The Unwelcome Guests – Chapter 4

*Scene 01* 8:28 (The City of Xarm)

Three dead horses later Shihor, the Xarmnian Scout, rode quickly through the massive stone gates of the capitol city of the Xarmnian empire.  He did not stop to greet the gatehouse guard, nor acknowledge anyone young or old in the cobblestone streets of the dirty city, but rode through them hard, his present horse’s hooves pounding a warning upon the drums of the street, for anyone lingering there to move swiftly out of his way or get run over and trampled.

The horse breathed foam from its lips and nostrils, its eyes darting wildly as its cruel rider held the hard steel bit and reigns, keeping it from rebelling or turning in a direction its unrelenting taskmaster did not wish to go.

Finally, the rider, pulled back, causing the beast to skid and fight to keep its iron-shod hooves from slipping on the oily, grimy stone pavements.

The soldier dismounted, staggered a moment and then drew out a long wicked dagger.  He approached a barred portcullis and shouted to the guard inside.

“Dargun! DARGUN!” he shouted angrily, “Why aren’t you at your post?! Open this gate, Dargun!”

A muffled crash and stirring noises came from inside the adjacent gatehouse, followed by a muttered oath.

When the guard did not respond fast enough, the soldier pounded on the gate.

“Hurry up, you lazy cur, or I’ll carve out your fat liver and feed it to those groveling street urchins in the alley I just passed.”

The door beyond creaked opened, and a red-faced man emerged, fumbling with a clinking ring of keys. He squinted in the sunlight, and teetered towards the iron portcullis gate.

“What is this, Shihor?!” he came towards the gate groggy-eyed and sputtering, “Aren’t you supposed to be out on eastern patrol?”

“Shut your gobbler, you fat slob and open this gate immediately!  Call Captain Jahazah and have him meet me at the high court.  Where is the Son of Xarm?”

“You can’t just…!”, Dargun leaned in too close to the flat iron bars, separating him from his impertinent, and insulting comrade, regretting it instantly.

Shihor’s hand flashed through the bars, caught Dargun by the front of his shirt, and jerk-slammed his face into the iron-grid.

“Open this gate, you idiot, or I will start carving!” Shihor snarled, his fierce eyes glaring into Dargun’s now bleeding face and forehead.

Dargun felt the blade of the wicked knife being pressed against the fat of his belly through the grill.  Wincing in pain at the cold sting of the blade, but holding himself in check, he knew he dare not look down at the knife or shift his eyes from Shihor’s.

“Open the gate!” he grunted to someone from within, and the gate chain began to clink and draw the iron-grid upward, such that Shihor withdrew the blade and his hold on Dargun.

When the gate was high enough, for Shihor to duck under it, he did so, walking brusquely past the heavily breathing Dargun, grabbing the key ring from him.

“I need access to the Treasury. Which key is it?”

“Now wait a minute…” Dargun sputtered, but Shihor flashed the blade at him in a dangerous warning.

“Impede me further, and those little urchins will be eating sooner, than the hour of their daily ration.  I asked you a very simple question and you have not answered me,” Shihor growled raising the knife.

“What is it you wish to know?” Dargun winced, fearing his slow-wit might bring on further anger.

“Where–is—the Son–of Xarm?” he said slowly, deliberately drawing out the words while capping a very thin top layer over his smoldering frustration with the man.

“He is in the great hall and has some of those creatures with him.  They are meeting in council and supposedly forming some sort of arrangement to ensure that The Pan keeps to the terms of their treaty.”

Shihor thought that over a moment, and then muttered, “I suspect that The Pan has already breached that bargain.  We never should have negotiated with The Half Men in the first place.  They will never quiet the wildness inside them.  First the Builder Stones and now this.  It would not surprise me if the Capitalians weren’t in on this too.”

He then took in the sight of Dargun with registering further disdain with a contemptuous look.

“Which of these keys is for the Treasury door?”

“The King’ll slaughter me in the public square if you take anything…”

“I am not going to take anything. I need to go in to see if anyone else did, though it would not surprise me seeing as how this gate is so poorly guarded.”

Dargun hesitantly indicated which was the key to the Iron door that led to the Treasury rooms, and Shihor turned and headed into the covered hallway towards the Treasury in the Keep, with Dargun following a short but cautious distance behind.

When Shihor approached the Treasury gate two large guards stepped out of the shadows to impede him, but Dargun called out to them from behind.

“Let him pass.”

The two armed sentries stepped back into the shadowy nooks, as Shihor inserted the key into the large iron-plated door.

He strode into the darkness of the room and down the corridor to where “it” had been kept since the beginning of their kingdom, long before he was even born.

Dargun and his other attendant guards, heard the shout of rage and the banging and crash of things being thrown about in fury as Shihor discovered to his dread what he had suspected all along in his furious ride back to Xarmni from the coastal lands.

When Shihor emerged from the inner Treasury rooms he was deadly calm, but in a very dangerous mood, and spoke low to Dargun.

“Assemble the Overwatch.  Have a detachment meet me in the Great Hall as soon as you can.  I think the Son of Xarm will have great need of them very soon.  Do it now.”

And with that, he strode out portcullis gate into the narrow alleyway, walked up to his panting mount, withdrew his dagger and stabbed the sweat lathered animal repeatedly until the beast collapsed heavily onto the street.  Without another word to the shocked guards, he turned towards the northern end of the alleyway and said over his shoulder.

“Go feed those street urchins this dead creature.  Lure them in with the smell of meat.  We’re gonna need some Trolls to meet this upcoming crisis.  Bring the elixirs and douse the flesh with it.  Let their hunger be slaked with its marinated flesh.  Hurry.”

*Scene 02* 4:11 (The Outer Inn)

We approached the back of a roadside inn.  A traveler’s way-station consisting of a small stable, a dining hall, and about eight upper rooms. The inn was situated on the eastern edge of the village. What few road-weary travelers there were, even in good times did not often stay long, just enough to get a few hours to rest and a place to lie down before they pressed on.  For the most part, the villagers were suspicious of travelers and of late fearful of them. So the one and only inn was relegated to to town’s edge.

The innkeeper had fallen on hard times.  His inn was not in the most pristine shape, to say the least.  Not much like it was in the old days when more people traveled towards the eastern sea. Xarmnian patrols has stifled travel and cut off trade to the outer rural communities. They had yet to establish jurisdictional control of the outer periphery communities, however they did not want them supplying any insurgent counter-strikes.  Xarmnian power centers were in the large cities and they suspected the rural lands of fostering and harboring the unrest and resistance to Xarmnian rule.

The interior of the wayside inn’s commons area was bordered with thick rough-hewn and exposed wooden beams and stonewashed slate to hold the heat in.  Staid and solid benches served wooden tables made of thick planks with weathered bark still on the underside.

The road, like the inn, had suffered under harsh winters and unseasonable rains.  The soil in front of the inn was often a deep thick mud and the Inn keeper’s boy had to extend boards out to the coaches when they arrived, to assist the travelers in getting through it.  Not that the keeper cared so much that a dainty lady’s petticoat might get soiled, but more so that the travelers with their few meager pieces of coveted coinage, might not track more mud in upon the dining hall floor that he had labored through about five minutes of backbreaking misery to finally sweep.

There is no carriage in front of the Inn, but it does have some guests inside.  The stables only contain the inn keeper’s few nags and an anemic looking cow.  There is not much grass growing on the edge of the winter season.

The only travelers we can see from our vantage point, appear to be a family on foot.  No carriage awaits them at the livery, where it typically would be parked for the night. They have carried what meager belongings they could and walked overland, for if they had booked passage, their belongings would have already been brought up to their rooms for they night, but these are within reach as they are seated over meager fare in the commons area.  By the look of them through the window, huddled over small bowls of porridge, it seems they each could use a hot bath and a long night’s sleep. It is out of the usual custom, for the host to treat paying guests this way, so it follows that these pitiful souls are merely passing through with no other means than to appeal to charity.

The Innkeeper, once more corpulent and congenial in happier days when his inn saw more frequent guests, looks furtively out the front windows to the dirt roads beyond.  A friend, he is. Or at least once was, for my part.

From what I can tell, his expression is annoyed and dour.  He is much changed from when I last saw him. The rounded cheeks, easy smile, and laugh lines with which he once greeted his guests have faded with age and time.  His trousers are gathered in and his apron ties are slack about his shrinking frame.  The fare he is serving this family, may very well be a spartan portion of what he has left to feed his own family. It is clear he has a desire to at least feign kindness to these folk, but it is clouded by his fear for himself and his own family.

*Scene 03* 8:32 (Unwelcome News)

When Shihor entered the great hall, he at once noticed the winged-creepy woman creature, conversing with the Son of Xarm.  Its eyes were as black as coals and it glared out at him with a crone’s scowl.  It was missing one of its large grey talons and stood, propped up by some kind of makeshift affixed peg to account for the shortened length of its foot.

Two large halberd blades impeded Shihor’s forward progress into the great vaulted room.  Shihor looked wild and haggard.  His long hair hung in sweaty matted ropes from his unhelmed head.  Blood from the slaughtered horse spattered his body and gauntlet gloves, still slick with an oily sheen dancing wetly with the glow from the chamber’s firelight braziers.

“My liege, I  have urgent news from the coastlands.  May I speak with you,” he paused looking cautiously at the owlish old woman creature, ” in private?”

He noticed the back of the room shift as older faces, moved out of the shadows.  Armed guards nervously stood at attention, their plated armor slightly chinking in the open vaulted room, their scabbard, and spears brushing the floor with a soft clack.

Startled by the realization that a full assembly was housed in the great room, he faltered a bit, and then stood more rigid, awaiting his Lord’s pleasure.

The Son of Xarm, was a corpulent man.  He shifted in the great iron chair where he had been conversing with the strange half-bird, half-woman creature and stared fixedly at him.

“Can this wait?” he growled, “As you see, I am in council with the Dame of her peoples.  We were negotiating some assurances related to our mutual friend.  As you are very well-aware this is of pressing concern.”

Shihor bowed respectfully, keeping his eyes on the floor ahead of him in deference.

“My Lord, I would not breach your protocols lightly, if this were not pressing and pertinent.”

The Son of Xarm regarded him silently for a moment, studying him and his posture quietly, allowing the man to remember and consider his place and station.

Finally, he raised his hand, palm facing inward and slightly beckon him forward with the tips of his fingers.  The halberd, curved blades held by the two sentry guards on either side of Shihor lifted, and Shihor watched the shadows of the two moon arcs lift from the floor before him.  Slightly raising his head, he cautiously moved towards the raised head table and the iron thrones at the back of the room.

The Son of Xarm leaned over and spoke quietly to the old creature, who nodded and lifted one of her black-feathered wings towards the creatures of her kind standing within the shadows.  A kind of chirruped murmur passed among the group, as their matron lifted herself from the seat, and moved slowly from the table towards her kind, the wooden stump scraping across the paver-stones of the grand hall as she went.

Shihor stood at the bottom step of the dais and kneeled.

The Son of Xarm sighed heavily.

“You fool,” he leaned forward scowling at the man, “Do you expect me to arise and come down there to you to speak in private?!  Up here!  And this news had better be worthy of the interruptions or you will bleed for it!”

Shihor cautiously approached, and knelt down before his master.  The Son of Xarm fingered a wicked looked crook-blade dagger, under his splayed fingers, whose blade-shape resembled a crawling serpent.

“The news?” he beckoned.

“Someone has summoned the gate, sire.  From a distance, we saw the Oculus opening.  I rode back as hard as I could and have just confirmed it. The Fidelis stone is missing from the Treasury.  I suspect there is a traitor in our midst who would see you dethroned.  The Surface Worlders will soon be called back to complete that which was started.”

The Son of Xarm’s splayed fingers closed into a hard fist around the handle of the wicked-looking dagger as he leaned back, recoiling from the horrible message relayed to him.  His other hand raised to his beard and he unconsciously tugged fiercely on it.

His eyes shifted malevolently around the room as if seeking the betrayer in close proximity.  He stared hard and angrily at his men and the courtier ladies who were present in the back.  He then cast eyes towards the old Matron of the creatures whom he had been conferring with and making some encouraging progress with their mutual assurance plans.  He wondered if the offer had been a ruse, and he was being mocked in his own court.  Every face before him seemed to hold some form of betrayal and deception, and his angry jaw flexed and unflexed with building rage.

At last, he noticed the wicked dagger held tightly in his trembling hand, his fisted knuckles white with fury.

“No!” he began quietly before he even knew he had spoken the word aloud.

“NO!” the second word increased in volume, beginning the shatter the relative quiet of the grand hall.

“NO! NO! NOOOO!” he thundered, punctuating each word with a downward stab, of the swerving blade into the wood of the head table before him.

“EXCAVATIA IS A MYTH!  IT DOES NOT, CANNOT, NOR WILL IT EVER EXIST AS LONG AS I AM KING!”

He drove the blade deep into the wood of the tabletop the tip of the blade extending through so that it could not easily be pulled out from it.

“GUARDS!” he roared to the soldiers in the room, “Roundup and kill any man, woman, and child who dares to say different or holds any belief in the ridiculous ancient prophecy.  I want them all dead.  All traitors dead!  Destroy the remnants of that accursed stone.  Let no one live who defies my orders!  This world will be mine, or I will baptize it in oceans of their blood!”

He then stood and pointed his finger at the delegation group of winged woman creatures and their grand Matron.

“I will hold you to your word, Harpy Delilah!  You will receive your iron shanks, as I promised, only do not go back on our agreement.  We have an accord, do we not?”

“We do,” the old creature nodded, as she was able.

“Then have your kind fly to the coast lands and gather me some intelligence of what transpires there.  My knight here tells me that the Oculus has opened again, and we all know what that means.  The Surface Worlders will be back.”

*Scene 04* 20:47 (The Family Who Fled)

We ducked deeper beneath the Inn’s eastern corner eave, pressing closer to the side of the building so we could listen. Begglar showed me this spot, once before. He sometimes would busy himself in the yard, when soldiers came through and forced him out of his dining hall so they could hold private meetings.

Unbeknownst to them, Begglar had anticipated this, so he had secretly had the corner cornice hollowed out and a mirror hidden under the eave, so he could both see and hear what went on inside the hall. He had stacked the cordwood pile alongside the building, ostensibly for convenience, however there was a shielded passage behind it that allowed him to duck away to listen without being seen from the open yard.

In this way, he had gathered intel over the years, passing it along through secret connections operating in what still remained of the underground resistance.

I am sure he never thought I might have need of it to listen in on him, but we could not be too cautious. Anyone could have been inside. Xarmnian or otherwise. I was reluctant to expose Begglar’s secret listening post to the others, however it could not be helped. It would be too conspicuous trying to step away from my company, so I had to let them follow me into the passage behind the wood pile.

Entering the narrow passage, we overhear snatches of a low conversation, at first.  I silently indicated the hidden mirror angled above us and we all looked up, clearly seeing the interior layout and present occupants of the hall.

Given the scene before us, this might be a very bad time to intrude upon Begglar, but at this point I am not sure where else to turn. I had so very few friends here when I left. Begglar at least tried to understand why I had to leave, or pretended to, at least. We were both being sought after by the Xarmnian Patrols, and the creatures in league with The Pan. They needed to be sure we were dealt with. That what we sought to do, would never be attempted again. Begglar, at least, was able to sufficiently alter his appearance and hide who he had once been, by becoming something improbable. Creating an entirely new persona. Though not as improbable as some would assume who knew the real Begglar behind all of his former bravado. It was the perfect disguise, and he relished in the role for a long time. But things had definitely changed for him. I had never seen him look so bothered and fearful as he appeared now. Worry had taken a toll on his demeanor and his body. I had no idea what could have brought about so many changes in him, from the last time we met, but whatever it was, it must have happened during the intervening twenty-one years since we parted.

From snatches of the conversation, the best I can make out is that the traveler and his family have recently fled the City of Xarmni, the great stonewalled capital city of the Xarmnian Kingdom.

As we gathered near the raised window port above, we can hear them more clearly.  The man is talking.  The Innkeeper bids him continue, assures him he is listening while he watches the road trying to see through the haze of a building fogbank down the road.

“We were told to get as far as we could. To go to the southeast, and up the Brideshead Pass. To follow the river, and find the stone staircase switchback and take it up the plateau until we reached the forest road that led to the township of Crowe. We were told we would find this inn at the top of the hill on the far eastern side of the town, following the road that eventually leads to the eastern sea. We were told you might help us make connections with the Resistance.”

“And who told you this?” Begglar asked, his voice much harder and gruff than I remembered it.

“Someone who told me not to tell you his name, but said he knew your wife very well. And that you could be trusted. He also gave me a name that you would know, if you did not respond to the first password. The word I gave you was the secret password. He said you would know what it meant and would do what was needed. What does it mean anyway?”

Begglar responded, “Never you mind about that. Don’t repeat that word again. There are others not so friendly, who might figure it out and would kill you and your family for any knowledge of it. Leave that word aside. I will give you a new word to use. The days when that other word meant something more are long gone. Just you and your wife and little ones eat your meal there. It’s not much, but times have been hard for all of us, and it was all I could spare for now. My wife will get you all tucked away in a nice warm bed for the night, and you and the missus can have a bath and basins drawn to wash up. My boy’s heating the water and will fetch it up. Just fill your bellies while you can. If a Patrol is coming, we’ll need to get you on your way sooner, but if there’s time then you’d best settle a bit while you can.”

“We were almost caught a couple of times, along the way. Early this morning, we had to cross a field of tall grass. There were soldiers there, sleeping. We almost ran into them before something cut through and swallowed them up.”

“Swallowed them up?”

“Yes. The ground seemed to open up, and something we could not see… something large and terrible…distorted the air and attacked the soldiers in the camp. We were able to slip away unnoticed, and I had to keep my children from looking back, but we ran. There was screaming and a horrible roar, and savage, brutal sounds of the attack. But if it wasn’t for the beast, we would have been captured.”

Miray tugged on my sleeve and cupped her fingers to her mouth. I leaned down, not sure what she wanted, but from her words, she appeared to have been listening closely as well.

“The monster we heard. I betcha that’s what it was,” she whispered almost conspiratorially.

Of course. The noises we heard before, I reasoned, may have been an attack by one of the monsters prowling the trail but misdirected to one of the outer Xarmnian guard patrols.  If this family had approached from the southeastern grade, they could have skirted the road up through Crowe and joined it from the overland pass. A course we almost followed, had we not taken the old sea road.

In fact, the attack was just enough of a distraction to allow this family to sneak by the guards fighting the beast, not to mention keeping them from crossing our path as well, since they would most certainly be heading in our direction. 

For us, we’d heard the noises only a few hours ago, so it was clear that these pitiful travelers had only just arrived.

This family was bundled and wrapped for the cold, but the wet had likely seeped through their wrappings. If they had kept to forest cover they would have crossed the road coming up from the valley and then skirted the western edge of the town and moved into tall grasses of the abandoned fields.

The man was clearly not accustomed to overland travel, and less so his small family, from the looks of them. They must have been walking overland and the younger ones were struggling to keep up.  They were cold in spite of the warming hearth fire, and still all visibly shivered, as the mountainside had become stormy and wet with light snow, intermixed with the cold rain.  It was certainly the season for it. An improbable time of year for foot travel, without ample supplies and an experienced guide. I was surprised that they even made it this far.

“That may be,” Begglar cautioned, “but I suspect there are more Protectorate Guards and they won’t be long in coming. Best keep you and your family out of sight. No telling how many spies might’ve seen you coming up the road here. The Guards of The Overwatch are not ones to give up. It’s a matter of pride with them. They won’t rest until they’ve run you down.”

The man’s wife spoke up, the trembling in her voice evident, “But we had at least two days head start.” 

“Two days on foot makes little difference to men of dangerous intent on horseback,” Begglar answered over his shoulder, staring fixed out of the window at the road that descended into the town below.

The woman swallowed and made a muffled, terrified groan, as she reached and gathered her two trembling children under her arms.

A woman’s voice from somewhere in the back of the room, near the bar and kitchen entrance, spoke up, “Honey, stop it! You’re frightening these children and their mother!”  I surmised that the speaker must be Nell, Begglar’s wife. They had only been married shortly before I left the Mid-World, and I had not been around enough to fully remember her.

“Best they know what’s coming,” Begglar muttered and then turned back to the window.

In an effort to draw the man out a little more and redirect the conversation away from their present fear, Nell spoke up again, “Tell us what you did in that big city? The Resistance needs more skillful men in the trades. What was your profession there? It’ll help knowing where to find a safe enough place for you and your family.”

“I was a press writer, doing a story on that very plague affecting our youth.  I believed they were becoming something else.  Something other than human. So my job, my assignment, was to write about it.  Our apothecaries were tasked with figuring out a remedy. Some kind of medicine that would prevent the disturbing turning, we were witnessing. So we looked to the state physicians for answers. And they developed an elixir that was said to curb the effects of the transition. To prevent the loss of life, and to allow them to be given back to us, once they had undergone a full recovery. Each day I met with our apothecaries, and doctors on this new elixir that was being developed and on how well it was working. I wrote stories of those interviews and encouraged other parents to allow the city physicians to take their children into their treatment center, upon any sign of the changing illness. My articles were praised by my superiors.  I was given accolades and a commendation.  No change in family portion-size at the rectory, but even so, they seemed to appreciate my work.  Until, that is, the day that I stumbled on the truth.”

Begglar turned and studied the man a moment, as the man’s eyes were fixed upon his suspended soup spoon, and a look of despair clouded his face. He looked more like a parishioner giving a particularly shameful confession before a scolding priest, rather than a starving man gratefully savoring a long overdue meal.

At last, he sighed, and with a downcast face he said, “Xarmni produces trolls.”

The man paused and continued between small bites of warm porridge, “It’s been happening for some time now.  Almost all of the children Xarmnian units produce now eventually become trolls.  My wife and I are among the few two-parent family units left in the capital city. We are despised for choosing to remain so. Children are not so easily separated under such a unit, and the “disease” spreads less among that family structure. I tried writing about that but the story was buried. It was labeled offensive and insensitive to the others. I could not advocate for our family structure, no matter what advantages I found in it. We had to placate the public sentiment, not shame it. Meanwhile, the changing “disease” spread and there was no way to curb what would be.  We had to rely on our leaders to provide the cure. Rally the people to do what was being asked of them. Follow and trust them…blindly without question. The greater good was at stake.”

The man looked like he would start weeping at any moment. Such shame and regret pressed visibly down on his shoulders. His wife silently reached over and touched his hand and he clasps it gently, but with restrained desperation that could be felt.

Nell spoke up again, “What made you finally decide to come here?”

“The elixir. Barrels and barrels of a kind of water were being brought into the city from someplace upriver. The city’s water supply was becoming contaminated, they said. There had been no rains for a very long time. Crops were failing. Storehouses were being emptied and rationed. Portions were becoming smaller. We were ridiculed because there were four of us. Four hungry mouths in one family unit, taking more than our fair share. The water supply was being supplemented by the barrels they brought in. But even under all of this we stayed and waited, and trusted all would eventually be worked out. Even though I was required to write that this was the plan, I quit believing it. We had to leave Xarmni. Life was becoming unbearable and my wife and I could see…signs of turning in our own children and they had not been given the elixir.  We refused it.  Our children were healthy.  The disease was made up, manufactured, and the elixir…was not an inoculation against it, but a change agent for it.  The Xarmnian government had a diabolical use for trolls because they had the ability to blend in and not be seen. And The Pan would…,” he broke off mid-sentence, deciding to change the subject.

He sighed heavily, releasing just a modicum of the internal tension with the expelled breath.

“I remember that day in my editor’s office.  The chilling words I heard from him.  I told him what I had found and how it was connected and he dismissed it.  He said “that sort of writing” was not what I was given this position for.  He told me that I was to continue writing about the growing epidemic and that the apothecaries and alchemists would then introduce the elixir they had been working on and the science writer would take over the story and I would be put on others.  I could not help myself.  In an unguarded moment, I raised my voice and my eyes to my superior.”

“‘But it’s not true!’ I told him. And then he got very quiet and would not look at me. It was as if I had suddenly been dismissed as even present in the room.  Recognizing that I had dared raise an opposing viewpoint, I realized that my days in that office were now numbered. When he finally spoke to me, his words were measured but chilling. I could feel his anger seething, but he kept his voice low. He had stuck his neck out for me in the past, and I had before then considered him a friend, but that day and that moment all of it changed.

He said–and these were his exact words, and I will never forget them–‘You keep using that term incorrectly!  ‘Truth’ is what WE make of it.  In a society of suspicion, all you need is plausibility to create your own truth.  Do that!  Write it and print it.  Make it sound plausible, and in most people’s minds it will become truth to them!’ I knew whatever I said to the contrary would end me there, or allow me to keep my position for whatever few days I had left to make a plan of escape.

That day, I raised no other challenge, but quietly…meekly…completed my daily article on “The Epidemic” and walked home through the village.”

“I thought you said you lived in Xarm, the capital? How can you call a massive sprawling stone city a village?” Begglar asked, confused.

“We call it that, but it really is much larger than any village ever was.  Another lie we persist in upholding for the ‘greater good.’  The idea is that the concept of a village is a small, tightly-knit, and rural community of neighbors and friends.  The concept of “smallness” being the most important.  If there is the idea that our community of neighbors is few in number, then it is reasonable to think that sharing among ourselves won’t overtax our generosity.  Feeding five friends as opposed to feeding fifty is a big deal and cost to any one of us.  While, if we struggle and save we might be able to feed the five, we could never afford to feed the fifty.  Not on what we make.  Not even adding what we secretly have to grow in soil boxes tucked away in our houses.  Few of us have roofs strong enough to hold sun growing plants, so we have to make do with mushrooms.  You can grow them in the dark, you know? Lots of mushrooms.  I used to actually like mushrooms…”

*Scene 05* 13:00 (The Son of Xarm)

When the company of attendants had filed out and the Harpy creatures had flown from the assembly hall, the soldiers, along with Shihor, and the military captains repaired to the war room and the grand maps to await the king while he freshened up.

It had been a long taxing morning.

The Son of Xarm withdrew from the receiving hall attended only by his personal body guards to his private chambers. When the guards were stationed outside of the chamber doors, the king bolted the inner doors and moved further within the room, unlocking a mechanism in the golden canopy of his canopied bed headboard to revealing a  secret side room, behind the stone wall where he kept a very private shrine.

Lifting a tapered candle from a sconce, he lit the secret chamber’s stone interior. His flickering shadow flapped like black shadowy wings on the cold stone walls in the wavering light from the flames.  He waited a few seconds to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness of the low lit room.

A carafe of red wine, in a crystal decanter, with a single cut glass cup, lay upon a silver serving platter, next to long tapered red candles of tinted tallow.  He struck a flint and lighted the two candles revealing in the wan and growing light a large gilded-framed portrait of a formidable man, with a fierce glowering aspect, bearing some slight resemblance to his facial features yet commanding a more solid figure, a proudly raised chin, and self-assurance that he had daily envied to the point of angry obsession.  Even in the painted portrait, the figure seemed to glare its disapproval down at him under thick-shadowy brows and a wide proud forehead.

“Hello, Father,” he whispered quietly to the large portrait, daring not raise his eyes to it until he had poured the glass decanter and filled the singular cup.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored sheen of the silver platter, even though it was edged with a blackish tarnish.  Yellow fire-sprite reflections danced a smoky dervish around his unflattering twin in the metal. A piggish jowl beneath his beard amplified by the curve in the plate caused him to frown deeper in its mockery. He sucked air in through his clenched teeth with a slight hissing noise.

His was a more corpulent form. A vestige of his matronly mother which curse him with a certain feminine plumpness to his hips, softer lips that lacked the harsh edge of his primogenitor, and puffiness about his eyes that he attributed to a chronic lack of sleep.

He hated his physical differences from his father.  The prevalence of these were a constant threat to his legitimacy. His father had many times tortured him with the prospect that he was someone else’s bastard, as a means of dangling his natural succession to the throne before him. He both hated and loved his father, even while venerating his carried-on legacy.  He had tortured himself to the point that he had spurned his own name, and required his subjects to refer to him by his title alone–Son of Xarm.

He raised the filled glass, slightly swirling the dark crimson liquid inside, catching the growing light of the two flames.

He raised his eyes at last to the large portrait and remembered back…to the beginning.

The Mid-World lands had been lush and fertile. The mountains of the land rose to the sky on good and solid stone. But they had found the valleys already occupied by a people living in large but modest communities. Nothing as powerful as the sprawling cities of stone that would be built, but still a significant number of peoples who would not easily to succumb to their rule.  The brothers were divided on what should be done. Some in his immediate family had proposed to ride in and conquer the towns, but his father had cautioned them against it. He had favored cunning over might for the first wave but was insistent on subjecting these lands, nonetheless. He brothers had scorned his notion of rule and had insisted that there was room enough in the Mid-World for them all to live along side of the others who dwelled there. His father had assured them all that one day they would come regret their decision not to conquer the peoples. But they would not listen to him, and he had agreed to go along with the wishes of the group, for the time being. But when they had been taken by the resident people to the cursed land horn, they had coveted the stones of power that they had found there. When the Traveler had shown up, he had told them of the properties of the conical gray builder stones arrayed around the land horn. He had told the brothers to leave the three crown stones untouched for they were the possession of the land’s king and its king’s crown. But they had not listened and they took the red Cordis stone, and the pearled Fidelis stone, but the blue Praesporous stone was too heavy for them to bear, even though it appeared no larger than the others. Xarm had suspected there was a power in the virtue stones that was dangerous and would not be wielded by one man alone. To keep the phantom king from returning, he had proposed that the virtue stones be locked away and forever be held separate. For whatever beast or force had taken the golden crown into which the stones had been set, would eventually come back for these precious stones.

Thinking back, the Son of Xarm, raised his glass to his lips again and toasted his father’s image.  He would have been right, too, had it not been for the foolishness of his disowned and accursed brethren, the Capitalians.  They had betrayed his father, and he would never forgive them for that.  They never should have surrendered the bright-blue crown stone to The Traveler who came through the Occulus.

They had been deceived by the sorcery in the Traveler’s hands.  Bewitched into believing that there was yet a kingdom beyond the one they could all see, touch, feel and smell.  Excavatia.  A hated fairy-tale.  But a dangerous one, if believed.  And an even more terrible one, if by chance the place really did exist.

The Son of Xarm gazed deeply into his glass, his angry thoughts swirling with the spinning dark ruby libation within.  Carefully he set the glass back down on the silver server tray, obscuring his reflection.

He slowly rolled up his long sleeve, the crimson and black cloth bunching up around his elbow, revealing an arm full of pink and red shallow scar marks.

He raised his knuckled hand, twisting the top of his father’s golden signet ring of authority.  The small metal emblem of an engraved coiled serpent, twisted from an inner groove within the ring and he carefully lifted the imprint and slide it aside on a tiny hinge, revealing the short-spiked metal post beneath.  Making a pumping action with his fist, his bare and scarred arm bulged with darkening veins as he waited.  Finding a higher place of smooth plump flesh, as yet unmarked, was difficult for the lattice of scars ran the cross-length of his arm.  With his hands clenched, tightly, one a victim, one a victimizer crowned with the royal authority of the signet ring, he jabbed the exposed post into the waiting flesh of his other arm, wincing and breathing heavily as he gouged a new scar in the site.  He closed his eyes with the sting of it, but leaned forward, allowing the fresh line of blood to drip from his arm into the open well of his wine glass.

Drop after drop, he waited until the pain numbed him and he was again able to shallow his heavy breathing.  The blood formed an oily miasma of colors as it sprinkled into the top of the open and waiting, ceremonial wine glass.

The Son of Xarm dipped his signet ringed hand into a shallow basin of water to his left of the shrine.  And with tiny streams of blood running between his fingers of the wounded arm he brought his ringed hand under it and closed the seal back over the sacramentally rinsed wounding post of the golden signet ring.

He lifted the blackening lid of another tarnished silver serving bowl, revealing under the flickering candlelight, a yellow-powdery substance.  The handle of a small silver spoon rest in a recessed notch, dipping bowl down and embedded in the powder.  He lightly lifted the spoon scooping up a small measure of the yellow powder into its tiny rounded cup.  He then sprinkled the yellow substance on the exposed wound of his victimize arm, taking in short seizing breaths of pleasure as he did so.  The yellow substance caked in the drawn veins of blood and then flaked off dissolving as they fell to the floor between his feet.  He gasped and moaned as the yellow substance entered the cut of his exposed flesh, and a golden light seemed to emanate and pulse from within the dark widened pupils of his eyes.  In a manner of seconds, the fresh wound on his arm closed up around the powder, and his flesh turned a bright red under the newly made scar.

He trembled in pleasure as the power of the yellow powder entered his bloodstream, Leaning forward, he gripped the edge of the rounded shelf to steady himself under the spastic shudders, bowing his head before his father’s glowering and judgmental portrait.

When the rush of adrenaline finally stopped, he, with trembling hands reached for the bloodied wine, with both hands and carefully lifted it to his lips.

“I am your only remaining son, Father,” he said with bowed head, before touching his lips to the drizzled cup, “And you alone are the only god of this world. Favor me once more and let me not bring shame to you any further.  There is no other god but you.”

And with those words, he drank deeply of the bloody wine emptying its remains completely and raising his eyes, at last, to fix then on the gaze of the eyes in the portrait.

“Your blood in me is my glory.  I will destroy the land horn of the old god who holds this world prisoner.  Give me your wisdom and might to do so and it shall be as you desired.”

Moments later, the Son of Xarm left the secret room and carefully locked the hidden panel closed from the inner sanctum.  He’d given his generals, warlords and the scout time to assemble in the hall of the war room.  They would all be waiting upon his divine word.

*Scene 06* 4:10 (The Stone Spy)

Huddled and hidden under the outside eave of the inn, I realized with growing alarm that we were not the only beings overhearing the interior conversation between Begglar, his wife and this small fleeing family. The man’s words made me increasingly uneasy.

As I carefully scanned the angled mirror, I spotted something at the back of the dining room near one of the unlit fireplaces that serviced the lengthy hall. A part of the stone hearth moved slightly closer to the flue and the ashes hatch.  Stone should not move. The yellow flames flickering orange light and crackling shadows on the inn’s rustic walls masked the furtive movement.  It might have gone completely unnoticed, had I not been looking at the particular spot at the moment it happened.  I kept my eye fixed on the place and waited, trying to avoid looking directly at the fire nearby and retain the clarity of my night vision.  It moved again, and what looked like a stumpy gray hand made of rock reached for the lever that would open the ashes hatch.

I gathered my companions to me and said, “Come with me around back…and be quick about it.”

“What’s going on?” one of the travelers asked.

 Trying to avoid the question, I merely responded cryptically, “I think there are enough of us here to overpower it. The little things are powerful, noisy and they are biters.”

“What are biters? What are you talking about?” another asked.

I grabbed a piece of wood, using it as a club and tugged a large burlap sack from my pack, “You may not believe me until you see it for yourselves. Be careful now and do exactly as I tell you. We are going to need our torches.  There is one in each of your packs. When it spots us it will hide from us rather than run. These creatures are not fast enough to outrun us.”

“What did you see in the inn? I only saw the Innkeeper and this family in there. I did not see a creature.”

I sighed, “You have to know how to look, and even then you might miss seeing them. This one is crawling out from behind the fireplace inside there. It will be around the back where the stone protrudes behind the inn. It is climbing through the ash hatch. We can’t let it get too far. If this family is fleeing a Xarmnian Protectorate troop they will be nearby. If they find out we Surface Worlders are back in the Mid-World, they will hunt us down and kill all of us. Our very presence in the Mid-World represents a threat to all who presently rule here because they will know we were brought here to continue the stone quests and be enjoined the fulfillment of the Marker Stone’s prophesy.  We cannot have this creature bringing his masters here. We catch this thing, we save ourselves and buy this family a little more time to get further away.”

“But what is it?” Miray asks.

“We’re going to capture a troll,” I said, letting that strange word sink in.

“A troll?!”

“Yes, you heard me right.  A troll. We haven’t much time to get it before it gets away. You all are going to have to see it for yourselves if it is not already too late. I know I told you all I thought we were supposed to be observes here, but that was only if we are not discovered. If that troll gets away, we most certainly will be. Their monster dogs will find us and we have no horses or any place to hide safely without them running us down. We’ve got to contain this situation. Now follow me and keep your wits about you.  Be careful and don’t let it bite you.  You’ll get the sickness it carries like a mangy dog carries fleas.”

*Scene 07* 04:23 (The Harpy Delitch)

A creature, bird-like in form, but with the scowling face of an old woman and a wild array of tangled grey hair, flew high over the canopy of the smoky wood towards the dark Moon Kingdom.  The meeting with the human king in the great stone city had gone well and she had much to report to The Pan.

The factions were growing between the two sister covens of her aerial clan, and the old dame Delilah had finally made her move against the wishes of the king of the Half-Men for the price of fifty or so human crafted iron battle bracelets.

Armament that she knew would only partially serve in their secret war against the treacherous Dryad nymphs, nesting in the haunted man-forests of Kilrane.

The Matron Delilah harbored such hatred for the foliaged fiends and could barely see beyond her fury of losing her missing claw. But such hatred could be used, if properly prompted and directed for more long term alliances.

Dellitch had almost been given the same name as the Matron Queen of the Harpies, but it had been altered to allow her a path of her own, rather than living in the shadow of her aunt’s rulership, subject only to the horned ram king.

Dellitch. Dell meant nobility. And Itch… Well, itch could mean only one or two things.  An uneasy irritating sensation that must be scratched…or a restless desire and craving.

Her body was thick and powerful, ten times the girth of a large owl, a thick feathered ruffle covering prodigious matronly breasts.  Mocking reminders of their kind’s inability to have children, now bearing a tinge of herbicidal lactation. Poisonous milk sure to wither the saplings of dryad infants. Her face was aged but aquiline. An assemblage of both avian and human features. A hard hooked nose, grey eyebrows lined her brow above two sunken caves bearing yellow-irised eyes. Her thin, age-lined lips and wrinkled jowls quivered with each soaring down stroke of her massive wings. Gathering and pushing. Pulling and stretching in a rhytmic whomp-whomp-whomp as the high winds whistled around her powerful body.

The sky was darkening. The clouds laden with the grey scent of rain.

The Pan would want to know the news that the Surface Worlders,…after all this time…had finally returned to The Mid-World, and they would be seeking the stone he had taken from the two men foolish enough to challenge him in his own dark domain.

Shadows thickened as Dellitch soared, over tree tops and across stone littered valleys, trailing a misshapen darkling twin along the ground and canopy beneath her.  The Pan’s Kingdom was not far now.  It lay ahead in swirling mists, with ancient trees of darkened bark, rotting with parasitic spores and fungi, their thick limbs raised in twisted supplications going forever unheard.

A forest alive, yet not. A covering of blackened watery pools, filled with poisonous liquid magic that allow the denizens of the Half-Men kingdom to see into an ancient world and whisper into dreams.