadn't ridden a horse in a _long_ time. No matter how good a shot she was, she just couldn't grasp hold of the handle.

Alistair reared his horse, and shouted to the rest of his posse, "Hey, y'all comin' or what?"

Star roared over the mob, "My friends too!"

Alistair said, "Sorry, pretty lady, but--"

A pistol cocked at the back of his head. As his posse approached, Alistair whistled and a rider trotted toward them. He nodded toward Troll, and said, "Get her friend."

"Can't," the rider said after sizing up Troll, "he won't fit."

"Then ye can ride with one of _ye'r_ friends." Troll grabbed the rider by the arm and pulled him from his steed. The stomping citizens closed in on them. Troll mounted the man's mare as the outlaw hitched a ride from a fellow member of the gang. Then and only then did Star re-holster her side arm.

Star said, "But the Dog--"

"No time," Troll bellowed. "Let's go. Yah! Yah! Yah!"

****

Star was waiting for Troll when he rode into the clearing.

Arms crossed, foot tapping, she asked, "Why didn't you go back for Dog?"

Troll replied, "As I said, my dear, there simply wasn't time."

After literally leaving the Dog hanging, Troll followed the gang west, through an open and un-guarded gate, and out of town. They galloped on through the woods to a small clearing where a simple campsite was forged.

Troll dismounted, and handed the reins back to their owner, a pear-shaped fellow with spectacles and brown straw-like hair. Troll felt Star's gaze burning into the back of his neck as he hobbled past her and toward the gang. No doubt she had many questions for him, but Troll had a quandary or two of his own.

A tall, sandy-haired woman grabbed Jethro by the scruff of his shirt and littered his face with kisses.

Alistair said, "Whoa there, little brother, that's my woman." Smiling, he removed his hat, and combed a hand through his shaggy, dark-brown hair.

She wiped her thin, chapped lips, and said, "Sorry, Ally. But, I thought we'd never see 'Ro again. I'm just so happy!" The sandy-haired woman ambled toward Ally and threw her arms around him.

Alistair (a.k.a., Ally), tossed his brother a canteen.

"Thanks," 'Ro said with a slight nod.

"Don't mention it," Ally replied, nodding back.

'Ro drank deeply, droplets ran down his scraggily beard.

Ally turned to Troll and Star, and said, "Meet the gang. That there's my little brother, 'Ro, and my wife Sandy. And I believe ya already met big Zeke there."

Zeke was a big burly man. A dopey, gummy grin plastered his round face. A shuck of greyish hair sprouted out of the top of his egg-like head. Once upon a time, this man had drawn a shotgun upon the Dog and Troll. The very same shotgun Star now wore across her back (along with her knapsack, of course).

"Oh, yeah." Star smirked as Zeke smiled dumbly at her. "I remember."

"How do they know Zeke and Sandy?" 'Ro asked, gulping for air.

"Long story," Ally replied.

'Ro nodded, emptying the rest of the canteen over his sweat mangled hair. He held out the container, and said, "More please."

Sandy trotted toward a shabby tent to fetch another. A rustling sounded within before a haggardly, thin, and greying old man (aided by Sandy), hobbled out.

"What, ya too good to say hello to ye'r ol' man?" he asked, leaning on Sandy's trim shoulders.

Embracing the old man, 'Ro said, "Shit, I just figured ye'd already be dead 'fore I ever got free, old man."

The old man hugged back. He pulled open Jethro's collar to inspect the rope marks burned in his neck. Smiling, he lightly patted 'Ro's cheek.

Ally continued, "Oh, where are my manners? That there's Hickey," he said, pointing to a tall muscular man. His head wasn't as round as Zeke's, but close. "That's Roy." Ally gestured to a tall, lean drink of water with a square jaw and handlebar mustache. Ally motioned toward the pear-shaped man with glasses, and said, "And that's Paulie."

Each dirt-smeared outlaw offered a cordial tip of the hat at the sound of his name.

Via the aid of his staff, Troll bowed, and said, "Pleasure. For those of ye who don't know me, I am Troll. And this here is the lovely Ms. Myriam Star."

Star glared at Troll, arms crossed, a snarl on her oval face.

Scratching his round jaw, Hickey asked, "So, what next, boss?"

The old man said to Ally, "Yeah, _boss_ , now that ye done saved ye'r l'il brother 'n all."

Smiling handsomely, 'Ro jested, "Took y'all long enough."

The old man continued, "The boys wanna know what's next."

Ally sighed, and said, "We get as far away from here as possible, as fast as possible."

"Why the rush," 'Ro asked through gulps of water.

He replied, "King's army a few days west."

In unison, Troll and Star said, "What!"

Zeke nodded, and said, "It's true. Saw 'em 'bout half a week ago. Right over there." The outlaw pointed to some trees.

Troll asked, "Really? Right over there, ye say?"

Ally said, "Well, in that direction, anyway. Couple miles out, where the trees end, there's a huge cliff, dropping down about a hundred-feet or so, then there ain't nothing but desert for as far as the eye can see."

Nodding, Zeke displayed his gummy smile, and said, "Yup, there they was, just a settin' out in plain sight, plain as day I say."

Star said, "A half a week is more than enough time for them to get here. Are they not advancing?"

Sandy brushed away the wavy hair from her blue-eyes, and said, "They were camped when we saw 'em, honey. They should've made it to town and back again by now. I reckon they're waitin' for something."

Troll asked, "What?"

Star sneered, "Probably reinforcements, take the entire town in a matter of minutes."

Ally combed his fingers through his hair, and said, "Well, I should think they got more than enough of 'em for that. And one other thing, they got a Hellion with 'em. The king's second born, Faust or Faustian, something like that."

Star grumbled, "Furion." She bit her lip as rage sweltered behind her eyes.

Ally replied, "Yeah, I reckon that'd be the one."

'Ro asked, "So what's ye'r plan?"

"We go east, staying north towards the mountains," he replied.

"Sounds good." 'Ro asked Troll and Star, "Y'all care to tag along?"

And at the same time, Troll said yes while Star said no.

"Yes?" Her face boiled red with rage. She clenched her teeth so tight that if she bit down any harder, they'd probably shatter in her mouth. "So that's it?"

The Jessip gang receded into the deciduous background, leaving the two to talk.

"Are we just gonna give up?"

Troll replied, "We have to cut our losses and retreat for reinforcements."

"We gotta stay."

"Why? Ye were already to leave, and now ye want to stay. Is it because ye'r nemesis now comes to ye'r doorstep before ever ye ready to engage him?"

No response.

"I thought ye wanted to free ye'r people?"

She grumbled, "I do."

"And to avenge your family."

"Yeah."

"And to kill Furion?"

"You fucking know it."

"And so ye will, I assure ye. But not here, not now. Ye rush after ye'r vengeance so blindly that ye do not see the truth."

Arms crossed, she glared at him, and asked, "And just what truth might _that_ be?"

"That we can't win here, _you_ can't win here. Ye face one Hellion, an entire army, and what remains of the town of Silverdale. All of them will be against ye, a thousand to just one."

"What do you mean, just one?"

Troll sighed deeply, and said, "The path of vendetta is one that I cannot embark upon, if ye choose to advance down it, than ye will go alone."

Star's gaze grew wide, jaw agape, so angry she actually trembled. "Dog would--"

"Dog would what? Even if he were here, so what? Do ye really think the two of ye stand a chance against an entire army? And to tell thee the truth, I'm not entirely certain the Dog ever believed in this prophecy of ye'rs. I know, I never did."

Star's jaw dropped lower, gape shimmering with tears. Her back and shoulders hunched, as if the wind just knocked out of her. She opened her mouth to say something, but didn't. Her bottom lip quivered. Narrowed gaze searching his, she uttered, "You bastard." Then she pivoted, and stormed off away.

****

Star sat Indian-style upon a fallen tree in the middle of the woods. Perhaps, the very same tree the Dog had once found a butterfly on, oh so long ago. She tried to meditate, but found it impossible to keep her mind clear. _It's over._ She couldn't help but think over and over again. _It's really over, before we even started, the prophecy has fallen apart, and it's all because of me. I've failed._ She reached into her knapsack and dug around until she retrieved a small book with leather bindings, full of blank pages. The one Troll gave her. The one she now vowed to never write in just to spite that braggart of a bastard. Yet, with all that happened to her as a child, all she endured in order to became the young, furious woman she was today, and how, out of sheer dumb-luck she managed to stumble upon whom she felt heart and soul were the prophets. How they bonded and formed a trinity of mental links, and how it all fell apart in her hands before ever she could return to Krin. Now, it seemed as though they'd never even been a real trio at all, that Star wasn't really one of _them._ And point in fact -- she wasn't. Had she ever really been more to them than a guide? Did Troll ever really care for her, at all? Surely not. If Troll could just leave his longest and dearest friend hanging then what would he do to _her_? She seemed so sure, so close, and yet -- somehow...somewhere...

She twirled the book adroitly within her diligent fingers, flipping it this way and that as she ruffled carelessly through the blank, yellowish pages. True, she swore never to use it, but how could she _not_ tell her tale. She fancied writing, starting from the beginning. But, if all were truly over, then who'd care to read such memoirs? If she'd failed, then what would be the point?

Deciding there'd certainly be no point, she slid the book back into her sack. Back beneath the extra rounds for her shooters (besides of course for her bandoliers, which she now resumed wearing), under the slingshot and steel bearings. Way past the herbs and medicines she'd collected over the years, and back to its rightful place at the bottom of the knapsack.

****

"So this is it," Ally said, strolling toward Troll. "Sure ya don't want to come with?"

"Aye."

"Hey, bro," 'Ro called from his mount, "let's roll."

Ally held out his hand in friendship. Even back when they first met, guns drawn n' all, Troll still surmised this would inevitably be the outcome between himself and the outlaws. For, it was far better to make a friend out of a stranger than an enemy (especially when the odds were six to three).

Smiling, Ally said, "Until next time."

Smiling in turn, Troll replied, "Indeed. Be safe and go in peace, my friends!"

The outlaws all waved their respective goodbyes.

Sandy rode up to her husband. He hopped up in the saddle, taking his place on the steed behind his woman. Ally smiled at Troll again, before his wife kicked their steed into action. And until another tale for another time, the Jessips rode off into the sun.

Troll sat Indian-style on the ground, staring off into the distance as he waited for Star's return. Dusk had nearly fallen by the time she trudged out of the forestry.

She asked, "Where are the Jessips?"

"Gone, but ye already knew that, didn't ye?" Via the aid of his staff, he rose to address her with propriety.

"Surprised ya didn't run off with them after leaving the Dog to die."

"There's something I haven't told ye, I asked the Dog to do this."

"What?" Her brow furrowed, but not in anger.

"I must regret, that while I knew something nefarious was happening in Silverdale, I was not able to figure out what, or our purpose here, ain't it true, Lord? Whether ye believe it or not, God told me this would happen, that the people would come for the Dog. 'Though I knew not when or why. So, I asked the Dog to let whatever was going to happen to him, happen."

"What?" She stopped twirling her chain, eyes wide, jaw slack.

"I told the Dog that I had no right to ask this of him--"

"You're damn right!"

"And that he could refuse such a charge, but he did not."

"So, you just left him there to die, while we watched? Oh, God, you just stood there, made us watch as they...as they..."

"He isn't dead, ye know."

"What?"

"When we first met, I told ye about how the Dog and I first met and how we got in a bit of a scuffle. What I did not tell ye was that, if not for the Dog's uncanny ability to heal himself, he would have been dead long before ever ye encountered us."

Star rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, "What are you talking about?"

"Ye see, when the Dog and I first battled, I impaled the cur on the branch of a fallen tree, unintentionally, of course. Moments later, he arose, his gaping wound healing right before mine eyes. He attacked me, giving me this," he tapped his scar. "Then I buried my foil up to the hilt into the Dog's chest. Once again, he healed moments later without so much as a scratch."

Star crossed her arms, took a step toward Troll, and asked, "Are you gonna tell me what the hell you're talking about, or not?"

"What I'm talking about, Myriam, is that I couldn't kill the Dog, and frankly, I don't believe anyone else can either."

"Are you fucking crazy? I saw him hanging there, Troll. I fucking _saw_ him!"

"And no-doubt, soon after our departure, he healed right before the constable's beady, little eyes. Naturally, Withers would be flabbergasted, he wouldn't want anyone else to know the Dog was still alive, and thusly would have the cur transported to a more secure location. Thusly, leaving us with a man on the inside while'st we stand here chatting."

"Wait, are telling me that you actually planned this?"

Smiling, he replied, "Naturally."

She snorted, "Okay, let's just say I believe any of this, are you saying we go back for him? What about all that crap about cutting our losses and heading for the hills?"

"Purely for the benefit of the Jessips. Just because we encountered them before, doesn't mean I exactly trust them. Should they get caught by the king or Furion, and tortured, I would prefer they not know our precise location."

"So then...all that stuff you said before--"

"Merely a ploy, my dear."

"So, that stuff you said about not believing the prophecy, that wasn't true either, right?"

"Unfortunately, that part _was_ true. No, I did not believe this prophecy when we first met. But, after all we've endured together, all that has been happening here in Silverdale and all that has been trying to drive us apart, I now know that what ye proclaim is true. There is a king. He _is_ here. And we _must_ stop him. We just happened to stumble upon this little coupe about to take place. I told ye there was a reason we were here."

Star reared back, hands on hips, and asked, "When the hell were you gonna tell me this -- any of this?"

"I apologize for playing things so tightly to me vest, but ye must believe that I didn't tell ye any of this because at the time, I felt it was the right thing to do. It's what God was _telling_ me to do."

"Is there anything else you haven't told me?"

"Yes." After a long pause, he said, "Against all my better judgment, I have fallen in love with thee, Myriam. Y'er beauty haunts me and I cannot envision another day on this earth without ye. Even if ye are so emotionally damaged that ye could never possibly love me back--"

Star leapt into his arms, wrapped hers around him, and kissed him for the utmost of brevity before pushing away and smacking him across the face -- _hard_.

"I probably deserved that."

"You're damn right you did. And if we're gonna do this, go against the king, be together -- whatever, you can't keep things from me _ever_ again, okay?"

"As ye wish."

Star gazed into his eyes, smiled, and said, "Now, let's go get Dog."

****

10

The Dog, in fact, did not die. Throughout all the years he'd lived and all that happened to him, the Dog had never even come close to death. He'd simply lost consciousness, blacking out, only to wake later with a pounding headache, but otherwise unscathed. To him it seemed only minutes. But, he'd actually been out for about five hours. This time, the Dog found himself in a dank and windowless shack. The floor littered with straw. In the far corner, a small, wood-burning stove illuminated the interior walls in an orangish glow. The scent of Earth and decay so prevalent, the Dog could actually taste it, like rotten fruit.

A heavy shackle chained to a plank-fissured wall latched snuggly around his neck. Four men, whom the cur had never seen, stood before him. They all wore regular farmer's clothes. They smelled vaguely familiar, but more to the point, they smelled -- off. Suddenly, it all came back to him with frightening clarity: The death of the children, the explosion of the church, his re-purification prior to his "execution" -- all of it. But, just how did he get _here_? That was the one thing he just couldn't remember, try as he might.

"Look at dat," said one of the men. He gawked at the Dog with a toothless grin. "T'aint a scratch upon him."

"That's impossible," spat another. This man had olive-colored skin and short, curly black-hair.

The Dog lunged, teeth barred -- _URPK._ The metal collar around his neck yanked him backward.

Jaw slack, double-chins jiggling, the first man, said, "G'awd damn!"

A third man ran a hand through his short red-hair, and said, "It's like he didn't even feel it."

The Dog hacked brusquely, dropped low to the ground, and lunged again -- _ULP-KR-PHF._ Once again, the Dog jerked forcibly backward.

"He's gonna learn though," said the olive-colored man. He turned toward the red-head, and said, "Go on, Louis, give him a taste of that iron."

Louis grabbed a glowing, hot branding-iron. He stood there a moment before the still lunging Dog. He hesitated.

The Dog pounced again. The collar dug deeper into his flesh.

"Go'on, now," the first man said, running a hand through his shoulder-length thinning hair.

"Shut up, Smithy!" Louis shut his eyes, freckled cheeks puffed. He blindly jabbed at the Dog with the hot poker.

Un-intimidated, the Dog lurched forward. The searing iron-rod dug into his abdomen. The Dog howled. The collar choked him, sinking deeper into his lacerated neck. His head snapped backward as his feet gave-way beneath him.

The men pointed and laughed.

On all fours, the Dog staggered back into the corner. The smoking, gaping wounds in his gut healed within seconds.

"What the _hell_!" Louis's green-gape grew wide, jaw slack. He took a few warbling paces backward.

Mouths ajar, the other three men gawked at the Dog.

The Dog pounced again, choking himself as the iron collar 'round his neck scraped deeper into his raw and exposed skin -- _ULPK- PHR-ACK-ACK._

Louis's brows wrinkled, face snarled in confusion as he peered at the rod in his hand. He thrust the branding-iron back into the stove, fetching an axe leaning in the corner. He strutted toward the Dog.

The Dog lunged again.

Louis raised the axe over his head.

The Dog scurried back into the corner, dug clawed hands and feet into the earth for leverage, and sprung violently forward.

Louis steadied himself, ready to strike.

Rrr-URLK-ACK-ACK.

When the Dog leapt again, Louis was ready for him, bringing the blade smartly down into the Dog's spine. A sickening thud filled the shed.

_Rrr -- URP-CK-AUULLLLPP._ The Dog yelped. He collapsed to the ground like a bundle of bricks ready to be stacked into church walls.

****

Star wanted to rescue the Dog first. But Troll assured her that the cur would be all right -- for now. And, by the time they got to the Dog, he probably would have already freed himself. Star didn't know if she believed that, but she desperately wanted to. In the meantime, Troll had other plans.

The gates had been guarded, two men a piece. And of course, more patrolled the center of town. Some, she had never seen before. No matter. Troll told her about another ( _secret_ ), entrance into town, one that led from the back of the mayor's house to the reverend's.

Star peered into the reverend's parlor window. Through the stained glass, she saw Byron sitting alone at a table, a book spread-eagle before him. Luckily, he sat right next to the portal.

Pssst!

Byron jumped.

Star pressed her hands and face against the glass.

At first, Byron recoiled. But once his gaze focused on Star, he smiled brightly. He compressed his face against the cracked glass, and said, "Mrs. Star, I thought ye'd left."

"I need to talk to you." She glanced around, making sure no prying ears or eyes present.

"Oh," Byron said, gaze darting about. His bushy red-beard hitched up his face as he frowned. "I don't know."

"Please, it's important." She pouted her lips at him.

Byron gulped, and said, "Well...okay."

She replied, "Good, now let me in."

****

Troll ventured deep in the nor'easter woods where he and the Dog felt a dark watchful presence. God, that felt like so long ago. Troll scanned the scenery just as he did upon his initial visit to the eerie clearing. And just like before, nothing appeared out of sorts other than the off-putting, ominous feeling of this place. However, unlike the last time, Troll had no intention of giving up until he found what he was looking for.

A strange thrumming noise emanated from a thicket just over yonder. A sickening vibration penetrated through his skin. Troll's stomach churned this way and that. Stiches throbbing, his head pounded, eyes boggled in their sockets. That undulating energy was too much for any one-man to withstand. But, Troll was no ordinary man. He pushed on toward the origin of that foreign sound.

"Dear, Lord, give me strength." He inhaled deeply. One hand curled around his staff, the other outstretched, feeling for unseen objects. He took two lumbering steps before his hand came across something solid. He peered around. Nothing but bushes and trees. He pushed harder. Yes, something was there. Some kind of wall, camouflaged among the ubiquitous forestry. He rapped his knuckles lightly upon the structure. Hollow. Troll ran his hand across the splintery surface. A door? Fingers searching blindly in the dark, he came across something that felt like a doorknob. Wrapping his hand around the splintery orb-like object, he turned it and precariously pulled. As if the very scenery itself were nothing more than a backdrop to a play, the door opened, spilling a piercing, radiant blue-light into the forest floor. The very trees around him uprooted and shifted nervously amongst themselves. That painful blue-aura punctured Troll's eye sockets with a pale coldness. Heart racing, head pounding, guts in total upheaval, but most of all, against all his better judgment, Troll entered the doorway.

****

Star and Byron sat across from each other at a table in Lowell's parlor. They leaned in close, whispering the sort of secrets that conspirers do.

"I can't believe it," Byron finally said after Star relayed the king's impending invasion. "I just can't believe it, it's not possible." His green-gape grew impossibly wide. Mouth open, beard sagging so low, it looked as though it would simply slip off his face within moments.

Star whispered, "It's not only possible, it's happening right now, at this very moment, believe it! And we think that Withers and the reverend may somehow be involved."

Byron shook his head, and replied, "But Ms. Star, sai Withers has been a fair and true constable ever since the..." he faded off, staring at nothing.

"Ever since what, you don't know, do you? Don't even know what we was just talking about, do you?"

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked, coming back to life and shaking the cobwebs that would otherwise fester prolifically in his brain. "What were we just talking about?"

"You see! _That's_ why. Because they don't _want_ you to know. It's like this whole town is under some kinda...I don't know -- bewitchment."

Brow furrowed, nose wrinkled, he said, "I don't understand, what is it that I'm not supposed to know?"

"That the king _is_ coming. Some of his men have already been here for years, just waiting, plotting, lingering anxiously for just the right time to strike, and that time is now!" She reiterated all she previously told the good brother before his hypnotic departure to la-la land. "And _Lowell_ is with them."

"No, no!" Byron's voice rose in manic denial. He waved his hands out, as if to ward off such disturbing thoughts. Utilizing his proud voice, he said "I will hear no such lies! Such slander. I assure ye, Ms. Star, there is no way that neither Constable Withers nor Reverend Lowell were involved in that which ye suggest." But, all the confidence and vigor drained out of the good brother's face at the very sound of the reverend's voice.

"Involved in what?"

****

Troll had to shield his eyes from the invading blue-light upon entering the doorway. But once inside, it was almost completely dark save for the glowing orb nestled upon a cracked and crooked wooden table, resting in the center of the otherwise empty room. The orb discharged sporadic rays of "dark" light that penetrated every orifice of the shanty in different directions and at varying pulsations. A spectacle of luminance the likes of which Troll had never before seen. But, no matter how much putrid radiance leaked profusely from the orb, the ball did not brighten the tiny room. Rather, it seemed to actually draw light into it, making it impossible for shadows to be cast.

Somewhat drawn to the grim optic, Troll advanced further into the room and toward the mysterious relic. He noticed that, in fact, one shadow lingered about the room after all, and it wasn't his. The figure hovered above the piercing, radiant orb like storm clouds on an otherwise sunny day. Not only that, but the shadow moved, recoiling in disgust at Troll's very presence.

"Come no closer, son of David!" croaked the cloud, yet something in its stern, forbidding voice actually seemed pleading.

"How dos't thou know me? Who art thou? Speak, ho, I command it." He pounded his staff on the earthen floor.

"I am the Mistress of Trees," the voice cooed enticingly, yet Troll, son of David, remained un-enticed.

"Of course, I've heard of the likes of thee, thou art the king's pauper whore, art thou not?"

"How dare ye speak so about your king!"

"The only king I serve resides in Heaven!" Troll tightened the grip on his staff; arms constricting like pythons preparing to strike as he readied himself for conflict.

"Then ye shall soon meet him there." The Mistress of the Trees skirled. The ball fluttered violently before the dark blue-light -- the only light -- went out.

****

"What is going on here, Byron?" Lowell asked as he sashayed into the parlor, wearing his nightgown. He leered suspiciously at the two, grinding his teeth, he asked, "Why, do ye hold conclave with an infidel behind closed doors, and under my very roof, no less?"

Byron stammered something unintelligible.

Lowell continued, "And with one ye'd sworn yerself had fled!"

Byron stuttered, "No, no...no..." He rose from his seat only to kneel before the reverend, pleading, "No sai, I assure ye it's not as it seems."

"Conspirers!" A twisted smile curled at the corner of Lowell's thin lips. "Traitors!"

"No," Star said calmly, yet still, she managed to extract the reverend's full and un-divided attention. "The only traitor here is _you_ , my dear reverend." She slowly rose, glaring at him with those cold dead-shooter's eyes under the low brim of her hat.

Lowell glanced down, gaze growing wide when falling upon the shooters hugging her hips.

****

Fully dark in the witch's hut. No light and yet, Troll stood at the ready. He waited, unwavering, ears straining to pick up the slightest of noises. But apparently, all was also silent within the den of the Mistress of the Trees, as if in some foreign realm, where all sound seemed void. His breath stilled, as well as the very beating of his heart. He waited there in total silence.

Sensing something rushing up behind him, he pivoted. A grotesque, reptilian face with the pale dead-eyes of a demon dashed out of the darkness. The witch skirled. Troll buried the end of his staff into the witch's lumpy mid-section. He flipped the wretch over him, smashing her into the hut's ceiling. The witch fell to the floor in a loud thump. Troll buried the other end of his staff forcibly (and blindly), into the heap of huddled misfit. The wretch writhed furiously beneath him, shieking in vain. He had her pinned.

The hut's door tore off its hinges and flew into the clearing, as if a whirlwind simply snatched it away. Moonlight lethargically seeped its way inside. Both Troll and the witch jumped. Yet, Troll still held his massive body weight into the staff, preventing his prey from escaping.

There, in the interstice that had momentarily been the door to the witch's domicile hovered a tall, black-cloaked, amorphous figure.

****

Slowly advancing upon her prey, Star snarled, "The constable came to you, didn't he? After he aligned himself with the king and sold you all out."

Lowell quavered, "I have no idea what ye'r talking about."

Byron knelt on the floor, head in his hands.

Star circled Lowell, and said, "Probably came to you one night in confession, told you what he'd done."

Lowell darted to the left.

Star cut him off, and said, "Then you joined him, didn't you?"

Eyes spangled with rheum, Byron gazed up at Lowell, and asked, "Reverend?"

"You chicken shit," Star spat.

Staggering aimlessly about, Lowell stuttered, "P...please, I...I...have no idea what ye'r t...t...talking about." His long, narrow face paled, eyes bulging. A line of perspiration beaded his forehead. He peered at Byron, and said, "B...Byron, p...please...ye must believe m...me."

"Only part I don't get," Star continued, circling the dejected preacher as a shark among blood-saturated waters, "Is did they buy you off, or did you volunteer like the coward you are, pleading for mercy to be spared from the king's tyranny?"

Lowell ambled nervously about the room, sweating profusely, unable to flee.

Byron peered up at Lowell. His eyes narrowed to half-almonds. His bearded face puckered up as he trembled.

Star asked, "How much was your soul worth, Lowell?"

"B...Byron, please, help m...me...please..."

"How much?" Star chased the reverend around the room, toying with him as a cat would a mouse. "How much?"

****

"Such theatrics will not be necessary here, I should think." The cloaked figure spoke in a calm voice that could almost be considered pleasant if not for the sterile, hollowness behind its words. "Come now, let the hag go and we shall speak in civility, as gentlemen do."

Troll contemplated this for a moment. Should he trust the words of such a horrid abomination? Yet, in the end his curiosity proved stronger than his hesitance. Easing pressure of his staff, he allowed the witch to scurry to her feet. Troll didn't even so much as glance at the hag as she made her escape, his sole focus upon the figure in the doorway.

"Oh, thank ye! Thank ye, my Lord!" the witch cried as she bolted for freedom. "Praise be to thee! Praise be to the king!" She raced toward the shadow.

Would the figure step a-side?

The witch passed right through the figure, as if nothing more than a shadow.

Goosebumps riveted across Troll's flesh. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He gulped a long, dry swallow, and said, "Ye are the one I saw today upon the town meeting hall during the Dog's execution, are ye not?"

Cackling, the specter bent impossibly backward, as if its spine were made of reeds.

"Who are ye?"

"Just a friend," the figure said softly, "someone who's about to give you the best advice of your whole life."

"Oh?" Troll asked, his genuine curiosity once again getting the best of him. "And just what pre-tell, might that be?"

The shadow spoke as a thousand voices all whispering within Troll's head. "Run," said the shadow. "Just run."

****

Lowell darted to the right.

Star thrust out her arm faster than a striking serpent, and grabbed the collar of Lowell's nightgown.

He squealed, "No, I swear, it wasn't like that!"

"Then why don't you explain to me just how it _was_?" Star hissed, pulling him closer.

Lowell _tried_ to back away. He stumbled over his feet, and fell backward onto the parlor floor. The throat of his night-shirt tore open, revealing a misshapen horse-shoe-like scar covering his wrinkled and hairy chest.

Star muttered, "Son of a bitch."

Hands folded, Lowell whimpered, "Please don't kill me."

Brow furrowed, Byron asked, "What? What is it?"

She nodded toward Lowell, and said, "The scar."

"What about it?" Byron asked, scratching his beard.

Lowell sobbed on the floor, head in his hands.

She replied, "It's the mark of the king."

Byron said, "That scar? He said he got it in the war."

"I'm sure he did." Star glanced down at the piece of torn shirt still clenched in her hand. For a moment, she had forgotten all about it. In fact, she was kind of surprised to see it. As if she couldn't quite recall how it even got there in the first place, but now the memories came back. Unclenching her fist, she let the piece of fabric fall to the floor as she slowly reached up toward holstered hips. Her hand hesitated, fingers twitching in anticipation.

Lowell cried, "All right! I admit it! But t'was not me. It was the witch, the Mistress of the Trees. She's the one who set this whole thing in motion with Withers. I was sent here later, to fill in for Warwick, to keep an eye on his daughter."

Star asked, "Why?"

"Because _they_ want her."

"What? No!" Byron's voice broke, eyes welling with tears, as he shook in disbelief. "It isn't true! Say it just isn't true!"

Lowell (still on his knees), buried his head in his hands and bawled loudly.

If Troll were there, he'd probably have a good deal of questions for Lowell. But not Star. She didn't care _what_ the reverend had to say. Her anger boiled past the brim. She'd heard enough. She spat on him, and snarled, "You disgust me."

Byron asked, "What does that have to do with his scar?"

"Get up!" Star snatched Lowell by the collar and pried him up so Byron could get another gander. Her other hand fluttered around the grip of a shooter.

Byron said, "No, don't!"

But she didn't reach for the weapon. Instead, her hand merely continued up toward the brim of her hat. She removed the accessory, and brushed the hair from the left side of her face. There, etched into the flesh between her temple and the top of her ear, was a crude brand in the shape of the letter u.

Byron glanced at her brand, then at the reverend's scar, then her brand again, and once more at the reverend's scar. His eyes widened before growing dark and sullen. He grimaced. His face donned a sickly pallor. They were the same. Only, Star's was upside-down.

Byron stammered, "B...but...?"

"Why is mine upside-down?" she asked. "That's 'cause mine's a slave brand. His is the mark of the king. A mark he willingly accepted."

****

Obviously relishing the entire encounter, the shadow chuckled, "Your precious Dog, whom you were so eager to abandon, is dead. And your friend, Ms. Myriam Star, has already been found out. I assure you, she will be long dead before ever you reach her."

"You lie." Yet somehow, somewhere, in wormed the shadow of doubt.

"Do I? Search your feelings. You know what I say is true."

Troll prayed, "Guard mine ear, oh, Lord, so that I may not hear the Devil's lies."

"I do not lie. I have no reason to. The truth is far more -- delicious. Heed my word, the time of the king is nigh. Silverdale is already lost. Your friends found nothing but death, and if you do not flee now, your fate will be as theirs."

"If it be the will of God. But _I will not flee_!"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. That's too bad, 'cause I like you," the specter's voice changed into that of Star's, "Ya got real spunk, kid."

"Then I trust ye shall enjoy this as well. Lord, be with me!" Staff held like a lance, Troll charged.

The shadow held up a talon, gesturing for Troll to stop.

All of Troll's muscles clenched up tighter than a snare drum, ceasing his motor functions.

The shadow cupped its claws, elevated its sinuous appendage, and levitated Troll off the ground, as if the demon held him within its grasp. It chuckled, "You should know, your so-called _God_ has no power here or anywhere else, for that matter. He never did."

Troll tried desperately to step forward. One step -- that's all it would take to break this demon's hold. He struggled to speak, strived to move. But alas, he was frozen in space.

"What's that? Something to say, have we? Well then, out with it."

Troll's jaw muscles loosened, slackening just enough for him to speak. He smiled, and said, "Do your worst, demon."

The specter sighed, and said, "As you wish." It flicked its talons open, and Troll flew backward and smashed through the cracked, wooden table in the center of the room.

****

Reverend Lowell crashed through the screen-door and rolled out onto the porch. He tried to scurry to his feet, but Star was hot on his ass. Lowell scampered around frantically, still on his knees. Star strutted toward him and kicked him in the side of the ribs. Lowell tumbled backward, rolling down the steps and onto the dirt. Star sashayed down after him, pistols swinging in tandem with her hips.

"No don't!" Byron yelled, following after them.

Lowell attempted to squirm away. No use. Star grabbed him by the collar and punched him in the nose, breaking his bird-like beak.

Blood gushed from Lowell's nostrils. He spat a crimson loogie into the dirt. Glaring up at her, beady eyes narrowed, he sneered, "Go ahead, do ye'r worst, woman. While ye can?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ye fool! Did ye really think we thought ye gone? At this very moment, Roger is riling the guards."

Byron gasped, hands clamped tightly together, as if praying.

Star snorted, "That so?"

"Did ye really think his majesty, the king, would allow three interlopers to come between him and his prize? Ye are of no more consequences than ants! Ants!" Lowell squinted, scowling, his face so red it actually radiated heat.

In one fluid motion Star pulled a shooter, and buried the barrel into the reverend's temple.

Lowell smiled coyly, and in a softer tone said, "He's coming for thee, ye know. The Lord of Black. He _allowed_ ye to escape. He _allowed_ ye to frolic about while he bided his time. It amused him. But now he wants ye back."

_They all come back to me._ No. Star forced that thought away with all her might. She pressed the barrel deeper into Lowell's wrinkly skin, and cocked the hammer.

"Look, there she is!" Roger's voice called from afar.

"Ah, right on cue." Lowell grinned.

A cadre of town's folk ambled toward the reverend's house. All brandished torches and farm equipment, and led by good ol' Roger Wilcox, who hobbled out in front of the mob via his cane.

Star pivoted toward the crowd, hiding her shooter behind her back, she pulled Lowell between her and the advancing mob.

Barley shouted, "Come on, let's get her and collect that reward!"

They closed in.

Star tugged at Lowell's collar, and asked, "Reward, huh?"

"Indeed," he sneered.

She whispered, "You served your master well. Now, here is _your_ reward." She whirled toward crowd, and roared, "Yes, come! Come and collect the man who helped serve your town to the king on silver platters." She ripped open the reverend's night-shirt for all to see (of course _her_ brand safely concealed beneath her golden-hair and hat before ever she exited Lowell's house). "Here is your _real_ traitor! Behold the mark of the king!"

All stopped in awe, collective jaws slack, gazes wide.

Did they even know what they were gawking at? Had any of these people _actually_ seen the mark of the king before? Not yet.

Lowell sobbed, unable to look up at his fellow denizens.

Probably just trying to look innocent.

Byron's gaze also averted, he kneaded his burly hands in his robe.

"Reverend Lowell," Roger asked, "is this true?"

"N...no...no. Of course not," Lowell pleaded, still on his knees, hands out in supplication. "Please, ye must believe--"

"Aye," Byron said, "it's true."

Goodie Johnson asked, "Did ye help them kill our babies?"

Lowell's jaw twitched. He tried to say something, but couldn't. Head downcast, he didn't see the first one coming, but Star did. And she quickly retreated to the porch with Byron as the first stone struck Lowell in the head. The crowd roared. Lowell screamed. Stones and rocks littered the night sky. And then, they were upon him.

****

Blindly, Troll scanned the ubiquitous gloom. The tips of his fingers brushed across something long and wooden -- his staff. He hoisted himself to his feet, stitches burning in agony. Troll's gaze darted about the darkness. The shadow appeared gone. But as Troll would attest to, appearances were rarely as they seemed these days. An insane cackling arose from behind.

Troll pivoted, swinging his staff wildly in the air. Nothing.

The phantom's laughter echoed off the walls in a thousand whispering fragments.

Troll challenged, "Afraid to face me, demon?"

The echoes solidified into a solitary voice. "Looking for me, are we?" The phantom materialized several feet behind Troll.

Whirling, Troll hurtled his staff like a javelin, instantly regretting such a dunce move. For, just as the witch had, the knotty weapon sailed right through the specter's shadowy form.

It chuckled, "It seems you're not as powerful as you'd like to believe, paper-preacher."

"The Holy Spirit is more than enough power to deal with you, son of Nod. And in the name of the Lord our God, I command thee to vacate this domicile immediately!"

The figure rose from the floor as listlessly as a cloud.

"Get thee hence from my vision, low spirit!"

A low churning sound, like boulders grinding together, emanated from the pit of the demon's gut.

"God give me strength, I pray of thee. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit..." The room temperature sweltered. Troll's hair stood on end as the electricity rose in the otherwise stagnant air. "AME--" The walls began to tremor. "Shit..." Taking the shadow's advice after all, Troll ran. He leapt outside just as the hut exploded in a massive ball of blue fire. The flames kissed the deciduous treetops before falling back in on themselves and imploded into nothingness.

All was silent as Troll lay sprawled out on the grass. He exhaled deeply, blowing the tussled hair from his face. His wounds ached. How was Star fairing? She couldn't be doing any worse at her task then he was. But surely things couldn't be that bad. For, right there in front of him, lying in the grass, was Troll's trusty staff.

****

From the bushes, Star watched the madness ensue. What started as a simple stoning quickly spun into an all-out riot. A flock of Goodies kicked and bashed Lowell's lifeless corpse with rocks. The townsmen devised another strategy. Using the same techniques Troll taught them to cover the roof of the church with a tarp; they hoisted the reverend atop his glorious home. He was draped up-side down from the highest steeple when the first torches kissed the plank-wood veneer.

Star didn't feel a thing for the reverend, only a slight sense of excitement. That rush of adrenaline. She'd been so bored, for so long; patiently bidding her time.

The crowd gathered to watch the structure burn decadently to the ground, all hootin' n' a hollerin' when the shoving began. Roger Wilcox started it. He meant no malice by it. At least, it didn't appear that way. He just lost his hobbled footing while'st cheering along. He crashed into Randal Stevens, knocking two others down in their wake. The men arose, arms flailing -- pushing and shoving. One of them even decked Goodie Chalmers square in the jaw. She flew back into a pile of Goodies, bowling them over like beer bottles. And then it was on.

****

Two of the Dog's captors (Louis and the olive-skinned man known as Reyes), argued frantically amongst themselves, had been for some time. Faces red, veins throbbing, spittle flying, fists pumping -- the whole deal. And all the while the king's men bickered, the Dog howled and bayed.

Withers entered, followed by Smithy. "What in the green-hell is going on here?" Withers snarled.

Louis and Reyes ceased fighting, gazes downcast.

Withers rubbed his temples, and said, "For kings' sakes, I can hear ye all the way from the mayor's house! This had better be damned important."

The Dog continued howling away.

Smithy said, "It is." Nearly dancing in place, his round face wrinkled in excitement. He turned to the others, and said, "Come now, let's get on with it. For the constable has a very important dinner he must not be tardy for."

"Thank ye," Withers said, massaging his temples again.

Reyes and Louis stood there motionless, heads downcast, hands folded behind their backs.

Smithy grabbed the glowing-hot poker from out of the stove, skipped toward Louis, and said, "Come on now, hurry-hurry-hurry."

"Here you do it," Louis protested, trying to hand the weapon back to Smithy.

"No please, be my guest," Smithy said, refusing the red hot iron.

Louis continued, "No, really I think you--"

Smithy replied, "Oh no, that's all right, really."

"For kings' sake!" Withers roared. "Just do it!"

Louis reluctantly strolled toward the Dog.

The Dog lunged. Snarling, teeth barred, and swiping at the air before the collar around his throat yanked him painfully backwards. _Rrr-UP-CK-CRrrKK-ULP-ULP-Grr._

Louis recoiled, shoulders slouched. He glanced back at Withers in uncertainty.

Withers gestured for him to continue.

Smithy skipped toward the constable, and said, "T'is the most remarkable thing, sai. Oh, please, do watch."

The Dog leapt toward Louis.

Louis plunged the rod into the Dog's outstretched back.

He howled out in anguish, hairy flesh sizzling like fried grease. The Dog slashed wildly at his tormentor, just out of reach.

"Come now, give 'em what for!" Smithy cheered. "Come on now, give 'em a taste o' hot iron."

As Louis moved toward the Dog again, the cur foolishly lunged once more -- _URP-FFF_. Louis stuck the Dog in the guts. The Dog wailed once more.

Rubbing his temples, Withers sneered, "All right, that's enough."

"Watch now, sai, t'is the most remarkable thing." Smithy shivered with excitement.

Yet, nothing happened, save for the Dog's low guttural growling.

"Any moment now," Smithy said.

Tendrils of putrid smoke spiraled off the Dog's back and stomach. His burnt flesh crackled like cereal in milk. The smell of burnt hair and fat wrestled the air. Then, the Dog's burns faded, as if they'd never existed.

"So?" Withers asked. "Is that it? Is _this_ what was so important?"

"Aye, sai," Smithy said. "Ain't it the most amazing--"

Withers roared, "I already know this _thing_ \-- this abomination -- cannot incur injury! _We_ know it cannot be killed. Ye were there. Ye all were there. That's why that _thing_ is here instead of being buried six feet neath the ground. Remember? Or did those hangmen's hoods dampen ye'r brains?"

Smithy quavered, "No, sai."

They were all afraid of Withers, the Dog could sense it like fresh blood in the air.

"For kings' sakes," Withers hissed, massaging his brow once more. "Destroying both the shelter and the church was easier than dealing with the likes of--"

The Dog lunged at Withers with such a force, the beam the length of chain was bolted to popped and creaked. The Dog flew backward before scrambling upon all fours. He slashed wildly at the constable, straining against the shackle. Just one good swipe, that's all it would take, and the Dog would pop Withers' head like Baylon's eye. But the Dog could not reach. He roared an angry grunting-growling noise.

"Here's an idea," Withers said, turning to the others as the Dog continued to bay. "Why don't ye just kill the thing and be done with it."

"That's what we've been _trying_ to do," Louis said, gaze glued to the ground.

"Well, then try something new."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Withers snarled. "Take its head. Set it on fire. Be creative, for kings' sake. Gods, how did his majesty ever forge such an empire with such imbeciles running amidst the ranks?"

"I don't know, sai," Smithy replied.

Withers sighed, "That was rhetorical."

Smithy's brow furrowed, jaw slack.

"Never mind."

The Dog lunged and snapped at the constable, roaring all the louder.

"Shut up, ye cursed cur! _Shut up!_ " Withers kicked at the Dog.

The Dog latched onto the cuff of the constable's pants, tripping him. Withers fell backward as the Dog pulled the constable toward him.

Withers shrieked, "Help me! Help me!"

The others grabbed the constable by the shoulders and dragged him back to safety.

The Dog sat on his haunches, releasing a laugh that hiccupped and popped.

Smithy started to giggle.

Reyes and Louis laughed.

Withers pounced to his feet. He throttled Smithy and forced him back into the corner. Withers hissed, "What's so funny, Smithy?"

Smithy choked, "N...nothing."

"Then why are ye laughing?"

"I...not...laughing, sai..." Smithy trembled, gape wide.

The Dog laughed louder, pointing mockingly at the constable.

Withers thrust Smithy to the floor. The constable combed his fingers through his white hair, and said, "Take that damn mutt's head off and we'll put it on a spike in the town's square."

Louis began, "But, sir--"

"Just _do it_!"

"Yes, sir."

Withers pivoted and stormed out of the shack, slamming the door behind him.

The four men stood there in silence for a moment, baffled.

Louis handed Smithy the axe (the very same axe that had been driven into the Dog's back earlier that eve). "Here, you do it," he said, turning his nose in disgust.

"No way," Smithy objected, "you."

"Just do it, you pansy-ass, 'sides, I had to use the iron." Louis forcibly pressed the axe into Smithy's chest.

The Dog snarled, lunging forward -- _Grr-ULP-UP-ACK-ACK_. A slight pop sounded as the wooden beam he was latched to loosened.

Axe held high above his head, Smithy asked, "What if it don't work?"

The Dog pounced again -- _Grr-UPHFF-ACK-ULP-ACK_. Once again the chain yanked him back, but the board shifted ever-so slightly.

"Then we'll set his ass on fire," Reyes replied. "That oughta do the trick."

The Dog dug his claws deep into the earthen floor, springing forward once more. _UPF-ACK-ULP-ULP._ The Dog jerked back yet again. Another loud cracking emanated from the archaic fissured wood anchoring the Dog at bay.

Arms quivering under the weight of the axe, Smithy stammered, "Why don't we just try that first?"

The Dog backed into the wall, digging deeper into the dirt. His muscles coiled and once more he lunged forward with all his might. Every time he did this, the metal collar around the Dog's neck cinched tightly around his throat. It hurt -- _a lot_. The Dog could barely even breathe, and it was a wonder that his neck hadn't snapped as he got up, retreated, coiled, and pounced once again. But despite the pain, each time he did this, the bolt in the beam weakened just a teensy-weensy bit.

"Just do it!" Reyes yelled.

But Smithy hesitated.

And the next time the Dog lunged, the bolt stripped clean. The Dog was loosed.

****

Troll double-timed it back to town. But speedious travel through dense forestry could be a bit tricksy, especially at night. It reminded him of that ol' adage about how the bigger of a rush you're in, the longer it always seemed to take to reach your destination. He trampled through a dense thicket and into a clearing where he could just barely make out the edge of Silverdale's wall above the tree line. But what he saw sent shivers down his spine as the shadow's words came echoing back, reverberating coldly throughout his skull.

_Your Dog is dead, and Ms. Myriam Star has already been found out..._ His heart sank as he watched the flames stretch higher into the night's starry sky. _...and will be long dead before ever you reach her._

****

Smithy didn't even have time to react as the Dog leapt upon him, and sank fangs into his jugular.

Louis and Reyes froze, gazes wide, mouths ajar.

The Dog thrashed his head violently back and forth until he ripped out a hearty chunk of Smithy's flesh.

Smithy screamed. Spurts of blood shot half-way across the room, splattering the walls.

The Dog spat the hunk of meat out onto the floor, landing in a sickening thump. He sunk his fangs into the gash in Smithy's neck.

Smithy writhed in agony, but the Dog held him down.

Reyes and Louis stood there, watching in horror.

Smithy's head reeled drunkenly backward, as his body went limp.

As the Dog drank, his bare skin covered with a dense, dark wiry-fur. Hands and feet transformed into claws. The head and facial features elongated, resembling the maw of some wolf-like bestial. When his thirst sated, the Dog glared up at the other men.

They trembled.

The scent of fresh urine arose.

The Dog roared.

Louis and Reyes screamed. It was all they had time to do.

****

Troll frowned. No one was in the center of town, no one that is, but the lingering and abandoned decorations from the festival of the fall.

Now, the once boisterous hamlet of Silverdale looked like nothing more than a ghost town. Yet still, flames arose in the night's cloudy air. Still, screams billowed from somewhere closer to the _real_ heart of town -- the residential part. Troll headed there first.

When he got there he halted. Houses burned. People rioted against each other. The town spiraled into a total melee of anarchy -- neighbor against neighbor. And yet no one paid much attention to Troll as he sprinted down the dirt-trodden streets. He rounded a corner of burning homes before something inside him told him to stop. "Star! Star!" he called. Troll strained his ears for her voice.

"Troll! Help!"

Troll raced behind a house, finding it wasn't Star calling his name, but Byron. Two men, whom Troll had never seen before, were trying to have their way with Goodie Sparrow, a voluptuous blonde in her early thirties.

Byron had intervened, only to end up on the ground with bloodied a nose and blackened an eye.

One man held her down by the shoulders, while the other tore at her dress.

Goodie Sparrow cried and kicked. No use.

Troll twirled his staff, grasped an end, and swung.

The cracking of their heads sounded before they fell in a listless slump.

Troll murmured, "Lord, I pray I haven't killed these men, but if it be according to ye'r will, then so be it."

The woman crawled toward Byron. He embraced her as she wept into the brother's shoulder.

Troll asked, "Good God man, what has happened?"

Rocking the woman in his arms, he replied, "Anarchy. The town stoned Lowell, strung up his body, and then burned his house to the ground. I don't think I have to tell ye why." Byron glared up at Troll.

In that moment Byron appeared aged, even hardened. Yet, as Troll could attest to, appearances were quite deceiving indeed.

Byron continued, "Then everyone just went crazy."

"And what of Ms. Star?"

"Don't know. Everything happened so fast, she just sort of took off."

"But was she harmed?"

Byron shrugged. "Not that I know of."

Troll knelt beside Byron, meeting his gaze, and said, "Listen, find Sarah and watch over her. Don't worry, this upheaval won't last long. I'll see to that personally." And before Byron could say anything, Troll was off.

He headed north toward the mayor's house. He didn't find Star. But he did come across a small shanty in the middle of the tall-grass meadows where none previously existed. At least, he didn't think it did. Curious, where were all these new people and structures coming from? Or had they been there the entire time, and he just couldn't see it? Troll inched closer. All _seemed_ silent as he crept into the door that hung ajar. He had a heart-dropping feeling that this shack wouldn't be unlike that of the witch's. As he advanced inward, his ears perceived the light smacking and sucking sounds of someone or something eating or drinking, possibly both at the same time.

What he found in the hut seemed more reminiscent to the shelter. Blood spattered the walls as the earthen floor soaked over with gore and masticated body parts. There in the middle of the room, gorging on his former captors was the Dog, still with the metal collar wrapped around his neck and trailed by a length of chain that held him at bay no longer. Dog was more feral than Troll had ever seen him. Far more so than the time he'd found the cur in the woods, rolling upon a pile of dead animals.

Dog barely even resembled a man at all anymore, but rather some large wolf-like creature. Yet, when those golden-eyes met Troll's, he _knew_ it was the Dog.

Troll muttered, "Dear God in heaven." He retrieved the medallion from the throat of his shirt, and brandished it over the cur as he did when they first met.

Whimpering, the Dog lowered his head in shame. His fur receded, transforming back to his human state as his whimpers were replaced with sobbing.

Troll knelt beside the cur and draped his cloak around the Dog's skinny, exposed frame. "There, there, t'will be all right now."

The Dog gazed up at Troll with rheumy hazel-eyes.

"Now let's see what we can do about that collar."

As Troll fished around in the cloak (still wrapped about the Dog), for something to pry the collar off with, he did something he'd never attempted before. Nor was he entirely certain it would work. _Please Star_ , Troll summoned mentally, _I don't know if ye can hear this, but if ye can, please, join as at the mayor's house. Please Star, we need thee._

****

All seemed copasetic in the mayor's dining room. Lingering unseen in the shadows, a dark cloudy-figure watched as the town's elders sat down at the mayor's table. All except for Reverend Lowell that is, who was of course, draped atop his elegantly burning home -- what remained of him, anyway. Lowell's absence had been noted, yet no cause for concern. At least, not yet. The shadow knew this far from town, and assembled deep within the mayor's mansion, the council had no inkling toward the riot currently ensuing. But they would -- and soon. One way or another.

A servant boy entered. (The only adolescents spared from the onslaught at the shelter). He hurried toward the mayor, and whispered something into his ear.

If he wanted to, the shadow could listen in. But then the entertainment might be spoiled.

The council prattled on.

Withers cupped a hand under his chin, peering at the mayor, as if examining every contour of the old man's red, puffy face.

When the boy finished conveying his message, the mayor turned a ghastly white. A long, slow, rattling wheeze seeped out of Godfrey as he fell into a fit of whooping coughs.

The council members ceased their blathering and gawked at the mayor. Even McCoy, the so-called town doctor, seemed incapable of helping his ailing leader.

Jonathon Steward asked, "Are ye well, my lord?" He dropped the bottle of wine he held, shattering it. He rushed toward his master's side.

The mayor nodded. A thin line of sweat broke out on his brow as he clutched at his chest.

Withers snarled, "Of course he's not well." He jumped to his feet so hard his chair toppled over. "For, the entire town is in upheaval at this very moment."

The elders peered at Withers, gazes wide, jaws slack.

Withers continued, "The town's men riot in fear! Our sleepy, little town has been infiltrated by spies of the king! The invasion is already upon us!"

Godfrey cried, "Enough!" Cough. Gasp. Wheeze. "I will hear no business of this king at my table."

"But t'is true, sai, Silverdale has already given up hope. We must lay down our arms to the king."

The elders mumbled nervously amongst themselves.

"Nonsense." Cough. Wheeze. Hack.

"Better to join their ranks than be enslaved!"

Godfrey gasped, "Cowardice will not rule here while I still breathe."

Withers leaned toward the mayor, whispering into his ear, "Then perhaps ye will breathe no more."

Godfrey spiraled into another tirade of whooping coughs and wheezes.

And in the darkness, a shadow smiled like the Devil himself.

****

Annabelle Warwick, the only child to survive the Silverdale shelter massacre (although no one knew it), sat quietly upon a stool. She had been counting her tears. She'd been counting the wooden slats in the room. She counted the seconds until (what she prayed would be), her inevitable rescue. She also counted her captors. Four in all. Men wearing simple farmer's clothes. Men she'd never seen before in her entire life.

One would think they would've been intelligent enough to split themselves up -- two on the inside and two outside guarding the door -- but no, they all sat around a card table playing a game called 'Craw-daddy.'

The spacious oak fashioned room had a lush bed on the far end. In the corner closest to the window sat a large desk. Papers, an ink bottle, quills, and other sundries littered the stained wood.

A harsh rapping arose on the outside of the chamber door.

The men jumped, staring blankly at each other.

Another knocking. Withers' voice crept through from the other side, "I have come to speak to the prisoner."

One of the guards stood, waltzed toward the door, unlatched the deadbolt, and opened the door just a crack.

Anne looked up but couldn't see who it was.

"I thought thee busy at the mayor's table?" the guard asked.

"I'm never too busy for children," Withers said, entering the room. He leered at Anne with a sinister smile.

"Who are ye?" she asked.

"Why, my child, I am your dear Constable Silas Withers."

But it wasn't the constable. The man looked like Withers, yet his voice seemed slightly off, a bit too pleasant \-- a bit too hollow.

Anne replied, "Ye are not the constable."

He chuckled, turned to the guards, and said, "Leave us." He smiled pleasantly, watching the men take their leave. The man re-secured the deadbolt. He pivoted, and said, "Clever girl." His voice then changed to that of another's -- equally pleasant -- equally hollow. "I knew I had chosen the right girl," he said, drifting toward her. In mid-step he seamlessly transformed into nothing more than a mere shadow. "Oh, I can't wait until you're old enough to love properly." The shadow circled Anne, hovering several inches off the ground. "That is all you want isn't it, to be loved? And no one has ever, or will ever love you as much as I."

His words were strange, yet somehow familiar, and that scared her all the more. Anne sobbed. She wanted Sarah, she wanted Maddy. But above all -- she wanted the Dog.

"We have been together in so many lives our souls are practically one. But I'm blowing your mind, aren't I?" The specter chuckled seductively. "For you have forgotten me, haven't you?"

"No," she said as assuredly as she knew him not the constable.

"Sure you have, except for brief glimpses in your dreams, there is no possible way to remember your previous existences."

She wanted to believe those seductive words but somehow, somewhere, deep down inside, she knew better.

"In this world, you don't even know me yet."

Sniffling, she quavered, "I know who ye are."

"Oh?" The shadow drifted toward her. "Tell me then." He removed his hood, revealing his _true_ face to Anne, and asked, "Who am I?"

She _did_ know him. And she _was_ afraid. So afraid, she suddenly lost control of her bladder.

****

Star didn't know where to go after the chaos began. She was on a mission and wished not to have to kill anyone stupid enough to get in her way, except for Withers. Oh yeah, she had a bullet with that son-of-a-bitch's name all over it.

Sensing her presence needed at the mayor's house, she slipped away toward the tall-grass, then north toward the forests behind the mayor's mansion. She traveled alongside the gate, slinking as secretively as possible. On her way she passed a shack in the tall-grass where no shack should be, but elected not to investigate further. She now sat veiled in the bushes behind the mayor's house. She suddenly realized that she had never actually seen the back of the mayor's estate. Not even when passing through earlier that night. A huge unfenced back yard that Godfrey probably hadn't enjoyed in ages and about 200-yards further out stood a series of decks that steepled up to the top of the mansion.

"What's it look like?"

Star jumped at the sound of Troll's whispering voice. "Don't do that!" Though, deep down she was glad to see him, more than glad actually -- relieved.

Conceding his palms, he shrugged, and said, "Sorry, just taking a page out of the book of Dog." He nodded toward the mansion, and asked, "So, how's it look?"

"Heavily guarded. At least a dozen wandering the grounds with four more on the upper north decks. Look." She handed Troll the monocle and said, "They're all wearing farmer's clothes, but I've never seen any of them before."

Peering through the viewing-glass, he replied, "It would appear the invasion has already begun."

Star said, "This ain't nothing. Shadow games at best. Trust me, when the _real_ invasion begins, you'll know it. By the way, where's Dog?"

Without so much as breaking his attention from the monocle, Troll motioned with a slight nod for Star to look right beside her.

She did, and there, sure as sugar, sat the Dog, wearing only a loin garment.

"So..." She was about to inquire as to Troll's thoughts before doing a double-take at the nearly naked Dog's frail, exposed (but without a scratch), body. "Are you naked? Troll, is he naked?"

"Not entirely." Troll smirked, handing her the monocle.

"Where are your clothes, Dog?"

Troll replied, "Never mind that now. We have to get into the mansion and save the mayor. No-doubt, Withers has something dastardly planned now that he thinks we're out of the way." He gazed at Star and asked, "I trust Lowell has been dealt with."

"Ya got that right," she replied. Should she tell Troll about what she'd learned about Lowell and his connection to Anne? Should she relay her suspicions that the girl was still alive? After all, he had kept stuff from her -- a lot.

Troll produced a bow and quiver (conveniently full of arrows), from his cloak, and said, "I think I can take out the guards on the lower paddock from here."

Such things never ceased to amaze her, and for all the turmoil of recent days past, she was happy to be in Troll's company once again. In fact, right now, there was no place in the world she'd rather be; sitting in the bushes with Troll and the ever-infamous Dog, getting ready to take some much-anticipated and long-awaited action.

"Let me," she said, reaching for the armaments, "I have better aim."

"Blasphemy."

"Oh yeah, and just who d'ya think's been keeping up on her skills while you've been playing mind-fuck games with Silverdale's hierarchy?"

"Me," Troll said with a grin.

"What?"

"Just joshing thee. It made God laugh." Troll's grin widened into a bright smile.

Star smiled back. For a moment they seemed locked in each other's gazes.

"Uh, where'd the Dog go?" Troll asked, scanning the perimeter.

They didn't have to look too far. For they found him several yards ahead, racing headlong toward the mayor's mansion.

The guards on the lower paddock were the first ones to notice the charging beast. But Troll quickly dispatched one of the guards with an arrow to his left eye-socket, providing the Dog with much-needed cover. The second guard ducked before calling out to his comrades, "We're under attack!"

"Here," Troll said, handing Star the bow and quiver. He sprinted after the Dog, and called, "Cover us!"

****

An arrow to the chest couldn't stop the Dog, not with the taste of fresh blood still hot in his veins. He leapt down a small hill, landing upon two ground guards.

Star provided as much cover as she could from the archers still on the second paddock.

Two guards brandishing sabers charged the Dog. The Dog leapt upon one of them. The force of his body knocked the guard's saber loose. The Dog wrapped his arms around the man's neck, snapping it audibly with a quick, jerking motion. The guard fell to the ground in a slump. Dog retrieved a dagger from the corpse's belt, pivoting on his heels. Another saber-wielding guard came at him. The guard hewed at the Dog. The Dog caught the man by the wrist, snapping it as he drove the dagger through the man's Adam's apple. Blood spurted as he fell limply to the ground. An archer got a clear shot, planting another arrow in the Dog's chest. The Dog knew the archer was aiming for his heart, but missed -- twice. And as the archer shot Dog, Star got a clear shot at him. Just one archer left.

Dog glanced back. Troll struggled to keep up with his staggeringly swift advancements. With the Dog's back turned, the final archer let another arrow fly. This one landed right beneath the Dog's right shoulder blade. But once again, as the archer stuck his little head over the side of the paddock to put an arrow in the Dog, Star put one in the archer's skull.

Another guard, wielding a saber, rushed the Dog. The Dog ducked. His adversary rolled over his back and onto the ground. Two more guards (bearing lances), charged. Dog batted the oncoming lance to the ground, driving it into the saber-wielding guard's face (who was still lying on the ground). This knocked the would-be jouster slightly off balance. Dog drove the palm of his free hand into the lance with such force as to snap it in twain. Wooden slivers rained down upon the grass.

Dog removed his half of the weapon (which he didn't bother to let go of after the lance broke), from the ex-saber-guard's face. He blotted the off balanced jouster in the skull, cracking it much more than in twain. The second lancer sprinted toward the Dog. He screamed his war cry. Dog hurtled the hunk of splintery wood at the man's face (more precisely, those determined eyes of his). The guard went down hard, well out of range of the Dog. Unsatisfied, Dog bounded over. He picked up the weapon he'd just hurtled, and swatted the man's face in again for good measure.

Troll ran up, gasping, he said, "Well done!"

Two more guards bearing axes charged. They screamed their war cries.

Dog picked up the unbroken lance off the ground and twirled it around in his arms.

The two guards slowed.

The cur dazzled them, dancing the weapon adroitly around his head and mid-section just as Troll had taught him during one of their many training sessions.

"Star, Star! Come look at this!" he called. "Look at him go. I taught him that!"

The Dog whirled the weapon around his head, missing the hand off and thwacking himself in the forehead with enough force to send him staggering backward.

The two axe-wielding guards erupted in roarous laughter, dropping their defenses.

Troll, armed with his trusty staff, cracked the two against their heads in one swift, arching motion.

The two men collapsed in a heap.

"What, what is it?" Star asked, hurrying toward her companions, bow in hand, quiver slung over her shoulder. She handed them back to Troll, and asked, "What happened?"

"It's over, Myriam," he said, shrugging. He restored the weapons to their rightful place beneath his cloak, and said, "Ye missed it, I'm afraid."

"What, What did I miss?"

Troll smiled, and said, "Hilarity."

The alarm bell rang. Four more guards charged out of the back of the mayor's house. But the Dog was waiting for them. Perched upon an outcrop above the door, he jumped down, scattering the four men upon the lawn. The Dog snatched a dagger from one of the guard's belt and hopped from man to man, swiftly slitting each throat in turn. Not even time for them to scream out in horror before the cold steel severed their vocal chords with diligent precision. Then Dog leapt an impressive ten-feet straight upward and grabbed the rope the alarm bell hung by with one hand. With the other, he cut the warning device loose just as Troll and Star strolled over.

Troll said, "Very good, now let's put an end to this nefarious Withers, shall we?"

Loading her shooters, Star said, "Oh yes, let's do. Come on, let's sneak in through the back."

"No, through the front."

"But we'll have the element of surprise."

"True, but none of us have ever gone in through the back way, we can't afford to go running around the mayor's house like decapitated hens. We must strike ferociously and without hesitation."

The Dog snapped the protruding arrows off inches from his flesh. He couldn't pull the arrows out, for the tissue around them had already healed, encapsulating them within his chest and back.

"Whatever," Star said, hands on her hips.

The Dog struggled to reach around and break off the arrow sticking out of his back. Star strutted toward him, and snapped the arrow off at the cusp of his shoulder blade.

Troll and Star crept around to the front of the mansion.

The Dog stopped. He stood there peering upward, sniffing the air in vehement fascination. He knew that smell anywhere. Dog squatted low to the ground before bounding fifteen-feet straight upward. He grabbed an outcrop and hoisted himself up.

Star called, "Dog, no. This way."

"Leave him!" Troll called from further on ahead.

"But--"

"He knows what he's doing."

****

The mayor choked, face turning blue. The phantom lingering in the darkness smiled, rubbing its shadowy talon-like hands together.

"Mort," Withers beckoned. "Refill the mayor's chalice so that he might wet his whistle and catch his breath."

Gaze darting nervously about, Mort stammered, "B...but, sai."

Withers hissed, "Do it now, ye imbecile! Can ye not see how he suffers?"

"M...my Lord, I don't think it wise to--"

"It is not ye'r place to think, Steward!" said Jonathon Steward (the _other_ Steward). Clutching to the mayor's ailing side, he cried, "Just do as ye'r told, ye heartless bastard! Do it before the mayor chokes to death."

Mort stood there a moment before trotting off into the kitchen area.

The mayor continued to hack and wheeze as the elders only stared and murmured.

Mort raced out of the kitchen with a bottle of open wine, and promptly poured it into the mayor's chalice. A brief moment of relief when the cup touched the mayor's parched lips. Just one moment, that was all he was allotted before coughing and choking so hard, he rocked back and forth in a sporadic fit.

The other men in the room stood, frozen in place, as if the smallest of actions would still the mayor's heart right then and there.

Withers said, "Sit down, all of ye!"

The elders peered at each other, gazes wide, mouths ajar.

Withers continued, "I said, _sit down_! Panicking at this point will do no good. Allow the mayor to catch his breath for a spell."

The others complied.

Withers placed a hand on the mayor's shoulder. He leaned in close, and whispered, "Ye should know that it was me. It was I who poisoned thee. The first time had been thwarted by that disgusting mutt. But where are ye'r fine new friends, now?"

Troll and Star crashed through the big double-wide doors of the Mayor's dining room, making as dramatic an entrance as few could ever hope for. Troll held his staff firmly betwixt his hands as Star's hands coiled around her shooters, cocked, locked, and ready to rock. Needless to say, they had the room's undivided attention.

Troll roared, "I hereby proclaim all here who conspire to be trespassers of the one true God. Prepare to receive _your_ purification!"

Withers clapped, calling, "Guards!"

A dozen men in thick, black armor filed in through the kitchen area.

Withers pointed at Troll and Star, and shrieked, "It was them, they poisoned the mayor! Seize them!"

The guards charged.

A small smile curled Star's lips as she opened fire, not missing a single head-shot.

Silverdale's hierarchy screamed in horror as heads exploded all around them, causing brains and pieces of skull to rain down as torrentially upon them as the fall rains.

Star cried, "Reload!"

Troll stepped forward, twirling his staff and sending any guard unfortunate to get in his path flying.

More guards marched into the room from both the hallway and the kitchen.

Troll and Star were surrounded.

Troll bellowed, "To me!" And just as he and the Dog fought the spiders in the forests of long-long ago, Troll and Star fought back-to-back, always in circular motion as they whirled across the room.

Star now shot with only one pistol. Faster that way. Reloading as quickly as she unloaded into the heads of the king's guards. She fanned her hand upon the hammer relentlessly.

Troll took out the closer guards with mere swipes of his trusty staff.

With only a few guards left for Star to dispose of, Troll hurtled his staff directly at the Withers. It flew fast. Withers lunged out of the way.

A half-dozen more guards raced into the dining room.

The elders jumped from their chairs, frantically running about, and arms in the air.

"Blasted civilians," Troll blurted. "Get out of the way!"

"On it!" Star reached into her knapsack and pulled out her last bottle. She tossed it over the mayor's table. With one shot she blew the glass to smithereens. The civilians hit the deck as Star unloaded on the remaining king's men.

****

From within the confines of the constable's chambers, Anne and the two guards (the other two were now posted outside the chamber door), heard an echoing report. Anne jumped. Gee golly, what was that?

The two guards ceased their card playing, and stared at each other with expressionless faces, eyes wild.

A knocking arose from the other side of the door.

"Go on," one guard said to the other. "Go see who it is."

"But--"

"Go on. What, are you afraid or something?"

Another knocking.

Anne's heart raced.

"Go!" the first guard commanded. "That's an order."

The second guard rose and crossed the room. He reached for the deadbolt.

Crash

The Dog burst through the door. He grabbed the guard by the neck, ending his life with a swift jerking. The Dog snatched a dagger from the guard's belt. Pivoting, he thrust the blade at the second guard's forehead, striking true.

"Puppy! Puppy! Puppy!" Anne literally jumped for joy. She raced into the Dog's awaiting arms, careful not to touch the arrow stumps nestled firmly within his hairy chest. Somebody had tried to hurt her puppy. The nerve! Tears streamed down her slender face. She gazed up at the Dog, and said, "Oh, puppy! I knew ye'd come!"

****

The last two guards attempted to hide among the fleeing citizens of Silverdale.

Troll glanced at the mayor's lifeless body, keeled over in his chair, face-down on an empty plate. Too late to save him.

Star had a clear shot at one of the remaining guards and took it. His brains exploded out the side of his cranium along with blood and fragments of skull. Star took aim again, targeting on the last guard, who ducked behind the fleeing Jonathon Steward.

A guard crept up behind her, blade in hand.

Troll saw this, of course.

Jeffrey Rush darted past Troll. And before the guard behind Star could encroach any further, Troll grasped the fleeing elder by the shoulder blade. He hoisted Jeffrey up high above his head, and tossed him effortlessly.

Star took out the final guard. Jeffrey Rush collided into the guard behind her. The two men crashed to the floor in a hapless heap. Star pivoted and put a bullet right between the eyes of the final, hidden nemesis.

Rush lay petrified as Star met his wide, frightened gape with a cool, solemn gaze. She winked at him. Rush screamed.

Mort erupted from behind the drawn curtains, charging toward the exit.

Star whirled, taking aim. She squeezed the trigger -- empty.

"I've got him!" Troll called, clicking the trigger on his own metal-cuffed gauntlet. A spiraling hook connected to a chain, flew out from his sleeve, quickly spanning the distance. Troll yanked back hard as the hook coiled around Mort's throat. Troll jerked again, snapping Mort's neck as his lifeless body hurtled several feet backward. Troll clicked a second lever on his cuff. A small audible winding sounded as the chain retracted back up his sleeve. Troll hobbled toward Mort's twisted corpse, and said, "Lord have mercy on his poor excuse for a soul."

Star stood at Troll's side. She spat on Mort's body, and said, "That was better than you deserved."

****

The Dog raced through a maze of hallways. He was lost, and had no exit strategy other than leaping through a window. That might work on most occasions, but not with Anne in his arms.

The Dog whirled around a corner. There, at the other end stood a guard. The Dog pivoted, darting back the way he came. Did he see them? The Dog tripped. Anne spilled out of his arms, rolling hard across the carpeted flooring.

Dagger in hand, a guard, sprinted down the hallway and leapt at the Dog.

Dog rolled on his back. The arrow stump pressed deeper into his shoulder blade, like being stung by a bee the size of a barn-cat. The guard fell upon him, attempting to sink his blade into the Dog's heart. Dog grabbed his wrists and pushed. Another guard charged down the hallway and jumped on his buddy's back, applying more pressure. From inside, the arrow pierced through the Dog's shoulder blade, shattering it. An arch of searing pain coursed down the Dog's arm and into his fingers. Then the appendage went limp. The Dog held out, good arm quivering in strain as the knife dipped closer and closer.

Anne stood there trembling, gaze wide.

Blood spurted from the Dog's mouth. He peered at Anne, and said, "Run!"

Anne pivoted. Her jet-black hair whipped about her face as she bolted down the now un-obscured hallway.

****

With everyone either dead or gone, Troll hobbled to the far end of the table to retrieve his trusty staff. The mayor still sat lifeless in his chair, face-down in an empty plate. Troll picked him up and laid him on the ground.

"God, please receive this man's soul into ye'r glorious kingdom, Amen." Troll knelt, and closed Godfrey's eyelids with the tips of two pudgy digits.

"I guess we were too late," Star said, strolling over. She held a shooter in one hand, the other rested on her hip.

"Aye, so it would seem."

She whispered, "Hey, Troll."

Troll gazed up at her.

She nodded toward the table.

Silas Withers cowered in fear underneath the heavy, oaken furnishing.

Troll nodded back at Star. They advanced as Star reloaded her pistol.

Troll said, "Silas Withers, rise and pay ye'r debts to Almighty God for the atrocities ye've committed against ye'r fellow countrymen."

Withers froze.

Troll pounded the end of his staff on the ground thrice, and roared, "Now, constable!"

"Okay," Withers quavered, "Please, don't hurt me! I surrender!" He crawled out, hands in the air. He emerged from the opposite side of Troll and Star, cornering himself between the table and the wall. He shrank back against the wooden paneling.

Troll and Star approached, going around opposite ends of the table, and trapping him like the rat he was. Withers didn't try to run. Nowhere left for him to go.

From behind Troll and Star, an invigorated applause arose. "Bravo! Bravo! Bravetsema!" hailed a pleasantly hollow voice.

They both turned in unison.

Clapping, a hooded figure hovered several feet in the air.

Withers scurried toward the end of the table being sentried by Troll.

Troll's sole concentration upon the shadow before him, let the constable pass right by him without so much as an acknowledging glance.

Star asked, "Troll?"

Gaze still affixed upon the floating phantom, he replied, "Leave us."

"Don't give me that crap, I can help you."

Her words were confident, full of vigor and conviction, though Troll knew the specter scared the holy-hell out of her.

Troll continued, "We came to assure that Withers does not escape. That is our priority, now go and see that Withers receives his due and proper. I shall deal with this _thing_."

Star raced after the constable.

The specter cackled in amusement. When Star was gone, two burning-red eyes materialized on the shadow's face. "Oh, how I have awaited this day!"

Troll asked, "Ye are a son of the king, are ye not? A Hellion?"

"Not just one, I am the first."

"Who _are_ ye?"

"Oh, come now, you already know the answer to that, don't you?"

"Tell me your name!"

"Oh, I have ever so many, which one would you like to hear?"

"Tell me thou'st name, demon, so that I might exorcise thee with propriety."

"Me?" The shadow chuckled. "Oh, I don't think so. I believe you'll find I'm not as easily dispatched of as others. For, while Withers was merely a pawn in this little game of ours, surely I am the villain in this tale o'grim."

"Answer me, monster!"

The phantom giggled merrily, voice sounding like rusty nails in a glass mason-jar. "I am the poison Reverend Warwick gave his wife. I am the veil the Mistress of the Trees cast over Silverdale. I am the curse that led the men off to war, and the women to die in farm accidents. I am the shadow that fed off the mayor for many a-moon. I am the demon in the woods that plagued the Wachati. And I am the snake that bit the chief in his supple ankle. I am the eater of children, the devourer of light, evil incarnate. I am the darkling. I am -- _Wraith_."

The last name echoed within Troll's head as a legion of voices. "What ye are, is an insult to God the Father. And _I_ fear no evil."

The Wraith laughed, literally bending over backward. "You speak so assuredly of fear, but I assure you, you know nothing of it. And as for your God -- _I fear no God_!" The walls shifted and weaved at the sound of the Wraith's piercing voice.

Troll's grin widened to a sparkling smile as he coiled his hands about his staff. "Then allow me the privilege of educating thee in this matter."

The Wraith roared in laughter.

"And I am _not_ afraid of the likes of ye."

"Perhaps not," the Wraith giggled, rubbing talon-like hands together. "But I know what you _do_ fear."

"Once again, demon, I challenge ye -- nay, I _dare_ ye to do ye'r worst."

A soft chittering noise. The fluttering of leathery wings. The Wraith exploded into a legion of bats. Their beady-red gazes zeroed in on Troll. Mouths unhinged, tiny elongated teeth exposed as they screeched in unison. Troll froze, petrified as they swarmed about the room, knocking over fixtures and dinnerware. Some swooped out into the hallways, crashing over candles and candelabra alike.

Troll gasped, "God be with me." Then the bats fell upon him.

****

Withers raced out of his chambers in a panic, face red and puffy, sweating profusely. He dashed down the hall, toward the bannister, and peered down into the main hall. Massaging his temples, he hissed, "For king's sake, where could that whelp have gone off to?"

"Looking for someone?" Star asked, creeping up behind him.

The constable pivoted. _Pow_. He reeled backward from a swift jab to his nose. The crunch of cartilage sounded.

Star snarled, "You fucking _murderer_! How could you kill your own children?"

"N...no...wait...I..." he stammered, literally back-peddling into the stairwell and away from her. His hands shot up in defense.

She drew a shooter and aimed it right between his ill-gotten eyes. "Thought you could get away with it, didn't you? _Coward_!" She cocked the hammer. Squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Star realized her mistake immediately. She had been so thrown off by the shadowy figure in the mayor's dining room that she'd only loaded one of her shooters. Unfortunately, t'was not the one she now held buried in Withers' brow.

From below, Anne sprinted out into the main hall. "Star, Star," she cried, jumping and waving her arms around.

"Anne," Star replied.

A guard raced out of the hallway behind Anne. He grabbed her. Anne fought back.

"No," Star grumbled.

"Well, what will it be?" Withers snickered, leered at her with a rat-like smile, he asked, "Me or the whelp? Ye can't reload, kill me, and save her all at the same time."

Star smiled, and said, "You know what? You ain't even worth the cost of a bullet."

Withers' smile faded. His gaze grew stern.

Star twirled the empty shooter around her index-finger and cracked the butt fiercely into Withers' temple. He went down -- hard. With her other hand, she drew, aimed, and shot the guard holding Anne.

His head reared back, brains splattering the wall behind him. His arms went limp.

Anne plopped to the ground as the man collapsed to the floor in heap. Anne looked up, gaze wild with astonishment, mouth open.

Star hopped over the banister, dropped to the floor, and rolled smoothly to her feet in one solid motion.

Anne sprinted into Star's outstretched arms, littering her face with kisses. She gazed at Star, smiled, and said, "Good shot."

****

Troll was buried beneath darkness. Shadowy vermin with beady-red eyes and razor-sharp teeth enveloped him. Many a-mangled fang sank deep into Troll's flesh. The demon bats weren't just siphoning his blood; they were robbing him of his essence -- his life. Troll tried desperately to fight back. But somehow the bats held him down, draining him of energy.

_You're afraid_ , a legion of whispers said.

No, I'm not.

Yes you are. And your fear makes me stronger.

I...I'm...not...a...a-feared...

Ah, but you are a-feared. I can taste it. And the fear makes you oh, so sweet.

N...n...no...

Yes! And now, we shall eat you! Devour you whole and swallow your soul!

All remained dark as many a-mangled fang sunk deeper into Troll's flesh. All he could hear was the cacophony of shrieks and fluttering wings. Small balls of immense pressure bore down upon him, all over his body, as if the bats were attempting to burrow into the cavernous parts of him, and nest.

Was this truly the end of Troll? He had so much left to accomplish. So much love to give. Instantly, his thoughts turned to Star.

"Bats are everywhere, you know. You'll have to get used to it sometime. Or, just get over it."

But I can't. I just can't.

"Yes -- you can. I believe in you, Troll."

Then Troll realized it was not Star's voice he heard, but God's. "You can. You will. You must! Now arise, my son," said the voice. "Arise and stand."

Jumping to his feet, Troll bellowed, "Get back from me, demon!"

The bats released their hold of him, but still fluttered about.

"Face me, coward!"

The bats doubled back, folding inward until nothing remained but a small spark hovering in the air. The spark exploded into a pulse of such vibrant calibration, it knocked Troll backward onto the ground. His staff rolled haplessly away as the shadow re-materialized into its hooded form.

The Wraith cooed, "Yes, I rather like you in that position."

Troll rose to his knees, struggling to get his gigantic frame hoisted while'st deprived of his staff.

The Wraith raised a talon-like claw out in a halting motion.

Troll's muscles ceased, quivering in agonizing restriction.

"Now, son of David, you _will_ kneel."

Troll struggled with all his might, sluggishly but assuredly arising to face the demon. He would _not_ kneel.

" _Kneel_!"

"N...no," Troll stammered. "Not for you."

"Just kneel before me, accept me as your lord and master, and all trespasses shall be forgotten and forgiven."

"No."

"Kneel! Kneel before me! Kneel before your king!"

Troll did kneel, but not for the Wraith, or for the king. He bowed his head, folded his hands, and said, "Dear, Lord, I pray of thee, give me the strength and courage to dispel this demon in ye'r honor." Deep within the recesses of his soul, Troll felt the power of the universe flowing through him. He grabbed his staff, stood before the Wraith, and proclaimed, "I am not afraid. I am not afraid of my destiny. I am no longer afraid of bats. And I am certainly _not_ afraid of ye _._ "

"Now, that's interesting."

"In the name of God, the Lord our Father, creator of Heaven and Earth, I command thee to leave, Wraith." Troll stamped the end of his staff upon the ground thrice. "Ye are not welcome here, low spirit. Leave! Depart! In the name of God, I command thee out!"

Recoiling, the Wraith squirmed backward. Tendrils of black shadows slithered across the floorboards as the Wraith shrank away.

"Out! Out I say!" Troll roared again, focusing all his will upon the abomination before him.

In a myriad of shattered voices, the Wraith skirled, "No, no!"

"Out, damn spot!"

Star and Anne burst into the room, emerging behind where Troll now stood.

The Wraith leered at Anne, and its head transmutated into a black cloud-like head of a bat.

Clinging to Star, Anne shrieked.

Star asked, "What the _fuck_ is that?"

"The face of our true enemy," Troll replied. His concentration had been broken. He glanced around, as if just awakening from a deep trance. The whole place was ablaze.

The Wraith back-flipped and soared up into the burning rafters that crackled in time with the demon's insane cackling. "So, the whole family is here, excellent." The Wraith used his pleasant tone once again as he hovered mere inches from the burning ceiling, yet the flames bothered the Wraith not. "What a sight this is, the sentiment warms my guts, truly it does."

Troll challenged, "Come down here and I shall see for myself the nature of thou'sts guts."

"I think not, paper-preacher, not today. But know this, I will be watching you all. Watching you as you sleep. Watching you in your dreams." The Hellion pointed at Anne, and said, "And I'll definitely be watching _you_."

Anne clutched at Star's side as if for dear life.

Star clung back just as tightly.

The Wraith continued, "I'll be dreaming of you, won't you dream of me?" He cackled wildly before rocketing through the ceiling (smashing through the rafters as averse to merely phasing through them), sending fire and rotting wood raining down below and crashing into the floor boards.

Ushering his friends to safety, Troll said, "Come on, let's get out of here!"

****

The fire shimmered with a radiant iridescence. A fully feral Dog sat perched upon the rafters above, watching.

Withers awoke, rubbing his bleeding and no-doubt throbbing forehead while'st smoke and flames billowed about the mayor's once proud mansion. He staggered to his feet before shambling toward the balcony.

The Dog jumped down.

Withers paid no notice as he peered down to the first floor.

The entire place ablaze.

Withers held his cloak up to his face, shielding it from the steadily rising smoke and heat. He turned to head back the way he came, in search of an exit strategy. The constable hissed through his teeth, kneading fingers into his sweating brow.

From out of the billowing smoke and shimmering flames, a fully feral Dog strode toward the constable. Wooden sticks (once arrows), poked out of his chest and back.

"No, no!" Withers screamed, scrambling backward into the railing.

The Dog dashed over and grabbed the constable by the neck, holding him suspended several inches off the floor boards.

" _Aack_!" Withers croaked.

The Dog thrust the constable through the banister.

Withers kicked wildly in the air. He grimaced sourly, eyes wild with panic as he clutched onto the Dog's outstretched arm; suspended thirty-feet above ground-level.

They both watched as the railing crashed through the burning floor-boards below, creating a cavernous pit from which flames arose.

Withers thrashed about, attempting to weasel his way out of the Dog's grasp.

From three stories down, the fire reached up, kissing the heels of the constable's boots. Withers choked, "Oh, for king's sakes, no! Please, don't let the fire take me! Can ye not hear how the flames call for my flesh?"

The Dog pulled the constable toward him and back onto the stairwell.

Withers sighed reluctantly, forcing a smile.

"Yes." The Dog smiled back, exposing razor-sharp teeth before holding Withers out over the awaiting inferno. "I can hear them." Then he dropped Withers.

Arms flailing, the constable plummeted, shrieking as the flames devoured him, eating him alive.

The Dog stood there watching until there was nothing left to see. He purred contently before pivoting to hightail it out of the mansion before it burned to the ground.

A rafter broke loose from the ceiling and crashed down upon the Dog. He yelped as the fiery timber pinned him to the floor, setting his fur ablaze.

****

When Troll (along with Star and Anne), raced out of the mayor's mansion, what was left of the town had gathered to greet them -- and not in a good way. The people brandished torches, pitchforks, axes -- whatever they had available. Shoot, ol' Roger Wilcox wielded nothing more than his trusty cane.

The many bite marks Troll sustained now faded, as if nothing more than smoke or shadows. But the ache in his guttural wounds had him feeling a bit nauseated. Either that or the realization of what just happened, what he just faced, was finally settling atop his consciousness like the frothy head on a cold draft. Emotionally and physically exhausted, Troll collapsed on the ground.

"Get them!" someone cried.

Anne shrank behind Troll.

"They killed the council!" another called, "burnt them alive!"

Holding his throbbing wounds, Troll grumbled, "Oh, not this again." He attempted to get his feet beneath him.

"No, wait," Star said, palm outstretched toward Troll, shackle jingling. "I got this." She sashayed toward the mob, hands on swaying hips. She pulled a shooter, aimed toward the sky, and fired.

The crowd recoiled in a start.

She said, "Now, ya'll just wait a damn minute! I can understand how robbed you must feel, how cheated. Believe me when I say I know the thirst for vengeance you must be feeling. But look at yourselves. Go on, look!"

The assembly gazed at each other.

Star continued, "Can't you see what you're doing? What you're doing to each other? Can't you see what your hatred, your fear -- your anger is doing to you? Is this really how good, God-fearing folk act in times of crises?"

"Hear, hear!" Troll called, still sitting in the grass.

Brow furrowed, nose wrinkling in disgust, she said, "You people are so eager to point a finger at anyone and everything that you don't even realize that it was Withers, Lowell, and many others who lived and worked beside you all these years that _really_ betrayed you. Withers had the shelter and church destroyed so they could steal away one of your very own! Anne Warwick!"

Anne stepped shyly from behind Troll. Her shoulders slouched as if she were in trouble. She grinned nervously at the crowd, waved, and said, "Hi."

The crowd reared back in disbelief, gapes wide, mouths open aghast.

"Anne? Anne!" Sarah cried, sprinting forward, "Oh, my God! Anne, I can't believe it! Is it really ye?" Sarah plowed into Anne. She would have knocked Anne over, had she not been squeezing the younger girl so tightly. Sarah cried, littering Anne's face with kisses.

Anne giggled.

Mustache dancing, Barley said, "Then, I guess it's all true."

"Of course it's true," Troll snorted, rising to his feet via his staff.

"That's right," Star said. "Everyone you held in esteem was merely deceiving you -- deceiving you all!"

McClure asked, "What about Mayor Godfrey?"

Star frowned, the upper half of her face concealed 'neath her hat. "He--"

Troll blurted, "Gave his life in an attempt to right the wrongs of his fellow countrymen."

Smiling, Star gazed up at Troll.

Jonathon Steward asked, "But what shall we do now?"

"Rebuild," Troll said. "Rebuild and start a-new."

Star glanced at Troll, lip curled, a questioning look in her eyes.

Troll shook his head. He turned to the crowd, and said, "Now, go on! Off with ye, before ye _really_ piss my woman off!"

The crowded dispersed, mumbling disquietly amongst themselves.

Brow cocked, hands on hips, Star asked, " _Your_ woman?"

Grinning, Troll shrugged. He asked Sarah, "Where is Byron?"

Still holding Anne, Sarah motioned with her head, "Over there."

Troll followed her nod to a spot several yards away, where Byron sat in the grass, holding his head in his trembling hands. Troll bent low to the ground, and said, "Anne, why don't ye go and console the good brother. I'm certain it would do his heart a great deal of good to see ye."

"Aye." Anne scampered off.

Star helped Sarah to her feet as the three of them watched Anne gently nudge the brother's shoulder.

Byron looked up, after a moment, his gaze widened, mouth ajar. His entire face lit up in joy. He reached out and grasped hold of Anne as if she would simply dissipate if he did not.

Troll turned to Sarah, and said, "Silverdale has yet to fall. The king's armies wait just beyond the drops before the desert."

Sarah's jaw dropped.

Troll continued, "We heard Withers say that they were meant to strike within a fortnight, but I fear what has transpired here this night might expedite their plans."

Sarah staggered, hand upon her breast, face donning a sickly pallor.

Star took Sarah's hand and squeezed tightly.

Troll continued, "We are to leave town this very dawn, heading south. There, we shall wait in the forests just before the steppes for you and Anne. Then we shall continue on west. All of us."

Sarah began, "But--"

"I fear for Anne's safety. That is all I can tell ye for now. Leave at nightfall, tell no one of all I have conveyed to ye, not even Anne."

Arms crossed, Star asked, "Why don't they just come with us?"

"Because if the townsfolk see them leave with us, they may get antsy and try to leave. We don't want that. We want the invasion to proceed as planned, drawing the king's forces here while we are elsewhere."

Sarah quavered, "But what of Byron, what of Silverdale?"

Troll replied, "Silverdale is doomed. The late Reverend Warwick and Constable Withers saw to that, long ago. And there's nothing we can do about it. But I _do_ want ye to tell Byron. But not until later on tomorrow, before ye and Anne leave."

She asked, "Why wait so long?"

"Just in case. I don't want Byron accidently telling anyone. Now go on, reunite with ye'r friends."

"Very well." Sarah gazed at him in uncertainty. She curtseyed, and took her leave.

Assuring no one within earshot, Troll asked Star, "So, that whole spiel ye gave to the mob, where did that come from?"

Face downcast, she blushed, and said, "What can I say, guess you're starting to rub off on me."

Troll lightly tipped her hat upward, so he could gaze into her eyes, and said, "Listen, I just want ye to know that everything I did, everything I said, the arguments, the deception the mistrust, even the apparent abandoning of the Dog -- everything, was because that was what God was telling me to do."

"Yeah," she said, pulling the brim of her hat low over her eyes, "I get it. I do. Frankly, I'm just sick and tired of talking about it."

Troll lifted the lip of her hat with the tips of his fingers, and said. "It was a test, Myriam, the whole thing \-- a test of our strength, spirit, and soul. And we passed, we have won the day and though I know ye don't believe--"

She held up a hand, and said, "I know, and I think I'm starting to, starting to believe, that is. Not in God, not just yet, but in you, Troll. I believe in you." She gazed deeply into his eyes.

Troll's heart fluttered, as if suddenly weakened. He smiled.

Blushing, Star smiled back. She tried to avert her gaze,

Troll lightly held up her chin with his fingers. For once, she didn't pull away from his touch. He took a step toward her.

She drew closer.

Troll continued, "Slowly but surely we shall amass an army of our own, then the king and all his ill-gotten children shall fall." Troll's words were saturated with confidence as he took another step toward her.

Star whispered, "Careful now, I think you're beginning to get a little taste for vengeance yourself, you wouldn't want to go rushing headlong into anything foolish now, would you?"

"What can I say, I guess your headstrongness has begun to rub-off upon me, in turn." He drew closer, stooping to gap the height difference between them. Smiling, he said, "Besides, I don't think I'd mind rushing into ye all that much; foolish or otherwise."

They gazed into each other's eyes. Star wrapped her arms around Troll and pulled him close.

The romance was thick in the air that night as the two once-bickering rivals stood upon the precipice of a moonlit kiss by the fire.

Unfortunately, love wasn't the only thing in the air, as a pungent aroma wrestled their nostrils before ever their lips met. They drew back, peering at each other in beguiled wonderment.

Star began, "That smells like --"

"...burnt hair," Troll finished.

They turned in unison, only to find the source of the stench right behind them. There, perched upon a fence post, was the Dog. His body looked badly burnt but not blistered. Hair and skin scalded away, leaving what was left a charred and blackened beast with dark splotches of congealed blood spotting his skin. Three, little sticks protruded from his chest and back. They _were_ arrows, now they merely looked like lit candles upon a cake that would probably poison you should you be so foolish enough as to ingest it.

Beaming, Star said, "Dog!"

Troll chuckled, "I was beginning to wonder what happened to thee. Ye all right there, boy?" He patted the Dog on the back.

Dog coughed. A plume of dark smoke coiled out in a long tendril as he hacked and wheezed.

"Now," Troll said to Star, "where were we?" He swept her up in his arms and kissed her.

Once again, Star didn't pull away. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her body against his, and kissed back.

****

CODA

TRINITY

"What a waste," Annola, Mistress of the Trees, croaked somberly to the cloaked Hellion beside her. They stood atop a hill and way out of eyesight. They'd been perched there since the sun began its slow and steady process of starting the day; watching the embers of the mayor's once grand mansion burn out into smolders.

The Wraith replied, "It is of no more waste than that of a wildfire, clearing away all the dead trees and undergrowth from the forest. Tell me, my dear, are you familiar with the phrase, _d.c. al coda_?"

"No, my lord." Annola ran a gnarled, elongated hand through her silvery-white hair.

"I wouldn't expect so. It's from a language long-dead. Literally translated, it means, return to the coda, or chorus."

"If'n ye say so, my lord."

"And I'm sure the interlopers hearts are truly singing as they return to their travels."

Annola asked, "What now?"

"Now, our young friends will advance upon their pilgrimage and your job here is done."

"Ye will tell the king of my faithfulness to him, won't ye?" Annola's squamous, purplish face curled up in a hideous smile.

"Fret not," the Hellion said. "The king shall not forget your services, nor shall I. When the time comes, you shall be rewarded greatly for your favor. For, the king holds all of his myrmidon in high esteem. Oh yes, when the time for reaping comes, the faithful shall not be forgotten. As for now, wait in the woods until the arrival of my brother, the Furion. Then, join his armies. And roll on westward into the desert." The Wraith peered off into the distance, as if gazing into the future itself. "I'm sure my brother will be delighted to hear of the young Ms. Star. And besides, the king still has great interest in one of them, great interest indeed."

"But my lord, my hut, where shall I stay?"

"I'm certain you can handle it, Annola. For, you _are_ the Mistress of the Trees, are you not? Such accommodations should prove un-problematic for one such as you."

"Aye, my lord, but for an entire fortnight?"

The Wraith chuckled, "Did I say a _fortnight_? I meant, _to_ night."

****

"Can't say I'm sorry to see y'all leave," a very grateful Jonathon Steward said while'st shaking Troll's hand. For all they had done, Jonathon, Byron, Sarah, Roger, and Anne were the only ones gathered at Silverdale's southern gate, biding the three a fine fare-thee-well.

"Nor I," Troll said, smiling as he accepted the Steward's hand in friendship. "Congratulations on being elected the new mayor."

Jonathon shrugged. He ran a hand through his long brown-hair, grinned, and said, "Aye, t'is a shame the entire council stepped down. I guess we'll just have to try and pick up the pieces, and start over."

"God be with thee, my friend."

"Take care, Ms. Star," Steward said. It was the first time he'd ever spoken directly to the woman.

Hugging Byron, Star nodded.

"Do be careful, my friend," the brother said to Star. "I'm sorry I ever doubted ye." His bushy brow wrinkled, lower lip quivering.

"I've doubted my own share," she replied. "No apology is necessary."

"Sorry about trying to kill ye'r Dog," Steward said to Troll, head hung in shame.

"Perchance ye should say that to him," Troll replied, nodding toward the Dog,

The Dog stood several feet away from everyone and anyone. His skin and most of his hair had already grown back. The arrows he accumulated were still sealed within his flesh, brachiating out as if but vestigial appendages.

Troll handed Jonathon the Dog's weapons, clothes, and of course, his cap with the gothic "D" stitched into is façade. "Perhaps, ye should return these as well."

"Allow me," Byron said, taking the sundries and adding them to the extra shirt and pantaloons tucked beneath the pit of his arm. Byron plodded toward the Dog and fell to his knees before the feral herald. His head hung low, gaze cast penitently to the ground in shame, he held out the Dog's articles. He quavered, "I'm so sorry I ever doubted thee, my friend."

The Dog snatched the clothes away, grasped the good brother by the wrist, and pulled him to his feet.

Byron gazed into the Dog's twinkling greenish-gape.

The Dog nodded, and then finally did the one thing that Troll had been waiting for since he'd met the Dog. This was the big one. The one he never surmised the Dog would perform. The one that symbolized Dog's acceptance of civility, humanity, and friendship. It was the first time the Dog ever shook anyone's hand.

Star's face brightened with a smile radiant beyond all words.

Smiling back at her, Troll nodded, and winked.

Beaming, Byron said, "I knew it, I knew it all along, he _does_ like me." Byron tugged at an outstretched arrow, and said, "Here, let me help ye with that."

Dog snarled, backing away from the brother.

Byron shrugged, and said, "Guess he doesn't like me that much."

The others erupted in a well-deserved, light-hearted laughter.

"Remember what I said about Byron," Troll whispered into Sarah's ear as he hugged her tightly.

"Aye," she whispered back, "I'll tell him."

"Just make certain ye don't wait too long."

"Aye," Sarah replied. Crying, she squeezed Troll tightly, and said, "Oh, thank ye, thank ye so much."

Holding up her chin, he said, "Until tonight." Then he glanced at the Dog.

Sarah smiled weakly and followed the behemoth's gaze.

The Dog hopped about on one leg, struggling to put on his pants before falling clumsily to the ground in a comical heap.

They all laughed again.

Sarah wiped the tears from her freckled cheeks. She picked up a parcel that had been resting on the ground and shuffled toward the Dog.

The Dog scrambled to his feet and brushed himself off.

Sarah held out the pair of boots and jacket she made, and said, "I can't thank ye enough. I'm sorry I treated thee so bad when ye did so much for her. Please forgive my blindness."

The Dog gazed into her eyes and smiled.

Sarah wiped her faced again, sniffled, and said, "These are for ye. They'll come in handy where ye'r going."

The Dog accepted the accessories and nodded.

Sarah curtseyed and then stepped aside so Anne could say goodbye to her puppy.

Anne raced into his waiting arms. She blubbered so hard, all she could manage to say was a simple, "I love ye."

All there gathered bore witness to the Dog also on the verge of tears. Real tears, tears of sadness and conviction, tears of humanity. He didn't cry, but he almost did.

Star wrapped her arm in Troll's, stood on tip-toes (though he still stooped), and kissed him on the cheek. They gazed into each other's eyes.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Honey, I was born ready."

Then something else happened that Troll couldn't predict -- Star sang.

"Heavens here, Lord this I know." Her crooning voice was as easy on the ears as her voluptuous body was on the eyes.

"Hey, I know this one!" Troll said. He joined his love in heartfelt song.

"Feel it through me from toe to bone..." They marched on in high spirits.

Dog and Anne embraced the way two friends do when they think they'll never see each other's faces again, save for in memory. Head down, shoulders hunched, The Dog ambled after his traveling companions.

And in the skies the sun doth shine

And we shall sing our praise to thee, Lord

And on and on it goes

We shall sing this song some more...

Troll and Star's voices soared. The Dog glanced back, meeting Sarah's troubled gaze. The Dog tipped his hat to her, as if to say, "Until tomorrow."

"Dog!" Troll boomed, barely breaking the song. "Come!"

The Dog gave Sarah and Anne one last glance before trotting off to reunite with his trinity.

... _We shall sing this song some more_

Until our hearts stop beating

We shall never cease in song...

****

Ah yes, until their hearts stopped beating, the Wraith liked that. The Hellion watched in solitude from atop the crest of a hill (the witch had retired), wearing a smile so sinister, mere articulation alone doesn't do it justice.

Despite all hardships befallen and how strong Troll, Myriam Star, and the Dog had become, they hadn't even scratched the surface of the doom awaiting them. For, the hooded Hellion held unfathomed horrors in store for the three. Terrible trials just waiting to be sprung. The day was theirs sure, but soon...oh, so soon. And the Wraith nearly drooled as he watched the interlopers skip merrily away. Glaring at them with disdainful eyes, eyes of hate, eyes of a demon. But despite all the hate that burned within him, the Wraith _had_ to smile. Ah yes, how could one not when everything was going splendidly as planned.

For, even as the sun shone brightly now, further off and beyond their plane of vision, storm clouds loomed ominously in the distance.

J.S.F

June, 2010

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joshua S. Friedman lives in the beautiful state of Michigan, where he enjoys the nature that inspires his writing.

OTHER BOOKS

The Chronicles of Dog and Troll: Book 2 – The Diary of Myriam Star

The Chronicles of Dog and Troll: Book 3 – The Fall of Al'ber Que

I've Always Been a Poet, 'Though I Didn't Always Know It
