 
Tales of High Fantasy

### by Robert E. Keller

Smart Goblin Publishing 2014

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

*The cover art for this book was created using paid, licensed, modified

stock images from Bigstock in an original interpretation.

Copyright © 2014 Robert E. Keller

Content Notice:

A collection of fantasy short stories.

About the Author:

Robert E. Keller is a fantasy writer who has had more than 30 stories published in online and print magazines, and he is the author of several epic fantasy novels. You can find more information on his projects at www.robertekeller.net

**Other books by Robert E. Keller** :

Novels:

Knights: The Eye of Divinity

Knights: The Hand of Tharnin

Knights: The Heart of Shadows

Knights: The Blood of Kings

Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar

Knights: Legends of Ollanhar

Knights: Shadows of Ollanhar

***

The Curse of Credesar

***

A Knight of Tharnin, Book I

### Table of Contents:

Barrel Rider

Two Men and a Sword

Rage of the God Heads

Gauntlet of Winter, Sword of Spring

The Web of Bloated Indulgence

The Battering Ram at Doom's Gates

Brock Strangebeard and the Towers of Matterkill

Barrel Rider

(Originally published in _Mirror Dance_ magazine.

Revised for this collection.)

Farmer Sneedon stood on the river bank and studied the barrel with great interest, wondering if this was his lucky day. It looked stout--made of some type of pale wood bound in what appeared to be iron rings--with strange markings burned into it. His fishing pole lay wiggling at his feet, its line in the river. But Farmer Sneedon couldn't have cared less if a fish had taken the bait or not. All he could see was the unusual barrel that had just drifted down the river and washed up on the bank next to the roots of a sprawling oak.

"Can't understand how it opens," he muttered to himself, running his hands over the smooth wood and metal that felt strangely warm. The river ran on for hundreds of miles through forest and farmland before merging with a huge lake surrounded by towns and cities, and the barrel might have held something quite valuable. Sneedon gave no thought to whether or not he was justified in claiming it, since the barrel had little hope of returning to its owner. At last he smashed a rock down on the barrel, his eyes smoldering with determination. But he couldn't even scratch it.

He was startled by a noise like grinding metal, and a previously invisible door in the barrel's side swung open to reveal a small, bearded man within amid gears and levers. Farmer Sneedon leapt back, his eyes wide, the rock slipping from his fingers.

"Well, hello there!" he said in shock.

The little man stepped out of the barrel, grinning. He was an ugly midget. His bearded face was lined and wrinkled, his hook nose excessively long. His eyes were dark, like pools that revealed nothing except a mischievous glint, and his teeth were large and yellow. His red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and like his beard, it was a series of tiny braids. He wore a plain brown tunic and brown trousers, and a leather belt with an oversized silver buckle encircled his waist. His black leather boots split in two at the ends like cloven hoofs. A broad, sheathed dagger with a rune-covered, silver handle hung from his belt.

He bowed. "I am Gatheon Mudoolis, traveler from distant lands. And you are...?" His breath smelled of whiskey.

Farmer Sneedon blinked, still overcome with surprise. "I'm a farmer. Um . . . Sneedon, that is. Nate Sneedon. Nice to meet you." Clumsily, he extended his hand. For an instant, the oddness of the situation was so profound that he wondered if he was dreaming. Had a little man actually just stepped out of a barrel to greet him? He decided he was indeed awake and experiencing something remarkable that would hopefully lead to his great benefit.

The midget shook it. "They call me a Barrel Rider, Mr. Sneedon. And can you guess why that might be?" He chuckled, then cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'm from inside the Gold Dust Belt, where people are smaller. I'm seeking to make my fame and fortune amongst the large folk."

"But that's not possible," said Farmer Sneedon. "No one travels through the Gold Dust Belt. It's poisonous to breathe." The Gold Dust Belt was a ring of vapor hundreds of miles long and at least three miles thick at any point. It was said to be of magical origin and of unknown purpose, created when the world was very young.

Gatheon pointed at his barrel, his chin held high with pride. "She's airtight when I want her to be, Mr. Sneedon. Only a Barrel Rider like myself can travel through the Gold Dust Belt and live. Got just enough air in there to make it through--maybe even a little to spare. And we small folk can hold our breaths for a long time." His eyes gleamed with delight. "My barrel can even travel upriver, against the strongest current."

Farmer Sneedon was impressed, but still baffled and taken aback. "I've never heard of any little folk," he said. He pondered for a moment. "Well, there are legends of gnomes living inside the Belt. But those are just children's stories."

"Indeed," said Gatheon, waving his meaty hand in a dismissive gesture. "You large people have such silly legends. I'm a man like you, Mr. Sneedon. Just smaller. Nothing magical about me--except for maybe my charm." He laughed. "Anyway, I didn't mean to startle you. If you don't mind, I'm kind of hungry and I'd like some dinner. I'm a hard worker." He eyed the farmer's basket of fish and licked his lips.

"Huh?" said Farmer Sneedon, still trying to sort out the situation in his mind. He wiped sweat from his thin, weathered face. It wasn't every day that strange little men popped out of barrels. "Sure, you can help with a few chores after dinner, and sleep in the guest room. Won't be a problem. I often let travelers stay at the farm in exchange for work. And I need some help catching up on things today."

Gatheon smiled warmly and extended his hand. Farmer Sneedon noticed it was just as calloused as his own, which meant the little man was probably indeed a hard worker. They shook hands again, and Sneedon thought the midget wasn't such a bad fellow. He had a lot of questions he wanted to ask, but he decided to wait until later, lest he scare the traveler away.

"Thank you so much, my good, good man!" said Gatheon. "I'll do all I can to make it worth your while. First, I must hide my barrel in the woods. Please wait here for me, as no one can know its location."

"You can bring it to the farm," said Sneedon. "It should be safe enough there."

Gatheon shook his head several times. "No, no, no. That wouldn't do at all. We little folk always hide our barrels, preferably near rivers. Plain and simple. No one must find it! It's nothing against you personally. It's just our way of doing things."

"If you must," said Farmer Sneedon, with a shrug. The little fellow was odd, but pleasant enough. He had a certain charm about him that made him very likable. Farmer Sneedon felt this traveler would prove to be excellent company.

After Gatheon had carried his barrel off into the woods and then returned empty handed, Sneedon gathered his fishing gear and the two set off for the farm. As they walked, they spoke little, but questions kept building in Sneedon's mind. If the midget did indeed come from inside the Gold Dust Belt--a land that no one could visit--the farmer wanted to know all about it. Yet he held his tongue, determined to wait on his inquires until the little man smelled some cooking food and was less likely to get offended.

The farm was small--containing a horse, a few cows, about two dozen chickens, a goat, a barn, and a two-story house. They followed the road out of the woods, through a cornfield, and into a muddy yard. Farmer Sneedon's wife, Tamella, stood on the front porch, an uncertain smile on her lips as they approached.

Farmer Sneedon started to introduce his new companion, when Gatheon brushed past him, raced over, and planted a kiss on Tamella's hand. "My beautiful lady," Gatheon said. "I am more than pleased to be at your beck and call."

Tamella smiled in surprise and delight. She had been very pretty once, but like her husband, she was in her late forties and farm life had taken its toll on her. However, she still possessed some of her former beauty--especially when she smiled--and she retained most of the blond color in her lush, curly hair. "Well aren't you a charming little fellow! And where did you find such a gentleman, my husband?"

Farmer Sneedon explained what had happened.

Tamella's eyes were wide. "What an unusual story. But you're certainly not from around here. Your fine manners alone are enough to tell me that."

They went inside. While Tamella fried up the fish her husband had caught, Farmer Sneedon tried to strike up a conversation with Gatheon, seeking to learn about his homeland and people. But the little man seemed suddenly distracted, and he gave vague answers that the farmer didn't find satisfying in the least. Finally, the farmer fell silent, deciding Gatheon was probably just hungry and would loosen his tongue after he'd had some fried fish (or else Gatheon really wasn't from inside the Gold Dust Belt in spite of his claim).

Gatheon kept his gaze fixed on Tamella, acting as if Farmer Sneedon wasn't there. The farmer started to comment on the weather, but Gatheon interrupted him. "Beautiful lady," he said softly, "the smell of your cooking is intoxicating."

Farmer Sneedon nodded. "Yes, my wife is indeed a good--"

"And you have a lovely home, Mrs. Sneedon," Gatheon continued.

The farmer cleared his throat. "So how long will you be--"

"Do you have any children, Mrs. Sneedon?"

"A grown son and daughter," said Tamella. "Both are married with children of their own. What about you, Mr. Mudoolis? Do you have any children?"

"Gobbled up," Gatheon said.

Tamella wheeled about from the stove, her face pale. "Excuse me?"

"That fish will soon be gobbled up. I'm so hungry you just wouldn't believe it." He grinned, showing his large yellow teeth.

Tamella laughed nervously. "Well, it won't be long until we eat."

Gatheon produced a big flask from his tunic and sipped it heartily. He smacked his lips. "Stout stuff. Been sipping it for the past three hours off and on. Takes the edge off my hunger." He took another hearty swig.

"So you ride the rivers in a...barrel?" Tamella said. "How extraordinary. Is it a special barrel made for such travel? Where is it?"

Gatheon's eyes narrowed. "In a safe place. In the woods." A sly look crossed his face. "No one will ever find it beneath the bird's watchful eye." He hiccupped. "Anyway, I'm talking too much. Happens when I sip whiskey."

As the three sat down for dinner, Farmer Sneedon started to say a prayer. But before he finished speaking, Gatheon had bitten a fish completely in two and was chewing fiercely to get it down. He grunted as he chewed, and sweat dripped from his forehead. Crumbs from the breading hung in his beard. At one point, he made a gagging noise as if choking on a bone. Alarmed, Tamella quickly poured him some water, but he refused it with a frown and a wave of his hand. He made the gagging noise again and then swallowed.

"Are you okay?" Farmer Sneedon asked.

Gatheon ignored him. "The fish is delicious, my lady. Splendid! We little people can handle fish bones. We've got a worm in our bellies that grinds them up. Even the scales are no problem for us."

Farmer Sneedon felt queasy. "A worm, you say?"

"Not like an earthworm," said Gatheon, his eyes still fixed on Tamella. "Just a slimy little device that looks like a worm. It's a handy little organ, because we eat our fish raw--scales, head, guts, and all." He chuckled and patted his belly. "I like them when they're still twitching."

Farmer Sneedon shook his head in disgust and amazement. Tamella suddenly didn't seem interested in her dinner.

After Gatheon had eaten his fill, he watched Tamella with a burning gaze as she wiped down the stove, put away leftovers, and collected the dishes. When she reached for his plate, he seized her arm and caressed it. "Lovely," Gatheon whispered. He touched her hair. "And those golden locks are delightful."

Her face reddened, and she pulled away.

His own face flushing with anger, Farmer Sneedon stood up quickly. "All right now, Mr. Mudoolis. They'll be no more touching my wife, or you'll have to move on. Is that understood? I think perhaps you've had a bit too much of that whiskey."

"My apologies," Gatheon said, still focused on Tamella. "Your beauty is just so inspiring, my lady." He leaned toward her. "Why, I could tackle you right now and smother you in tender kisses."

Farmer Sneedon's mouth dropped open. "Now that's enough of that talk! I think you'll have to find lodging somewhere else tonight."

"Nonsense," Tamella said. "He's just being polite, my husband."

"I wouldn't call that polite," Farmer Sneedon growled. "Far from it. I don't know how your people talk to men's wives, Mr. Mudoolis, but in this land we're taught to show respect."

"I can teach you respect, farmer," Gatheon said sullenly, his eyes narrowing. The smell of whiskey was strong on his breath.

"What did you say?" Farmer Sneedon asked, leaning over the table with a menacing look on his face. He considered grabbing the little man by his tunic and marching him off down the road. But then he noticed that Gatheon's hand was resting on the silver handle of his broad dagger and he thought better of it.

"I said I know about respect," said Gatheon. "At least, what my people taught me. And we're taught that women are wonderful creatures, to be cherished, praised, and loved. Especially...to be loved." He licked his lips. "Right and proper."

"Right and proper?" said Farmer Sneedon. "Is that so?"

Gatheon nodded. "As it should be."

"Get on down the road!" Farmer Sneedon shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "I've had about enough of your--"

"Husband!" Tamella snapped. "He's from a different land and does not know our ways. And I insist that we allow him to stay for the night."

"I'll sleep in the barn," Gatheon said. "I won't bother anyone."

"You'll do no such thing," said Tamella. "You can sleep in the guest room, and not in any barn like an animal."

"Thank you so much. You are truly kind hearted."

"That's not going to happen," said Farmer Sneedon. "I should throw you off my farm, but I see my wife is determined to undermine my authority. So be it. You can sleep in the barn and then leave in the morning. It's that, or nothing."

"I'll take that offer," Gatheon said, jumping up from his chair. And with that, he wished them well, bowed, and left the house.

Farmer Sneedon glared at his wife. "Now look what you've done. Clearly, that little man is a lowlife wretch. He's probably a liar, too. That was probably nothing more than a fancy ale barrel he was riding in. He undoubtedly stole it from somewhere."

Tamella nodded. "I agree. But let's use some common sense. Do we really want to anger him? You saw that huge knife he was carrying."

Grudgingly, Farmer Sneedon nodded. "Yes, I saw it. Hopefully he'll get so drunk off his booze that he'll pass out in the barn and sleep until morning. Maybe then he'll move on. If he knows what's good for him, he will!"

"I'm going out for a walk," said Tamella. "I feel in need of some fresh air right now. I'll be back in an hour or so."

"Very well," Farmer Sneedon said. "I've got to do some chores, and I intend to keep a close eye on our little guest."

***

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and Gatheon Mudoolis stayed in the barn. He didn't offer to help with any chores, but Farmer Sneedon didn't care as long as the midget stayed out of sight. It seemed no further trouble would result from the little man's presence, though chills crept over Sneedon's flesh whenever he pondered Gatheon's motives. Finally, the farmer peered inside the barn and saw that Gatheon was sound asleep atop some hay, and he went away satisfied.

But sometime during the night, with a bright moon shining down, Farmer Sneedon and Tamella awoke to the frantic whinnying of their horse. Clearly, the animal was in great distress. The cows and goat also seemed agitated--but the horse was absolutely panicked. Sneedon hurriedly put on his clothes and boots, while Tamella watched him with a tense expression.

The whinnying stopped abruptly, as if choked off. The cows continued mooing, however.

"Wait here," he told her. "I'll see what that little wretch is up to. If he's harming our animals, he'll be very sorry for it!"

"Be careful!" she said. "There is something quite dangerous about him. I saw it in his eyes. Maybe you should stay."

"And let our animals get tormented or killed?" said Sneedon, gazing at his wife in disbelief. "I won't let him destroy our farm."

"We can rebuild a farm," said Tamella. "But I can't replace you, dear husband." She clutched his arm. "Please don't go out there."

Alarmed, Sneedon pulled away from her. "I'll be fine."

"Then let me go with you," she said.

"You'll stay right here," he insisted. "I said I'll be fine."

Tamella's face was deathly pale. She didn't answer.

Farmer Sneedon raced downstairs, his heart pounding hard. He retrieved his lantern, but found it was out of oil. He cursed himself for neglecting to fill it, but he dared not go into the barn without a good light source. He filled the lantern and grabbed a hatchet from by the stove. Then he headed outside.

When Sneedon entered the barn, he let out a gasp. Gatheon had cleared a small patch of earth and lit a fire. Lying next to the fire was the bloody carcass of Sneedon's horse. Its head was missing, and some of its meat was roasting over the flames. Gatheon was nowhere to be seen.

For an instant, Farmer Sneedon couldn't bring himself to move, so great was his fear. Obviously, the little man was a lunatic, and he could be hiding anywhere in the shadows. The farmer glanced about, his knuckles white as he gripped the hatchet. The cows and goat were okay, but still shifting about in their stalls and making distressed sounds. The barn reeked of roasting meet and a spicy smell that seemed to fill Sneedon with dread and gloom. The shadows beyond the lantern light seemed unnaturally dark.

"Come...come out, Mr. Mudoolis," he said. "You've killed my beloved horse, and I can't let you get away with it." No response greeted Sneedon's ears.

Rage overcoming his terror, Farmer Sneedon searched the barn. There were a lot of potential hiding places, and his search took him several minutes. He was trembling from head to toe in fear and anger, and the lantern bobbed and jerked about, causing shadows to lurch like living creatures.

As he shined his lantern behind some hay bales, he let out a whimper. The horse's head lay on the ground, surrounded by three lit candles. A strange symbol had been painted in blood on its forehead, and an unrolled scroll with more symbols lay nearby along with a pile of reddish ash.

Farmer Sneedon could make no sense of what he saw--other than to guess that Gatheon had been trying to work some kind of magic spell. Since the farmer didn't believe in such things, he was more concerned about Gatheon being utterly insane. He backed away and nearly tripped.

Farmer Sneedon heard a hiss, and glancing up, he saw a pair of crimson eyes glaring at him from the shadows. He raised his hatchet as a warning. "I see you now, Mr. Mudoolis!" he cried. "Give yourself up, or face this hatchet!" A voice in the back of Farmer Sneedon's mind warned him that Gatheon's eyes should not be glowing like coals--that something monstrous was watching from the darkness.

The watcher leapt down from a stack of crates and into the lantern light, revealing a short, fat, impish creature that looked almost like a naked doll made of reddish wood. It had an oversized, blocky head with round crimson eyes; a drooling, toothless mouth; two tiny bat wings that grew out of its shoulders and appeared useless as far as flight was concerned, and fingers that tapered into sharp points. It looked like someone's grotesque carving of an infant demon. The mere sight of it caused Farmer Sneedon's stomach to boil with horror and disgust, and he was frozen in place.

Snarling, the creature leapt at Farmer Sneedon, swiping at him with its fingers. With a cry, he brought up his arms to protect his face. The slashing, pointy fingers shredded his tunic sleeves and tore open the flesh underneath. Desperately, he shoved the creature away from him. It rolled head over heels, making creaking noises, before landing upright with a jerky, puppet-like motion.

Farmer Sneedon fought fiercely against his terror. His knees almost gave out beneath him. But the instinct to protect his wife kept him from fleeing. He was determined to destroy the creature before it could get to Tamella.

As the enraged imp threw itself forward to attack again, Farmer Sneedon swung the hatchet. Somehow, he landed a perfectly timed, very lucky blow on the creature's forehead, splitting it open like a block of oak. Screeching, the imp flopped around and then disintegrated into a pile of crimson ash.

"Tamella!" Farmer Sneedon cried, and he raced for the house. As he ran through the yard, he could hear his wife screaming upstairs. In his haste, he tripped over a stray piece of firewood and landed hard on his belly, skinning his knee. Utterly winded, he lay gasping for breath.

At last he managed to get up, and he flung himself through the front door and dashed upstairs--to find the bedroom door locked from within. He heard evil laughter coming from beyond the door.

"Help me!" Tamella screamed. "He's in here with me!"

Farmer Sneedon slammed his hatchet against the door, chopping through the lock and then smashing it open with his shoulder. He charged into the room, his face twisted in a killing rage. But Gatheon had already fled through the upstairs window.

Tamella sat on the edge of the bed, looking more calm now than she should have been. "He's gone," she said. "And I'm fine. He wasn't going to harm me. He considers me precious. He simply cut away a lock of my hair."

"He killed Mallie," said Farmer Sneedon, referring to their horse. He clutched his forehead and shuddered. "And...and he summoned some kind of horrible monster in the barn. I think it's dead now."

"You're bleeding," Tamella said.

"It's nothing too serious. But..." Sneedon shook his head. "How can this be? The creature in the barn was pure evil! It must have been a demon of some sort. I never believed in such things until now. I have to go find him, before he does more damage. But I fear leaving you alone again."

"He has left the farm," Tamella said. "He told me he's a gnome out searching for a wife. They come from within the Gold Dust Belt in search of women. They take great pride in capturing human females for their brides. He said he would take my lock of hair back to his people to show their village wizard, and in six days a winged shadow would come for me and carry me off--and that no one could stop it."

Farmer Sneedon trembled. "If that's true, then I have to go catch him and kill him before he escapes in that barrel!"

Tamella shook her head. "Do not fear, my husband. He won't escape. When I took my walk earlier, I moved his barrel to another hiding place, and I assure you he won't be able to find it. I had a feeling--a very strong feeling that I can't explain--that I needed to hide his barrel. It's very fortunate that I acted upon it."

"But how did you know where it was?" the farmer asked.

"It was easy," she said. "He spoke of having hidden it beneath the bird's watchful eye. That was a big mistake. The drunken fool! I remembered a stone statue of an owl in the woods, which I used to lay beneath when I was a child. Sure enough, I found his barrel at the foot of that statue, surrounded by boulders and oaks."

"But he commands magic," said Farmer Sneedon, trembling. "He must have summoned that imp in the barn to kill me. When he finds out what you've done, he'll return with rage in his heart. He'll kill both of us!"

"No, he won't," Tamella said calmly. "He won't dare. He stands to lose the most precious thing in the world to him--something he cannot return home without. He'll give back that lock of hair before all is said and done."

"I pray that you're right, dear wife," said Farmer Sneedon, shuddering. "Or we're both going to be dead before the first rays of dawn."

***

Not long after that, Gatheon did return, charging up the stairs with his dagger drawn. "I'll cut you both into pieces," he snarled, storming into their bedroom. His dagger glowed with a crimson hue, radiating from a substance like fiery blood that ran through dark veins that webbed its surface. The veins seemed to pulse with life. It was an ugly weapon that spoke of smoldering caverns and ancient sorcery.

The farmer and his wife sat on the edge of the bed. Tamella looked relaxed, but Farmer Sneedon was beside himself. He leapt off the bed, taking position to defend his wife. He raised his hatchet, but it seemed feeble compared to the monstrous dagger that was pointed his way.

"I'd like that lock of hair returned to me," said Tamella.

"And I'd like my barrel returned to me," said Gatheon. "Do you know how old I am? I've lived for over three-hundred years and have never had a human as a bride. You're going to return what is rightfully mine, and you will be my wife!"

Farmer Sneedon waved the hatchet. "You killed my horse. And that demon of yours nearly killed me. You won't get away with it!"

"I'm surprised you're still alive," said Gatheon, raising his bushy eyebrows. "But it doesn't matter. You can't stop me from claiming my prize."

"I'll chop off your ugly head," said Farmer Sneedon. As terrified as he was, the gnome's arrogant attitude infuriated him.

With a sneer, Gatheon pointed the glowing dagger at Farmer Sneedon. "I could cut through you like parchment, human swine. My dagger will burn your flesh like flame from a forge and suck away your life force. Now where is my barrel?"

Farmer Sneedon swung the hatchet, hoping to catch the gnome by surprise. But Gatheon's dagger slashed out with terrible speed and cleaved the hatchet in two, sending the iron head thudding to the floor. Sneedon punched the little man in the jaw, and his fist exploded with pain. It was as if he had struck iron.

Gatheon's eyes widened in fury, and he seized the farmer's tunic and yanked him to his knees. He clamped his hand on Sneedon's throat and raised the hideous dagger. "Now I will cut out your heart!"

Tamella held out her hand. "Let go of my husband and return my lock of hair, gnome. I'm running out of patience."

Gatheon shoved Sneedon against the wall, and turned toward Tamella. "Tell me where my barrel is, or I will crush his throat."

"Never," said Tamella, her face hard with determination.

The dark pools that were Gatheon's eyes glinted with pure malice. "You humans are weak, and the men of your kind are worthless. Yet you, my lady..." He licked his lips. "You are so beautiful. Why do you resist? Wouldn't you like to come to my land, to see wonders beyond your imagination and live for ages and ages? Come, leave this miserable farmer and be my bride. Or stay here in a pale land, wither, and die."

Tamella's jaw was set firm. "As I said, I want that lock of hair. Only then will I surrender your barrel to you. Rest assured that you could spend a hundred years searching for it and never find it."

"Give me a hint," Gatheon pleaded. "As I gave you one."

"No hints," said Tamella. "The lock of hair."

"You'll never get it," Gatheon vowed. "We gnomes are stubborn. We cannot be fooled, or intimidated. I will have what I've come for."

"You'll never have my wife!" Farmer Sneedon croaked. He fought hard to breathe, as the fingers dug painfully into his throat.

"This is your last chance, Mr. Mudoolis," Tamella said coldly. "You will either return that lock of hair now and get out, or I swear unto my grave that you will never, ever, find out where I've hidden your precious barrel. Is that clear?"

Gatheon opened his mouth to protest, then grudgingly nodded. He released Sneedon--who had purple bruises on his throat--and reached into his tunic. He muttered something under his breath, then flung the lock of hair at her.

"I want all of it," she said, her eyes icy. "Your last chance!"

Hurriedly, Gatheon reached into his pocket and pulled out more hair. He threw it at her. "Take it all, then! But tell me where you've hidden it."

"You must swear never to return here," Tamella said, "that you will leave us in peace."

Gatheon hesitated, gritting his teeth.

"Swear it right and proper!" she commanded. "And I know how a gnome is supposed to give his word. I also know a gnome's word, when given properly, is unbreakable. I read it in a book once, while lying beneath a certain stone owl in the woods--the same owl that betrayed you."

"I swear it on my father's forge to leave you in peace," Gatheon said sullenly, bowing his head in defeat. "Now where is it?"

"I dragged it back here," she said. "It's behind the chicken coop, covered in a pile of straw, mud, and chicken droppings. I'm sure it smells wonderful."

Without a word, Gatheon Mudoolis sheathed his dagger and left.

Farmer Sneedon gazed at his wife in amazement. "You knew he was going to give in to your demands. But how?"

"It is simple, my husband," Tamella said, smiling. "I had him over a barrel."

End.
Two Men and a Sword

(Originally published in Silver Blade magazine.

Revised for this collection.)

"But it's a dangerous weapon, Zealan," Lambart said, scratching his head slowly and thoughtfully. He lowered his voice to an awed whisper. "It's a sword!" Lambart gazed down at the gleaming blade and shuddered. His chubby face showed grave concern, even as he reached into his grimy tunic, which was missing a few buttons, and picked a windblown leaf from his chest hair.

"I know what it is," said Zealan. "I'm not an idiot like you. But we can't just leave it here by the roadside. What if some lad were to find it and think it's a toy?" He blew his nose into a dirty handkerchief and shot his brother a look that was supposed to show how much more intelligent he was than the oversized farm boy. His eyes watered from allergies, and his gaunt, pimpled face was burned fiery red from the summer sun.

Lambart glared down at Zealan with his own expression of superiority. Zealan was three years older, but Lambart was larger and stronger. "But it's a sword! What would Father think of us messing around with something like that? Maybe we should just hide it for now, and...and tell someone about it. "

Zealan sighed. "Hide it where? Huh?"

Lambart glanced about. Open grassland greeted his blue eyes, dotted with only a few oaks here and there. Forest and mountain were hazy in the distance on this fine summer day. "I don't know. In the grass somewhere."

"We could sell it," Zealan said. "It's a well-crafted blade...probably." He shrugged. "Looks nice, anyway. Maybe we could get something good for it. It could be worth more than, well, a day of work, at least. Maybe a week of work, for that matter. We're taking it!"

"Fine," muttered Lambart, shaking his big head. "Then you carry it. I won't touch that thing."

Zealan reached for the sword and then hesitated. He gulped. "Don't tell Father, Lambart. You better promise me!"

"I won't," Lambart said. "But we split what it's worth. Right?"

Zealan's mouth gaped open, revealing a host of sorry-looking teeth despite the fact that he was only twenty-two years old. "I'm your brother, Lambart! Did you think I'd hog all the profit for myself?"

"Just making sure," Lambart replied, remembering how many times Zealan had hogged things over the years. "Because," he added in a whisper, "you're a hog if ever a hog was. And ain't that the truth!"

"What?" Zealan said, balling up his bony fist. "What was that? You might outweigh me by fifty pounds, you giant oaf, but I can still knock the stuffing out of you right and proper!"

"Let's get going," Lambart said, shuffling away and picking up two baskets of potatoes.

"Aren't you going to grab a basket of my taters too?" Zealan asked. "I can't carry this sword and two baskets at the same time."

"You wanted that thing, not me," Lambart said grimly. "Carry your own taters, Zealan."

"Just take one of my baskets," Zealan said. "Come on now. I'll get the other. Or I'm not splitting the money with you."

Lambart sighed and hooked a third basket over his brawny arm. It was an awkward arrangement, with potatoes threatening to fall at the slightest misstep. "Now I'm gonna lose a tater or two, gosh dang it!"

"Quit your complaining," Zealan said. "We got us a fine sword to sell."

The two brothers trudged onward along the trail. A pleasant breeze ruffled the grass and stirred their excitement. They wondered what lay in store.

"What if someone meets us on the road," asked Lambart, "and claims it's theirs. Could easily happen."

"What if they do?" Zealan replied. "They'll have to prove it. I'm not going to hand over something as valuable as this sword just because someone claims they own it. Besides, the real owner is probably long gone."

"What if we're robbed like usual?" Lambart asked. "The thieves might think we brought the sword to use against them. Might make them mad."

Zealan paused in stride. "Hmm...that's true. I didn't think of that." His bushy eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lip, as if thinking hard.

Moments drifted by with the breeze.

"Well?" Lambart demanded.

"We can leave the road and take another route," said Zealan. Then he sighed. "No, that won't do us any good. Too much open grassland out here. They'd spot us anyway. Maybe we could offer them the sword. They'd be happy to get it, instead of just taters and copper like all the other times they robbed us."

Lambart nodded. "I guess that's a good plan. We can get rid of that thing, and probably keep our taters. I hate it when I lose my taters to those doggone bandits!"

They continued on. The sun passed deeper into the afternoon sky, and it wasn't long before the brothers ran into two thieves. The robbers hid behind a huge, lone oak tree waiting for unwary travelers. As the brothers passed by, the robbers leapt out and brandished clubs. They were big, rugged-looking men with weathered, bearded faces. One towered over the brothers, nearly seven feet tall, while the other, much shorter, displayed a fat gut that merrily bounced free from his open tunic.

"Give over your goods!" the tall man ordered.

"Do it, or we'll club you dead," the fat one added.

"Now hold on, Parn," Zealan said, addressing the tall one. "Can't you give us a break? All we have are these taters." Displaying unusually quick thinking and reflexes, Zealan had hidden the sword behind his back even as the thieves jumped from hiding.

The fat thief eyed the potatoes. "Those will do nice enough."

Lambart glowered at him. "We worked hard to pick these taters, Fargo. You just keep your dirty hands off them."

Fargo spat on the ground. "Why should we, Lambart? We've got to make a living just like you. You want us to starve?"

Lambart sneered. "You're a long way from starving."

"I'll brain you for talk like that!" Fargo waved his club.

"Now hold on," Zealan said. "You can have the taters. And we'll even give up our copper. There's no need to get angry."

"Now you're talking some sense," Parn said, grinning broadly. His head seemed as long as a stovepipe. "Just give us half of what you got, Zealan, like usual. Oh, but there's one more thing. We want that sword you're hiding, too."

Zealan lowered his gaze. "You're robbing us blind! This isn't right. Why don't you just take everything, and then we can starve, and Father too!"

"Maybe we ought to," Fargo said. "But we're not that cruel. Tell you what, you can give us the sword and half of your taters. You can keep the other half. That's a fair deal!"

"Maybe we ought to just take that sword and..." Lambart gulped, letting his words trail off. "Um, maybe not, now that I think about it."

Fargo took a step closer. "What was that, Lambart? A threat?"

"No, no threat," Lambart stammered. He cleared his throat. "I was just going to say we should take that sword and, you know, let you have it."

"Let us have it?" Fargo mused. "I thought so."

"We'll let you have it alright!" Zealan said. "You can bet on it." A strange, wild look had sprung to life in his eyes, like that of a caged animal at last glimpsing an exit.

Parn's eyes narrowed. "Well, okay then," he said slowly. "So, um, why don't you let us have..." He swallowed. "Why don't you hand it over?"

"Sure," said Zealan. He held the sword in front of him, the sharp blade aimed straight at Parn. "Here you go."

"Zealan, what are you doing?" Lambart whispered.

"Letting him have it!" Zealan replied.

"Fargo, take the sword," Parn said nervously.

"I always carry a club," Fargo said. "I don't need a stinking sword. Might slip and slice off my leg or something. You take it." Fargo backed up a step. Fargo and Parn stood frozen, staring at the sword pointing at Parn's chest.

"Who wants a sword anyway?" Parn said suddenly. "A club is easier to use, and like Fargo says, you might slip and lose your doggone leg or something." He chuckled. "I'll give you boys a break this time."

Lambart sighed. "Thanks a bundle!"

"You're welcome," Parn said, nodding. "But next time I might not be so generous."

"Could we have a couple taters?" Fargo said.

"Sure," said Zealan. "All you had to do was ask."

Lambart tossed a few potatoes to them, which Fargo stuffed in his pockets.

"Hey, see you fellows around," Parn said, smiling.

"Yeah, sure," Lambart said. "You fellows have a good day."

Exchanging friendly, bewildered looks, the four men parted ways.

Zealan and Lambart hurried on without looking back, hoping the thieves wouldn't come to their senses and chase after them.

"What was that all about?" said Lambart, wiping sweat from his brow. "It looked as if you were gonna go down fighting."

Zealan shrugged. "I don't know what came over me. I just didn't want to give up the sword. I guess I was willing to fight for it alright."

Lambart shuddered. "I knew it. That thing's trouble, Zealan. I'm telling you, trouble all the way! Father always said we were cowardly. Now all of a sudden you're acting like some...well, like some bold fellow or something. Ain't the way things are supposed to be. You should just throw that sword in the grass and be done with it."

"We're only a few hours from town," said Zealan. "Once we get there we can sell or trade it. Think of how much money we'll have!"

"Yeah," said Lambart, "and just how much is that?"

Zealan frowned. "A lot, I suppose. More than these taters will fetch us, most likely." He raised his arms in exasperation, and lost a potato. "How in the world would I know? I've never sold a sword before."

"I'm telling you," said Lambart, "trouble is waiting just around the corner."

Zealan grinned. "The road is pretty straight out here, Lambart."

"I didn't mean it lit...litter-rarely," said Lambart. He sighed. "I don't know if that's the word, but you know doggone well what I mean."

The brothers didn't have to round a corner to find trouble. They spotted it approaching in the form of a ragged old bent-backed farmer clutching his side. He seemed in great pain, wincing with each step. His clothes were torn and bloody, his weathered face twisted in a grimace. He stopped before them, huffing and rasping. The brothers didn't know him by name, though they'd seen him before.

"You're the Brimwald boys, right?" he asked.

"That's right," said Zealan. "What happened to you?"

"Troll attacked me," the farmer said. "Took my copper and broke my ribs. It hit me so hard I guess it thought it had killed me."

"Troll?" Lambart dropped his potatoes and they tumbled this way and that. "Are you sure?"

The farmer peered at him from beneath a raised eyebrow. "Of course I'm sure. I got a close enough look at it."

"But there hasn't been a troll in these parts since..." Zealan contemplated for a moment. "Since who knows when?"

"There is now," said the farmer. "My name's Gorb Molskin, and Molskins never lie. If I tell you I saw it, you better believe it's the truth." He showed them a bloody gash in his side. "You think I did this to myself, you stupid oaf?"

"But what could it possibly want?" said Zealan.

"That's a good question," Gorb said. "I'd guess it's probably after treasure. Maybe something that was stolen from it. Like that sword you're carrying."

"Wha...what?" Zealan gulped. "You mean..."

Gorb shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I was just speculating."

"What will you do now?" asked Lambart.

"I know a healer not far from here," Gorb said. "He'll fix me up best he can. Meanwhile, you boys better head back home."

The brothers nodded.

Gorb sat down, rubbing his side. "Horrible," he whispered. "I guess I'm not so strong as I once thought. Nearly took my sanity."

Their faces pale, the brothers glanced at each other and then back at Gorb. "You sure we can't help you somehow?" Zealan said.

Gorb shook his head and groaned. "Never could have imagined a thing like that. It was something I'll never forget. Flesh, all hideous flesh...sagging and reeking. Carried a bag of flesh over its shoulder, but I think the bag was part of it, like a huge nasty growth. Made me want to kill it, to just beat it into nothing. But of course it was too strong for me. It just wasn't right, boys. A thing like that shouldn't exist!"

Gorb began to sob. "I'll never recover from this."

The brothers gazed at him in pity.

Gorb wiped his eyes and then rose to his feet. "Good luck," he said, and shuffled off in the direction the brothers had come from. "Don't go and get yourselves killed, boys!" he called back without turning his head.

Lambart cleared his throat. "Guess that settles it. We head back home and forget going to town. I ain't going anywhere near a troll."

Zealan looked away thoughtfully, off into the grassland. "We're not far from town, Lambart. And who says that farmer was telling the truth? It could have been a bear that attacked him, or some other simple creature. If it had been a troll, he'd surely be dead. A troll wouldn't let someone escape. Think about it."

Lambart thought about it, and it took awhile. "I guess that's true, Zealan," he finally said. "But why take the chance? If it's a troll, we could end up dead. This is serious!"

Zealan studied the sword. "It looks well crafted, but so plain," he said softly, his eyes gleaming. "It's sure to fetch a solid price, but would a troll really be interested in this simple weapon? A plain wooden handle with no gems; a smooth blade with no runes. But look how that blade shines like fine silver, with just a hint of blue. Do you see that blue glow...like magic!"

Lambart shuddered. "I don't know, and I don't care to find out. You're talking strange, Zealan. Your...your doggone eyes! They shine like fire!"

"Anyways," Zealan said, "I'm going on into town."

Lambart opened his mouth to protest, and then, seeing the determined look on Zealan's face, he closed it. He sighed helplessly. "Why?"

"I have to," Zealan said. "I'd be less than a man if I didn't, and so would you. We're both grown men, Lambart--but look at us. We're pitiful. Father works us to the bone, and thieves rob us whenever they care to and laugh at us in the meantime. No woman will look twice at us. What do we have in life? We'll be poor farmers until our dying day, a couple of fools who missed their chance at greatness."

"Greatness?" Lambart shook his head in utter bafflement. "Selling a sword won't make us great. And if you're thinking of taking on that troll, that's just stupid. Besides, killing a troll wouldn't make us great, neither. I think you've lost your wits, my brother. I really do."

"I don't think so," said Zealan. "The chance I'm talking about can only come to us when we embrace our destiny, when we quit lying to ourselves! We found this sword for a reason. It was the old hand of fate, Lambart. We have to continue on and see where it leads us. This could be our one big chance in life!"

Lambart considered that for a moment, then muttered a curse. "This ain't fate. We found a sword someone lost by the road. That's it. Nothing more."

"But what about the troll?" Zealan said. "This is too much of a co...co...in...ci...dunce... I think that's the word. Like when something happens by more than just chance. Something big is in the works here. I'll go on without you if I have to."

Lambart's gaze turned pleading, his moon face awash with desperation. "Don't do this, Zealan. Please! I don't want to die at my age. I've never even kissed a gal. I've got a lot of living to do. A whole lot. Don't take that away from me!"

Zealan sneered. "You'll never know what it means to truly live, Lambart, if you go back home now. I'm darn certain of that. You'll live out your life as nothing but a slave to hard work, fit only for picking taters and planting seeds."

"Why are you saying these things?" Lambart asked, his voice shaky with emotion. "What's gotten into you? I think that sword must be cursed!"

"No, it ain't," Zealan said. "If anything, it's blessed. You with me on this?"

"Just to town," Lambart said, knowing he couldn't change Zealan's mind. "We'll hurry there and sell our stuff. Then we'll hurry back."

"Just to town," Zealan agreed. "Straight there and back again."

"I don't want to do this," Lambart said. "Why can't we just go home?"

"Straight to town and back," Zealan said. "We already agreed." With that, he strode on along the road. "We'll go straight as an arrow, my brother," he called back, "and nothing will sidetrack us. The shortest distance between two points is a straight curve, so they say. Anyways, think about it and it will make sense."

Lambart hesitated, then groaned in frustration. "I don't like this one bit!" he bellowed, starting after his brother. "This is the stupidest doggone thing we've ever done. And we've done some stupid things in our time."

Zealan ignored him, his stride brisk with purpose.

A potato fell. Lambart ignored it, too overcome with dread to stop and retrieve it. "That tater is smarter than we are," he muttered. "It's staying put."

As the afternoon slipped past, the day's beauty took on a cold, sinister look. Clouds would occasionally drift in front of the sun and shadows would fall across the grassland. Lambart muttered helplessly to himself, while glancing about constantly for the troll. Zealan seemed to lose confidence, at times pausing to look around uncertainly, but nevertheless he trudged onward.

Sometime during mid-afternoon they discovered a ransacked wagon. It was in the tall grass by the roadside, overturned and broken in two. Barrels and crates lay in splinters, with wine soaking the wood like blood.

The brothers gulped.

"The troll must have done this!" Lambart whispered. "Let's go back!"

Zealan's lower lip quivered, and for a moment he said nothing. He glanced at the sword, and then at his brother. "We can't," he said quietly. "Whoever was with this wagon might need our help. We have to save them."

"They're probably dead," Lambart said. "Please, Zealan. Let's get out of here."

He laid his potatoes down, ready to flee.

"Father didn't raise no cowards," Zealan said. "No matter what he says to the contrary." He pointed to where the grass was crushed. "There's a big trail for us to follow. It leads to those rocks out there. Looks like the troll was dragging something or someone. Maybe a couple folks."

Lambart was nearly sobbing. "Come on, Zealan. It could come back at any time. Don't do this to me!"

"I'm not doing anything to you," Zealan said. "Go home if you want to. I'm scared too, Lambart. I'm so scared my belly feels like it's full of boiling taters. But this is serious business. We need to help those folks."

Lambart studied his brother. Zealan's eyes were big and round. His knuckles were white as he gripped the sword. It seemed only determination held him together.

Lambart lowered his gaze in shame.

Zealan dropped his potatoes and clutched the sword with both hands. "Follow me if you dare, my brother. But this is our destiny. This is why we found the sword!"

"Nonsense," a deep voice called out.

Lambart screamed and threw up his arms. Zealan cried out and swung the blade in a random direction, nearly slicing his brother's neck. A huge form had been lying silent in the grass, and now it rose up about ten yards away. The troll was a mass of sagging flesh that looked as if it had been folded together, leaving deep creases--with one large fold hanging from his left shoulder like a massive tumor. Gnarled bone chips like awkward toenails covered his toes, and ridges of bone crisscrossed his torso. His arms were longer than his body, his misshapen, bony hands dragging in the grass. His head was a pumpkin-shaped abomination of oozing flesh, with two round dark eyes like mud pools, and he possessed a nose so twisted and ugly a hag would have sawed it off her face. His mouth was a dark pit of decay and drool, large enough to engulf a human thigh.

Lambart sat down, squashing some potatoes, and cried.

The sword slipped in Zealan's hand, its tip sticking in another unfortunate potato. His legs wobbled beneath him.

The troll grinned. "You boys don't look too happy to see me, and I haven't yet done a thing to you. The injustice of it all."

"Please!" Lambart sobbed. "Please don't hurt us, big fellow!"

"Hurt you?" the troll mused. "But your friend fancies himself a knight of some sort, a troll slayer perhaps. Are you a troll slayer, young man?"

"Who? Me?" Zealan shook his head vigorously. "I just happened to find this sword and I don't even know how to use it! I've never killed anything in my life. Except bugs, that is. Well, a few farm animals too. And a couple of birds with my slingshot when I was younger. And deer, too. But nothing else!"

The troll chuckled. "That's good news. I'll just be taking that sword and a couple of those potatoes to munch on. Then I'll be moving along. I've got a few travelers tied up in those rocks over there, and I'm getting hungry."

"My sword?" Zealan said. "You want my sword?"

The troll nodded. "None other."

Zealan's eyes narrowed with sudden focus. "I can't let you kill them!" He was shaking so hard it seemed as if he were propped up by a bolt of lightning, but he managed to raise the sword until the potato (which was still stuck on the tip) was pointed at the troll's chest. He struggled to speak before managing to loosen his throat muscles. "I'll kill you, foul beast, if I have to!"

The troll growled and took a few steps forward. He raised one impossibly long arm high into the air, his muddy eyes gleaming with malice. Then he lashed out and swiped the potato off the end of the blade. He tossed the vegetable into his mouth and swallowed it whole. "Not bad," he said.

Zealan let out a whimper of shock and relief.

Lambart's face lit up with hope. Frantically he began tossing potatoes toward the troll, including the ones he'd smashed beneath his rear. "Have them all, your lordship!" he cried. "We can even get you more of them!"

"I thank you for your hospitality," the troll said, munching them down. "But now I crave something a bit more juicy than potatoes, if you get my meaning. Actually, you two will do nicely. Follow me to the rocks over there and I'll put you to work. You can keep your sword."

The brothers made no move, except violent shaking.

The troll sighed. He swiped them up, one in each hand, and carried them to the rocks. It was a dreadful sight--two brothers, heads bobbing and mouths gaped open in horror, howling with all the wind they could muster. Zealan hacked the troll's leg with his sword, but his blows were so weak--and the troll's skin so thick and tough--the creature didn't seem to feel it.

Once amid the rocks, which were large enough to conceal them from anyone passing by on the road, the troll sat them down. Two young men were bound with ropes. They were dressed like royalty. On the ground near them were swords, daggers, and bows, as well as some fancy goods and treasure.

The men, handsome and strong, glared at the troll with hatred. One of them, a blond fellow and the more richly dressed of the two, spat in the creature's direction. The troll seized his curly golden locks and growled.

"Better watch yourself, Prince Leedan," the troll warned. "I might just toy with you a bit before dinner, and I assure you it won't be enjoyable!"

"You better let go of me, you filthy beast!" the prince said. "When my father finds out what you've done, he'll kill every troll in the land in retribution."

The other young man strained at his ropes. He was not as fair as the prince, but his shoulders were broader and his arms thicker. "Leave him alone!" he roared. "Touch my cousin again and I'll kill you!"

The troll released the prince and turned to Lambart and Zealan. "These two attacked me for no good reason. They shot at me with arrows. What do you think I should do with them?"

Zealan raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "They attacked you?"

The troll nodded. "I was just walking along the road, minding my own business, and they happened by and shot at me. So, naturally I defended myself. Since they committed a crime, I've tied them up while I figure out what to do with them."

"But you hurt that farmer," Lambart said.

The troll nodded. "He attacked me first, too, with a pitchfork of all things! How clichéd can you get? Farmers with pitchforks assaulting trolls." He sighed. "Nothing ever seems to change. Anyway, I had to send him a firm message. I think I did just that!"

Lambart and Zealan shuddered.

"Are you saying you don't eat people?" Lambart asked.

"I mostly eat vegetables," said the troll. "And maybe a few grubs and worms. Not to mention small animals such as rodents. Well, deer too if I can catch them. Okay, so there were those four thieves, but that was years ago."

"Then you'll let us go?" Zealan said, daring not to breathe.

"Of course," said the troll. "I have no reason to deny you your freedom. But what shall I do with these two? They tried to murder me."

"You're just a godforsaken troll!" Prince Leedan cried. "Of course we tried to kill you. And if you let us loose, we'll finish the job."

"You're filth!" the prince's cousin pointed out. "Pure filth!"

The troll sighed. "I'm trying to send a message here. Trolls should have the same rights as everyone else. I should be able to walk in the sunlight and enjoy the protection of the law. My looks or smell shouldn't matter--or my inability to fully contain my bodily fluids." He wiped his nose on his wrist.

"I agree," Zealan said. "But these two are royal folks. And, well, you're a troll. I doubt anyone would side with you."

"Sadly, I believe you speak the truth," the troll said. "But I shall be bigger in heart and spirit than these rogues. I shall let you men decide if these two, being of your kind, are worthy to live, or if they deserve to meet a different fate." He licked his lips.

"Save us!" Prince Leedan said. "You can't let us become food for that monster. We'll give you fame and fortune, all you can handle!"

"Let them live, troll," Zealan said. "You'll feel better for it."

"Let them live!" Lambart echoed excitedly, as if he could already taste the sweet brew known as fame and fortune.

"Done," the troll said. "And I'll leave the goods, too." He smiled at Lambart and Zealan. "You've just proven to me that there is hope for trolls--that perhaps one day we may be able to walk in the sunlight without fear. It's a good day indeed!" With that, the troll slapped the prince and his cousin hard enough to rattle their teeth, made a rude gesture at them, and then walked away whistling a merry tune.

Springing into action, Zealan cut the men's ropes with the sword and freed them. Then he and Lambart waited eagerly.

The prince and his cousin, having recovered their wits, hurriedly stuffed their clothes with the most precious bits of treasure. Then Prince Leedan pointed at the sword. "That one is mine. It fell off our wagon."

Zealan and Lambart stared in disbelief. "We just saved you," Zealan said. "What about that talk of fame and fortune?"

"We'll put in a good word for you," the prince said. "Now hand over the sword. It is very old and quite valuable."

"I'll do no such thing!" Zealan said. "We're at least keeping this weapon."

The prince and his cousin picked up swords. "I hate to do this," the prince said. "But hand it over right now or we'll run you through."

"Backstabbers!" Lambart cried. "Don't do it, Zealan!"

With a sneer of contempt, Prince Leedan lunged forward and knocked the sword from Zealan's hand. It flipped up into the air and the prince smoothly caught it. Now facing two blades unarmed, Zealan backed away.

Leedan nodded to his cousin and, swiping up any remaining valuables, they headed back to the road.

Lambart and Zealan gazed at their feet. They not only had lost their sword and their potatoes, but the prince and his cousin had managed to grab anything of significant value. The day had been an utter failure.

"This is our destiny?" Zealan said, his voice full of bitterness. "What a waste!"

With heads bowed, they trudged out to the road.

"Let's go home," Lambart said, sighing. And they started off.

The afternoon slipped drearily toward evening.

"And where are you two going?" a deep voice said, as the troll once again rose from the grass. He was holding the sword. "You can't leave this behind!"

"How did you get that?" Zealan said. "The prince took it."

"And I took it back," the troll said. "He doesn't deserve it. I believe there's something quite special about it. It seems much more appropriate in your hands than those of that snobby prince. It's actually made of lake silver, which is a rare metal more valuable than gold. I'm guessing gnomes forged this blade--and their weapons always hold a fiery magic that warms the blood with courage. Kind of like whiskey or what have you, I guess." He tossed the sword to Zealan and winked. "Don't sell it, young man. It wouldn't be right."

With that, the troll headed off through the grass.

The brothers laughed with delight.

"I should never have doubted you, Zealan," Lambart said. "You're a brave fellow indeed. Soon Father will realize that too. Now let me hold that sword. You've had it all this time."

Zealan nodded, and handed it over. "I know what our destiny is now, Lambart. I think I've figured it all out."

"So have I!" Lambart said gleefully. "We'll take this sword, go on adventures, and gain fame and fortune. Right?"

"Not exactly," Zealan said. "I have a different plan in mind. We'll take it on into town, sell it to a rich merchant, and buy up a nice little tavern. We'll persuade father to sell the farm, and we'll never do backbreaking work again."

"But what about adventuring and the pursuit of glory?" Lambart asked.

"What about ale and women?" Zealan replied.

Lambart thought it over, for about two seconds.

"Our tavern awaits us, brother. Lead the way."

End.
Rage of the God Heads

(Originally published in _Sorcerous Signals_ magazine.

Revised for this collection.)

It was a sight stranger than anything Tashi Lan had ever seen or imagined. Before him on the Road of Sorrows stood the ragged soul of a man, naked except for a black loincloth, phantom mouths opening and closing in his flesh. Sometimes the mouths drooled a dark liquid that evaporated into thin smoke.

"I am bitten!" the ghost screamed. "I must return to earth to roam for eternity, never to find rest." He fell to his knees and wept. A huge, gaping mouth opened in his belly, and a hiss arose as black steam billowed out.

Tashi Lan shuddered. "Your wounds are strange to me, and I fear I cannot help you. But I've only just begun to learn the ways of the dead." He introduced himself, and then asked, "What's your name?"

In life, the ghost must have been a sorry sod. His bald head was covered in scars and his left eye was missing. His long, crooked nose looked like it had been broken many times, and lash scars covered his torso. "My name is Hassan Yu, but that no longer matters. As for the ways of the dead--they are the ways of despair. I was a slave in life, but better off than I am now."

"What happened," Tashi Lan asked, "to cause your flesh to be covered in the mouths of demons? What crime did you commit in life?"

Hassan Yu cursed him. "I committed no crime, you fool. I was an honest man made to suffer at the hands of a cruel master. The fate that has befallen me wasn't caused by my own doing." His eyes narrowed. "I've heard of you. You were a Warspine in life, and a famed gladiator who won many battles. Did you finally fall in combat?"

Tashi Lan glared down at the ghost, rage and sorrow seizing his heart at the memory of his death. He still held his oak trident and was still protected by a breastplate of bark armor. "I died in the arena," he admitted in a cold whisper. "I'm not sure exactly how long ago, for time is foggy here. I think it was not very long ago. I had defeated my enemy, who lay bleeding on the ground. I spared his life, thinking he'd be grateful. Swept up in the glory of my victory, I made a foolish mistake and turned to the crowd to celebrate. The coward rose up behind me and speared me through the back of the head." He reached back and rubbed his skull, but now that he was amongst the dead, no wound could be found, just a large scar. It made no sense to Tashi Lan, and he wished he could understand it.

"Yes, you were a mighty warrior," Hassan Yu said. "Your trident and bark armor are made from the devil oak, magical weapons that cross with a warrior to the other side. You are very lucky to have them, for the Road of Sorrows has become overrun with peril. Yet like me, you otherwise wear only a black loincloth. In spite of your earthly fame, you are just a shade of a man, and if you dare try to cross over to your eternal rest, you will be bitten as I have been and suffer greatly."

"Your wounds don't look like bite marks," Tashi Lan said.

"The dead aren't wounded like the living," Hassan Yu said. "A wound inflicted on a soul becomes a sort of magical abomination. I was indeed bitten. In fact, I was bitten into pieces and spat into the mud. My body fused itself back together--only it was not entirely healed, as you can see." He rubbed his belly and moaned. "The mouths cause me burning pain, and darker feelings I cannot bring myself to speak of."

"Who or what bit you?" Tashi Lan said. "I'll find this creature and slay it. I fear no man or monster."

"Do you fear the Shenjishi?"

"I've heard of him," Tashi Lan said. "The warlord who once ruled three-fourths of the world. No, I don't fear him. I'm a Warspine. The Shundo needles pierced my back, removing my ability to feel fear. I know only combat."

The ghost hissed at him. "Fool! The Shundo arts do not apply to the dead. You're no longer a Warspine. Now, you can feel terror, and if I'm not mistaken--that's what you're experiencing right now."

Tashi Lan grimaced. He couldn't deny the truth. He was terrified of the figure before him. Tashi Lan stood more than seven feet in height and was heavily muscled, and he was still armed for battle. Yet the sight of the dastardly specter before him turned his blood to a river of ice and made his body tremble from head to toe.

"Yes, I'm afraid. I've never seen anything like you before. But it changes nothing. I'm still the warrior I was in life. I can feel it. And why do you see fit to mock me or point out my weaknesses?"

"I'm trying to warn you," Hassan Yu said. "Don't continue along the Road of Sorrows. Return to earth with me, and we'll roam forever as lost souls. If you continue on, the Shenjishi will inflict terrible wounds on you that may never heal."

"As I said, I don't fear the warlord."

The ghost clutched his face and wailed in despair. "Do you fear a god, then? Or perhaps three of them? The Shenjishi is no mortal man. He now bears three heads and has the power to tear holes in worlds. He guards the Twilight Pool and will let no soul pass that way. I tried to run past him and dive into the pool, but he was much too quick for me."

Knowing instinctively the ghost spoke the truth, Tashi Lan's eyes widened. "Three heads? But how can this be? He was just a man in life."

"The Shenjishi was never just a man. No mere man conquers and enslaves three-fourths of the world. The Shenjishi is more like a demon. Please, Tashi Lan! Save yourself from my fate--or worse--and return to earth."

Shaking visibly with a mix or terror and determination, Tashi Lan shook his head. "I won't be a lost soul. I deserve better than that, and I'll find my rest."

The ghost gave a strangled scream and ran past Tashi Lan down the Road of Sorrows, to disappear behind some gnarled devil oaks.

Tashi Lan fell to his knees, overcome with dread, sorrow, and regret. He was a ghost now, and even though he could return to earth, he could never be with his wife and children again. And if he wanted to find peace, he would apparently have to get past a tyrant with three heads who could mutilate the souls of the dead.

At last Tashi Lan summoned the will to resume his journey. The Road of Sorrows was a foreboding place. The only trees that grew in this plane of existence were devil oaks--extremely rare on earth but abundant in the afterlife--and aside from some other strange plants, only cliffs and boulders could be seen. The devil oaks were dark and twisted, with crimson leaves, their roots crisscrossing the road and splitting through rocks. An aura of gloom hung over everything, made stronger by the mighty presence that waited ahead. The Shenjishi's power radiated over the land like waves.

"So that's what I've been feeling, ever since I arrived in this realm," Tashi Lan whispered to himself. "The power of the Shenjishi." He shuddered, barely able to force himself to keep moving.

Other souls, some wounded and screaming, fled past Tashi Lan, crying out warnings at him to turn back. His body shook with terror, but he pushed on, determined that someone must put an end to the Shenjishi's evil.

The Road of Sorrows turned swampy and foggy, with murky pools on either side. Thick vines hung down from the oak limbs, and gray moss covered everything. Serpents slithered over the water and through the mist. Tashi Lan waved his trident at them to warn them away. He didn't know if they could harm him, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"Come forward and perish," the Shenjishi cried from somewhere up ahead. His voice was a thunderous echo. "The Twilight Pool is forever closed."

Rage building in his heart, Tashi Lan quickened his pace. The Shenjishi's boasts only hardened his resolve and dulled his fear.

Tashi Lan's body seemed exactly as it had been in life. He was hungry and thirsty, and he could grow tired. But could he die? It seemed unlikely a soul could be killed. After all, Hassan Yu claimed he'd been bitten into pieces, yet he still lived. But if indeed a spirit could be killed, what became of it afterwards? Tashi Lan sighed in frustration over his lack of knowledge concerning the dead. If he didn't know his own strengths and weaknesses, how could he prevail in combat?

The Shenjishi stood knee-deep in a black, misty swamp pool facing Tashi Lan, all three of his heads gazing at the former gladiator. His body was that of a huge man holding an oak staff in one hand and an oak sword in the other, covered in some type of scaly suit of armor bearing fins like an aquatic creature. But where one neck should have protruded from that armor, there were instead three long ones that led to menacing-looking heads. One head was that of an ancient man, with silver hair and beard, his eyes burning with sorcery. Another head was fat and troll-like and adorned with a spiked helm, with a wide, leering mouth full of pointed teeth. The remaining head--the one in the middle--looked somewhat like a devil, with a long nose and a pointed chin, and a thin, wispy mustache that hung down several feet.

Tashi Lan's breath caught in his lungs, and his knees almost gave out. But he somehow found the heart to remain standing before the monster.

"So, you've come to suffer," the Shenjishi said. It was the devilish-looking head that spoke. "As you wish. Which foe shall you face?"

Confused, Tashi Lan said nothing.

"I am three beings," the Shenjishi said. "Myself, and two others. But three against one isn't fair. So only one of us shall battle you. Which one do you choose?"

"Why are you doing this?" Tashi Lan said in a shaky voice that revealed the whirlwind of emotions within him. "All I seek is my eternal rest. I feel I've earned it. I've been torn away from my wife and children, from my life in the arena. There is nothing for me now. Let me sink into that pool and go to sleep."

"Never! There will be no eternal rest for you, or any other soul." Using his sword, the Shenjishi motioned to the pond around him. The fog swirled like groping fingers over the dark waters, beneath vine-laden tree branches. "This is the gateway that all souls, from all worlds, must pass through in order to sleep. Therefore, I now have the entire universe by the throat. I have done what no man has ever dreamed of doing--putting thousands of worlds at my mercy. They must all answer to me now."

Tashi Lan gazed at the warlord in disbelief, sickened to the core. "You're the worst kind of tyrant. You would allow the dead to suffer for eternity, just to serve your own massive ego."

"Don't condemn me," the Shenjishi said. "We are from the same world, and that makes us brothers. Doesn't it make you proud to know a man from your own world has been able to cause so much chaos? The Road of Sorrows is but one of ten-thousand roads that lead here. You cannot see the other roads because you're too weak and your sight is limited to this realm, and you cannot see the souls from other worlds that have been turned away by my wrath. But I assure you the numbers are staggering--millions and millions of souls who dare not face me in combat because they know they would stand no chance. And those few who have faced me have all been defeated easily. And if you battle me, you'll share their grim fate."

"But we're from the same world," said Tashi Lan. "And like you, I'm a warrior. I carry a weapon made from the devil oak. Perhaps you underestimate my chance for victory."

The Shenjishi shook his heads. "You have no chance. My weapons too are made of the devil oak. You obviously don't realize the extent of my power. Behold! I have bitten through the layers of the worlds, so others might come forth and challenge me--not just the dead, but the living as well. Soon you'll see what I mean. They send their best fighters against me. I've already slain dozens, and their corpses lay deep beneath this pool in a web of shadows like flies trapped by a spider. But more will come. And they too will fall."

Even as the warlord finished speaking, the air beside him shimmered as if warped by heat. A figure appeared as if from nowhere--a creature that seemed to be made of tube-shaped, armored holding tanks resting atop centipede-like legs. It was covered in small, dark protrusions that looked like hairs. The hairs crackled and sparked with electricity.

Despite its obvious heavy bulk, the ugly creature wheeled on the Shenjishi with blinding speed, discharging a bolt of blue lightning at the warlord. The Shenjishi was ready. The ancient, wizardly head expanded, the mouth gaping wide, and sucked the lightning into it. At the same time, the Shenjishi drove his staff down on the creature, rupturing its tanks.

Steam hissed out from the damaged tanks, but the creature tried to attack a second time with its lightning--only to once again be thwarted as the wizardly head devoured the electricity. The Shenjishi smashed his staff down on the creature again, and this time the monster exploded into smoking pieces. A whirlpool appeared and sucked the remains down into some unseen depths below the mud.

The Shenjishi--all three heads--grinned at Tashi Lan. But as before, only the devilish-looking head spoke. "As I said, they'll continue to attack me, and they'll continue to fall. I was a man in life, but I've become something much greater in death--perhaps a demon. Look upon my face, and the faces of my two servants. Do these look like the faces of men? We have become mighty entities, possibly even gods. We did this by defeating lesser souls and stealing their energy. Once we grew strong enough, we were able to merge into one being. What you see before you is something new and not easily explained, a spiritual evolution at work. I am a new creature never before seen in any realm.

"Now, you have three choices. You can turn back, you can join me in my cause, or you can try to get past me. What say you, my brother?"

"I have only one choice," Tashi Lan said. He was shaking so hard with terror he could hardly hold himself together and face the warlord. "Defend yourself!" he cried, and he thrust his trident at the monster's chest.

The Shenjishi knocked the trident aside with his sword. "A good attempt. I see you indeed are no stranger to combat." The warlord waved his sword and staff menacingly. "I could defeat you in mere seconds if I wanted to. But you're an interesting man. I like you already."

Tashi Lan lunged and drove his weapon at the Shenjishi's throat with vicious speed. The Shenjishi staggered, and just managed to bring his sword up to deflect the blow.

"Perhaps," Tashi Lan said panting, "you will come to hate me."

"Since you have refused to choose your opponent, I will choose him for you." The Shenjishi's eyes went dark, and he bowed his head. The troll-like head also bowed. That left the ancient, wizardly looking head. Its eyes suddenly glowed blue with power.

"I am Caras Gan," the wizard said. "I was the Right Hand of the Shenjishi when he conquered most of the world. As his loyal servant, I continue to stand by him in the afterlife. I was the most powerful and feared sorcerer in all the land. You have no hope of defeating me."

"Your words fail to intimidate me," Tashi Lan said. "But what is your wager? If I defeat you, may I then go on to my eternal rest?"

"It shall be done. If, that is, you can defeat me."

With a cry, Tashi Lan swung his trident in an arc at the wizard's long neck. The devil oak could be made sharper than any metal, and the tines of the weapon were edged--long, razor-sharp blades that could cut through flesh as if it were not there.

But the wizard deflected the trident with his staff. Oak struck against oak, magic against magic, and nothing gave way.

Smiling, the wizard raised his staff, and energy waves blasted forth, knocking Tashi Lan off his feet and pining him in the muddy water so that his head was just above the surface. Caras Gan advanced on him, his face as dark as a thundercloud, sorcery smoldering in his eyes.

"I could drown you, or bite you deeply!" the wizard hissed. "But this is no fair fight. You're a warrior, not a sorcerer. I'll let the Shenjishi's Left Hand deal with the likes of you." With that, the wizard's eyes went dark, and he bowed his head.

In that instant, Tashi Lan summoned all his strength and skill and thrust his trident into the Shenjishi's chest. With all three heads inactive for an instant, Tashi Lan was able to land the blow. His trident struck the scaly armor and managed to piece it, but in spite of all the skill and brute force behind it, it was a disappointingly shallow wound.

The troll head's eyes opened wide, and he smashed the trident away with his sword. "Good effort!" he growled. "But only a scratch. Your blow was weak, not a direct strike. Perhaps you're not worthy to face the Shenjishi."

Tashi Lan groaned in disgust. He'd thrown everything into that attack, but the truth was it had been a poor strike.

"I'm Gnahjin Lo. I was the Shenjishi's top general, and his Left Hand. I slew hundreds of men on the battlefield. I was born for combat. No one has ever come close to defeating me. You're a brave fighter, and a man from my own world. Therefore, I'll fight you as I once was." His head transformed, losing its monstrous appearance and becoming a broad human face with a large nose and sullen eyes.

"Thank you," Tashi Lan whispered, impressed by the general's courage.

Instead of waiting for Tashi Lan to attack, Gnahjin Lo leapt forward with a roar and drove his sword down at Tashi Lan. The former gladiator knew he couldn't block such a vicious strike from such a mighty weapon, and so he sought to sidestep the stroke. But he was a second too slow, and the sword glanced off his shoulder. The devil oak armor absorbed most of the impact, but even the magical wood couldn't totally resist such a brutal strike.

Tashi Lan staggered, crying out in pain, dropping his trident. Reacting on instinct, he kicked Gnahjin Lo's legs from beneath him. Caught by surprise, the general fell into the muddy water with a splash. Tashi Lan seized Gnahjin Lo's neck with both hands and began choking him.

Gnahjin Lo's eyes widened, and he let go of his sword and his staff and grabbed Tashi Lan's arms in an effort to break the hold. Meanwhile, the other two heads bobbed uselessly on their necks, as if dead weight.

Tashi Lan fought with insane effort to choke the general. His strength as a gladiator had been legendary, and it didn't fail him now. Even the mighty general found himself unable to break the hold, as his windpipe was slowly being squeezed.

"I have you now!" Tashi Lan bellowed.

"Can't...let...you...do...this!" the general seethed. The general's head transformed back into its troll-like appearance. The other two heads sprang to life, and the Shenjishi's strength increased far beyond that of any mortal. Tashi Lan's hold was ripped away, as the warlord, the wizard, and the general worked together as one.

Knowing he could not prevail against this foe, Tashi Lan raised his hands up to protect himself, as the Shenjishi leapt up with sword and staff in hand.

"Now we'll bite you!" The general growled, obviously still enraged over his defeat. His head swelled and his mouth gaped wide.

"Halt!" the devilish head commanded. "I am the Shenjishi. I will decide his fate." The general bowed and fell silent. "You have proven yourself worthy," the Shenjishi continued. "I will spare you--this time. But you must flee back to earth and never return here."

Tashi Lan said nothing. It seemed his eternal rest would be denied.

Then the air shimmered again, and an ugly humanoid appeared. It looked like a naked man covered in bleeding, infected sores--a diseased zombie with a metallic exoskeleton holding it upright. It lurched at the Shenjishi and spit smoking acid at the warlord.

As swift as a whirlwind, the Shenjishi sidestepped the lethal spray and smashed the zombie's head from its shoulders. Head and body were sucked down by the whirlpool.

The Shenjishi turned back to Tashi Lan. "On and on they come. Only one at a time can squeeze through the small hole I made, and only periodically. And so they send their best. The entire universe is against me. A soul cannot die, but it can be injured to the point where it is as weak as a summer breeze. The living can injure the dead--here in this realm. And I have allowed the living to enter here."

"Why do you do this?" said Tashi Lan. "Sooner or later a foe will come through whom you cannot defeat. You know it must be so."

"Perhaps," said the Shenjishi, bowing his head. "But I must fight on." The general and the wizard bowed their heads as well. "We must show them our strength, for only then will they listen to us. Only then can change occur."

"But why? What can you possibly gain?"

"When a soul passes through this pool," said the Shenjishi, "it sinks into an eternal darkness. It is not rest, but oblivion. The soul is trapped in a void, empty of life and hope. I know because I went there and found no peace--only ghosts lashing out in rage and despair against other ghosts. But I was stronger than they were, and I learned to steal their energy. And so my wizard and my general merged with me and we grew stronger still. Then at last we chewed our way out of that purgatory. Now, we seek to upset the balance of the universe. We will force the Laws to be rewritten, so souls can find some kind of heaven instead of a cold and heartless domain. This is our promise--our rage!"

Again the air shimmered, and this time a worm-like creature emerged. It was sheathed in silvery, flashing blades. It moved with a swiftness the Shenjishi couldn't seem to match, and it slashed a tear in his shoulder. The Shenjishi and his servants fought back valiantly, seeking to bite the monster or hack it with their magical weapons, but the trio seemed to be losing ground. It appeared the worm would finish them at last.

With a cry of rage, Tashi Lan leapt straight for the Shenjishi, determined to end it. And the Shenjishi did not resist.

Instead, he welcomed Tashi Lan as a brother.

And then a fourth head emerged from the Shenjishi's body--a head with the face of a fierce gladiator whose crimson eyes smoldered with power. Two more arms sprouted from the Shenjishi's torso, with fingers that ended in barbed claws. Standing no chance at victory, the bladed worm was torn asunder.

End.
Gauntlet of Winter, Sword of Spring

(Originally published in _Afterburn SF_ magazine.

Revised for this collection.)

"I am the guardian of Ashwood Village," Sanluth called out. He glanced about, trembling, his knuckles white on the oak staff that was his only weapon. The beech trees stood huge and gnarled around him in the failing evening light, their trunks and branches glittering with frost. He repeated his statement in a louder voice.

But the wood wisp didn't show herself. Sanluth glanced at the two wolves that stood guard beside him. Their fur bristled and they growled. "Easy," he said, stroking them. He could sense mischievous magic in the air. Whispers seemed to speak to him, telling him he'd made a terrible choice in coming to this region of the forest.

Laughter and a burst of blue sparks erupted in the treetops, as a dark shadow dove toward Sanluth. He raised his staff defensively, the wolves roaring their challenge. But the shadow vanished, leaving a trail of curling fog that groped at Sanluth like fingers.

He waved the fog away. "The ancient trees are dying!" he cried. "The winter has gone on too long and has stung them too bitterly. Won't you help me, for the sake of the trees?"

A finger of mist beckoned to him, and he followed it to a small clearing. His boots crunched loudly in the snow, his breath coming out in pale gusts. A few stars shone in the deep blue heavens above the clearing. He waited, shivering beneath his fur cloak. "Enough with the games," he said. "Time grows short. The elder trees are your kin."

At last, a pale-skinned woman stepped into the clearing. She was covered only in a gown of fog that wound about her in a spiral. Her eyes were like blue ice, her hair a wavy ribbon of silver. She walked atop the snow.

The wolves whined and hunkered down.

"What would you ask of me, Sanluth?" she said. "I don't control the weather. I can't make the winter give way to spring, as long as it lies in the grasp of an iron hand."

"Then you can't help me?" Sanluth said. His knees sagged beneath him. "I've come so far to see you. You're the wood wisp who guards the forest, who knows everything and whose power cannot be matched. If you can't end this winter, who can?"

"You've come on a fool's quest," she said. "I'm not the guardian of this forest, and I certainly don't know everything. I'm just a creature who lives here. And you're just a boy expected to do the work that a hundred men wouldn't be able to do. Your village declared you guardian because the wild wolves came to you and offered their protection. Is this true?"

"You know it is, my lady," said Sanluth. He was weary, hungry, and cold--to the depths of his soul. But the magnificent creature before him held him spellbound to the point where he couldn't so much as blink. She seemed to have absolute power over him.

"Yes, but it still amazes me," the wood wisp said. "You've barely lived eighteen years, and yet they send you off on a quest to save the forest."

Sanluth nodded. "I'll do what I must. If the elder trees die, the magic of the woodlands will fail. Many blessed things will pass from the world."

She looked away. "Yes...I know it to be true. But if I point you to the right path, I fear you will be going to your death. The deepest frost and the darkest greed choke our land, born from a place where no warm-blooded human should ever go."

"But I have to," Sanluth said. He knew he appeared young and weak to her. He was slight of build, his smooth face bearing only a shadow of a beard. He tried to stand taller and straighter.

The wood wisp stood in silence for several moments. At last she spoke. "I will give you answers. But your death will not be my responsibility. I am immortal, and I pity those who must shed their bodies and leave the earth behind. No one should have to leave this precious world."

"I don't fear death," Sanluth said. "My people believe it leads to a better place."

"I could never imagine straying from this forest," she said. "But you humans are strange."

"Where must I journey?" said Sanluth.

"North," she said, "to the Iron Teeth Mountains. There you will find the frozen heart of insanity--a place even I wouldn't dare venture into."

Sanluth didn't know what she spoke of, but for a creature as ancient and powerful as the wood wisp to make such a statement terrified him. "The mountains are vast. How will I find whatever I'm seeking?"

"I will send a guide," she said, "one of my kin. It deeply saddens me to do this, because the creature I'll send with you should never leave this forest. Yet unless I send this guide, you have no hope of success."

A figure that seemed to be made of twisted roots crept into the clearing. It was hunched over, with long, crooked arms. Two crimson eyes smoldered in it's gnarled head.

The wolves growled, and Sanluth took a step back.

"Do not fear," the wood wisp said. "This is my brother, the root master. I think you'll find him to be charming company." But the sour expression on her face said otherwise.

***

Sanluth camped in a small cave that the wood wisp led him to. The next day, he set out for the Iron Teeth Mountains with his wolves and the root master for company. The root master seemed to antagonize the wolves constantly, deliberately walking close to them and making them nervous. Often, he crept along silently behind Sanluth atop the snow, prompting Sanluth to keep glancing behind him. Most troubling of all was the fact that the root master never spoke.

Sometimes, the creature raced ahead, and Sanluth had to struggle to keep pace. Sanluth found himself questioning everything. Not long ago, he'd been proud to be named guardian of his village. But he wasn't well trained for combat or survival. He had no idea why the wolves had chosen him. They were mysterious creatures with motives no human could fathom.

That night, it began to snow heavily. They made camp under a massive ash tree, Sanluth setting up a small tent of animal furs. He ate a dinner of jerky along with some bread that was so hard he could barely chew it. He fed some of the meat to the wolves, but the root master didn't seem interested in eating. He crept about through the trees as if searching for something, occasionally peering at Sanluth with eyes that shone bloody red in the light of a campfire Sanluth was barely managing to keep lit.

Later, Sanluth awoke to gnawing sounds and he left his tent. The root master was chewing on a dead oak branch. He held the limb up to the cleft of his mouth, and his twisted jaws ground back and forth, wood chips falling down the beard-like roots of his chin.

The wolves took position beside Sanluth, snarling. He patted them on their heads to reassure them, and they flinched. Slowly, he approached the root master.

The creature glanced up and tossed the branch aside. A hiss escaped his jaws, and he shifted about, his long arms tensing up.

"Can you speak?" Sanluth said. "If so, can you tell me what awaits me? The wood wisp was right--I'm no experienced warrior. I don't know why I'm the village guardian or why the wise men sent me on this quest. But you're a magical creature and you must know!"

The root master raised a hand, its tapering fingers like bony spider legs. He squeezed his hand into a huge fist, his eyes gleaming with malice.

Sanluth shrank back, but the wolves threw themselves at the root master. The creature caught one wolf in each hand in mid-air by the throat. He shook them, and then he whispered in their ears--first in one wolf's ear and then the other. He released them.

The wolves trotted over to the campfire and lay down.

Sanluth gazed in disbelief. "Whisper in my ear," he said, "like you did to the wolves. Give me answers!"

But the root master simply gazed at him, his eyes now revealing a hint of sorrow, and once again he clenched his hand into a great first. A freezing wind whipped through the forest, warning that spring would never warm the face of the land again, and the snow became blinding.

***

The journey into the Iron Teeth Mountains became treacherous. The winds howled down the slopes, the snow drifting up beneath towering pines. Sanluth and his wolves hunkered down against the blizzard, their progress slowed. The root master seemed unaffected, though, as he scurried over the snow. The wind seemed to blow around him, and the snowflakes never settled upon him.

They camped beneath a stone ledge that night. Sanluth couldn't get a fire lit, and he sat shivering with his wolves, eating frozen jerky.

The wolves gazed at him with sad eyes, as if they sensed there was no return for him. Sanluth wondered why he should continue. There were other lands, other villages. And the wood wisp had all but predicted he would die on this journey. Was it any wonder the wise men had sent him with only the wolves as company? If he didn't starve or freeze to death, whatever awaited him in these mountains would surely finish him off. Something had held spring captive for nearly a decade now--something of such power he dared not try to imagine it. He could see no point in continuing on.

"Should we turn back?" Sanluth asked his wolves.

They raised their heads.

The root master took interest, creeping close, his crimson eyes widening.

"That's right!" Sanluth yelled at him. "I want to give up. This is pointless. Come morning, I'm heading off to a village somewhere to get a job, get married, and raise a few children."

The root master pointed toward the tops of the peaks and hissed.

"No," Sanluth insisted. He pointed down away from the mountains. "No more climbing."

The root master lowered his head. Suddenly, he looked withered and dried up, ready to break apart and fall into a heap of rot.

Sanluth gasped, and the illusion vanished. The root master looked healthy again.

Sanluth thought back to the ancient trees, remembering sitting in clefts in their roots tossing stones into the river--how they'd spoken to him so soothingly in whispers. They needed him now, or soon they would wither away as the root master had showed him, their magic lost forever from the world. The forest would become pale and weak, the trees small and mindless. The elves, gnomes, wisps, and fairies would move on.

The root master again pointed upward.

Sighing, Sanluth nodded. The wolves whined.

***

The root master led them higher and higher into the mountains, until at last they stood before an ancient and crumbling stone castle. This was the frozen heart of insanity that the wood wisp had spoken of. The castle was draped in huge icicles that hung down like spears, beneath an ugly gray sky.Sanluth had to struggle to steady his nerves and force his legs to carry him onward.

They entered a frozen courtyard. Stone statues of knights stood covered with snow, missing limbs or heads that had crumbled away. A huge iron door marked the castle entrance beyond the courtyard. The icicles hanging above that door were like teeth waiting to chomp down on anyone who dared enter.

The wind sought to shove them back, but they fought their way forward. A devilish whirlwind whipped through the courtyard, spinning the snow into a giant hand. The hand closed into a fist and tried to smash them.

Sanluth and the wolves leapt aside, the fist crunching down where they'd been. The fist rose again, preparing to squash them.

The root master glanced knowingly at Sanluth. Then he stepped in front of the boy and his wolves, and the snowy fist crashed down on him. The fist sprang open as it descended, and it seized the root master and lifted him into the air. It began to squeeze him, and noises like breaking branches arose.

Sanluth howled and smashed at the hand with his staff, but it did no damage. The hand dropped the root master into the snow, then broke apart into a cloud of snowflakes and settled all over the courtyard.

Sanluth knelt by the root master, brushing snow from his face. His eyes were open wide, but he was as still as a log. The wolves sniffed at him.

Sanluth rose, wondering if he should flee. But the wolves had other ideas. They bounded to the iron door and stood waiting.

"What are you doing?" Sanluth yelled. "We can't defeat this foe." But the wolves were stubborn, and once they made a decision there was no changing their minds.

Sanluth lifted the root master's body and went to the door. The root master was as light as driftwood. Cracking noises split the air, and Sanluth looked around in confusion. The wolves seized him and dragged him backward--as several massive icicles dropped from above the door and stabbed into the snow where he'd been.

Then, with a rumbling screech of metal, the door slid inward.

"Wait!" yelled Sanluth, but the wolves had already disappeared inside. He ran in after them.

They stood in a long hall with a huge wooden table. A great fireplace stood at the end of the room, holding only gray ash. Otherwise, the room was bare.

Seated at the table was an old man counting silver coins. He had a big heap of them laid out before him. As he spotted Sanluth and his wolves, he pulled the coins to him defensively. "Wretched thieves!" he snarled. "Why have you come to torment me?"

"We're not thieves," Sanluth said. "We've come to break the spell that holds springtime hostage. We've heard the spell originates from in here."

"I know nothing of any spells," the old man said. "As far as I know, you're here to steal my silver. Well, you won't get so much as a coin. It's all mine, forever!"

Sanluth stepped close to him. "So, you're nothing but an old miser, shut away in here with your treasure. How could you be responsible for the endless winter?"

The wolves growled as a gray mist engulfed the old man. Something was lurking behind him, around him, but he didn't seem to be aware of it.

"What is that abomination you carry?" the old man said. "Some type of forest filth. I'm glad he's dead. Now he can't steal my money, either. Soon you'll be joining him."

The old man lifted an iron glove off the table that was engraved with runes. "Don't think I'm not capable of defending myself against thieves."

"What is that curse you bear?" Sanluth asked, pointing at the gray mist.

"I don't know what you mean," said the old man. "All I care about is my money. Don't you understand? All my life, people have wanted to rob me blind. That's why I came to this castle, to hide away with my wealth. Yet still they seek me out."

The old man put on the iron glove and rose. "Now I shall crush you, thief." Before Sanluth could react, he lunged forward and seized Sanluth's shoulder. His touch was like burning ice. The wolves leapt forward, but the phantom mist left the old man and shoved them back. They snarled and bit at the mist, to no avail.

Sanluth grew weak, as if his life force were being drained. He thought he was finished. But then he felt the body of the root master shudder, and it burst into green flames. With a cry, the old man reeled back, throwing his hand over his face. Sanluth tried to drop the root master, but he found himself paralyzed for a moment. The flames didn't harm him, though. The root master burned away, revealing a wooden sword.

Sanluth lifted the sword.

The old man sneered. "What trickery is this? You may get one strike with your toy sword, boy. But then you'll be finished. He extended his iron hand and leapt forward."

Sanluth prepared to meet his charge, then wheeled about and plunged the wooden sword into the gray mist. With a bloodcurdling shriek, the mist flew out of the castle and was gone.

The iron gauntlet split apart and fell to the floor.

The old man dropped to one knee, looking dazed. Sanluth helped him up.

"My greed," the old man whispered, bowing his head. "My greed led me here, to this cursed place. My heart was frozen with the love of coin and the phantom fed off it. The curse spread like frost all over the land. How could I have been so foolish?"

A beam of sunlight broke in through a window.

Sanluth patted him on the back and together they left the keep. Already, the ice was breaking off the castle, and the snows were melting. A new magic was sweeping the land--the magic of spring. The floodgates were open, and the earth was hungry for warmth.

Sanluth felt a tugging on the sword, the tip being drawn to the earth. He plunged it into the snow, and it shuddered as it planted itself in the soil underneath. The root master would live again.

The old man turned about. "My silver," he said, starting toward the keep.

The wolves threw back their heads and howled. Then they blocked his path.

He cleared his throat. "Perhaps I'll just find a job, then. Of course, I could always return later for it, right?"

Sanluth smiled. "Not very likely. The wolves have claimed this keep, and soon it will be overrun with them. I'm guessing it means something quite significant to them."

His eyes narrowed. "How do you know?"

"Because they've abandoned me," said Sanluth, knowing in his heart it was true. He could see it in their eyes. That was the sadness he'd glimpsed before. The wolves had accomplished some important goal, and their pact with Sanluth's village was ended.

Sanluth seized the old man by the arm. "Come on, my friend. We've got some walking to do. It's shaping up to be a beautiful day."

End.
The Web of Bloated Indulgence

(Originally published in Silver Blade magazine.

Revised for this collection.)

The web was greedy beyond anything Beldak could have imagined, his own lust for treasure a small flame compared to the web's raging inferno. He had no idea how far he'd descended into this nightmare, but if his misery were any indication, he was hitting the deepest levels.

The web seemed filled with malice, phantom whispers emanating from it and prying into his mind to expose his deepest fears. Whenever his skin brushed the strands, hot pain erupted in his flesh and a feeling assailed him like thousands of tiny spiders crawling all over him.

Treasure hung everywhere around him--jeweled swords, rune-covered chests, silver chains, fancy goblets, and gold coins. They clanked and jingled in the web as he slashed through it with his sword. At one point he even passed beneath a whole ship turned upside down, hanging above the rocky floor.

Beldak sheathed his sword, and with a shaking hand, he at last took the demonic emblem from his pocket, his lone companion in the dark places--yet the one he hated to have to call upon. "Demon, I need your help," he mumbled. "Show me the path out of here."

The iron face of a horned devil remained motionless in his palm for several moments. Then its mouth curled open in a grin. "So, the thief has found more treasure than he knows what to do with, yet he can take none of it. Quite ironic, don't you think?"

"Yes, very ironic," said Beldak, his lips tightening in annoyance. "But I'm getting more lost by the moment in this godforsaken web. I admit that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I didn't expect to get hopelessly snared." Beldak spoke true. It had looked like easy pickings from the outside--a massive web stretched between cliffs by the sea. He'd thought he could just cut his way in and grab what treasure he was able to carry.

"But you should have expected this," said the demon. "A web is designed to snare, is it not? Whatever built this doesn't want you to take its treasure. It wants you stuck in here forever like the ships that break apart on the rocks and get washed in with the tide."

"Enough," said Beldak. "Don't mock me, demon. Will you help me find the way out, or not? How many gems and coins have I fed to your greedy mouth over the years?"

"Many, it is true," said the demon. "But my mouth waters now. Pluck me that large emerald that hangs above us and I will try to aid you."

Beldak glanced up, raising his torch for a better view. The emerald hung about ten feet above him, and he had no way to reach it. He smashed the handle of the torch down on the demon's face. "Eat this!" he growled. "I'll not wrack my brain trying to find a way to get that thing down. And furthermore, everything I touch in here feels cursed. Now you better suggest something, or I'll never feed you again."

The demon scowled. "Very well. But you owe me. I can tell you that this web is magical in origin--the work of an immortal being far more ancient and powerful than myself. Also, unlike me he's probably not trapped in a piece of iron. As to what his motives are, I cannot say. If I use my own magic, it may anger him or alert him to our presence."

"I have no choice," said Beldak. "Find me a path." He swung his sword around, trying to loosen up. His lean body was sore from wandering around hacking at the strands, his feet blistered in his boots from walking for hours. He was weary to the core, and he found himself hating the lifestyle he'd chosen and wondering why he was even in this situation. He'd made enough money through stealing and treasure hunting to retire many times over, but a horrible gambling addiction had repeatedly left him broke.

The web parted before him, forming a tunnel. Beldak glanced down questioningly at the emblem. "Is this the way out, revealed by your magic?" he asked.

"Seems like a good direction to travel in," said the demon, a sly look on his face. "I can't be sure at this point. But it's a place to start."

Beldak started down the tunnel. His torch finally died, plunging him into darkness, and he tossed it aside. "Shine your light for me, demon," he said, squeezing the piece of iron.

"As always," said the demon, "the price is your blood."

Beldak pressed the emblem to his wrist. A sharp pain flared up, and he felt a tugging at his veins as the demon drank from him. After a few moments, he yanked his wrist away, the wounds in his flesh already healed thanks to the demon's sorcery. The emblem lit up with a crimson glow. The demon face was grinning, its mouth hole full of blood.

Beldak looked away in disgust. Time and again he'd wanted to rid himself of the emblem that he'd stolen from a sorcerer's lair, and yet he always seemed to have need of it. He vowed that if he managed to escape the web, he would hurl the wretched object into the sea.

Guided by the reddish glow, he moved along the tunnel until it ended abruptly at a stone wall. A glitter caught his eye--a ruby pendant hanging to his right. The ruby was the size of a small egg, set in what appeared to be gold. If genuine, the pendant was worth a fortune. He sheathed his sword, reached out, hesitated, and then snatched it from the web. Blazing pain flared up in his hand, and he dropped it.

Cursing, he tore a strip off his tunic and wrapped it around his hand. He again tried to lift the pendant, but it burned him right through the cloth. He let out a howl of frustration. Then he became aware that the demon was laughing at him.

"Shut your mouth!" Beldak yelled. "Don't you realize how much that could be worth?"

"Yes," said the demon. "A month or two of gambling, at least."

"I've quit that habit," said Beldak. "I told you that."

"Oh you have, indeed?" said the demon. "Then what are you doing in this web? This is just another gamble, with the highest stakes."

Beldak closed his eyes, trying to fight off his growing rage. The demon always targeted his worst flaws, as if it wanted to convince Beldak of his own worthlessness. Sometimes it mocked him concerning the women he'd loved and abandoned, and sometimes it taunted him for his inability to maintain friendships. But most often, the demon ridiculed him for his failure to give up the risk-taking lifestyle he'd come to hate. The demon's words stung bitterly because they were true.

Beldak's eyes still closed, he kicked the pendant away from him. The thought of leaving behind any of the fantastic treasures of the web was almost more than he could bear. It was sheer torment. "Lead the way," he said through clenched teeth.

Another tunnel opened in the web to his left, and one to his right. "Take your pick," the demon said, "for the answer is not clear to me."

Beldak chose the tunnel on the left--and quickly regretted it. This one was full of crates and barrels with imperial markings on them, no doubt some expensive cargo from one of the emperor's ships. Unable to suppress his curiosity, he slashed a crate with his sword and gold nuggets poured out.

"This web is one giant palace of riches!" Beldak whispered.

Skeletons hung in the strands in various poses, dressed in the tattered remains of imperial uniforms. Their dark eye sockets seemed to gaze him accusingly.

"Feed me a nugget," said the demon, clacking his jaws together. "Otherwise, I shall snuff out my glow and leave you in darkness."

Beldak shook his head. "If I touch them, they'll burn me."

"Then rot in the dark," the demon said. The crimson glow died out.

A clacking, skittering noise arose, and something latched onto Beldak's throat and began to squeeze--something cold and bumpy, like a bony hand. With a cry, he slashed out with his sword and knocked something away. "Alright!" he yelled. "I'll feed you the damn nugget."

The reddish glow sprang to life again, revealing a skeleton--cleaved in two--lying at Beldak's feet. Other skeletons had shifted positions in the web but were now motionless.

"You've gone too far, demon," said Beldak. "Now you use your magic to send the dead to attack me if you don't get your way?"

"I did no such thing," said the demon. "I simply killed the light. That skeleton was animated by some other power--perhaps the dark magic of the web itself. Apparently, when the light dies in here, the dead come to life and attack."

Beldak shuddered, chills flooding him. "I need to get out of here. I'll do whatever it takes. Just find me a path to freedom!"

The demon clacked his iron jaws together to signify his hunger.

Sighing, Beldak plucked a nugget from the web. His hand shook from the blazing pain, but with a fierce effort of will he squeezed it into a fist around the gold. Sweat rolled down his face and he grew dizzy. But then the pain suddenly died out.

Beldak's eyes lit up. "Look at that--the curse went away! The gold is mine now! All I had to do was endure the agony for a few moments."

The demon hissed. "You promised that nugget to me."

Beldak's face burned crimson with anger, but he nodded, knowing he had no choice. He pushed the nugget into the demon's mouth hole. A sucking noise arose and the nugget vanished, a wisp of blue smoke curling out of the demon's maw.

"What a waste," Beldak muttered.

The demon grinned. "It's no more of a waste than a night on the town, a stint with the ladies, or a gambling debt. My pleasure is to eat the gold, while your pleasure is to spend it."

Beldak ignored him and eyed the gold nuggets. Then he reached out and seized another. This one seemed to hurt worse than the last, and he screamed. After a few moments, though, the agony died out and he shoved the gold into his pocket. He wiped sweat from his brow.

"Careful," the demon said softly. "Your heart might give out from the strain."

Beldak hacked away some webbing to get to more gold. He swallowed, knowing he should quit while he was ahead. But he couldn't resist the gamble. He dropped his sword and seized a handful of gold nuggets, and a shock ripped through him. The agony was so severe he thought it might kill him, but he kept his hand locked onto the treasure. His vision went dark and he slumped to the floor.

He awoke a moment later, the pain gone, and he staggered up. "I'm alive," he said. "And a lot richer, demon!" He shoved the nuggets into a pocket of his trousers.

"But still hopelessly lost," the demon reminded him. "However, I think I've figured out a way to navigate this maze. Feed me another nugget and I'll explain."

Beldak shook his head. "I worked too hard for these to surrender even one. I'll find my own way out of here."

For the next few hours, Beldak slashed his way through the web. He found tunnels that led to dead ends either at rock walls or at places so thickly webbed it discouraged him from even attempting to cut his way though. He was growing so tired he could hardly keep moving, and his stomach rumbled from hunger. He hadn't anticipated getting caught in the web, so he hadn't brought food (thus leaving more room for carrying treasure). He had a canteen of water, which he always carried with him, but it was down to the last few sips.

"I guess I must waste more gold on you, demon," Beldak at last said wearily. "I'll feed you one more nugget in exchange for the way out." Reluctantly, he shoved a piece of gold into the demon's mouth hole. The demon slurped it down.

"Place me against the web," the demon said. "And you must hold me there while I use my power to find the way. It could take some time."

Without hesitation, Beldak shoved the emblem into the web. The burning flared through him, threatening to make him black out again, but he managed to hold on for several moments. His flesh again prickled as if from thousands of spiders crawling over it, a sensation so repulsive it was much worse than the pain. At last he tore the emblem away and fell to one knee. His body shook, his chest heaving. When he could speak again, he asked, "Well?"

"It is done," said the demon. "But we must hurry."

A tunnel opened to Beldak's left, and he started along it. More riches greeted his vision, and he paused, eyeing a jewel-encrusted chest. He reached for it.

"Touch nothing here," the demon warned. "The magic is stronger, and it will kill you."

Beldak hesitated, struggling against his instinct to plunder. Then he moved on, a curse escaping his lips. The demon grinned up at him, and Beldak once again envisioned throwing the emblem into the sea and being free of it forever.

The tunnel narrowed, so that the webbing nearly brushed against his head and arms. He could see rock behind the strands, and he realized he was moving into a cave. At last, it opened into a large circular cavern. Some hideous type of seaweed adorned the chamber walls, black tendrils that pulsed and wiggled with life. A huge pile of treasure lay on the floor, crusted with sea salt, and sprawled atop it was a monstrous thing that seemed to be part serpent and part spider, with the head and torso of a bronze-skinned man. His black eyes were fixed on Beldak.

Beldak took a step back. "What is that thing?" he whispered.

"The bane of greedy mortals," said the demon. "The gods established this web to trap such people as they traversed the seas. It is a curse upon mankind."

Beldak turned to flee, but the tunnel closed behind him. He slashed through the web, but it instantly formed again. "You tricked me," he cried. "You've led me to my doom!"

"You asked for a way out," said the demon, sneering. "I provided you with one. The way out of this labyrinth is death."

The monstrous figure crawled toward Beldak, and he raised his sword for combat, even though he knew it was probably useless against such a foe. Then he changed his strategy and hurled the weapon to the floor, hoping the creature would take pity on him. The monster hesitated, and this gave Beldak an idea. He yanked the gold pieces from his pockets and tossed them to the floor. The creature gazed at the nuggets, then started forward again.

Desperately, Beldak looked around for some means of escape, and then his gaze came to rest on the emblem in his hand. Although made of simple iron, it was a unique treasure.

The demon's eyes narrowed. "What are you planning, Beldak? Wait!"

Beldak tossed the emblem to the floor. He raised his hands, palms out, to show that he had nothing else to give.

The monster crawled to the emblem and licked it. The demon face crinkled with disgust, much to Beldak's satisfaction.

A tunnel opened in the web, leading into another cave. A breeze blew in, smelling of fresh air and the sea. Beldak ran for the passageway. He reached it and paused, glancing behind him. The monster had crawled to his pile of treasure, his back to Beldak.

Beldak was free to go. He'd lived recklessly for so long, taking one gamble after another, but at last he was released from it all and able to get a fresh start.

He started down the tunnel. Then he paused, remembering he was broke and would have to find a job and toil his life away like everyone else. He struggled with himself for a moment, then ran back and snatched up the demon emblem and some gold nuggets. He fled for the passageway, diving into it even as the web closed behind him.

Beldak made it out into open air, standing atop a cliff by the sea beneath a full moon.

"I'm free of the labyrinth," he said, "and ready to settle down."

The demon laughed. "Then why do you still have need of me?"

Beldak squeezed the emblem in his hand. "I don't know."

"You're not free of the labyrinth," said the demon. "It continues in the deepest reaches of your mind. If you were truly free, you would hurl me into the ocean. I promised you a way out of the web, and I delivered it. You realize that I can be a valuable companion--but only if you continue to live as you have always lived. Or...will you rid yourself of me forever and begin a new life?" The demon face grinned, as if it already knew Beldak's answer.

Beldak drew his arm back, hesitated, and then shoved the emblem into his pocket. He gazed at the giant web stretched out amongst the cliffs behind him and glittering in the moonlight. He waved at it in a dismissive gesture. The gods needed no such curse for the greedy, for the greedy were quite adept at cursing themselves.

End.
The Battering Ram at Doom's Gate

(Originally published in Roll the Bones anthology.

Revised for this collection)

### 1

### Wood Witch

The trees showed their hatred for Abrantus from the moment he stepped into Council Wood, trying to drive him insane with their whispers of madness and doom. He wanted to swing at them with his axe in whiskey-induced fury, but that would have just gotten him killed. It was evening and the demons were active, alert to his every move. Abrantus had not come to do battle with the trees--he'd come to try to reason with them.

Twisted faces glared at him from the trunks and branches beside the trail. Over the decades, the trees had taken on the features of the devils that inhabited them. He shone his lantern on one. "I've been wronged!" he cried. "A demon has left the woods and made a home in my chicken coop. My chickens now lay foul eggs. I demand justice!"

"Your eyeballs will be popped by a sharp stick," a tree hissed at him. "They'll find your corpse with two bloody holes in your skull."

With a shaking hand, Abrantus sat his lantern down and took a swallow of whiskey in an effort to gain some courage. "Threaten all you want," he growled. "But my eggs are no good and can't be sold or eaten. I won't tolerate it!"

"We never leave the forest," said the tree. "You're a lying drunk."

Abrantus finished off the whiskey and smashed the jug against the oak that had insulted him. "And you're lying hell spawn," he said. "I deserve to have my complaint heard."

"We'll silence your nasty mouth," another tree said. "Just you wait."

Abrantus glimpsed a shadowy figure crouched in the brush to his right, its yellow eyes watching him. A twisted root ran from its head to the tree. Abrantus raised his axe in warning. The whiskey had given him a bit more spunk than he usually had, but he was still fighting hard to hold himself together. He'd been plagued by troubles over the past year--his wife leaving him for another man, his barn catching fire and burning down, and chronic gout in his feet that probably stemmed from his love of red meat and beer. And now, with his chickens laying worthless eggs, he'd been pushed too far and had done the unthinkable in venturing into this cursed forest.

Abrantus was fired up on whiskey and ready to go down swinging, terror or no terror. "Back off, demon," he snarled. "I'll chop down every worm-ridden tree in these woods until I get my way. I want my chickens returned to normal."

A quiet laugh reached his ears. "And maybe I'll stick my claws in your fat belly, human--rip it open and see what's floating around in there." The demon raised a hand, revealing fingers that tapered into fine points.

Keeping his eye on the demon, Abrantus continued on until he was out of reach. He stumbled over a root, agony flaring up in his swollen toe. Something scuttled across the trail in front of him--a wood spider. Normally, a wood spider wasn't much of a threat, as they typically left humans alone. But he'd heard rumors that some had been molded by the demons into aggressive servants, and something had looked odd about the one he'd glimpsed.

Abrantus paused, goose bumps breaking out all over his flesh. He shone the lantern toward the spot where the spider had left the trail, but nothing came out. He continued on for a bit, and then wheeled about on a whim to see what was behind him. The spider--or another like it--was crouched in the trail, frozen in the lantern light. This was no ordinary wood spider. Its legs were crooked and much longer than usual, its flesh was pale and hairless like dough and webbed with crimson veins, and its mouth had been widened out into an oversized gap, revealing black fangs.

As soon as Abrantus glimpsed the spider, it leapt for his face. He brought up his axe and smashed it out of the air, driving it into the dirt. It shuddered beneath the blade, leaking dark blood, and then tore loose and staggered toward him. He hacked it again--a solid blow that splattered it into twitching pieces.

Abrantus shone the lantern about. He caught glimpses of pale bodies and bony legs as more spiders circled him. He sat the lantern down. He was a chunky man with graying hair, gout, and a whole lot of wretched luck, but he was proud and ready to die fighting. If he were going to go, it would be with his chin up--the way a man bearing the last name of Falenswor should die.

He hacked the first spider to charge him into ruin with one stout blow. A spider jumped on his back, but he shook it off before it could bite him. Abrantus kicked another one with his swollen toe and sent it tumbling into a tree, a howl of pain escaping his lips. One bit into his leg from behind--not an accurate bite but just a slight piercing of the skin as the spider's fangs got tangled in Abrantus' trousers. He shook the creature off and cleaved it in two.

A fire smoldered in Abrantus' belly, a battle lust he'd never experienced before. The pain in his foot vanished, and he struck blow after blow with berserk rage. He smashed three more spiders and stomped a fourth beneath his boot. But they kept coming.

Then blue sparks erupted in front of Abrantus, and three advancing spiders exploded into smoking ash. The stench of sorcery hung in the air like a spicy incense. A cloaked, hooded figure stepped into the lantern light, thin hands raised and fingers bent like claws. The other spiders quickly scurried off into the trees.

"Hello, Abrantus," a muffled female voice said. "I've come to guide you to safety."

The strange battle lust that had consumed him was already subsiding. He lifted his lantern and stepped closer to her, trying to peer at the face under the hood. All he could see was shadow. Her breath smelled rotten. "Who are you? And how do you know my name? And what did you do to those spiders?"

"I am Lanatha," she said. "I live in this forest."

"Then you must be demon kin," said Abrantus, "for no human could dwell here. And furthermore, no human I know of makes spiders explode with blue fire."

"I was born a human," she said. "And there are parts of this forest where the trees are not infested. Come, I will lead you to my cabin, my unlucky friend. I know why you've come here, and I have a solution to your problem."

Abrantus hesitated. Her breath smelled like decayed meat, but her hands were smooth and young looking. "How do I know this isn't a demon trick?"

"Don't be a fool," Lanatha snarled. "I just saved you from poisonous spiders. Now I'm offering you refuge and answers--and maybe some food and drink for that fat gut if you're in need."

"Let me see your face," he said. "So I know you're human."

"You don't want to see it, Abrantus," she said. "Trust me on that." Lanatha turned and walked away. She moved woodenly, her gait awkward beneath her cloak, but she still kept a swift pace.

Abrantus limped after her, the pain returning worse than ever. "Hold on now, miss. I didn't mean to offend."

Lanatha whirled around. "But you did offend!" She seized his face and a shock surged through him. Abrantus found himself frozen in place. "Now I think I'll drag you to the gates of doom and prop you up for the worms to feed on. What do you think of that, you bloated swine?"

Darkness took his mind.

***

When Abrantus awoke, he was lying on a wooden floor in a log cabin, a crackling fire warming his cheek. Lanatha was seated at a table, eating soup. The cabin was gloomy, with cobwebs hanging in the shadowy corners and a musty stench in the air. Dried berries, mushrooms, and herbs hung from strings from the ceiling logs, and sacks of grain, contents spilling forth, were piled against the wall. The gnawing of rats could be heard.

Groaning, Abrantus sat up. "Why did you attack me?"

"I didn't," she said calmly, dipping bread in her stew and shoving it into the shadows beneath her hood. "I just wanted to shut you up so I didn't have to listen to you. I'm used to living alone, and I like my silence."

"You carried me here by yourself?" he asked, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"You were carried here," she replied, "but not by me. I have servants."

Abrantus stood up, wincing from his gout pain. "Why did you bring me here? If you know what my trouble is, then you also know I need to somehow convince the demons to release my chickens."

She cackled laughter. "Yes, we can't have your chickens running around possessed. In fact, I'm making that my greatest concern."

"Why do you mock me?" Abrantus asked, still wondering if she was a demon and looking around for his axe. It was nowhere in sight.

"Because you're a fool," Lanatha said. "You have the blood of the fiercest warriors who ever walked this land inside you, and yet you worry about chickens. It's pathetic."

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I'm a Falenswor. We're farmers, blacksmiths, and shopkeepers. We do honest work. I know nothing of any warriors."

"Do you even know what that name means?" Lanatha said. "Falenswor is a knightly name, and the men who bore it once served the King of Elsenmoln--the ruler of the lands beyond the mountains. I too once served him as a knight. But I suffered a great misfortune, and here I am in this little cabin talking to a fool who thinks his reason for coming here is to save chickens."

"You confuse me, woman," said Abrantus.

Lanatha shoved her stew bowl away. She sniffed the air. "The demons draw close. Soon, they will surround this cabin and burn it to the ground."

"They wouldn't dare," muttered Abrantus. "It could set the whole forest ablaze."

"The demons have no fear of fire," said Lanatha. "This forest cannot burn by natural flames. You came here because of chickens, but now you have angered the demons by not leaving. They will seek to kill you. They had thought of me as their kin, but now that they know what I am planning, they will seek to kill me as well."

Abrantus limped to a stool and sat down. "Then what can I do?"

"Live up to your name," said Lanatha. "Act like a knight."

Abrantus shook his head. "I'm not a knight. So what are you talking about? I think you're just some crazy forest witch who is probably in league with the demons. I don't trust you one bit, and your talk of kingdoms and knights seems ridiculous."

Lanatha glowered at him. "A crazy witch I may be, but I speak the truth. Maybe this will lift the fog from your stubborn mind." She went to a large oak chest and took out a rune-covered hammer. She handed it to him.

He held it up. It was a heavy war hammer, beautifully crafted, and it seemed to fit perfectly in his hands. Elegant runes covered the head and handle, and the weapon seemed to radiate a sense of crushing power. For an instant, a wave of exhilaration flooded through Abrantus and he almost felt like a proud knight. However, he quickly regained his common sense and the feeling subsided. "Looks like a good tool," he grunted, shrugging. "What do you use it for?"

She sneered. "That is a weapon, not a tool. And I don't use it for anything. It was a gift from the king. Your ancestors once wielded that hammer."

Abrantus couldn't deny how right it felt to hold it. "Are you giving me this? I'm sure I could find some use for it."

"Do you deserve it?" Lanatha asked. She lifted a horned helm and some chain mail from the trunk and tossed the items near his feet. Like the hammer, these pieces of armor were beautifully crafted, shimmering hypnotically in the firelight.

He put on the armor. The helm fit perfectly, as well as a pair of gauntlets and greaves, but the cuirass was a bit tight on the belly. "This should help with the spiders," he said. "And I thank you for returning these items to my family, if what you say is true."

"I expect you to put those items to good use," said Lanatha. "Not to merely battle spiders, but to strike a stout blow to the dark heart of this forest."

"I already told the demons my concerns," said Abrantus. "Not much more I can do. I guess I'll just make my way home now and hope my chickens start laying proper eggs again. So unless there is anything else, I'll be on my way. Besides, the smell of that stew is making me hungry, so unless you want to share some..."

"I'm not done yet," Lanatha said. "I will share my stew if you're hungry, but you better eat before I show you this next sight."

"I'm fine," Abrantus said. He patted his chubby belly. "My gut is stout, woman. Show me what you will."

Lanatha threw back her hood, revealing a nightmare scene in the firelight. Her face was partially covered in a sort of slimy bark, and a root had sprung from her left eye where it hung twitching. Infected sores covered the flesh that remained. Her tongue looked like a piece of driftwood poking from between gnarled lips.

Abrantus cursed and took a step back.

"The demons did this to me," Lanatha said. "I was sent here along with a large company of knights by the King of Elsenmoln to free Council Wood from the demon curse. We reached the dark gates at the forest's heart, and there we were unable to advance. We were ambushed, and my knights were slain. The demon lord bit my face and infected me with his evil. It gave me the power of sorcery, a power that allows me to command lesser demons--like the ones I sent to take possession of your chickens." She sneered at him.

Abrantus' eyes widened. He raised the war hammer. "So you're the one who caused my eggs to turn foul! I wrongfully blamed the demons and now I have earned their wrath. Why have you done such evil deeds to me?"

"I needed to persuade you to come to the forest," Lanatha said. "I've known about you for a long time. But my curse keeps me bound to these woods. I am half demon myself now, able to walk free through the forest--yet unable to set foot beyond it. So I had to find some way to get your attention. Some of the lesser demon imps are native to this world and can venture into the outside lands, so I sent them."

"What do you want from me?" Abrantus asked. "It had better be something grand, considering the grief you've caused me."

"I want your help," Lanatha said. "I still intend to carry out the king's orders and break this curse. Council Wood was once a sacred place. But the demons invaded and entered the trees, driving out the good spirits. They built a gate to guard the source of their power at the center of the woods--a gate protected by sorcery. But I've carved a battering ram out of the limb of a mighty tree that was free of the demon infestation. It's a dreary weapon, ugly with decades of rage, but all that anger is exactly what is needed to smash through those gates. It's a heavy object, and it will take at least two people to carry it."

Abrantus gazed at her in admiration, his anger over the chickens forgotten. "So you intend to storm the gates and break the demon's hold on this forest? Can it really be done?" For an instant he was swept up in feelings of glory, envisioning their triumph. Then he came to his senses. "But why should I care what happens to the forest? I just want my chickens to lay good eggs again."

"It's not about the forest," Lanatha said. "The demons are plotting something sweeping and terrible, and they need to be stopped."

Abrantus nodded. "Well, I wish you luck. I'm going home, and I expect my chickens to be back to normal when I get there."

Lanatha's face burned red. "You would abandon me, just like that? You would leave me trapped here, while the demons carry out their plans?" She shook with fury. "You slimy wretch! I should have killed you when you were unconscious."

"Calm yourself," Abrantus said, shifting to a defensive posture. "All I'm saying is that I have no interest in this struggle. It is meaningless to me."

She turned away, her hands knotted into fists. Then she wheeled around, pointing at Abrantus' leg. "I sense dark sorcery at work in you!"

He glanced down. "What are you talking about?" He realized his leg felt numb, the back of it in particular where the spider had bitten him.

"You're poisoned with dark sorcery," Lanatha said, sneering. "That venom will spread through your body and eventually kill you. Your death will be excruciating."

"What must I do to save myself?" said Abrantus, though he already guessed the answer.

"Go with me and break the curse," Lanatha said, licking her lips. "Then I will give you a cure. Otherwise, go away and rot."

Abrantus' eyes widened in fury, and he lunged toward her. But she raised her hand, blue fire shimmering on her fingertips. "Easy there, fat man," she hissed. "Another step closer and I'll burn your greasy heart right out of your chest."

He stopped, knowing she had him snared. "Show me the battering ram."

### 2

### The Battering Ram

Lanatha started toward the door, and then paused. "The demons are closing in on us swiftly, Abrantus. I can sense it. The battering ram lies in a nearby shed. Once we lay hands on it, I suggest we immediately make for the heart of the forest."

Abrantus gulped down some stew and bread, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He placed the horned helm back on his head, though it seemed to weigh heavily on his neck. "It's your call, woman. It seems I have no choice but to follow along."

She grimaced. "I am sorry. But it's the way it must be."

Abrantus laughed. "I'll bet you're sorry. You don't care what happens to me. You cursed my chickens, and now, knowing I am poisoned, you force me to go along with your mad quest if I want a cure. You're a monster."

"You eat my food and call me a monster?" Lanatha shook with rage.

Abrantus belched. "It was good stew, and I deserved it for my troubles. And yes, you're a wicked wench if ever there was one. If you had any decency, you would give me that cure so I can go home."

Lanatha hissed like a serpent and pointed at his foot. "Perhaps I should stomp on that swollen toe of yours."

Abrantus drew his gouty foot back, cringing at the thought. "If you do that, you'll come to regret it. Now lead the way before that poison finishes me off."

Still shaking, Lanatha strode out the door with Abrantus behind her. They made their way to a small shed at the edge of the clearing.

"If this battering ram is so special," said Abrantus, "why do you leave it out here unprotected?"

"It needs no protection," Lanatha said. "No demon would dare touch it."

On a bench in the shed, surrounded by wood shavings and tools, lay a pale log carved from oak to look like a scaly serpent, with pegs from which lanterns dangled. Two handles were carved into either side for easy carrying. The wood was so white it almost looked like bone.

"So this is the weapon that will break the curse on the forest," mused Abrantus. "A log with handles."

"A very bitter log," said Lanatha, "carved from an ancient tree."

Something slammed against the side of the shed. The two hurried out to find what appeared to be a rock covered in dark blood.

Abrantus reached for it but Lanatha slapped his armored hand.

"That is the blood of a greater demon," she said. "If you touch that, you will find yourself in an endless dream--like a fog that will never release you. This is a dire warning for you to flee the forest."

Lanatha knelt and reached for the rock, but Abrantus seized her arm. "What makes you think you can touch it?" he asked.

"I am half demon," she said. "It cannot curse me." She pushed his hand away and lifted the stone. "I might be able to..." She shook her head.

"What's wrong?" said Abrantus, shaking her.

"The curse is stronger than I thought," Lanatha said, sighing. "Or perhaps I'm just more human than I assumed. How arrogant of me, and how pathetically stupid. And now you just touched me, which means you're now infected as well."

Abrantus glanced around wildly. "What do we do now?"

"Get to the battering ram," Lanatha said. "It alone can break the curse." Her voice seemed to come from far away.

Abrantus reached for the wall of the shed--only to find a wall of fog instead. He was surrounded by fog, and Lanatha was nowhere to be seen. He stepped toward where he thought the shed should be, and his sore toe struck a rock. Cursing the pain, he stumbled on but encountered no shed. Soon he stood at the edge of the clearing, the fog so thick in the moonlight he could barely see anything.

"Crazy witch!" he growled. "What doom have you brought upon me?" Panic arose within him, as he thought of the poison that was supposedly working its way through his body. He didn't have time to wander around in the fog.

A shadow slithered from the mist, crimson eyes flickering like fire. Abrantus could make out serpent scales and fangs.

"Abrantus," came a sharp hiss from the creature. "Follow me. I've come to lead you to safety. You will find a new lover in the soft caress of the forest and eat the dripping fat of the land. Come quickly."

"I'm not following you anywhere," Abrantus said, "filthy demon spawn. Crawl back to whatever bloated tree you slithered out of and curl up in the roots before I crush your skull."

"I am your friend," the serpent insisted. "I can lead you to comfort. We have no quarrel with you. Lanatha is the evil presence here. It is she who has cursed this forest and twisted us into vile creatures. We were once the good spirits of the trees--until she came along. Do not trust her, Abrantus."

"And I should trust a slimy snake?" said Abrantus. "I don't think so."

The crimson eyes flickered with rage. "For seven-hundred years we fought to make things right and bring truth to a land of lies, legion upon legion who dug through mountains of cold earth and stone only to face the harsh light of this world. You will not destroy what we have suffered to build."

"I'll do what I must," said Abrantus, shrugging. Then, puffing out his chest, he added, "I'll turn this whole sorry forest into sawdust!"

With a bitter hiss, the serpent struck at Abrantus--going for his leather boot. He blocked with the hammer and reeled back. The snake came at him again with its dripping fangs, and this time he caught it with a glancing blow that jerked its head to one side.

The snake hunkered down for an instant, apparently stunned or too enraged to act. Abrantus drove the hammer down on its head, crushing it into ruin. The snake's body writhed about, even though its head was shattered. Then it finally went still.

"Hello there," came a soft voice from behind him.

He whirled around to find a young girl of about twelve years old in a green dress gazing at him. She had short blonde hair, unevenly cut, and one of her eyes was missing, with only a rugged scar where the eyeball had once been.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Ledilia," she said. "I live here. Or rather, I used to live here. I died many years ago, though it's hard to say exactly how long I've been dead. Time doesn't mean much to me. I'm glad you killed the snake. I don't like snakes."

Abrantus wondered what new evil was at work. He would have a hard time doing battle with a young girl if it came to that. "Are you saying you're a ghost? You look solid enough to me. Is this a vile demon trick of some sort?"

"I would not trick you," Ledilia said. "I lived here in a little cabin. A stream used to run through this clearing and I had to wash dishes in it every day. It was so cold!" She shivered. "It was always hard to get the grease off the bowls."

"What do you want from me?" said Abrantus.

"Nothing," she said. "I just like to talk."

"What happened to your eye?" said Abrantus.

"My father used to punish me severely," she said. "I lost my eye once when he was mad. I don't really need it to see, though. Later, my father went too far in punishing me and I didn't survive. I won't tell you what happened because it would make you more sad than you already are."

"If what you say is true," said Abrantus, "then I'm sorry for you. That's a terrible story. But I still don't believe you're a ghost. Why would there be a scar where your eye once was, as if you have healed?"

Ledilia shrugged. "It doesn't matter if you believe me. I died here and the forest keeps me trapped. I want to go home--to my real home where all mortals come from--but until the demon curse is broken, I must remain. It's not all that bad, though. I never get bored or anything. I just wander and...remember."

"I need to find the shed," said Abrantus. "Can you lead me to it?"

"I know of a shed," Ledilia said. "It's a long way from here. Sometimes if you follow the moon, you can find a shed. There is a cabin too. And a witch. Now and then I find her. I've tried to talk to her but she can't hear me. Or if she does hear me, she chooses to ignore me. I can't really blame her."

"How do I follow the moon?" said Abrantus. He glanced at the pale moon that hung above the clearing. It seemed hazy, unfocused. It seemed to elude his gaze.

"I don't know," Ledilia said. "You just follow it. Maybe we can wander around together until we find the shed."

"I don't have a lot of time," said Abrantus.

"Why not?" she asked. "Time never moves for me, so I have all the time I need for anything. I think you do too. I think we can wander until we find the shed, no matter how long it takes."

"Fine," muttered Abrantus. "Lead the way."

He followed the young girl through the fog, and he realized he could always see her no matter how far ahead of him she got.

"You're some kind of knight," Ledilia said. "I can tell by your armor. Even knights can get trapped in the fog."

Abrantus groaned as his toe throbbed in pain. "I don't feel like a knight. I feel like an old man caught in a wretched situation." For a moment he was overwhelmed with self pity. Truth is, I've been a failure at everything in life. I had a wife once. She was beautiful and kind. I used to earn a good living. Now I...I get drunk and rely on my chickens...and..." He sighed. "Why am I telling you this?"

"I like to hear you talk," Ledilia said, shrugging. "I had a chicken once. Just one. My father loved it. After he hanged my mother by her neck from the oak tree, he used to sit on the porch and stroke that chicken's feathers all day long. He named her Pollyana after some queen. I called her Busy Bee, because she was always busy searching for food. I think my father still had that chicken even after he killed me. I wonder whatever happened to that old chicken. Maybe my father got tired of her and killed her too."

Abrantus wasn't sure what to say, so he said nothing.

"I was just a normal girl in life," she said, "but I'm guessing you're a real knight. But you don't act like one. If you acted like one, you might not be so lost."

"I don't know what you mean," said Abrantus.

"If I was a knight," Ledilia said, "I would stand taller and find my own path. I think you need to stand taller."

Abrantus straightened his back. "There, I'm standing taller." He glanced about and still saw fog. "Doesn't seem to be working."

Ledilia laughed. "I don't mean actually stand taller. I mean in spirit. You're a sad fellow. I used to be sad too. After I died, I never felt sad anymore. What happened when I was alive doesn't seem to matter now. It's just what happened. I think that's my reward--not being sad. On the other hand, it probably matters to my father, since he liked to kill everyone. I sometimes think he'll never find peace, but that doesn't bother me either. Nothing really bothers me at all--except for one thing. I feel like I should leave this forest and go to my real home, where the dead are supposed to go to find rest."

"I don't see myself as a sad man," said Abrantus, feeling a bit defensive. "I have my share of problems, but I manage to make do."

"But you are sad," Ledilia said. "I can sense it. I know things just by looking at you. It's a power I've had ever since I died. I know you miss your wife and blame yourself for losing her. You're full of regrets, and you hate the thought of dying as a lonely old man. Above all, you feel like your life has been worthless."

Abrantus cringed. The bitter truth of her words stung him deeply. But he was too proud to admit it. "I do fine," he muttered. "Let's just find that shed."

"I don't think we'll find it as soon as you would like," she said. "I think by the time we find it, you'll be dead. You'll just wander around until your body gives out, and then you'll keep wandering around--just like I do, waiting for the forest to be free of the curse so you can go home. I think you expect that to happen."

"I don't expect anything of the sort," said Abrantus. "I expect to find the shed and get out of this fog."

"No, you don't," Ledilia said. "You expect to die here. You don't feel you deserve to be a knight, or else you would act like one. You would take that hammer and strike out at the fog. A knight would fight until the end."

"How can a man battle mist?" said Abrantus.

"You don't even want to battle it," said Ledilia. "You just want to wander around until death takes you. A sad, but fitting end."

"Now listen here, young woman," said Abrantus. "If I could actually strike a blow against the fog, I would gladly do so."

"Then prove it," Ledilia said. "Slay the fog and go on and free the forest from the demons. Make it so I can go home."

Abrantus raised the hammer, then sighed. "I feel foolish."

"Be a knight," she said, "or wander forever. Which is it?"

"You want me to strike out at the wretched mist?" said Abrantus, sudden anger bubbling up inside him. "Fine." With a roar, he swung the hammer about wildly into the fog. Energy rushed through him, giving way to battle lust.

The hammer suddenly thudded against wood--the wall of the shed. Behind him, Ledilia's soft voice whispered, "Now go and set me free."

Ledilia was gone, but the fog remained. Abrantus clung fiercely to the shed, and made his way in through the door. The battering ram still lay on the bench, looking more pale than ever in the mist--an ugly piece of timber crudely carved to look like a serpent. The fog seemed to recoil from it.

Abrantus dropped his war hammer and seized the battering ram with both hands. A shock shook his body, and the fog vanished. He grabbed his hammer and stepped out into the clearing.

Lanatha knelt in the grass nearby, weeping. Abrantus seized her shoulder and shook her, but she didn't respond. He tilted her head back so he could see her face. Her one remaining eye was glazed over.

Abrantus gazed across the moonlit clearing, wondering if his encounter with the little girl's shade had even been real. It still felt real enough, and her face haunted his mind. He wanted to do as she had asked and free her spirit.

Wincing in pain, Abrantus carried Lanatha into the shed and placed her hands on the battering ram. Her eyes came into sharp focus.

"I thought I was lost forever," said Lanatha. She shivered. "I felt so alone."

"What now?" said Abrantus.

"Now we take up the battering ram," said Lanatha, "journey into the depths of this forest hell, and ram it through the gates of doom."

### 3

### Raging Forest

But before they could lift the battering ram, a dark, warty-looking vine shot through the shed door and wound around Lanatha, pinning her arms to her sides. She screamed and kicked in fury as the vine pulled her out the door.

Abrantus stared on in shock for a moment. Then he charged after her at a fast limp. But whatever had seized her was too swift for him, and he just managed to catch a glimpse of her as she was dragged into the forest.

Abrantus stood in the clearing, chills crawling over his flesh, unsure of what to do. He certainly didn't want to chase after her into the forest. He felt his best chance was to stick to a trail and find his way home. Then he remembered that he was still poisoned and needed Lanatha's cure (unless she was lying to him).

He probed the back of his leg beneath the chain mail. It still felt numb--perhaps more so than before. Also, he felt a bit sick in his stomach. Breathing a heavy sigh, he grabbed a lantern from the shed and lit it, then left the clearing and trudged into the forest.

"Lanatha!" he bellowed.

"Help me, Abrantus!" came her scream from ahead. "Free my arms so I can use my sorcery. Hurry!"

Crying out from the pain in his toe, Abrantus limped after her, crashing through the underbrush. His thick armor protected him from sharp sticks and slapping branches. Lanatha didn't respond to his yells again, and soon he was utterly lost. After wandering for a while, he found himself in another small moonlit clearing--face to face with a winged demon that was hissing at him in apparent rage.

"Stand aside, imp," Abrantus commanded.

But the shadowy demon, which was stick-thin and armed with long, barbed claws on its fingers and toes, motioned to him frantically.

"What are you trying to say?" asked Abrantus, baffled.

Again, the demon motioned frantically and then moved across the clearing. It paused by the huge, mossy tree trunks and motioned again. It was strangely graceful, almost as if every movement was part of a dance.

"This is a pathetic trick," said Abrantus. "I suppose you want me to follow you into a trap."

The demon shook its head furiously and beckoned.

With a groan of uncertainty, Abrantus followed the imp into the forest. "If this is a trick," he called after it, "I'll make sure you die first!" He didn't trust the imp at all, but he had no idea where to go and so he simply followed along and hoped for the best.

At last they came to an enormous oak--a titan of the forest with branches spreading out to a width of many lesser trees combined. Lanatha was pinned to the gnarled trunk by the vine, which had her wrapped up so thoroughly she couldn't even speak. Her eyes blazed with fury. Above her head, a leering demon face bulged from the tree.

The little imp who had led Abrantus to Lanatha darted off into the shadows, leaving Abrantus to wonder if it had been friend or foe--though he was more inclined to believe it was a foe that had led him to a trap.

"Greetings, Abrantus," the demonic face said in a low rumble. "You stand before a guardian spirit. I will hear your words and judge you by them."

"Release Lanatha," said Abrantus. "I have nothing else to say."

"She is a threat to my kind," said the demon. "Therefore, she must remain with me. You, however, are free to go. I can have one of my servants lead you to safety--provided you never return to this forest."

Abrantus studied the thick vine that bound Lanatha to the tree, wondering how he could sever it when all he carried was a hammer.

"Calm yourself," the oaken face said. "It is not our wish to fight. Rather, we seek to care for the forest and expand its borders. We are gentle folk of good will. We did nothing to your chickens."

"That much is true," said Abrantus. He gazed at the vine, steadying his nerves. "I hope this does the task." He sat his lantern down.

"What task do you speak of?" asked the demon, frowning.

In answer, Abrantus slammed the hammer against the vine, smashing it into the tree trunk. The demon face howled in pain and the vine loosened around Lanatha. Abrantus tried to yank her free, but the vine immediately tightened again, though her mouth was now uncovered.

"The forest shall feed on your guts!" snarled the demon. The trunk split open and another serpent slithered out. It struck at Abrantus' feet.

Abrantus managed to deflect the attack with his hammer, and he swung viciously at the serpent's head--and missed badly, smashing apart a rotten stump. The serpent rose up, poison dripping from its fangs.

Abrantus swung at it again, and this time he connected with a perfect strike, knocking the snake's head off its body. The head lay twitching, the snake's eyes still gleaming with malice, so he crushed it into the ground.

Enraged, Abrantus struck the vine another fierce blow. The demon face shuddered in pain and fury.

"Go get the battering ram," said Lanatha. "Only then can you free me. My servant will lead you back to the shed."

Abrantus hesitated, unsure if he should leave her in the demon's gasp.

"Go now!" she shouted. "The battering ram is our only hope."

Muttering to himself, Abrantus lifted his lantern and headed away from the oak. Moments later, the small, shadowy imp appeared and motioned for him to follow. That Lanatha was consorting with--and even commanding--demons in no way inspired Abrantus to want to rescue her. However, the threat of the poison drove him on, as he remembered her warning of an agony-filled death.

Soon Abrantus could smell smoke, and when they reached the clearing, the shed was ablaze. He stood and watched helplessly as the structure burned into a heap of charred wood. "So much for the battering ram," he said aloud. "Wretched demons."

He was about to head back to the oak tree that held Lanatha prisoner when he decided he'd better take a second look. He went to the bed of coals and burning wood and, using his hammer, scattered the remains around. The battering ram lay underneath, perfectly intact. It wasn't even charred.

Abrantus could hardly believe what he saw. He seized one of the handles and dragged the log out into the grass. For a moment it was streaked with ash, and then the ash just seemed to fall away, leaving only the strikingly pale wood. Two charred lanterns still hung from the pegs, and Abrantus tossed them aside. Then he laid his war hammer at the demon imp's feet. "Carry that," he ordered.

Abrantus was disgusted with himself for consorting with a demon, but this wasn't the time to be judgmental. All he cared about was getting the poison out of his system and then fleeing from this nightmare of a forest. The thought of going home and propping up his foot made his body tremble with longing.

Abrantus noticed a ring hanging from one of the battering ram's pegs. It depicted a silver, rune-covered shield. It was such a large and heavy ring, with three finger holes, that it looked like it could be used as a punching weapon. Abrantus slid the ring onto his left gauntlet and found that all three finger holes fit perfectly. It was as if the ring had been designed with the gauntlet in mind.

The imp lifted the hammer and stood watching him. Abrantus hung his lantern from one of the battering ram's pegs, and then, grunting from the strain, he lifted the log onto his shoulders. The wood wasn't overly heavy, but the gout in his toe made the burden terrible to bear.

He staggered after the imp, his eyes watering from the pain. Every step was hot agony. "Wretched gout!" he shouted, overwhelmed with frustration.

The imp whirled around, its eyes burning with curiosity.

Abrantus envied the creature. It probably didn't know the aches and pains of aging and disease (and carrying too much belly). It darted around with ease. Meanwhile, Abrantus was barely able to walk with his heavy armor and the battering ram on his shoulders. "Keep moving," he snarled at the demon.

Almost immediately upon entering the forest, a scaly man-sized demon leapt from behind a twisted beach tree and rammed into Abrantus. He staggered, and the battering ram fell from his shoulders, causing his lantern to shatter beneath it. He was plunged into darkness beneath the thick branches, and panic surged through him.

The demon's yellow eyes gleamed with delight. "You had your chance to flee, Abrantus. Instead, you sought to raise that battering ram against us. You have declared war on this forest and must suffer a horrible fate."

Abrantus' left hand burned hot. The heavy ring began to glow with a piercing light that made the demon take a step back. "Stand aside," he warned, "or I'll be forced to go through you."

The demon laughed. "You'll go through me, will you? How so? You have dropped your precious battering ram. You're a pitiful excuse for a knight."

A feeling of crushing power engulfed Abrantus' left fist, and he smashed it into the demon's head--blasting it into burning fragments that fizzled out in the air. The demon's headless body crumpled to the earth and disintegrated.

Abrantus gazed in awe at his glowing fist. It seemed his fist was now a battering ram in its own right.

Abrantus turned to find his small imp companion gazing at him with wide eyes. He again heaved the battering ram onto his shoulders. His gout flared up with a vengeance, and he cried out as he tried to walk. He stumbled sideways into a tree and fought to maintain his balance.

Gritting his teeth, Abrantus trudged on through the woods, as the imp once again took the lead. Somehow, he was able to keep the ring glowing by focusing on it, and it made a fine replacement for his lost lantern.

When Lanatha saw the glow radiating from his knuckles, she grimaced. The vine seemed to have grown tighter around her body, and she looked exhausted. "That ring was supposed to be a last resort, Abrantus."

"Why?" he asked. "It seems to be a formidable weapon."

"It gives away our position," she said. "But I suppose it doesn't matter now. Just use the battering ram against this oak and set me loose."

The demonic face in the tree trunk quivered in rage. "If you attempt to harm me, Abrantus, I will squeeze this witch into pudding."

"Ram him!" Lanatha shouted.

Abrantus wrapped both arms around the log and staggered forward, driving it into the tree. He couldn't imagine how the log would cause any damage to the ancient oak, but when it struck, the entire tree shuddered and the trunk caved in. Green sparks buzzed through the air and black smoke poured out.

The demon face contorted in agony, the vine falling away from Lanatha. Abrantus dropped the log and pulled her to safety. Then he seized his war hammer from the imp and struck several blows to the face, smashing it into pulp.

Lanatha seized his arm. "Enough. We're not here to worry about the trees. They are not to blame. It is the demons that inhabit them that we must confront."

Abrantus turned, sweat pouring from his face inside the helm. "I thought that's what I was doing--confronting a demon."

"You're just killing a very old tree," said Lanatha. "We need to go to the heart of the forest and slay the greater demons."

Abrantus removed his helm and tossed it aside. His neck instantly felt lighter. "I can't take wearing that thing anymore. I'll come back for it later."

"You're a fool, Abrantus, to leave your head unprotected."

"I don't see any helm on your head," said Abrantus.

Lanatha shrugged. "I am a witch, not a warrior."

Abrantus glanced at the discarded helm, knowing she was probably right. But with sweat burning his eyes and enough heavy burdens to bear, he left it where it lay. "Let's get this over with," he said, tossing his hammer to the imp.

He seized the two handles on his side, and Lanatha took the other side. Together, they began their journey to the heart of the forest. But Abrantus' gauntlets kept slipping from the handles. Finally, he took off the gauntlets and tossed them aside. The glowing ring still somehow fit his fingers perfectly.

Lanatha sighed. "You toss away ancient, priceless armor as if it is nothing more than junk."

Abrantus shrugged. "I need to lighten the load a bit. I'll retrieve the items later, once this mission is over."

Lanatha bowed her head and said nothing.

### 4

### The Deeper Reaches of Madness

Abrantus and Lanatha walked side by side down a forest trail, with the demon imp leading the way. Now that his gauntlets were gone, Abrantus could hardly bring himself to hang onto the battering ram. It felt alive and slimy beneath his touch, like an actual serpent. It was also extremely cold. Thoughts of rage and hated swelled in his mind, emanating from the wood and into his body.

Finally he could bear it no longer. At his prompting, they laid the log down. "I can't do it," he muttered, shaking his head. "It feels cursed." He motioned to the imp, and the creature brought Abrantus his war hammer.

"It is cursed," Lanatha said. "Cursed with rage. It was carved from one of the few remaining trees that somehow resisted the demons. As I said, it has grown spiteful over the years because of what happened to the other trees."

Abrantus gazed down at the pale log, his only instinct to set it on fire. How could something that felt so vile help them in their cause? He doubted he could bring himself to touch it again, and he regretted discarding his gauntlets. "Send your imps back for my gauntlets," he said, "or else I won't carry it."

"We have no time for that," she said. "The demons are gathering to defend the gates, and our only hope is to strike quickly."

Abrantus groaned. "This is a fool's quest, woman. What good are two people against an army of demons, even with that foul log to help us? And my leg is getting worse." He rubbed the spreading numb spot through his chain mail. "My hammer will suffice. We don't need that wretched battering ram."

"You'll hold out," Lanatha said. "And we certainly do need it. It is the only weapon capable of defeating the greater demons and smashing through the gates."

"I think you're insane," said Abrantus.

Lanatha yanked back her hood, again revealing the nightmare face. The root that protruded from her eye twitched with emotion. "Look at my face! This is why we must continue. This is what will happen to the entire world!"

Abrantus threw up his hands in disbelief. "Now the entire world is at stake? I came here to free my chickens from a curse, but learned I was actually on a quest to save this forest. But now I learn it's actually a quest to save the world."

"The demon infection will spread, Abrantus." Lanatha's good eye reflected what Abrantus took to be genuine fear. "If it's not stopped here, where will it be stopped? This may be our only chance. Now grab your side of the--"

A fat, deformed wood spider landed on Lanatha's head, sinking its fangs into her scalp. With a cry, Abrantus raised his hammer, but he dared not risk swinging it so close to her skull. Chills crept along his spine and he whirled around to see several more spiders scuttling toward him.

Once again Abrantus was overcome by battle lust. He killed two of the spiders in a single blow, sweeping the hammer in an arc before him. One of the rabbit-sized creatures leapt onto his face, its musty stench filling his nostrils. The fangs went for his eyes. Using his free hand, which was charged with energy from the glowing ring, he ripped the spider away and flung it to the ground--in time to see a spider making for his foot. He kicked it away and then smashed it.

He turned to see Lanatha clutching her scalp and staggering around. The spider that had been biting her head was gone, but a spider was now attached to her thigh. Abrantus kicked it off her and then crushed it.

The remaining spiders advanced on him. Lanatha let out a piercing whistle. Another horned and winged imp flew from the forest, and the two imps attacked the spiders, ripping some of them into pieces with their claws. Abrantus crushed the last one and then faced the demons with his hammer raised. But the winged shadows flew to Lanatha and settled down beside her.

Abrantus realized his battle lust was overcoming his good sense, and he lowered the hammer, remembering that the imps were friendly.

Lanatha slumped to the ground, moaning. "My mind is foggy from the poison. I'm very weak."

"Then let those demons carry the battering ram," said Abrantus, gazing at the winged imps in disgust. "They seem willing enough to serve you."

She hesitated, as if thinking it over. "I don't know if that's a good idea. I'm afraid of what might happen."

"What do you mean?" Abrantus growled. "I refuse to bear this burden when those devils can do it for me."

Weakly, Lanatha nodded. She pointed at the battering ram, and the demons lifted it. She struggled to her feet. "Let's go."

The demons started off down the trail, then let out piercing screams. Black smoke curled up from beneath their hands, and they exploded into flames. The imps burned into piles of grey ash, while Lanatha gazed on in horror. The battering ram lay atop the ashes, smoke rising from the serpent's nostrils. It's eyes burned like crimson coals.

"What monstrosity have I created?" Lanatha whispered.

***

The pale moon shone down in the trail here and there, revealing the dark, snake-like roots that crisscrossed the path and occasionally sought to trip them. Laughter came from the trees, as screams arose in the distance. The forest was in a frenzy, the air heavy with hatred and the promise of death.

"We should abandon this quest," said Abrantus. "We're both poisoned."

"The poison cannot kill me," Lanatha said. "I just need some time to recover. In fact, it's already beginning to fade."

Abrantus scowled. "That's all well and good--you recover while I grow worse."

"You were bitten in the leg," she said. "And it must have been a tiny bite, or you'd be dead by now. Just be quiet and let me rest."

Abrantus fell into a sullen silence, wondering how he could get through to her. Some part of him wanted to charge the gates and somehow see an end to the demon reign, but the more practical part of him realized such a quest was madness and he should return to his farm.

Finally Lanatha rose. "Come, let us take up the battering ram."

Reluctantly, Abrantus seized the log and lifted it, cursing as the extra weight bore down on his toe. And now he was forced to carry the hammer as well, which added still more weight and made things feel quite awkward. It seemed absurd that a little bit of gout in his toe should cause him such torment. He would have gladly faced more demons and spiders if it would have relieved the agony. He felt like a pain-wracked old man surrounded by creatures that probably could never know the suffering of mortals. It seemed he didn't belong in this forest, facing these threats. For all of Lanatha's talk, he clearly wasn't any sort of a knight.

They entered an even more hostile region of the forest, and the trees began to growl and hiss vile threats at them. The battering ram trembled beneath Abrantus' touch, filling his mind with a yearning to lash out at the trees.

As they came to a stretch that looked almost swampy, filled with muck pools and mossy oaks, a towering demon leapt into the trail. It was a mass of shadow, vines, and roots, with a blue flame in the middle of its forehead that might have been an eye. "No one passes this way," it said. "Your blood will feed the trees."

Abrantus was overwhelmed by a feeling of weakness that made him want to fall to his knees and surrender, his spirit seemingly crushed by the creature's mere presence.

"A greater demon!" Lanatha cried. "Ram him into ruin!"

Her words snapped Abrantus from his trance. The two of them charged the demon, driving the log into it. The demon stood calmly, arrogantly, as if such an attack were meaningless to it. But when the battering ram stuck, green sparks erupted and the serpent's oaken head drove deep into their foe's chest.

With a howl, the demon clutched the log and tried to yank it free--and then the entire mass of shadow, root, and vine turned into a blazing green fireball that whistled and threw out bouncing sparks. In seconds, the demon burned to ash, leaving the battering ram fully intact.

The trees burst into frantic and enraged muttering. Abrantus was overcome by battle lust, and he raised his hammer defiantly. "Shut your mouths or I'll smash them shut!"

"Calm yourself," Lanatha said. "You'll work the poison more quickly through your system. Save it for when we reach the gates."

Abrantus lowered his hammer. "You should have just given me that cure--if you really have one." Suddenly, he was filled with disgust. He dropped his side of the log. "I've had enough of this. Give me the medicine or I'm finished here."

"If you quit on me," Lanatha snarled, "you're a dead man."

He thrust his chin out. "I'm a Falenswor, and I won't let myself be jerked around by anyone--let alone some she-devil." He tried to appear unyielding, but inside he was growing increasingly desperate. He cursed himself for ever coming to this forest. The whiskey had worn off, his courage on the wane as rational thought took hold. He realized he could be risking not only his life--but also his very soul. He thought of the little girl back in the clearing--Ledilia--who apparently was trapped forever in the fog. If the demons could ensnare souls, what might become of Abrantus at the gates of doom? Perhaps he was going to his eternal torment, and that idea terrified him far worse than a fear of bodily death.

Lanatha waved him away. "Go on, then. Crawl off and die. I'll continue on alone to the gates, without the battering ram, and face what I must face."

"You stubborn devil," Abrantus growled. "I won't do it." For an instant he was certain this was the end of the quest for him, that he would yell apologies to the demons and flee like a coward from the forest--poison or no poison. His soul meant far more to him than his life. But then he remembered Ledilia's plea to him to set her free, and shame burned hot within him. How could he ignore her and leave her ghost trapped forever in the very clearing where her father had apparently murdered her? She was relying on him, and he was her only hope.

Abrantus grabbed the battering ram, his heart squeezed with dread. "I suppose I'm in this until the bitter end. But I'm telling you--"

"Silence!" Lanatha commanded. She sniffed the air. "I smell lesser demons." She vanished into the forest and came out flanked by three winged demons with long claws and skin like black tree bark. "These are forest imps," she said, "shunned by the greater demons. They will fight alongside us."

"Why don't you just raise an army?" said Abrantus.

"I can only command the weaker ones," Lanatha said. "And there are only a small number of them scattered about the forest. The rest are merged with the trees and far beyond my control. Consider it good fortune that I found these three."

They started off again. The forest grew even more ancient looking, the trunks twisted and limbs sagging into the mushy soil. Abrantus stumbled and dropped his side of the log. He hesitated, resting his body.

"Take it up!" Lanatha screamed at him, as she pulled on the log.

"I'm not your slave," Abrantus shot back, his annoyance over the situation boiling over. He folded his arms across his chest in defiance. "I'll take it up when I see fit."

For an instant Lanatha seemed to be seething with rage, her lip quivering. She closed her good eye. "We are not finished," she said with obvious forced calm. "The gates are farther ahead, and beyond them lies the doom of all mortals."

Abrantus sat down in the path and rubbed his toe. "Curse you, woman."

Lanatha seized his throat. "Too late, I'm already cursed. Now rise to your feet before I choke you to death right here in the trail."

Abrantus knocked her arm away. "You say you were a knight once? Then start acting like one instead of some filthy she-devil."

Lanatha stood up straight, her face cold. "I was a knight. Now half of me is a monster. I can find little pity for you in my heart."

"But you won't kill me," Abrantus said, though he wasn't so sure. "I can see that. There's still honor in you, Lanatha, and your threats ring hollow."

Lanatha nodded. "You're right--I won't kill you. But I'll walk away and let that poison do the task for me. The demons must be defeated, and I won't let this chance slip away. Now get to your feet, or stay and rot. What say you?"

Slowly, Abrantus rose and lifted the hammer and the battering ram. An image of Ledilia's face in his mind was the only thing that kept him moving. Somehow, that brief encounter with the little ghost had affected him so deeply he was willing to do whatever it took to free her. He limped worse than ever as he walked, his heart pounding from the pain. His age was getting the best of him, his muscles and bones creaking beneath the burdens. Lanatha too seemed weakened, her steps slower and her body shaking beneath her cloak. The three demons followed obediently along.

"My body is conflicted," said Lanatha. "The demon half of me is not fond of what we're doing here. I find myself battling it constantly. If I lose control for even an instant, the battering ram could lash out against me like it did to my imp servants."

Abrantus said nothing, overwhelmed by his own strains.

With a crash of branches, a massive form leapt out into the trail. It was by far the largest demon Abrantus had yet seen--a blackened tree-like figure, laden with twisted roots, with three smoldering eyes that glowered down at them. In one gnarled hand it held a small boulder. Lanatha's three imps screeched and flew off into the forest.

"The demon lord!" Lanatha cried.

### 5

### At Doom's Gates

For an instant, Lanatha seemed to falter.

"Charge him!" Abrantus roared, and he started forward, dragging Lanatha with him and breaking her paralysis. They drove the battering ram at the demon lord, but he swatted it aside as if it were a walking stick. The two went tumbling into the dirt.

Abrantus leapt up. He smashed his hammer into the monstrous figure, but it bounced off the tough tangle of roots. The demon lord swung the boulder at his head, and he barely managed to duck a blow that would have turned his skull into fragments.

Lanatha attacked with her sorcery, but the flames were drawn into the demon lord and smothered out. The demon lord raised the boulder and started toward her.

Then the winged imps flew from the forest and went for the demon lord's three eyes with their claws. With a roar, the giant creature swung the boulder at them, but they were too fast, darting around it and raking the crimson orbs.

Abrantus and Lanatha seized the fallen battering ram and drove it into the demon lord, and the green fire erupted. The fiend thrashed around, the boulder flying from his grasp. The demon lord seized the log and tried to yank it free, but the fire soon became an inferno. The imps got caught in the flames and burned to ash in an instant.

Lanatha stood watching, her good eye bulging with intensity. Abrantus seized her and dragged her away, just as the demon lord collapsed into a blazing heap. Moments later, nothing remained but a large pile of ash and the battering ram--which bore not so much as a scorch mark.

Lanatha spit on the ashes and kicked them. Then she reached up to her face. The root still protruded from her eye, and the sores still covered her flesh. She dug her nails into her skin and moaned. "The curse remains!"

Abrantus gently pulled her arm down. Slaying the demon lord had awakened his confidence, and he found himself wanting to finish their quest. "You're still a knight, Lanatha. And we've still got a mission ahead of us."

She gazed at him and nodded. "I can see the Falenswor bloodline shining through in your eyes. That's what I'd hoped for all along."

They moved on, crossing a stone bridge over a dark river. The shadows were deep, the trees lashing out at them with hatred whenever they got too close. Beyond the bridge was a barrier made of wooden planks overgrown with moss and vines. It stretched into the forest on either side, forming a circular wall. Scowling demon faces squirmed in the barrier, cursing them and warning them to turn back.

Overwhelmed by the terrible power radiating from the faces in the wall, Abrantus hesitated. Lanatha fell to a knee, though she managed to hold onto the battering ram. The root that protruded from her eye socket dripped dark blood.

"Those faces are the elder demons," she said, groaning. "It is their power that holds the forest captive. They're speaking to my demon half, trying to weaken my resolve. I don't think I can resist them."

"You must!" said Abrantus, his eyes wide. "We can't stop now!"

Lanatha wept. "I was a beautiful woman once, Abrantus, and a powerful warrior. My life was good for many years, and I didn't know real suffering. I lived in a dream world--a life that no mortal deserves. I thought I would marry a handsome knight and bear fine sons and daughters who would in turn grow up to serve my kingdom. I thought I was entitled to happiness, but I was a wretched fool. Now I'm simply a useless beast. It is my just punishment, Abrantus. We...we can never defeat the demons. Mortals are too weak. We have to give up this fight."

"You must shut out their voices!" Abrantus bellowed. "We haven't come this far to falter now. My life was been a sorry mess, and I've probably deserved every wretched curse that's come my way. But whether we're weak or not, the demons don't deserve to live amongst mortals. Rather, they deserve to burn!"

The faces in the wooden barrier howled in rage at his words.

"I can't go on," said Lanatha, bowing her head.

"Get to your feet!" Abrantus commanded, overwhelmed by desperation. "Don't surrender when we're this close, woman!" When she didn't respond, he added, "Focus on the battering ram. Feel its rage."

Slowly, Lanatha rose, lifting the battering ram with her. "I do feel its rage...so terrible. Yes, we will finish this! However, you should know that this battle may kill us, Abrantus. I'm sorry."

Abrantus nodded. "I suspected as much. But we've made it this far, and we're going to see it through whatever the cost. Let's take them!"

With the last of their strength, they charged the wall. But as they drew close, vines shot out and entangled them--winding around them with a crushing grasp. One wrapped around Abrantus' throat and choked him furiously, causing his vision to darken. For an instant it seemed they were finished, and then Lanatha's magic sprang to life one more time and burned the vines away.

The two pushed on, as the demonic faces screamed at them in hatred. They drove the enraged battering ram into the barrier--right through a demon's snarling face. They struck it with everything they had. There was an explosion of sparks, sending the two tumbling backwards, and the green flames shot up the wall.

They rose, watching as the fire engulfed the barrier. The demon faces contorted with agony before burning away. Fireballs hissed through the air all around them. A large one flew straight at Abrantus, and he brought up his shield ring on instinct to protect his face. The ring's glow deflected the fireball. Lanatha, however, screamed as one of them struck her in the chest. She collapsed to the ground, burning.

"Lanatha!" Abrantus cried. He beat out the flames, but her chest was already a charred and smoking pit.

"Return my body to my kingdom," she said. "You will be knighted for this. Accept it with pride and honor."

"I will," Abrantus promised, kneeling beside her. He groaned. "Is there anything I can do to save you? Can't you heal yourself? What about your sorcery?" He deflected another fireball with his ring as he knelt over her protectively.

"My body cannot be saved," she said, her face peaceful. "And it is time for me to rest. Dare I say that it is long overdue?"

"But where can I find the cure for my poison?" he asked.

She managed a smile. "It won't kill you, Abrantus. You were not bitten deeply enough, or you would already be..." The smile faded in death.

Abrantus rose and faced the flames, hammer in hand. Beyond the collapsing wall, a massive tree with crimson bark was thrashing about as the green fire tried to consume it. One huge eye gazed out from the trunk, quivering with rage, agony, and determination. It spotted Abrantus, and its gaze became a crushing force, pinning him to the earth. The great eye was dying, but it was determined to take Abrantus with it.

He clenched his teeth, his muscles bulging from the strain of trying to resist the pressure. Meanwhile, the green fire rose up like a hand and tried to seize the crimson tree. Abrantus found strength deep inside him that he never knew was there, a knightly power that engulfed his body like ethereal armor, and he knew he would not falter. He gazed back at the huge eye without flinching.

The crimson tree resisted the flames, but white roots sprouted up and coiled around it. The battering ram was pushing on, sending forth roots to punish its foes. It would never stop.

Loud cracking sounds arose, and the crimson tree went still. The great eye closed, and Abrantus was freed of its grasp. The green fire then spread over the tree, turning it into a blazing torch.

Soon all that remained was ash.

### Epilogue

It was a cool, misty fall day, and Abrantus rode into Council Wood on a white horse. He still wore the armor Lanatha had given him and still carried the war hammer. He was a knight now, his body becoming hardened by his training--matching the stoutness of the spirit that had always been there.

The forest was now peaceful--with the exception of a few wood spiders. Having been cut off from the power that sustained them, the demons had perished, and dead faces peered out from some of the trees, lumpy growths that would remain as a symbol of the demon occupation for time untold. A few noble spirits had already returned, and their whispers of welcome greeted Abrantus.

Abrantus paused before the sprawling ash pit, from which wisps of black smoke still arose even after a few months. A fire still smoldered at the heart of the pit, a gateway to the doom of all mortals and the place from which the demons came. Beneath that pit, the demons still hungered to release that doom upon the world. But something now held them back, a raging spirit that would never be pacified. The battering ram was still there, grim and terrible, a force that continuously hammered into the demons and held them at bay. It had spread roots throughout the pit. The rage of the forest lived on, striking at the demons with unending bitterness.

Abrantus nodded in satisfaction. He would return again in due time to make sure all was well and that Lanatha had not died in vain. And if somehow a demon did manage to escape from the pit, he would hunt it down and give it a taste of his war hammer.

Rain began to fall, soaking Abrantus in moments, but it did nothing to smother the flames within his spirit. He turned his horse about and headed for the mountains, for the Kingdom of Elsenmoln. There were great deeds to be done, and a family name to be restored to its rightful prominence.

End.
Brock Strangebeard and the Towers of Matterkill

(Originally published in Kings of the Night magazine.

Revised for this collection.)

### 1

### Lost in the Lowlands

Her scream echoing across the grassland, Leethva twisted sideways with all the agility her dancer's body could summon. Wolf jaws snapped shut inches from where she'd been. The wolf hunkered down and growled, thick drool dripping from its muzzle. Its eyes were glazed as if in death--focused on Leethva and filled with rage, yet seemingly empty of any spark of life.

Chills swarming over her flesh as she gazed into the beast's dead eyes, Leethva drew her dagger and backed away. The wolf lurched a few steps toward her with a jerky motion before turning and leaping off into the heavy fog.

Brock stepped in front of Leethva, throwing axe held ready. The wolf had caught them off guard, and he inwardly chastised himself for letting it happen. Though the dwarf stood a foot shorter than the woman he was trying to protect, his stocky, muscle-knotted frame was like a wall in front of her. Some of his fiery red hair had broken free of its ponytail and hung in his eyes. He brushed it away. The moments drifted by with the rolling fog.

At last the wolf bounded into view, its head twisted sideways and its jaws split open for the kill. It tried to maneuver around Brock to get to Leethva. Brock hurled his axe into the wolf's neck. The creature staggered, blood pouring from its mouth, and collapsed. It tried to struggle to its feet. Brock yanked another axe from his belt and hacked off the wolf's head. Something black and shiny--like a smooth slug--crawled from the wolf's ear and slithered away into the fog.

"Did you see that?" said Brock, as he wiped his axes off on the animal's fur. "Something came out of its damn ear!"

"I saw it," said Leethva, shuddering. "We should not have left the carnival, Brock. These lands are strange."

Brock shrugged. "The walk was your idea, woman. Regardless, we didn't expect to get lost in this mist. I've never seen it so thick." He raised his bushy eyebrows. "It seems almost unnatural. And then we see a wolf serving as a host to some sort of slug. What in the seven hells is going on out here? Strange lands indeed!"

"It was you who suggested we take this walk," said Leethva. "I agreed, because it seems I have no common sense." She glared at him, but her bright blue eyes reflected more fear than anger. She was a dark-skinned beauty with curly black hair, her supple body clothed in a small amount of tight leather and her bare stomach displaying a tattoo of a hawk.

Brock was her opposite. His ugly face possessed an oversized, crooked nose that had been broken in a bar brawl. He wore a colorful--almost comical--tunic and tights (carnival garb) with a big leather belt from which throwing axes hung. His crimson beard was set into tiny, laughably elegant braids, which had earned him the nickname of Strangebeard at the carnival. "Enough," he said. "Blaming each other will get us nowhere, and we need to stay alert. Where there's one wolf, there's bound to be more. I must admit, though, that I'd like to know what that slug was and why it was lurking inside the wolf."

"Don't talk about it," Leethva said, hugging her arms to her chest. "You've got a warped sense of curiosity I'll never understand, Brock. We want no part of that disgusting creature. Let's just leave this place!"

They started off through the fog and the damp grass in a random direction, keeping alert for wolves. Leethva stayed close to Brock, though as a former gladiator slave and bodyguard, she was capable of defending herself. Wolf howls erupted in the distance--too far off to be any threat--but that didn't mean the two carnival performers weren't being stalked.

At one point, Brock found what appeared to be a shiny piece of black crystal that looked partially melted. He studied it for a moment but couldn't identify exactly what it was or, if manmade, what it might have been used for. He stuck it in a deep pocket of his tunic, determined to solve that mystery later.

Brock paused, his eyes distant as he contemplated the situation. The mental wheels within his keen brain were beginning to turn, and it dawned on him that strange forces were working deliberately working against him and his companion. His instincts whispered to him that they had wandered into a nightmare from which they would not easily awaken. The slug-like creature had likely driven the wolf to attack them, and then it had made a quick escape--probably to search for another creature to inhabit. Brock was convinced it would return, perhaps bringing more foes with it.

Leethva lightly punched his shoulder. "Wake up, Brock. This is not the time to stand around daydreaming."

Brock nodded, and started walking again.

Leethva noticed the grim look on his face, and she frowned. "What's going on inside that thick skull of yours?"

"I think things could get rough for us in this grassland," he said. "Stay close to me, and watch everything. Just a feeling I have." He muttered a few curses. "No, it's a certainty! We've got our arses in a snare this time."

"I have the same feeling," said Leethva. "It's almost like something in the air...like I can hear something. I keep getting chills."

Brock seized her arm. "I do hear something." They waited in tense silence, and then human screams and shouting reached their ears. Moments later, a large black horse galloped past and disappeared into the mist. More screams followed.

"Sounds like a slaughter!" said Brock, scowling.

They broke into a trot, and Leethva quickly surged ahead of Brock. "Hold on now!" he bellowed, panting as he sought to catch up to her. "Don't get too far ahead on those long legs of yours. We don't know what awaits us."

The cries grew louder and then died out. Another horse galloped past, nearly running them over, and then they came across a nightmare scene.

Leethva handled it fairly well, though she looked a little pale. On the ground before her and Brock lay seven soldiers, six of them displaying horrific wounds. Several swords lay in pieces around the fallen men, as if the weapons had been shattered like glass, and stout armor had been split apart as easily as the soldiers' limbs and torsos. Two of the men were still alive, and their shocked faces told the tale of slaughter.

With a shaking hand, Brock pulled a whiskey flask from his pocket and chugged some down to help steady his nerves. This didn't look like the work of wolves--or anything else Brock could imagine.

Leethva knelt by one of the men--an old soldier with a silver beard and mustache. "We were impaled!" the soldier said, his lip quivering. "Great black spikes rose from the earth and pierced us. And...and there were vibrations..." He placed his head in his hands. "Vibrations--like something to do with living magic. I can't explain it, but the spikes seemed alive and connected to...to everything somehow."

The other soldier opened his mouth to speak. Tears ran down his rat-like face, and his body shook. He fell onto his side in a pool of blood, his eyes glazing over.

Leethva glanced at Brock, her face grim. She pressed her hand against her stomach as if to hold in her breakfast.

"How badly are you wounded?" Brock asked.

The soldier didn't answer.

Brock took another drink and then offered the whiskey to the man. He swiped it from Brock's hand and drank a bit too deeply, coughing and gagging when he was done. He grimaced and handed it back.

"My men protected me," he said. "I was their captain. They gave their lives for me. They should have saved themselves. They...they..." He shook his head. "I've never lost so many men at the same time."

Leethva knelt and checked a few pulses--though it was hardly necessary considering the state the soldiers were in. Everyone else was dead.

Brock's eyes strayed to the heap of mangled human remains. It was hard to envision them as the young, healthy men they'd undoubtedly been only moments before. Brock was a rugged brawler, as stout as they came, but he'd never seen anything like this.

"We need to find the way back to town," said the solider. "We can return later with a wagon and collect their bodies." He groaned. "What will I tell their families? There are going to be some heartbroken people tonight."

"We're lost," said Brock, motioning to the wall of fog that surrounded them. "We've been wandering around these grasslands for a few hours now trying to avoid getting devoured by wolves. That blasted fog won't let up."

Leethva pulled the captain up and they started off. He turned and glanced back at what was left of his men, but Leethva urged him along. He limped from a gash in his thigh, and Leethva helped support him. He told them his name was Galvan and that he was a soldier employed by a lord who ruled these lands.

"We came here to investigate," he said. "There have been claims of dark towers appearing in the Matterkill Lowlands. I know it sounds strange, but it's been going on for a while now. And folks out here have been turning up dead and mutilated." He hung his head. "I didn't expect my men to meet the same fate."

"Dark towers?" said Brock. "Could those have been the spikes that attacked you? I would think a spike and a tower could be the same thing."

"Perhaps," the captain said. "But people have reported seeing huge towers, and the spikes that attacked us were only about ten feet tall."

Brock flipped a throwing axe in the air, catching it by the handle--a nervous action that he engaged in unconsciously. His keen brain was at work, struggling to grasp the situation. "Giant spikes? Or evil towers for evil inhabitants? No respectable soul would want to dwell so far above the earth. Surely this is the work of a dark mind. Your lord should put a stop to travel through this region until someone can figure out what's going on."

"And how would he do that?" muttered the captain. "Build a fence?" He paused and rubbed his forehead, his eyes distant. "I knew all their wives, their children..."

Brock patted the captain on the shoulder. "Stay strong, old fellow."

The captain shoved Brock's hand away. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Don't touch me. What are you two doing out here, anyway?"

"We're with the carnival," Leethva said. "We travel from village to village performing for crowds. I'm a dancer, and Brock throws axes. And sometimes he throws axes at me. Well, not at me exactly--if you get my meaning. It's all for show. We left town and got lost in the fog."

Brock walked with his head bowed, though he was aware that the captain kept turning to glare at him with distrust. Brock was a brawler, but he had no desire to have it out with a fellow whose men had just been ripped apart.

Leethva whispered words of encouragement to the captain, while Brock looked on in admiration. Not only was Leethva beautiful, but she never had an unkind word for anyone. Brock thought of her like a little sister (even though she towered over him). They had been carnival performers for many years. They were always together, and Brock was fiercely jealous and protective of her.

They wandered around for a while past boulders, twisted oaks, and through long stretches of grassland. Finally they stopped, knowing they were hopelessly lost. The area was too vast, the fog too thick. Wolf howls arose close by.

"That little man should never have brought you out here," the captain said to Leethva. He glared at Brock, and then turned back to her. "Such a lovely girl. If any harm befalls you, it's his fault."

Brock said nothing, figuring the captain was still in shock over the death of his soldiers. He ignored the accusing stares and kept walking.

"Brock isn't such a bad fellow," said Leethva. "He just takes some getting used to. I assure you, captain, that his intentions are honorable."

"That's right," Brock muttered sarcastically, unable to contain himself any longer. "I'm not such a bad fellow." His meaty hand knotted into a fist.

But the captain wasn't letting up. "This is no place for a woman. These plains are infested with dangerous animals and bandits. And now, obviously, something much worse. I don't want to see a woman torn apart like my men back there." He patted Leethva's stomach, and Brock noticed that his eyes strayed to her sparsely covered figure (not the action Brock would have expected from a soldier whose mind was only on his dead comrades). "You should be home making babies," the captain went on, "and not out here in this madness."

"And it's all thanks to me," said Brock. "Is that what you're getting at?"

The captain glowered. "Perhaps."

"I didn't kill your men, captain," said Brock. "So you might as well quit blaming me. I'm sorry for what happened, but that's it."

The captain's lip twisted into a sneer. "You possess the face of a bearded devil. And I've never seen a grown man as short and as stocky as you. You're some kind of...twisted imp. Why did you lead this woman out here? Do you know what those towers are? Well, do you?"

Brock opened his mouth to reply but Leethva leapt to his defense. "As I said, captain, we're with the carnival. We spend most of our time traveling. We don't know these lands or anything about any towers." Her face darkened. "And furthermore, I don't need to stay home and make babies. I can take care of myself just fine."

"Maybe so," said the captain. He grimaced. "But there's something dangerous about this little man. You better watch your back, girl. You might come to a bad end."

Brock knew it was a foolish thing to do, but he couldn't resist the impulse. "Like your men did, captain? Last I knew, they were with you when they died."

The captain whirled around and punched Brock in the jaw, knocking him down. His axe went flying. Brock scrambled to the weapon and pounced on it. Then he checked his jaw. It hurt, but it wasn't broken. It had been a damn fine blow, and Brock wanted to return the favor--but he knew the captain probably wasn't thinking clearly and deserved time to gather his wits.

However, Brock failed to contain himself, as usual.

"You'll get my boot in your arse for that!" Brock roared. "I've shattered more jaws, blackened more eyes, and cracked more ribs than the number of hairs on your brainless head!" The dwarf was charged with battle lust, his body shaking with fury. "And I'll be damned if I'll swallow a cowardly blow to the teeth even from a sorry sod like you." He threw down his axe and raised his fists.

"Calm yourself, Brock!" Leethva cried.

Gritting his teeth, Brock lowered his hands.

But the captain started toward Brock, drawing his sword. Leethva seized his arm, her eyes wide. "Just leave him be. Brock means no harm. Please!"

The captain pushed her aside, still intent on teaching Brock a lesson.

Brock lifted the throwing axe, his brawler instincts giving way to a deadly mood. "Get a grip on yourself, captain," he growled, "or this will find a home between your eyes."

"Brock!" Leethva gasped. "Enough. His men died horribly. You should be ashamed of yourself." She threw herself against the captain to hold him back.

Brock turned away, determined to calm himself. He took out his whiskey flask, wondering if he should smash it. Perhaps it was the drinking that was making it hard for him to control his temper. He sighed, took a swig, and stuffed it in his tunic. "Regardless, keep your hand off your sword, captain. That's a call to bloodshed!"

The captain said nothing, his hand staying near his sword. His face held an arrogant look that indicated he didn't believe Brock was a threat to him.

***

The wandered around for hours, hopelessly lost in the fog, before encountering a large, abandoned stone windmill where a farm had once stood. They took refuge inside to rest. Brock barred the door with the remains of an oak table and they sat down on the wooden floor. Rats scurried around in the shadowy corners, and a creaking noise came from above the wooden ceiling.

"I'm hungry," said Leethva. "Do you have any food, Brock?"

"Just whiskey and jerky," said Brock, "as usual." After handing Leethva some jerky, he took out the piece of black crystal he had found earlier and held it up. "Did those towers appear to be made of a substance like this, captain?"

The captain raised his eyebrows. "As a matter of fact, little man, they did. They were black and shiny, just like that lump in your hand. Now why would you be carrying something like that with you?"

"I found this in the grass," said Brock. "Perhaps it fell off one of those towers." Brock sat the object at his feet, and took to gazing at it. It was a frustrating puzzle, because he understood so little about what they were dealing with. His mind wandered back to the carnival and to an alchemist friend of his who could have tested the substance and perhaps discovered its true nature.

The captain gazed at the lump of crystal, his face tense. "That's a piece of evil you have there, little man. I suggest you throw it as far out into the grass as you can before it brings us to ruin."

"Don't be a fool," said Brock. "If this is a piece of those towers, it could prove useful in helping us understand what they are."

"I'm with the captain on that," said Leethva. "I say get rid of it."

Brock grimaced. "I'm not getting rid of it. I'll put the damn thing away if it bothers you." He thrust it back in his tunic. He glared at her.

"It's going to grow dark soon," said Leethva, ignoring Brock's stare. "I think we should sleep in this windmill for the night, and hopefully the fog will be gone by morning."

"Don't count on it," said the captain, with a sneer. "But I understand your point. We can't afford to get caught out in the open after dark. What say you, little man? Shall we camp here in this old keep?"

Tiny chills crept over Brock's flesh. "I'd rather not. If we can make a straight line through the grass, maybe we can get back to town before dark."

"We'll never make it," Leethva protested. "It's too risky."

"You think this crumbling windmill can protect us?" said Brock. "Look what those towers, or spikes--or whatever they were--did to the captain's men. If they come for us, these stone walls won't stop them. And that wooden door won't keep out a pack of crazed wolves, either."

"As much as I detest admitting it, you might be right," said the captain. "Perhaps we should try to find our way back."

"I'm not going back out there until morning," said Leethva. She folded her arms across her chest and gazed at Brock defiantly.

"You stubborn child!" Brock snarled, his face flushing hot with anger. Leethva's unyielding attitude often clashed with his own.

"I'm not a child," said Leethva, kicking his leg. "I'm more of a woman than those tavern wenches you love to laugh it up with."

Brock waved in a dismissive gesture. He only saw a young girl in need of protecting when he looked at Leethva. The fact that she was beautiful, with a fully developed figure, didn't register in his brain. Brock loved to consort with women in the taverns--just as much as he loved to brawl with the men--and women loved to fawn over him due to his unusual stature and appearance. But when it came to Leethva, there was none of that jolly flirting to be found. Nor did he tolerate any other men getting too close to her, and if a fellow should happen to try to test the suppleness of her figure by means of a sly squeeze, that fellow would likely pay the price of having a few teeth knocked down his throat. It wasn't a fair deal at all for Leethva, but Brock was clueless about it. His overblown confidence in his own judgment and his fiery temper negated the possibility of him realizing he often acted like an overprotective, controlling ass toward a female who bore no relation to him other than simple friendship. As sharp as his brain was when it came to the ways of machines and puzzle solving, he was dense when it came to realizing some things that were painfully obvious to everyone else.

Brock gazed at Leethva and sighed. "I see you're not going to change your mind, so I guess we'll be staying here."

"That's right," she muttered, gazing back at him.

"Fine by me," said the captain. "It's a dire risk either way, but I think sleeping in here is probably for the better."

Brock noticed that the captain's eyes again strayed to Leethva's scantily clad figure. No doubt the old codger was contemplating the forthcoming sleeping arrangements and not worrying a whole lot about his dead soldiers. Brock stared at the captain until they made eye contact, sending a blatant look of warning that the captain better forget any plans of cuddling up to Leethva during the night. It was going to be the captain on one side of Brock, and Leethva on the other--or there was going to be some flying fists. The captain frowned and looked away, but said nothing.

2

### Night of Terrors

Sometime in the middle of the night, they were awakened by a loud thumping noise, as if something had struck the side of the windmill. A few more thumps followed. Brock and the captain jumped up and drew weapons. Brock stepped close to Leethva, his eyes on the windmill's oaken door. Moonlight seeped in from holes high up in the stone walls, but most of the windmill's interior was lost in darkness.

"Don't open the door!" Leethva whispered, grabbing Brock's leg.

"We have to see what's out there," said Brock, shrugging.

"I agree with the girl," said the captain. "Whatever made those thumping noises is something I want no part of."

"So we simply wait to be attacked?" said Brock. "I think you and me should scout around a bit, captain, while Leethva stays in here. If something is prowling around, I'd rather kill it and be done with it. By the look of the moonlight coming in, we would have enough visibility to put up a fight out there."

The captain nodded. "I suppose we could at least step out and have a look. But if there's any sign of those towers... Well, you saw what they did to my men. And weapons just break against them."

"This is foolish!" said Leethva. "Just stay in here."

"Whatever is out there," said Brock, "already knows we're in here, or it wouldn't be pounding on the walls. I don't intend to hide in here like a frightened rabbit while some foul creature plots my downfall. Now I'm going to see what's out there and put an end to its plans. Are you with me, captain?"

The captain nodded. "Let's take a quick look."

Leethva sighed and shook her head. "I'll never understand the stubborn, foolish ways of men. You in particular, Brock. You're the worst of the bunch." She rose and drew her dagger.

Throwing axe held ready, Brock yanked open the oak door and stepped out into the moonlit grass--and immediately saw the towers. They rose up from the fog about thirty feet away to vanish into the misty sky, a cluster of them like a castle. Low vibrations suddenly filled the air, reminding Brock of life itself somehow--the essence of living things.

"Look at the size of them!" Brock muttered, pointing.

Leethva, who was peering out through the doorway over the captain's shoulder, let out a scream that she stifled by clamping her hand over her mouth.

"I feel the vibrations in the air," said the captain, retreating back into the windmill and pushing Leethva before him. His face was deathly pale. "That's what I felt just before we were attacked. Hurry in, Brock, and shut the door!"

"Get back in here, Brock!" Leethva hissed at the dwarf.

But the towers suddenly vanished, and only the curling fog remained on the damp grasslands. Brock shivered, filled with coldness inside and unable to comprehend what he'd just witnessed.

Leethva ran from the windmill and seized Brock's arm. "Come on, you fool! Get back inside so I can shut the door." She was shivering with terror. "Please, Brock, don't do this. It's not safe out here!"

Brock yanked away from her angrily. "I'll come inside when I'm good and ready. I'm trying to figure out what we're up against." He took a step toward where the towers had appeared, just to show Leethva he wasn't backing down.

Leethva stepped in front of him, her back to the wall of fog. "If I have to, I'll drag you back into that windmill, you stubborn oaf!"

"I saw something out there!" said the captain, pointing into the fog. He turned slowly about, his sword held forth by two trembling hands. "Something was lurching about. It looked like a man, but I couldn't make out any details."

Brock thought back to the mutilated soldiers, and he was consumed by the need to make sure Leethva didn't end up that way. It was hard for him to bear in mind that Leethva had once been a trained bodyguard. Her dark-skinned face was tense, her eyes wide with fear. Brock knew his own face undoubtedly bore a similar expression. Something about the Matterkill Lowlands was obviously very wrong, and Brock was chilled to the bone.

An instant later, a cloaked arm wrapped around Leethva's throat and yanked her backward. A man's pale, bruised face appeared over her shoulder. The face had empty eye sockets and a dark hole where the nose had once been. Its mouth hung open farther than a human mouth should have been able to hang open. A putrid stench hung in the air, like decayed meat, and Brock became aware of the buzzing of flies.

Brock sensed Leethva was about to be pulled off into the fog, and that he only had a second or so to get over his shock at the monstrosity he was seeing. With no time to take aim, he hurled his axe on instinct, and it stuck in the attacker's pale forehead, driving deep into his skull.

Whoever--or whatever\--had hold of Leethva released her, groaned, and toppled over. Leethva leapt away and whirled around, her dagger held ready. But the captain was already hacking at the fallen attacker with his sword--taking his head from his shoulders. The man's head rolled over and the mouth gaped open wider. A shiny black mass slithered from its mouth. Brock threw an axe at the dark, slug-like thing, but somehow it dodged the weapon and escaped into the fog.

Brock exchanged a stunned look with the captain. "Is that...?" He already knew the answer, for there was no other explanation.

"The walking dead," said the captain. He swallowed and nodded. "This man has been dead for several days, at least. Look at the condition of the body. But something..." He shuddered. "Something was lurking inside him."

"It's linked to the towers," said Brock, pulling Leethva close to him. "They're bringing corpses to life. Slug and tower are connected somehow. I'm certain of it!" Brock couldn't deny the strength of what he felt. We must find the bastard behind it all!"

"This can't be real," Leethva moaned. "Are you sure?"

Brock pointed at the decayed body and waited.

"Damn it all, Brock!" said Leethva. "What kind of cursed lands have we come to? I just want to get back to the carnival and as far away from here as possible."

The captain squatted down and put his head in his hands. Then he sighed and rubbed his face. "Something doesn't want us to leave the Matterkill Lowlands alive. And I have a feeling it's a lot stronger than we are."

"Don't fret, old fellow," said Brock. "We're going to make it. We just have to find a way to move in a straight line."

They entered the windmill, barred the door, and took to contemplating their situation. Brock sat with his arm around Leethva. Her head was bowed and her face was sullen. She continued to shiver.

"We'll just wander in circles until we're dead," said the captain. "This fog isn't natural. It was put here to confuse us and make it hard to see whatever might be hunting us. I just know it was! This is all pure madness..."

"We need to find a tall hill or a tree," said Brock. "Then maybe we can look right over the fog and see what direction to go in."

The captain shook his head. "Not many trees in these lowlands, and probably no hills either. It's just miles of bogs and grass."

Leethva tore at her curly locks in frustration. "There has to be a way out of here! Brock, why did we ever decide to go exploring?"

He didn't answer, as it would have been pointless.

She shoved Brock in the chest. "I always knew you'd end up getting me killed, you crazy dwarf. You've never had a speck of common sense. I can't believe I ever trusted you enough to let you throw axes at me!"

"I just saved your life," Brock pointed out sullenly. "I'd been expecting a few kind words, at least, rather than a tongue lashing."

"I don't know why I bother with you, Brock," said Leethva, shoving his arm away from her. I should have done something worthwhile with my life, instead of spending time with a fool like you. Now I'm going to die out here!"

Brock clutched her shoulder and gazed deep into her eyes. "You're not going to die. We're going to make it out of here."

Leethva rolled her eyes. "You fail miserably to comfort me."

"There is a simple way out of this," said Brock. "We just need to find something that's familiar to the captain."

"Like what?" the captain muttered. "A rock? A bleached log? Everything looks the same out here."

"I don't know," said Brock. "But we'll find something."

Leethva groaned and turned away. "I'll never understand you. Just admit that we're in a sorry situation with no answers!"

Brock said nothing, for she spoke true. She never could truly understand him. There was more to Brock than Leethva or anyone else could relate to. Something had always been different about him. He didn't fit in anywhere, and not just because of his odd stature. Leethva thought of Brock as a crazy brother who loved to drink and brawl, but the strangeness ran deep within him, to levels she could only begin to glimpse. Brock saw things she could never see, and he felt the pull of destiny in ways she would never know. Leethva enjoyed the simple and the familiar, but Brock lived for adventure and discovery. Unlike her, the carnival lifestyle didn't satisfy him.

Although Brock wanted to keep Leethva safe, part of him welcomed this bizarre adventure. It held the promise of excitement--and combat.

"We'll do our best, girl," the captain promised her, with a sigh. "I don't usually admit to this anyone, but I wasn't always a man who enforces the law. Actually, I used to be a thief and I spent time in a wretched Hulunto prison. The weather was nothing but constant blizzards and I nearly froze to death in my stone cell on more than one occasion. The barbarians didn't care whether I lived or died--but somehow, I found a way to live in a place where the dead sometimes got stacked like firewood."

Brock nodded. "I understand now. You're seen a lot of death, and it has hardened your heart. I knew there was something about you."

"If you believe I don't care about my slain men," said the captain, "you're wrong. I do care. But yes, I've seen much suffering and death. And the one lesson I learned is that you take what you can get, when you can get it."

Brock's eyes flashed dangerously. "That's a prison man's way of thinking, for certain. But there is a grim price to be paid for taking some things!"

"I understand," said the captain, smiling. "I have no plans to make love to your woman, little man."

"That's good to hear," said Leethva, patting her dagger. She gazed at the captain coldly. "I'd hate to have to cut out your heart."

The captain chuckled. "You've got fire, girl. No...my only hope is to get out of these lowlands alive, by any means necessary. What I learned in the Hulunto prison is that a cunning man lays low and waits for opportunity. And when that opportunity arises, he strikes with abandon and no remorse."

Brock shrugged. "I don't see what you're getting at."

"We're in a type of prison here," said the captain. "We need to think and act like prisoners. Prisoners don't rush out to see who is knocking. They hunker down and wait, make plans--bide their time for a chance to escape. Your way of rushing in to confront everything will get us killed."

Brock considered the captain's words, and he realized the truth in them. "I don't like it," he said, "but you're probably right. We need to be sneaky. It goes against my nature, though, captain. I've always been one to take things head on."

"What gave you such a stubborn head, little man?" said the captain. "Did your father used to beat you senseless?"

"I never knew my true father," said Brock. The truth was that Brock had been abandoned as a baby on a pile of garbage and fish guts near a dock. A rugged fisherman had found Brock and taken him onto his boat. Brock had been raised in an environment of constant drinking and brawling, but his unusually strong constitution, his seemingly unbreakable jaw, and his devastating fists had been more than up to the challenge of surviving that lifestyle. Eventually, he'd grown tired of fishing and joined the carnival as an axe-throwing dwarf.

"But you didn't answer my question," said the captain, smiling.

"Yes, he beat the seven hells out of me," Brock said sullenly. "Right up until I got old enough to knock the bastard out."

"Brock, I never knew," said Leethva. "That's terrible."

Brock shrugged. "It toughened my hide and helped teach me to survive. I hold no malice toward him. That was just his way of life."

Brock sat with his head bowed from that point on, saying little else. The truth was that he missed the only father he'd ever known (the only family he'd ever known), regardless of his father's many faults. The old fisherman had turned Brock into a brawling terror, but he'd also saved Brock from dying on a heap of garbage and had given him a home and a way of life. In Brock's mind, the real coward was whoever had left him to rot on that stinking heap, an act that was as insulting as it was cruel--as if to say that Brock had been nothing but garbage. And so Brock had vowed that if he ever met that man (which in his fantasy was always a man, because Brock didn't beat women), Brock would be more than happy to point out that he'd survived while knocking the fellow's teeth down his throat.
3

### Ebony Goddess

From that point on, the night passed quietly, but when morning came, they were disappointed to find the fog had not lifted. It hung as thick as ever beneath a cloudy sky. Brock considered trying to scale the windmill and see if he could glimpse anything beyond the fog, but any wooden attachments to the tower had become piles of rotten boards and he could find no means of climbing the stone walls.

They left the windmill behind. Eventually they came to some mossy stone ruins that looked to have once been part of a small castle or tower. Brock scraped away some of the moss and found carvings of words and images in the stone. It was a detailed map of their land of Delasia, showing all the major cities from sea to sea--including the port city of Chena, where he'd spent his youth. Brock noted that one of the great cities, the name of which had been made unreadable by time, was positioned where a sprawling swamp now stood. Brock wondered how such a major city could have vanished entirely into a stinking bog, and he made a mental note to investigate that at some point. But there were no engravings that seemed of any use to their current situation.

Before they had a chance to move on, the earth erupted around them and the towers rose up. This time the towers were about fifteen feet tall, deadly spikes that gave the impression they could appear anywhere. The three companions fled into the fog, but the towers seemed to track them--sometimes shooting up from the ground only a few yards away. Brock did his best to protect Leethva, but he quickly realized that her agility was protection enough and he was only getting in her way. "Curse it all!" Brock bellowed. "We can't escape them!"

"We'll end up torn apart like my soldiers," the captain muttered, his voice wracked with bitterness.

The ground shook, and a tower--taller than the other ones--shot up from the earth near Leethva. She turned and stared up at the dark spike that loomed over her, her eyes wide. The spire was smooth and flawless, an obsidian shaft as black as night that tapered to a deadly spear point. It seemed to pulse with dark energy.

Silver lightning congealed at the tower's base, and it noiselessly split open. Something reached out like a dark clawed hand and yanked Leethva into the hole so that her head disappeared.

With a cry, Brock flung his axes at the tower, but they shattered into fragments on impact. The captain swung his sword against the smooth ebony spire, but his weapon shattered as well.

Brock grabbed Leethva around the waist, the muscles in her belly taut against his arm. He could only imagine what was happening to her head in there. He pulled fiercely, but she was stuck. He was afraid he'd yank her head off with his brutish strength, so he had to give up. He let go and backed away, his eyes wide with the horror of the situation. He imagined her head being crushed, her beautiful face mutilated.

The captain stood watching as well, his eyes smoldering with rage and anguish. "Do something!" he yelled at Brock. "Save her!"

Brock hurled himself against the tower, but it was like pushing on a thick pillar of stone. Even his great strength was no match for it.

But then the tower released Leethva and she staggered away from it. The dark spire sank into the earth, leaving only a crumbling hole to mark its passing. All that remained was the rolling fog.

Leethva's head had become encased in an ebony shell. She turned, and Brock gazed into a face of madness. She had no eyes, nose, or mouth--just a small round hole where the mouth should have been. She waved her arms and staggered around, making muffled noises. Meanwhile, the captain cursed at Brock like it was his fault.

Brock yanked on the dark helm, but it was bound tightly to her skull and might even have been fused right into her flesh and bone.

Brock pulled her against him and groaned, vowing he would avenge her.

***

Unable to escape the Matterkill Lowlands, they finally stopped to rest on a large patch of moss. The captain sat with his arm around Leethva, trying to console her. It should have been Brock's task, but he had no comfort to give. He gazed at her in despair. Her body was as flawless as ever, her smooth and muscular curves exposed by the skimpy leather outfit she wore. But her head was a featureless nightmare.

Brock slowly chewed some jerky, but he didn't taste it. He wondered if Leethva could eat through that tiny mouth hole, but he was afraid if he poked some jerky in there he'd choke her. "Leethva, I'm sorry," Brock said, bowing his head. "This is all my fault. I should never have pestered you into exploring these lands with me."

She shook her head in response.

"Quit being sorry," said the captain, "and figure out how to get us out of this mess. If we can get her to town and take her to a blacksmith, maybe we can get that thing off her before she starves to death."

Brock said nothing, the pain and rage burning red hot inside him. Leethva had been his companion for many years, and she was the closest thing to family he had left. She had endured a hard life as a slave, and to see her now imprisoned in that dark mask drove him almost insane with fury. He couldn't bear to see her that way, but he could do nothing for her. The worst feeling that Brock could imagine now filled his soul: utter helplessness.

Seeing the look in Brock's eyes, the captain slapped the ground and leaned forward, his lip quivering. "Come to your senses, dwarf! She's still alive, isn't she? She still can breathe and think. We can save her if we don't give up."

"I haven't given up," said Brock. He glanced at Leethva's featureless face and then quickly looked away. "But there seems no way to defeat this foe."

"We've made it this far," said the captain. "We'll find a way to escape these lowlands yet. I'm convinced of it."

Leethva shook her head furiously and pointed into the fog.

Brock jumped up. "What are you trying to tell us?"

She cleared away some moss and began writing in the dirt with her dagger. It was a long, painstaking task, but eventually she wrote out what she was thinking.

"I can't read that," said the captain, squinting. "What does it say?"

"She says the towers won't let us escape," said Brock. "We have to find something she calls the scroll and smash it. She says she's connected to the towers now, and that's why she understands this. She can lead us to the scroll."

"Where are the towers from?" asked the captain.

Leethva scrawled some more words in the dirt.

"She says the towers are thousands of years old," said Brock. "They were asleep for centuries, but now they've awakened. They don't want to harm anyone. They're trying to bond with humans, but it never worked right until Leethva. They ended up killing people by mistake."

The captain's body trembled in rage. "Are you saying my men were killed by accident? I don't believe it! Those things are evil, and I'll see them destroyed."

"I'm with you on that, captain," Brock muttered.

"I've rested enough," said the captain. "Leethva, lead us to that scroll, as you call it. We're going to destroy it and put an end to this--"

Three figures lurched out of the fog--the walking dead. The stench of decay surrounded them, and their eyes were missing. Yet somehow they could still see to attack, swinging their fists at Brock and the captain. Brock deflected a blow, and it felt like the zombie's arm was as heavy as a war club.

Brock had no axes left, but he drove his fist into a zombie's skull and knocked it to the ground. He seized a rock and smashed its head into fragments.

The captain beheaded another zombie, but slipped in the mud and fell. The headless zombie landed on top of him. Meanwhile, Leevtha sat stoically.

The remaining zombie bore Brock to the ground, and the rock flew from the dwarf's hand. The zombie sought to strangle Brock with its unnatural strength. Brock fought furiously to break the hold, even as his breath grew short. Finally, he was overtaken by his love of the brawl, and in spite of everything, a broad grin broke out on his face. As the battle lust surged within Brock, his strength increased. He smashed his meaty first into the zombie's face repeatedly, crushing it into jelly.

Brock shoved the corpse off him and leapt up, seizing his rock. But the captain had regained his feet, and he finished the zombie off with his sword.

Black slugs crawled from the mouths of the dead, escaping into the fog. Brock started to give chase, then realized how foolish it would be.

"Let's end this now," the captain said to Leethva. "More foes will come, and we can't defeat them all."

Leethva nodded and rose. She held out her hand, as if feeling for something. Then she started off through the mist. Glancing at each other uncertainly, the two men followed.

The land sloped downward, growing thick with mossy rocks. It grew boggy, their feet sinking into mud, while dragonflies whizzed past them. Brock felt, or heard, a buzzing in his head. He seemed connected to all living things in a way he had never experienced before. Brock seemed to know the will of every insect that flew near him, and he understood the value of life, that it was a mold for something new and greater--that it would shape a second form of life, one free of blood, flesh, and organs. This new life would consist of mind alone, and it would spring free from human flesh like a moth from a cocoon.

Leethva seemed more alive to Brock than ever. Her head pulsed with the second life, as if it had become pure thought and energy. Brock could see and feel the silver lightning that rippled over her obsidian flesh, and it was purity far beyond his crude shell.

The captain got swept away in the same emotions Brock was feeling, and he threw himself against Leethva in worship, promising to serve her forever.

Brock seized the captain. "Snap out of it, old fellow."

The captain shook his head, his eyes dazed. "She...she's a goddess. No...wait... What's happening to me?"

"It's not her," Brock said. "It's the towers. I think I've figured it out, captain. The towers are--"

Two wolves leapt out of the mist, bearing the men to the ground. Brock barely got his hand up in time to ward off a snarling muzzle. He shoved the wolf off him, seized his fallen rock, and crushed the beast's skull. This time, he was ready for the slug that tried to escape, and he stomped it into the mud.

Meanwhile, the captain was still on the ground, the wolf ripping at his arm. Brock kicked the creature off the captain. Then he and the wolf circled each other. The wolf finally leapt in for the kill. Brock slammed the boulder down three times on the creature's head, driving bone fragments into the mud.

One arm dripping blood from a deep bite, the captain pounced on the escaping slug and squashed it in his fist.

Leethva stood quietly facing them.

The captain squared his shoulders. "I don't... I..." Once again he flung himself at Leethva's feet. "I am ready to serve, my lady."

She pushed his face into the muck, and the captain didn't fight. Brock lunged forward and dragged him away from her.

Leethva laughed--a grotesque, muffled sound. Brock backed away, filled with revulsion. "What's happening to you?" he asked, though he dreaded the answer. Her mind was merging with the mind of the towers.

Leethva motioned for them to follow, and started off. Brock knew she could be leading them into a trap, but he had nothing else to try but go along with it. His life--and perhaps the lives of countless others--stood in great peril. His only option was to try to destroy the towers, to wait for an opportunity and then strike.

They traveled a bit farther and then Leethva pointed at the mud. A small cluster of black crystals, shimmering with white energy, rose to the surface--the towers as they really were. Brock wasn't sure why she had called this cluster a scroll, but he had been picturing something you unrolled and read.

Brock snatched it up. It felt so alive in his hands that he could never imagine destroying it. The thought was so repulsive it made him sick to his stomach. It would have been like smashing his true love.

A scream snapped him out of his trance and he whirled around. The captain hung in the air impaled on a black spire. Leethva stepped toward Brock, and her ebony helm split open to reveal a silver face. She smiled. "I finally got rid of that annoying oaf."

Brock backed away and nearly tripped.

"Are you going to smash the scroll, then?" asked Leethva. "I'm thinking you're having second thoughts. I have a better idea. Why don't you join me? All humans will have to become what I am eventually. You might as well get it over with. And don't think your death would be an escape. Even the dead must live again in the new world that shall soon exist--as slaves that will serve superior beings like me."

"I'm going to end this," growled Brock.

"You can't." Leethva said. "Even if you smash the scroll, it's too late. The sorcery has become part of me now. I'm changing, Brock. Soon I'll be nearly immortal, and the scroll will weaken until it falls apart. It is no longer needed. All the power is in me now, to be passed from one human to another and spawn a new race."

"But you can still die," he said. "You're still partially human." It was more of a question than a statement.

"Not for long," she said. "Soon I'll be something much greater, and all of humanity will follow the path I walk. If you come to me and take my hand, I can make you what I've become. You can live forever."

Brock turned his back to her and sat the crystals on the ground. Using his rock, he shattered them into pieces. The fragments melted into slime. He turned around, praying Leethva had changed back to normal. But her smooth silver face greeted his vision. She smiled at him.

"I told you," she said. "It's too late. The scroll was not important. Did you think I would have revealed its location if it was? The towers have evolved...into me!"

Brock stood clutching the boulder, his head bowed in despair.

"The towers came from the ocean," Leethva said, "from a great city. They got left behind when the city vanished. They grew and changed, bending life into a new form, and finally they came here to sleep and allow knowledge to take root. They know their destiny now. They have become the catalyst for turning this dark world into a garden of wonders. They will change the face of a continent that lies in ruin. Even the worm-infested lands beyond the sea will be cleansed. Things will speed up, the clumsy old forms will be shed."

Brock almost smiled. Leethva had been anything but clumsy. He cradled the rock in one arm, took out his whiskey flask, and drank deeply.

"Don't despair, Brock," she said. "You don't have to anymore."

Brock finished off his whiskey and tossed the flask away. He started to turn away, and Leethva cocked her head to one side in curiosity. For a moment she seemed to falter, her eyes reflecting concern.

"Don't forget you are sworn to protect me," said Leethva. "I am like a little sister to you, Brock, the most important person in your life. You could never harm me. In fact, you can help me accomplish my goal."

"That's true," said Brock. "I would never harm Leethva. But I can kill you!" Brock hurled the rock into her chest with all the force his muscle-laden arms could summon. It struck with a cracking of bone.

Her eyes widened, and she staggered toward him. "Brock, how could you do... My transformation wasn't..." Blood dripped from her mouth. She flung herself into him and tried to strangle him with her unnatural might. They fell into the mud. Brock fought furiously to keep Leethva from crushing his windpipe, and just when his muscles started to fail, a shudder tore through her and she collapsed.

Brock shoved her off of him. Then he knelt over her and took a moment to grieve. At last, he said goodbye to Leethva, threw her limp body over his shoulder, and walked away. The feeling of energy was gone from Leethva's body, indicating that the towers of Matterkill were dead.

Brock passed the captain's corpse, which now lay in the mud. "You were right about me, captain," he said. "I'm a dangerous man. It's my lot in life, I suppose." He laid the captain's sword across his chest. "Rest in peace, old fellow."

Moments later, Leethva groaned and stirred. Brock checked her pulse. It was faint, but there was still hope. If he could get her to a healer (and maybe a blacksmith as well), perhaps there was a chance she could be brought back.

Regardless, the carnival was no longer an option. Brock was now aware of a much larger and more fascinating world that demanded exploration. His keen mind hungered for knowledge, just as his meaty fists hungered for a jaw to connect with in the taverns. His lust for adventure and discovery could no longer be contained.

And most importantly, Brock wanted to discover who and what he was.

### Epilogue

Brock sat by Leethva's bed in the healer's den. Her face was bright red as if sunburned, but aside from a thin scar on her forehead, her beauty was intact. The unnatural fog had lifted shortly after Brock had started back to town, and not long after that, Leethva's silver mask had cracked into pieces and fallen off. Brock had taken her to the only healer in town, and a day later, Leethva seemed to be recovering swiftly.

"Feeling any better?" Brock asked gruffly.

Leethva smiled. "I'm just amazed I'm still alive. I'm still pretty sore, but my ribs will heal in time."

Brock patted her on the shoulder and gazed out a window. The desire to go on adventures was a raging fire in his soul.

"What's going on in that stubborn head of yours, Brock?" Leethva asked. "You're pondering some big decision. I can see it in your eyes."

"My pondering is done," said Brock. "I'm leaving the carnival. I'm going to go out and do a little adventuring and maybe learn about my past. Find my fortune, perhaps. There are plenty of adventurers out there roaming the land and getting rich. Why shouldn't I be one of them?"

Leethva nodded. "I wish you well."

Brock glared at her. "So that's the goodbye I get? Actually, I was hoping you'd want to come with me. I could use a companion who knows how to fight."

"I know how to fight," said Leethva, "but I'm not much of a fighter. Sorry Brock, but I'd rather stay with the carnival for now." She tapped her head. "And truthfully, it's going to take a long time for me to recover in here. The things I've seen and felt have scarred my soul in ways you can't understand."

"If you won't come with me," said Brock, sighing, "then I find myself wanting to stay and look after you."

"I know," said Leethva, "but you won't stay. Whatever is driving you is too strong. You need to follow your own path. You're a strange man, Brock, and not just because you're a dwarf. There are always dwarves in carnivals. But you're the strangest dwarf I've ever met, almost as if..."

Brock leaned down, his eyes wide. "As if what?"

But Leethva only shook her head. "Never mind, my friend. I don't want to say anything that might sound insane. Just get out of here and start your journey. And don't get in too many fights."

"I'll return and visit you," said Brock. "Many times."

"I know you will," she said.

Brock stood up. "Maybe I should wait until you're fully healed."

Leethva pointed at the door. "Get going, you crazy dwarf!"

Brock hesitated, wondering what dark and strange path he was choosing and where it would lead him. Then he shrugged and walked out the door.

End.

### The author's website:

www.robertekeller.net

