Coming Through It – Chapter 16

*Scene 01* 2:35 (Breakthrough)

Like a worm boring through the meat of an apple, the beast surged forward, breaking away the dirt and rock ahead of it, consuming the flesh of the under sediments of the escarpment, expelling the scree and pulverized powder through its pulsing gills.  It rapidly approached what it perceived to be hollow, which was suddenly filled with a churning motion.  As the beast squirmed forward, fissuring through the rock, a massive force slammed it back through the breech, trapping it in its own cut tunnel.

Water.  The force of an unground river, flooded the pocket shaft, forcing the beast’s body into a curling plug. Its spine plates raked the jagged rock, collapsing the tunnel upon the monster as it thrashed against the surging water.  Its throaty protestations gurgled in the surfeiting churn, popping and bubbling, unable to gain its equilibrium in the press.

Above the surface, the land fissured, and water bled and burst out of the ground flow in widening deltas down the escarpment, creating a diagonal furrow across the road on the upslope.  The fissure widened, causing the ground to shift like two tectonic plates driven against each other, breaking the edge crust as they ground and sloughed and then pushing it up into an artificial ridge.

Just beyond the cliff edge of the escarpment, a mere twenty feet down, water exploded out of the rock, falling precipitously down into a copse line of trees and a dried stream bed below.  The water roared down the rock line, crashing into a catcher pool, surging under a bridge, starling a team of horses tied to the bridge railing, washing over the canvas of a wagon canopy, and racing down the stony trench.

Suddenly, the ground burst open and a roar pierced the darkening sky, swirling with twisting clouds, and wraith-like shadows.  The beast was a confusion of splattering luminescence, rainfall created a curtain over its form, which was translucent, but shimmered with scintillating shadows, and bright bursts that bristled under the silvery etchings of lightning and rumbling cannonades of thunder.

Its roar seemed to shake the heavens and reverberate down the escarpment, as, far below, a small party of harried travelers fled to the solitary wagon hitched to a team of anxious and soddened horses.

*Scene 02* 4:35 (Cover of Rain)

Christie rode steadily down the dirt and stony road, trying to follow the intermittent signs of the wagon tracks and team.  The downpour of the rain had washed away many of the traces of the shallower ruts that had passed over flat rock, but pools of water still filled the channels where the wheels ran off of the stone into the softer soils.  Christie had been riding in this fashion for some time, casting her eyes along the rough makeshift road to ensure she did not miss where the team may have turned off.  Her neck ached from looking down so much that she finally leaned back in the saddle, and cast her gaze into the skies ahead of her.  The clouds were dark and grey, and blowing skeins of rain fell about a half-mile ahead of her, almost obscuring another rise in elevation.  The dark grey curtains obscured the edge of the northwest, but she could still see the evidence of the wagon’s progression.  She looked towards the west, but from where she was, she could no longer see the mysterious blue signal light that branched across the darkening sky.

How long will it be before the Xarmnians came after us? she wondered.  If she could still read the signs of the wagon’s passage after the storm wash, surely those trained hunters would be able to as well, with much less difficulty.  They might be on her track as well soon, and she knew she had to warn the others before that happened.  Thinking all of the thousands of ways this foolish pursuit of the company could go fatally wrong for her, threatened to cloud her mind with blind panic.  She wondered again if she should have just given up and waited on the coastline until the sea storm abated to see if another portal might return for her, as it had for Laura.

Laura.  What had become of the girl?  What did she go back to?  Christie’s eyes teared up just thinking about it.  So much pain.  So much cruelty both there in the Surface World and here in the Mid-World as well.  No place was safe from it.  It was an integral part of the human condition.  It was the double-bladed edge of free will.  Freedom to choose the good or the bad.  To make the charitable, selfless choice, or the cruel, selfish pursuit of gaining power over one’s fellow man.  To choose to love or to choose to terrify.

She glanced wistfully over her shoulder, back towards the farther hills and the inn beyond them.  It was then she noticed the towering black, billowing column of smoke, extending like an ominous curling finger over the eastern horizon, beckoning her to come back and meet the death that stalked her even now.

The inn.  Those monstrous men had set Begglar’s inn on fire.  It could only be that.  The pit of her stomach turned and twisted as if she had been punched.

She squinted and blinked, hoping the tower of smoke was just an illusion.  A trick of her own worrisome thoughts.

It wasn’t.

She squinted and blinked again, and her eyes widened.  Under the pillar of smoke and fire, she spotted what she had assumed to be falling ash, moving out of the shadow of the distant hillside–A line of moving dark specks, and some darker specks below them, steadily growing larger as they came into contrast with the dried yellow scrub grasses.

Men on horses.  The Xarmnians were coming.

But what was the lower line fronting them?

Her heart stilled for just a moment, as she realized she could just make out the finest edges of the sounds.

It sounded somehow familiar.  But different as well.  Deeper tones, more throaty and sharp.

Her eyes widened, as she turned and kicked the flanks of her mount, causing her horse to rear slightly and then build up towards a gallop and then a run.  She knew if she could only make the edge of the rainfall ahead, she might have a prayer.

The Xarmnians were coming after her.

They were coming with creatures that sounded like a ravenous pack of hunting dogs.  As cold and tired and damp as she had been, her only chance now was to ride as hard and fast as she could back into the rainfall.

*Scene 03* 18:23 (The Hidden Cache)

“What just happened to that girl?! I don’t understand all this?!” one of the young women cried.  Nell grabbed the girl’s hand, shifting young Miray onto her hip as she ushered those she could onward towards the restless team and covered wagon.

Lightning flashed and split the pseudo-night sky with a loud crack and a protracted flash of brilliant light.  Mixed in with the rain and thunder, the additional sound of the bestial roar from the top of the escarpment had drawn the attention of some of the men.  Something huge flailed in shadowy silhouette above and along the high edge of the escarpment cliff, made visible against the veins of light flashing across the silvered sky.

“Something is up there!” one of the young men pointed to the cliff top, but Begglar and Dominic pressed the crew to climb quickly into the wagon.

“Go!  GO!  Don’t waste time gawking!  We have to get to cover,” Begglar urged.

The falling water, now streaming out of the upper cliffside, had initially burst forth out of the hill like an uncorked spout jetting out into the lower treeline overshooting the collection basin below. Now it fell in a regular cascade down the rock face.  Its falling force had almost washed the wagon and the horses into the creekbed, and now the animals were antsy and restless, straining at their harnesses and had almost pulled free of their tethering.  Begglar grappled with the wet leather tracers, freeing them from the bridge’s baluster.  The struggling team had almost pulled the post loose of the bridge, and the leather had been strained and stretched.

Dominic and I tried calming the team, but they rolled their eyes and snorted, their hooves pawing and splashing the mud and puddles, clearly spooked by first the downpour and then by the cacophonous wailing of the angry banshee.  The wheels and tongue of the wagon twisted and its tracer rings jangled following the unnerved fidgeting of the agitated team.

A howling still permeated through the crackling fusillade and shifting clouds above us.  Black, gossamer twists of what looked like frayed material swirled in and among the gusts of wind that now pommeled us with stinging wet and cold.

The rest of the group crawled in under the canopy, hectored and cajoled by both Begglar and Dominic.  Whatever was above us would have to take its turn to torment us further, as the rain poured down with greater frigid fury.

Miray was dripping wet and shivering, as were most of our crew.  Cheryl nursed her injuries but tried to comfort two of the youths that were frightened and miserable.

“What just happened to Becca?  What did she turn into?  What did you do to her to make her suddenly…?”

I avoided the question, helping Dominic close the tailgate and pin it with the metal staves.  “You ride with them, I’ll ride up front with your dad this time,” I admonished heading around to the front box seat.

Begglar had fished the reins out of the tangle of tracers but still struggled to hold the team steady.  “Get on up there!” I shouted to him, “I’ll hold ’em, while you get on the seat.”

Begglar could barely hear me above the wind but surmised what I had intended, as I grabbed the bridle of one of the lead horses, holding him down against the bit.  I put my hand on the horse’s muzzle, again attempting to calm the animal without getting stomped on.  Begglar swung into the seat and gripped the reins, evening them out, as I released the bridle.  The team pushed forward and I almost got trapped between the lead animals as they stamped and snorted, anxious to get moving.  I pivoted out of their way and allowed the box to come towards me, thrusting a tow into the wooden spokes of the front wheel pitching me up into the seat beside Begglar as the wheel turned.

“That’s a bad way to break an ankle,” Begglar grumbled as he fed out the reins allowing the horses to splash onto the road, towards the under stables and grain bin doors ahead at the farther end of the skirt of the escarpment.

“Your horses didn’t give me much choice,” I countered.

“You know as well as I do that, they’ll be coming for us soon.  The scout Trolls are never too far out from the company troop.  It’s been two days now, and that Troll will be missed for not reporting in.  The Protectorate will be at our heels if they are not already awaiting us in an ambush ahead.  When do you think it will be safe to rendezvous with the others?”

Begglar nodded ahead.

“We’ve worked out a series of distance signals.  My company is waiting for us in the hills.  They have been gathering some of the horses so we will be able to move faster through the low country and then around the lakes and forests to the mountains ahead.  It would be best if we could make Azragoth by nightfall.”

“Azragoth?!  That place is haunted.  It’s a ghost town.”

Begglar put his finger to the side of his nose and winked, “Aye.  And we’d like to keep it that way, wouldn’t we?”

“What do you plan in Azragoth?”

“Later,” Begglar snorted, “Right now we’ve got to get to the weapons cache and give this team a chance to get out of this downpour.  That banshee has them spooked in a bad way.  It will linger until this storm blows over. They’ll be no good on the outer road this night.”

“I know just how they feel,” I commiserated.  The sudden fury of what had happened with whatever had masqueraded as young Becca had shaken me to the core.  I had not expected the encounter to end as it did, and I wondered what other things might be in store for us on the road ahead, but it was best not to dwell on that and risk fear impeding us further.

We rode down the wet road in relative silence, under the front splatter and drizzle of the overhanging canopy until we had drawn alongside the large doors.  Begglar and I both jumped out of our seats, as we guided the horses out of the pelting rain, under the more sheltered leeward side of the escarpment.  Begglar came around and thrust the wet reins into my hands, and shouted, “Hold the horses here while I get the doors opened.  Then lead them into the gate, following the fallen straw.  There is a stable in there and it’ll keep the beasties dry for now.  We will unhitch them inside where they can’t easily break and run.”

I nodded my understanding and Begglar hurried to a smaller door, fetching a key out of one of his breast coat pockets.  He fumble with it for a moment, but soon got the door opened and disappeared into the dark inside.

As I waited, I thought about the strange roaring from above.  I wondered at what animal or beast could have made such a noise above all of the storm, that it would draw our attention up to the top of the escarpment that we had just quitted only an hour before.  Could the Xarmnians be on us already?  What manner of beast would they have with them that could make such a sound?  It was no secret that the Xarmnians had regular outer patrols in the area.  Begglar had told me so.  Protectorate guards, they were called, though what they did and represented was the antithesis of protection.  They could already be in the vicinity.  They could have seen us progressing up the escarpment to the granary.

I had hoped, with the distance and the darkening sky and wind and the roar of the rain, the Protectorate guards would not immediately see us.  The land between Begglar’s hill and the granary escarpment was uneven, so we had urged everyone to hunker down and stay low when moving to the wagon.  Depending on how far they were, we might still be unseen.  The wagon road was close to the skirt of the escarpment.  The pale hill might blend with the cover sheets of the wagon, and we were still in the cast shadow of the upper hill.  All these things considered, there still was a chance we remained undetected.

The loading doors faced away from the road descending into the valley.  I kept a wary, watchful eye, but the rain-screened most of my view of what was transpiring on the lower roadway beyond.

Thunder growled from one side of the hill to the mountains beyond and echoed back.  Lightning splintered the sky with strobing flashes.

We had to act.

The raging storm would provide us with cover, but it would only delay their pursuit.

I realized Begglar and his family may have to lose their wagon and perhaps we could load supplies in the packs, but we would not get far or very fast with those draft horses.  We would need mountain stock eventually, but now we needed animals bred for sustainable speed overland to put as much distance between us and the Protectorate.  Whatever weaponry and armor we gathered from the cache could not be too heavy for us to carry or fight with.  Swiftness trumps armor plating in hand-to-hand combat.  Thankfully, there were no incendiary weapons here in the Sub-World.  Or at least never in my experience had I run across one.  But what did I know?  I knew many things but not everything, nor could I plan for all eventualities that might befall us.  There is danger enough in what is known.  But the far greater danger is in the unknowns.

Begglar unlocked the doors of the catcher bins, and we climbed over a slight berm and entered the dark bin with slanted floors that descend downward to catcher wells filled with large mounds of dry grain.  A torch was carefully lit, once we were further inside, so as not to draw attention from the outside toward any escaping glow.

Begglar and I unhitched the team, after Dominic drove the horse and wagon into a narrow tunnel, near the inner stables.  The floor, like Begglar had said, was lined with dry straw that crunched softly underfoot.  As we stabled the horses, the crew piled out of the darkened wagon, once the gate was lowered and entered the side corridor down the dimly lit passage towards the torch we had lit and placed in a wall sconce.  The grain door we had opened beyond the inner berm still was under the lip and shadow of the upper rock ledges.

“It’ll take some work, but I need about five or more of the boys and men to help us get down to the cache trap.  It is hidden under the grain.  Once we get down to it, I’ll light one of the inner furnaces.  We use it to keep the grains dry when the air gets damp under here.  Keeps the grains from sweating and moldering.”

“Fine,” I assented, “We can get some of the women to keep watch while we are occupied.”

I stationed Cheryl and Miray outside to watch and alert us if any of the Protectorate guards started moving our way.  Lindsey, who had given me her name in the dry creek while awaiting our Shibboleth tests from Begglar, offered to join them and I welcomed her help.  The others, not assisting in the digging were to be relay sentries, just inside the doors to immediately convey any alarm that was given by those stationed to keep watch to us working below.  With the rain and storm still raging outside, we could not risk having an alert go unheard.

Dominic and Begglar grabbed grain shovels and began to clear the grain from the lower edge of the mound and shovel it to the side.  Grain slid, frustratingly,  down into the cleared area so that the work was repetitive and far from easy.  Our entire company was sodden and dripping with rain and sweat as all of the men pitched in together until a second mound held enough grain to allow us to slide shovelfuls to the back wall of the bin.

At last, an area was cleared large enough for Begglar to get down on his hands and knees and feel along the slatted underboards for the particular place he was looking for.  He drew a cooking spoon out from his garment and dug at a circular inset in the floorboard until he uncovered a T-bolt the size of his fist.  With a grunt and a twist, he pulled the T-bolt upward and gave it a turn, freeing what was a grooved panel of the flooring, with cleverly concealed hinges on one end.

He raised the panel and we all craned in to see the weapons cache.  It appeared flat with a layer of grain that had likely sifted down into the concavity through the grooved slats.  There were some groans and murmurs as Begglar carefully reached in and began to scoop out handfuls of grain.  His hand dug deeper until he stopped and looked up into the firelight with a grin.  Carefully, he pulled out the first of many short swords, scabbards, and fine-linked shirts of chainmail, which were as light and pliable as any I had ever seen or felt.  A battle mace was produced from the grain-filled cache, and a hammered and dried leather tunic was pulled forth, with several following it.  Along the side, under the grain were halberds and throwing spears, and four quivers of bristling arrows in a sling, with bows made from ash and yew wood to match each set.  When quite a few weapons lay aside, Begglar lowered the door and guided the T-bolt back into its slot until the panel set even with the floor.  He climbed back to his feet and grabbed the grain shovel again and we pitched in, once more moving the second pile back over the uncovered area and blending it with the first.

Together we selected the weapons we would carry or learn to carry on us as we were trained to use them.  The chainmail shirts were given to the women, as they were lighter garments and pliable and could reliably turn the point of a dagger thrust or possibly the fatal piercing point of a spear.

The hard leather tunics were thick and layered leather that had been affixed to a linen cloth backing, yet molded to fit a man’s torso.  The hardened skin would require considerable force from a blade strike to pierce it directly, but it allowed for a full range of movement without the weight or restrictions associated with a metal breastplate.  These were the combat wear of overland raiders, rather than the armored wear of a city or kingdom guard.  Arguably they were better for use in a battle where there were fewer, smaller bands of fighters, rather than rank upon rank of soldiers who overwhelmed and fought with the advantage of numbers.  When armored soldiers became fatigued they would fall in battle, and the next row would hastily take their place in the fighting.  But lightly armored soldiers, trained with weapons would outlast those individuals in a fight because they did not tire as fast.  They might take out three or four soldiers in an extended skirmish before they succumbed to the fatigue of fighting.

Each of us rotated into the granary to arm and change out of wet clothes into battle attire.  We were ill-suited to combat at the moment, but that would change in the days and weeks ahead.  For privacy’s sake and decorum, the women took turns undressing in the grain bins with the loading doors shut to cover and shield the interior torchlight from the risk of being seen from the hills.  The rain continued to pour down and the lightning flashed from time to time, but the counts between flashes and thunderclaps and rumbling lengthened.

Begglar came up to me wet with sweat and flushed from the exercise of having done the lion’s share of uncovering the grain from the secret cache.

“I’ve just lit the drying furnaces.  There’s not much fuel left in the tinderboxes, but it should burn for a few hours anyway.  Possibly enough to keep us warm.  Nell and Dominic and some of the women will see to the horses.  There are feed sacks aplenty.  They should be rested a while.”

“What about Azragoth?  Wasn’t the plan to push forward?”

“There’ll be no making Azragoth tonight,” Begglar observed as the wind and rain fought furiously with the trees in the distant grove, and the rain gathered in puddles and poured into streams and rivulets down the granary grounds and into the wheat fields.

I stared out into the night, still suspicious of any movement along the distant roadway, “Do you think they’ll be watching us?”

“Highly doubt it.  Soldiers or no, those Protectorate Guards are a lazy sort.  Brutal bullies, deadly killers, but lazy just the same.”

“Still we must try to use the storm cover if we can.  I am betting they will come here, after dawn breaks.”

“That they will,…but we’ve got a few hours to get some rest, before pressing on.  Give it to them.  They’ve witnessed terrible things, and fatigue won’t make it any easier.  Some are rightly scared, others bewildered.  But they are beginning to have some faith in you, laddie.  Give them time.”

The tunnels were beginning to warm from the inner furnaces.  Closing the doors helped stave off the outside damp.

When the women were attired, the men filed in armed and dressed, lacing their tunics tightly across their chests, assisting each other to strap scabbards to their waists and keep the hilt tilted forward to come to hand at a moment’s notice, while keeping the scabbard’s metal locket and end ringed chape clear of the movement of their legs.  The dry grain had preserved the forged and polished steel of the weapons nicely so that it stayed dry and free of moisture that could so easily rust the blades or dull their cutting edges.  Once dressed, the women were invited back in to help adjust our garb, so that we at least looked like proper fighting men.

Nell and Dominic checked on the horses and wagon in the covered overhang of the threshing floor where the bags of grain were typically loaded.  They fed the horses oats and grains in feedbags hung from their bridles. They anticipated we would be leaving soon.  They joined us within, and dressed in their own dry clothes, having had their battle gear fitted underneath their garments all along.

Since children have better visual acuity and night vision, we left young Miray and another young one outside to watch the road for any chance sign of the Protectorate Guards’ movements until we could relieve her for a night watch.

When she suddenly appeared, white-faced at the narrow opening of the loading gate, we all turned as she scrambled over the berm, past the shadow of the doorway into the torchlight.  She was panting and frightened, barely able to speak, and seeing her once again ignited our own fear.

“Someone’s coming this way!”

“How many?!” we all seemed to ask at once.

Begglar pulled the loading door all the way shut and braced it with a thick timber while the girl caught her breath and continued.

“Only one…riding a horse…coming fast.”

*Scene 04* 16:30 (Resurfacing)

She woke up sweating profusely. Her heart was pounding and her fists were full of a bedsheet.  She raised her head and felt the underside of a coat around her face.  The smell of mothballs.  The bitter, irritating smell she remembered from her childhood.  She was in her closet again.  The place she always ran to when she was afraid.  The place she hid when her father and mother were fighting.  Where she could not hear the yelling and screaming. The sounds of things being broken and shattered.  She was sopping wet and exhausted.  Her arms felt gritty with sand.  She smelled the salt of seawater mixed in with the nauseous smell of naphthalene.

How did she end up in her closet?  How was it possible that she had been in one place…and now she was in another?  She gathered her feet under her and thrust upward.  Some clothes fell down upon her, pushed up from the hanging bar.  Her feet were cold.  Her sneakers squeaked on the wooden slat floor.

She fumbled blindly, for the hinged portion, blinking through the slanted slats of the closet door, and pushed it open.  The interior was dim, almost fully dark, but this was not the bedroom she had rented for the last four months.  This was her bedroom.  She had returned from wherever she had gone, but not to her apartment in the city.  However, this place was all too familiar.  She had not been back here in this place for many years, (seven to be precise) but it was seared into her memory and nightmares.  She had come back alright.  But to what?  Or, more importantly, to when?

The room was exactly as she remembered it.  Her small single bed by the wall, and the window.  Her card table desk, with the wobbly leg that never seemed to keep the table from moving.  The box where she kept her toys.  The tattered doll that she got for Christmas.  The crate where she kept her few story books, and her school books.  The faded poster of the Partridge Family.  Her heart-throb David Cassidy smiling as if only for her.

“C’mon get happy…,” she muttered in a breathless whisper, “C’mon get happy.”  Not feeling the groove or the vibe at all.

Whatever had happened to bring her here?

This was not a happy place.  Even though it should have been.

And these were not happy times.

She glanced out of the blurred pane of glass, catching a glimpse of an old blue four-door sedan parked near the front curb.

Rain beat down on its roof and trunk, in glistening splatters.

There was shouting and two figures out on the spartan grass lawn.

Figures she recognized, caught in a struggle.

“John! Don’t leave us please!” the smaller figure begged, clutching the larger figure’s arm.

And suddenly she gasped, knowing what was about to transpire and exactly where and when she was.

Laura was home.  And this was the night, her father would leave them.

Why had she come back?  And why here and why to this point in time?

The last thing she remembered, she had ridden a horse through a rain storm.  She had come to a hill and looked out onto a stormy sea.  And then the edge of the hill gave way, sliding in a muddied tide all the way down to the beach and the edge of a sandbar, still not covered by the foamy waves.  And then out of the sea came a shimmering blue light, and a large twisting circle of light, with a strange swirling glow inside it.  She had walked towards the light, out onto the sandbar, just before the light swallowed her whole.

Had she dreamed it all?  She shivered, gathering herself against the chill in her bones and her spirit.  The face of a clock glowed back at her mockingly in the wet miasma of water-washed moonlight coming through the window, and the painful family drama played itself out shamefully on the open street, for the disturbing amusement of the whole neighborhood.  Lights were on in the houses beyond.  Some houses remained dark at this hour.  The mocking clock digits glowed green along with the ticking hands, moving inexorably across its moon face to arrive at indications of four past ten.  It was almost as if the hands were raised in a shrugged V, giving her the “Whatever” dismissive reply.  Even her clock seemed to hold her in nihilistic disdain.  She wanted to smash it.  To break its glass face, and twist its ceaselessly spinning arms.  To claw and peel off the numbers surrounding its peering face.  She wanted to be anywhere but here. She wanted to be in any other time but now.

But if she wanted anything in her miserable life to change from being brought back here into this present, she was running out of time.  Her window of opportunity would be brief.  She had her pink suitcase already packed.  Tucked away in the back of the closet to remind her that one day she would leave this place.  That she would no longer watch her mom drink herself to death, while her dad failed to come home at night.  She would go with him this time.

The bourbon her mom had surreptitiously poured into her juice cup made her groggy, but it did not make her fall fully asleep as it had so many times before.

Laura whirled and turned back to her bi-folded closet door and the fabric-lined darkness from which she had emerged.  The suitcase was just inside, under the shoe shelf where she kept her few prized cassettes, and a few 8-tracks she had borrowed from what few friends she had at school.  Here players were old, and she had constantly worried that they would eat up her friends’ tapes.  Her mom would only let her listen to them if she kept the volume low so as not to disturb her father.  He always hated her “dopey hippie” music, as he called it.

“IRMA, LET GO A’ME!!” Laura’s father stormed from the entryway, as he entered the small house again, dragging her back from the stoop.

“I TOLD YOU WHAT I’D DO IF I EVER CAUGHT YOU DRUNK AGAIN!  THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.  I’M GOING TO FLORIDA TO BE WITH DEBBIE! I SHOULD NEVER HAVE MARRIED A LUSH LIKE YOU! NEVER!!!  NOW, LET ME GO!”

“WHAT ABOUT LAURA?!” her mother wailed. “YOU CAN”T JUST WALK OUT ON HER.  Please, take her with you!  I’ll…I’ll check myself into rehab. Only please don’t go tonite.  It’s pouring outside.  PLEASE JOHN!  PLEASE DON’T GO!! I’m begging you.  I will get help.  I will this time.”

“There is no more ‘this time,’ Irma!” he growled.  “I can’t even stand to look at you anymore.  You used to be… Ah!  The heck with it!  I’m outta here!  I’m gonna miss my flight!”

Laura could hear her mother weeping as she followed him further into the house, into their shared bedroom towards the back, beyond the small kitchen.

Now was the time.  She snatched up the little pink suitcase with the reflective stickers she has put on it.  She left her closet door open as she snagged her coat.  It had been a little small back then, but somehow it still fit her the same way as it did before.  It would probably be cold in the trunk for a while, and the rain would make it miserable, but she knew just the way to pop it open to climb inside.  It had been one of her favorite hiding places when she was allowed to play hide-and-go-seek with the neighborhood kids.  Back before they started being mean to her.  Whispering about her to others at school.

It also signified better times, not good times, for there were hardly any of those, but ‘better times’.  Back when her parents were both trying to ‘make it work.’ For when the blue car was there, it also meant her daddy was home, for he always took their only car.  When ‘the car’ was home, she found her secret refuge in it, for what it represented was togetherness.

It represented that hope for her now, for ‘the car’ was more frequently gone than parked at home.  She had to get in it.  To somehow stop what was happening in her own small way.  At least, if she could be with him now, or for however long she still had left before she was able to support herself and move out on her own altogether.

If she could get far enough down the road, her Daddy would just have to take her with him to Florida.  Debbie had always been nice to her when she visited her dad’s office.  She did not know exactly what a “floozy” was, as her mom had so often called her, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be too bad.  Debbie had always given her candy from the office candy jar.  She wished Debbie had been her mom.  She doubted Debbie would steal from her–robbing her piggy bank just to buy liquor when her father cut off her mom’s weekly allowance.

She slipped quietly out of her bedroom door, carefully closing it behind her, wincing as the hinges faintly squeaked.

Her parents were loudly arguing in the back room.  So far they hadn’t noticed anything.

“I’m making a new start, Irma!  And you’re no longer part of it!  Enjoy your booze!  That seems to be your partner nowadays!”

“John, please! For Laura’s sake, if not for mine. Please don’t leave us like this!  I don’t care if you see Debbie if that makes you happy.  I know you don’t want me anymore like you used to.  I’ll get clean, I promise!”

Laura knew she could not linger any longer.  She crouched and slinked through the living room towards the open screen door.  Rain was still falling steadily outside.  She noticed that she was tracking water on the carpet.  Her jeans were wet and her sneakers squished.  A trail of water streaks came from the front door foyer from where her parents had entered the house from the outside.  Yellow sand came off of her shoes, leaving dun-colored tracks that bled into the water streaks.

Laura glanced at her reflection in the cracked living room mirror.  The image caught her off guard.  She was much younger than she should’ve been.  And something was wrong with her eyes.  The lamp in the front room must have something to do with it.  She leaned in closer, almost forgetting that she was pressed for time.  One of her eyes was strange, but the other eye seemed normal.  Yet she had no trouble seeing.  She pulled her hair back from her face.  It was sopping wet and also felt gritty with beach sand.

She released the screen door catch and slipped out pushing the air piston in hoping the restraint chain would not jangle and alert her parents in the back room.

She splashed down the canted sidewalk, stepping in spatter mud and almost falling.  She clutched her suitcase, which was now feeling slippery in the rain pelting her in the torrential downfall.  She waded across the lawn, trying not to fall.  She rounded the back of the baby blue sedan and set her suitcase down by the back bumper.  She tried to climb up, but her wet shoes slipped and she smacked down hitting her chin on the trunk hood, involuntarily crying out, but catching herself before she slipped back onto the wet pavement, slick with oil and gutter debris.

She jumped up again and pressed the trunk lid on the corner she knew would allow the inner lock to slip out of its clutch and spring up.  As she slid back down again, she felt her effort rewarded.  Her parents would be outside again in a few seconds, and she did not want to see again what she had seen so many years again through her bedroom window–her mom getting punched by her father and doubling over on the wet muddy lawn for all of the neighbors to see.

The shadowy cavity of her father’s car gaped before her like a monster’s open mouth.  Rain played its ratta-tat-ta rumble on the metal, and water sheered off of its curved lip pouring down upon Laura as she struggled to get her pink suitcase up and into the trunk space, just beyond the spare tire.  Something else was in the trunk, but she could not see it clearly.  She imagined it was her father’s toolbox that he had pretended to play mechanic with.

She had to hurry.  If her dad caught her doing this, he would be far angrier than he was now, and he might not let her come with him.  There was still a chance that he wouldn’t, but it was a risk she was going to take.  This would change the trajectory of her life.  She truly believed she would be the much stronger person she wished she was, that her father always wanted her to be.  His “tough girl”.  He had for years told her to be tough, growing up, but she didn’t know how.  Growing up with him might be different.  Had to be different.  Her mom was the weak one.  Could never leave the bottle and she loathed the thought of becoming like her.  Her dad could teach her if she could only be allowed to be with him too.  Debbie wouldn’t mind.  Debbie the floozy.  Debbie, who gave her candy and called her “kiddo”.

Laura climbed up on the bumper, holding fast to the under-struts of the trunk lid, almost slipping again on the wet white rubber of her sneaker soles.  She pulled the lid down after her, just as she heard the front screen door slam open, almost tearing the pump rod out of its upper piston.

Had they seen her?  She heard them continuing to argue and shout.  She tugged down hard on the inner trunk strut, waiting to hear the click of the trunk catch, not sure if she would be able to above the constant rataplan of the falling rain.

The interior was pitch dark but relatively dry.  The black carpet lining smelled of spilled oil and tire rubber, but there was something else there too.  A rotten smell.  A pungently sweet and sickening odor.  Something like the smell of the dead cat she had found behind the dumpster in the alleyway.  The one she had cried about until her father had had enough of it and gave her one of his “tough girl” speeches to cheer her up.  The smell was rancid.  She felt herself gagging.  She had to get out of the trunk.  She would soon throw up.  Daddy would never let her stay with him if he found her with puke all over herself.  She pressed upward, but the lid resisted her.  She turned on her side, to put her feet up and press the trunk lid open, but it was no use.  The trunk lock had engaged again.  If only she could press the lid up in the right place she might be able to disengage it once more.  The weak place was to her left.  She heard a noise outside of the vehicle.  A loud smack and something that sounded like grinding metal.  Her dad had opened the car door and was throwing things into the backseat.

She heard her mom again, “John, please!”

She heard a hard slap and her mother’s responsive cry and gasp.

“I told you what would happen if you grabbed me again!” she heard her father’s voice come coldly through the pouring rain with such a frosty chill, Laura shivered in terror.  This was not the man she had imagined him to be, through all of those intervening years that she had lived in the prison of her mom’s addiction and household.  There was a cold selfishness in him that did not allow for much room to fit her into his other life.

She tried to scrunch forward moving around the spare to find some leverage on the soft part of the trunk to free herself. The dark was disorienting, but the stench was much stronger in that direction, and before she could catch herself, she touched something lumpy and sticky.  And then, without warning, her stomach turned and she coughed and vomited sour bile into the stygian darkness.

*Scene 05* 13:26 (The Rider)

The rain and wind beat and scraped against the thick granary doors and moaned in a plaintive sadness as it wound its way through the breaks and ledges, hillocks, and mounds.  The branches of the trees in the distance popped and clacked together, and the wheat field sighed and whispered dangerous words that we feared but could not translate.  We remained quiet save for our controlled breathing, which sounded way too loud to my ears to ensure the secrecy of our presence.

I held Miray on my hip and she hugged my shoulder, but I could hear her heart rapidly beating and her short panicked breaths coming in rapid succession.  We had called all of our watchers to come inside the catcher rooms, for we could not risk being seen dashing in from the outside.

We had no idea how many Xarmnians were approaching, for Miray had only seen the one. Still, Begglar assured us that these hunters, butchers, and pillagers of villages, rarely were seen to travel in bands of less than six mounted riders.  Sometimes they came in companies as large as twenty or thirty.  A Xarmnian scout might ride solitary, but they would keep to the shadows and would never risk riding against a band of endemic travelers comprised of more than three individuals.  If there was one riding brazenly in the open, there were certainly others that were off to the flanks of that rider who were unseen.

If we remained garrisoned in the granary, we were relatively safe.  If we rode out into the open country we could be split up and run down.  Our company had only recently been handed their weapons, but they were still a far cry from knowing how to make effective use of them.  The doors were thick and fortified.  Made of hard sturdy timber planks and fortified with iron brace bands in the interior.  The Xarmnians had cruelly demonstrated what they would do to anyone who dared to steal even a meager portion of the grain, but they were spread thin and recognized that they could not afford to post Xarmnian guards at every one of their storehouses in the remote lands.  They had to work through local agents and delegates, and up to the present time, Begglar had been their agent appointed to this post along with his hirelings.  They had no idea that they had in fact entrusted their local grain stores into the hands of a former Surface Worlder, must less to one of the at-large fugitives on their wanted dead or alive lists.

The granary escarpment was honeycombed with passages and tunnels, as well as stairways that allowed in-season workers to monitor the grain chutes and threshing floors from the top floors to the blow-through shaft and all the way to the bottom sifting floor, just above the pits and bins.  Sound traveled through the interior caverns with a mysterious resonance, that echoed and reverberated down through the lower levels.  Whatever creature had topped the escarpment rise might make its way down through to the lower levels, but it might take it a while to do so, and it would not be able to descend without making considerable noise.  The nagging threat of that weighed on the back of my mind, but the more immediate threat was the approaching rider and whoever might be with him.

Directly, we heard the approach of hoofbeats and the snort and sputter of a hard-ridden horse.  Each heavy footfall seemed to strike the earth with the blows of a forge hammer beating fire-reddened steel, pounding the imagined metal into the searing blade that would bring death to us all.  The storm outside still blew with a low threatening force, but the fact that we heard the sound of the horseman, indicated that both man and animal were already close-by.

The hoof beats slowed as the mount and rider, audibly pulled reigns and danced heavily into a slowing turning balance.  Holding our breath as much as we could, we strained to gather direction and approach from the sounds alone, barely audible above the wind and the rain.

I motioned to Begglar and he drew near. “Is there another way to view the outside, where we won’t be seen?”

“They will be looking for us up and ahead, but there is one place most searchers fail to look,” Begglar answered in a low voice.

“Where is that?”

“Down,” Begglar answered, motioning me to follow him into what looked like a small closet space, where one might keep gardening tools locked away.

Nell followed us and said, “Give me the child, you two will need your hands free if they storm the entry and manage to bust down the door.”  She took a reluctant Miray from me and swung her onto her own hip. “Keep that blade handy,” she nodded towards the honor sword I held affixed to my hip, “You’re going to need it.”

Begglar produced another key from a ring out of his pocket and unlocked the narrow closet door.  Inside was a narrow, tight-turning, spiral staircase that extended up and down into the darkness below.

“What is this?”

“There is a small narrow hallway under the edge of the sliding doors above.  It has a metal grate set in against the edge of the stone floor, with a sliding plate.  It serves as both a water drain and a firewell.  Occasionally, rats will try to enter the granary for obvious reasons, and this drain can help us burn them out.” Begglar and I climbed slowly down into the darkness until we reached a wet stone floor that felt slick and had a peculiar pungent smell.  “We can set oil down it and flush the well.  It also helps us defrost the rollers and grooves during the snowy seasons.  Ice tends to fill the grooves and prevent us from sliding the granary doors open during the winter months.  This firewell-underhall allows us to burn away the accumulated ice and thaw the runners.”

“How will this help us see above?”

There is a small slide grate up ahead near the door I let you all in through.  The plate is kept well-oiled and moves aside allowing someone below to see anyone above attempting to open the inset door to the catcher bins.  The door is reinforced, but it is the weakest access point to gaining entrance to the granary.  A few men with a battering ram could defeat the door, but I doubt these Xarmnians will try that tonite unless they were sure this was where we had taken refuge.  The outer road’s too wet to reveal the recent passage of our wagon.  And the Xarmnians would be loathed to break into this place and destroy the entrance without the assurance of a good cause.”

“And what cause would that be?” I quipped.

“That they were certain that we are inside, and we are worth destroying the door to the king’s granary to capture,” finished Begglar as he felt along the upper ledge in the dark, and pushed aside a slanted plate cover, revealing the grill work, and outside silvered splashes of the rain.  “Whoever may be coming along the road beside the outer grain bin doors, is sure to stop here at the smaller entry door, where the escarpment overhangs us above. if for no other reason, but to get a moment to collect themselves out of the rain.”

Presently we heard the sound of iron-shod hooves clack as the horse climb up upon the paved floor overhead, echoing down the hollow shaft.  We moved forward, underneath the area where the sifting vents were, hoping to catch a glimpse of the horse and rider now directly above us.

Suddenly the rider spoke…and somehow I thought I recognized the voice.

“Is anyone in there?”

The voice was female, I was sure of it.   I released the breath–I was unaware I had been holding–and exhaled.  Begglar grabbed my arm in the darkness reflexively, but I reassured him.  “Did you hear her?  The voice is female.”

Begglar assented, “Then this stranger is not of the Xarmnian Protectorate.  Not out here.”

We quickly moved back along the tunnel towards the bottom rung of the circular stair, the outside rain providing cover for the splashes our feet made within the tunnel.  I had not been able to see the rider, but from the narrow slats, I could see the chest, fetlock, and pastern of the horse and its under girth-barrel, the saddle cinch straps, the bottom of the tread covers of each stirrup, and the wet and dripping saddle cloth.  What we were missing were the feet and legs of the rider.  Where was she?  She had to have dismounted.

Xarmnians did not typically trust their women to be part of the Protectorate Guards.  The men were too bawdy, raucous, and perverse to ever cause a woman to wish to be part of their company.  Or for even a moment ever believe that she would be “protected” by them.  The thought of traveling overland with them in remote lonely places was too horrible to even imagine.  In their minds, women served only for a few important purposes: to cook, to beat, satiate a man’s carnal hunger, and to make babies.  Beyond that, they weren’t worth the energy it took to kill them and toss their carcasses to the dogs.

I concurred with Begglar, this was no Xarmnian guard, I was sure of that.

We ascended the stair to the ground level, and Begglar closed and locked the small casement door to the passage.  We moved along the edge of the large rollings doors towards the smaller door at the end.

“Mr. O’Brian?” the voice called.  All too close now, and both Begglar and I jumped, startled by its proximity.  She was just outside of the granary bin doors and was probably walking down the line looking for another access point she might have missed while angling along the road at the bottom of the escarpment skirt.  How did she know my name? I wondered.  How did she even know someone was inside?  And then it hit me.  The rain.  Wet footprints, where the ground might have remained dry.  The smaller door stoop was raised to prevent pooling around the entry point, but it was also under the overhang of the escarpment’s upper cliff.  Suddenly, I knew exactly who this was.

I move to the door and Begglar helped me remove the bracing timber.  He had recognized her as well.

Others of our company had followed us, alarmed that we were now opening a door to the outside, but were too late to stop us.

I stepped through the portal, under a curtain of rainwater, draining down from the top of the escarpment, and called out, “Christie?  Is that you?”

Upon hearing the name ‘Christie’, the others and Begglar emerged from the under grain crypts like zombies from a grave, blinking in the now silvering night sky with a misty moon overhead cutting through the scudding rain clouds.

The moonlight pierced the fleeing cloud cover and cast a fortune of silver along the fields.  I almost expected to see a few werewolves loping wet-backed through the wheat fields beyond, seeking a night kill.

Christie came out of the shadows from along the loading dock area by the large roller doors where Begglar’s wagon and the team of horses had been temporarily stabled.  She was drenched and her long golden hair was plastered to her head, her bangs hung in wet ropes from her crown.  I rushed towards her as she shambled out of the pavement, catching her as she fell into my arms.  She was exhausted and shivering, and I could tell she had been through quite an ordeal.  She wept holding onto me weakly as I bore her up to keep her from crumpling to the ground.  “I found you,” she said, sighing with both exhaustion and shuddering relief.  “I almost lost hope of ever catching up to you.”

“Hold on, She-bear,” I said as I guided her under the overhang into the dry inset where the smaller entry door was.

“Get her horse,” Begglar directed, as one of the young men moved in to help me support Christie as we guided her through the doorway.

“I’ve got Christie,” I assured him, “Get her horse.  Bring it inside if it will come.  We’ll stable him with the others.  Get the mare a feedbag, dry her and rub her down.  Pull that wet saddle off her, and get her stabled with dry straw.”

Two of the women and Lindsey helped me get Christie further inside, and the tunnels were already feeling much warmer, due to the furnaces Begglar had lit prior.

“We’ve got her,” Lindsey move in, taking one of Christie’s arms over her shoulder.  “We’ve got a change of clothes for her and some of the gear from the cache.  She’ll be outfitted like the rest of us and warmed up in no time at all.”

“Wait,” Christie said, weakly, but in an urgent whisper, trying to stand on wobbly legs, but unable to muster her remaining strength by anything other than sheer determination.  “Wait,” she said again, this time a bit louder.

Begglar rebraced the door, the young man had maneuvered Christie’s horse inside and led it by the bridle.

“Xarmnians,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath, “Back there.  Burned it down.  Coming behind me.  Coming on the road with dogs.”

*Scene 06* 8:00 (Anchored Spare)

Laura awakened, cramped and crowded into a closed dark space.  Her breathing was labored.  She felt wet and cold.  Her muscles and bones ached.  A misasma of noisesome smells pervaded the darkness.  She tasted bitter bile.  Tears wet her face as she shivered in the stuffed confinement.  She realized that, for better or for worse, she was still in locked the trunk of her father’s car…and the car was now moving.  She heard the muffled, but steady staccatto of the windshield wipers sloshing across the glass.  The tires below hissing over the wet pavement.  The moistened clacking of rain drops and overwash, pouring over the lopsided trunk hood above her.  Her father still had no idea that she had stowed away in his jaunty “Mr. Blue Bird.”  Their family car, as it was.  Though his mother was never allowed to drive it.  He was the breadwinner of the family.  The breadwinner had all the priviledges.

Now she was flying away with him, unbeknownst, trapped in the thumping, bouncing tail of “Mr. Blue Bird”.  The noises of the road changed as she realized the car was moving faster.  Her daddy must have driven on to the Interstate.  She could hear the growl of the grooves in the pavement, now made louder along with the hiss of the water.  She took in a hard shuddering breath and instantly regretted it.  That smell.  That horrible dead smell assaulted her nostrils, but with less of a pungent punch than she had expected.  What was it?  Had a rat somehow crawled into the trunk?  Was there a hole in the floorboard, under the black carpet, that had somehow let whatever creature this was into the confines of this space?  Her stomach lurched and swam within her.  The oily carpet had a sickly nut-flavored smell.  The tire rubber added a bitter burnt odor to its unsavory brew.  The air was stale, musky, and fecund.  The interior had road dirt that had dislodged from the tread of the spare.  For all practical purposes, this trunk had every attribute of what she imagined a grave might smell like.  Of being buried alive.  The thought terrified her and she began to sob.  She could not see anything.  She could not help but smell the sinister vapors that wafted over her like a burial shroud.  Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears.  She had gone back only to find that this false hope of being able to change her past was a just quicker route to an early grave.

She tried to curl up tighter, to somehow make herself smaller, so that the depairing darkness might not enter her all at once.  She felt pressed in on all sides.  Like she was drowning.  Like she had felt that night when she and the others watched the dripping man through that dusty window, in that other place.

That other place…  Oh, if she could only go back to wherever that…Other Place…was.  Trolls, aside, nothing could be as bad as this, she thought. No one cared about her here.  No one.  Her mother would sober up and then wonder where she had gone, but that was probably the extent of it.  If she had cared about her at all, she would have gotten dry longer before it came to this.  “What about, Laura?!” her mother had wailed.  “Yeah,” Laura thought to herself, “What about me?”

If she had really cared, she would have realized that I was only valuable as a bargaining chip.  She thought she could keep Daddy home, because of a sense of obligation to me.  It never occurred to her that I needed someone to love me without the obligation to do so.  That I needed someone to choose me.  To mom, I was only an ‘anchor baby’.  A way to hold daddy in the port, rather than shipping out.  Well, she sure found out differently tonite didn’t she? Laura thought bitterly, tears falling into the dark wet carpet, as the vehicle bumped along and roared over the side grooves of the highway shoulder.

She heard her father’s muffled curse as a wet spray of water hit the side of the car, shearing off of what she perceived to be another vehicle passing him at a higher rate of speed.

“Slow down, you damned idiot!” he growled, “Can’t you see it’s pouring, out?!”

Thunder rumbled overhead, and Laura could hear the answering grumble of a semi-truck’s airbrakes popping and thrumming outside, as well as the hissing of other cars splashing through the wet falling curtains.

“Ah Crap!” a thump hammered what Laura imagined to be the steering wheel, and she felt the vehicle shudder a bit, and seem to push her body into the spare.  Another thwump sound indicated that whatever suitcase, her father had pitched into the backseat, had now slid off into the floorboard.  His zippered hanging bag with it.

Laura braced herself against the push and tug of the vehicle’s motion, stretching out her arm but finding that strange hairless lump move slightly under her splayed fingers.  The dead thing.  It…it moved.

Whether sheerly by the motion of the car, or under its own power, it seemed to twitch under her hand, and before she could stop herself, she screamed.

A primal, urgent, wailing scream poured out of her.  One she could not have surpressed if she tried.

Suddenly, she felt pitched forward, and her body smacked the anchored spare.

Sobbing, with no restraint, she screamed and cried out, “Daddy!  Daddy!!! Please!”

The car fishtailed, and was thrown into a nauseating spin, its tires hydroplaning and studdering across the roadway.  She heard a loud crash and the high-pitched sound of crunching and buckling metal, the wet shatter of safety glass.  Tires screeched, and dribbled over loose wet gravel, as horns wailed, and cars swerved around the otuside of the vehicle.

Laura felt a hard piece of metal crash into her ribs and lower back, causing her to gasp in pain, as she was thrown and pitched about in the narrow space.

The world heaved and turned upside down.  She felt her small suitcase lunge out of the dark and strike her leg with a thunk.  She felt the car go into a spin, rock up and onto its side, turning her dark interior space into a confused tumble, as if she had climbed into the well of a sidemount dryer, like the ones her mom used at the coin-operated laundry mat downtown.

She heard a car door grind open, the same time the trunk space thrust upward, as if the car itself had suddenly crested a steep hill.  The car leaned towards the right, and she heard the engine racing, the car wheels spinning and throwing pea-sized gravel up against the car’s undercarriage.

She clung to the hard rubber of the anchored spare, as the backend of the vehicle felt suspended, as if a crane had grabbed the back bumper and were raising it upward.  Her pink suitcase had tumbled back into the interior cavity along the seatback end of the trunk–threatening to assault her again as gravity schemed to reload the pink projectile back into the shadowed inner chamber.

She heard a wet sloughing sound as long grass began to move along the undercarriage, picking up speed.  The strange, and quickening sensation of falling was the last perception she registered as she descended into the darkness, clutching frantically to the treads of anchored spare bolted down under the wide metal wingnut to the bottom of the trunk’s wheel well.

Anchored spare, she thought.  How ironic was it that the very term for what she now held onto for dear life, should be exactly what she viewed herself as, even as her very world was turning upside down and descending into a freefall?

*Scene 07* 22:03 (Campfire Stories)

We gathered Christie in to our tenous communal fold, such as it was, as the doors were secured and braced against any further riders daring the storm.

“We’d best get you further inside and out of those wet clothes.  You’re going to catch your death of cold,” I said.  “He’s right, dear,” Nell chimed in, “We’d best get you warmed up and quickly before the cold goes to the bone.  The girls’ll get you dry and I’ll prepare something hot to drink to get you warmed on the inside.  A nice herbal tea, I should think.”

She half-smiled and nodded, as Lindsey and Cheryl quickly produced a cloak from their pack and wrapped her shoulders, and the women led her away down a dimly lit passage to the privacy of the grain bins, where we all had changed into travel and provisional battle gear.  When Christie was dried and outfitted, the women brought her back into the common area, near the furnaces.

The air in the storage bins and stables smelled of straw and dry husks, but was dry and earthy, slightly sweetened by hints of the malt in the grain scattered along the larger loading doors on the other side of the low berm.  The caverns flickered under the torchlight, and we moved further into the commons area, a broader low-ceiling cavern bolstered with stone pillars and equipped with rows of benches and stools near the iron furnaces that Begglar had previously lit.  A warm orange glow came through the grates also casting winsome shadows on the stone pavements from the benches and chair legs arranged in that open space.  It felt like gathering around a large campfire as we settled in to wait out the storm.

Begglar and Dominick unlockedan adjoining galley and pantry that serviced the commons area and procured some of the foodstores.  They tapped some of the ale barrels stored in the large racks, and filled cups and tankards for those of us who could take it.  We snacked on dried fruits, and jerked meats that were also stored in the pantries.  We warmed ourselves by the furnaces, pitching in together to share and pass around what served as a meal while in hiding.

Begglar told me the smoke stacks from the furnaces were piped up natural volcanic chimneys that vented on the upper surface of the escarpment, but also, since the smoke was from natural wood fires, part of it vented into a smoke room on one of the mid-levels where slabs of various meats were cured and hung.  In the off season, hunters and areas herdsmen, brought haunches of meat and sides free range cattle to be butchered, stripped and dried in the high smokehouse room. As part of payment for these services, choice cuts and portions were kept for the soldiers and workers who serviced the operation.  Portions were also given to help service the inn.  The escarpment granary was a veritable cornucopedia of foods and drink for many years.  But when the freshwater spring failed, the brewery operation dwindled down to only three to four keepers, and then down to only himself and Dominick.  Without the source of freshwater, it became difficult to rinse the meats intended for curing.

Christie was brought back into the commons area and was looking much more like herself again.  She seemed refreshed and glad to be back among the group.  Naturally, we gathered around her.  We were so relieved to see her yet amazed at the same time.  Hugs were given and we shared both in the delight and relief of welcoming her back into our traveling fellowship.

“Did you ride all the way through this terrible storm?” someone asked.

“Terrible?” Christie gathered her strength in a deep breath, “Honey, after Laura and I left the inn, we rode down the sea road right smack into a rough headwind. It worsened from there on in.”

“Where did you go?” Miray asked, settling herself on the floor near Christie’s feet.

“We took shelter in an old stable near that shack where we stopped before.  It was old but the wind almost blew it apart.  When I saw the trolls, Laura freaked and rode out into the storm.”

“Trolls?!” I exclaimed, casting a meaningful glance at Begglar.

“Yeah,” Christie exhaled, catching her breath again.  “Two of them, and I think they had the body of the other one we captured and burned.  Had it stretched out on the table in the cabin.  I saw them through the window, where we watched the man by the fire.  Only got a quick peek inside really.  I thought the man would be there, but he was no where in sight.  I don’t know if the trolls did something to him or what, but it was just the two I saw, hovering around the burned one.”

Begglar harumphed, “Now we know what happened to the others.  I told you trolls almost never travel alone.”

“That must’ve been terrifying. Especially for Laura.  It was part of why she left us to go back.  Did she see them too?”  Others were gathering closer now, eager to hear more of Christie and Laura’s experiences.

“No,” Christie responded, taking a sip of a cup of tea Nell brought to her.  “Mmm this is good, thank you, Nell.”

Nell seated herself nearby, next to Cheryl, Lindsey and another of the young women.  “My pleasure, dear.  Go on with yer tale.”

“So, I went out in the storm to check for a way into the cabin.  When we first came in, the doorway had an overgrowth of twisted vines blocking it.  We took temporary shelter in the stable, but it was getting so windy that we had no way to keep warm and dry in there.  I had wanted to see if the man was there and could give us a better place to take shelter until the storm passed over.  We had no way to make a fire, and the structure shook and the roof leaked.

“I left Laura to keep the horses calm while I hurried out in the rain to the cabin.  Someone had cut down the vines that had grown over the door, and it did not feel right just barging in, so I check the window and saw the trolls in there.  No sign of the man, but I figured if he was in league with the trolls, we wanted nothing to do with him either.”

“I assure you, he wasn’t,” I muttered.

“What?” Christie asked.

“Nothing,” I said, dismissing my interjection and urging her to continue.  “So how did Laura find out?”

Christie looked downcast and regretful. “I told her,” she sighed.  “I-I came back and was frightened myself.  She pressed me, and I just blurted it out.  Not thinking.  I just knew we couldn’t expect help from the cabin and she would want to know why.  I never imagined she would react like she did.  Never thought she might go out in the storm.  She panicked.  She just jumped on her horse and took off.  I tried stopping her.  Caught the stirrup, but was dragged across the mud and grass.  Laura seemed to forget everything but her terror.  I lost my grip and she and her mare galloped off into the dark wind and rain, coming down from the sea side.

“It was nearly all I could do to turn back to my own horse and go after her, but I could barely see.  The stable collapsed behind me.  Rats were running out from under the feeder troughs and through the backwall.  There was no where else to go. Someone was coming up on me out of the dark along the banks of the stream, as I charged after her.  I assumed the man had returned from wherever he had gone to, but with the trolls there, I had no time to think.  Both of our horses charged through the storm, running overland towards the sea cliffs, but it was all I could do to hang on and stay in the saddle.  I would see her far ahead through the flashes of lightning, and she made it back to the slopes and dismount, but I arrived too late to stop her.

“When I got there, she had somehow made her way down to the beach.  The storm surged and the sea pressed inward, but she made it out onto a sandbar and the blue oculus arose out of the sea and took her.

“I witnessed it all from the cliffs above.  Her horse was running loose, but I lost track of it in the storm.  I thought about going after it, but I remembered what you told us, Mister Begglar.  That the horses knew the way home.  If my horse hadn’t known the way, I would have been completely lost out there.”

“You did fine, lass!” Begglar interjected.  “Those sea storms are powerful and dangerous.  Many’s the man who would’ve avoided going out into such a blowing, fearsome.  These overland storms lose power coming inland.  Water fuels it, but the land will take out its steam.  By all counts, you gals ran into the worst of it.  The other horse will indeed come back.  Have no doubts.  Bessie’s a good mare.  Quite reliable.  How did you come back?  How was Evangeline?  She is the younger of the two horses.  Your horse.  Has a bit more spirit in her, but you seemed to be the more mature rider to be able to handle her.”

“Evangeline was a godsend, Mister Begglar.  She did just as you said she would.  I loosened the reins and let the mare find her own way back.  I held on to her mane and ducked my head.  The rain and the cold stung and froze, but I just let the horse lead not knowing where else to turn or what else to do.  Eventually, we came down the backroad and the riding was a little easier.

“When the horse returned to the barn near the inn, I was so relieved at first, but there were strange horses there that I had not seen before.  Tall, black and powerful animals, with thick, bulky saddles mounted on cowhide blankets with carry hooks on either side.  I smelled blood spilled somewhere in the barn.  Despite the rain, the air was thick with it mixed with another foul odor.  Right away, I could sense these horses belonged to terrible, and violent men.  Xarmnians, I believe you called them.  They ride with the smell of death on them.”

“How exciting!” a teenaged boy gushed. “What did you do then?”

“Exciting is not the word,” Christie winced, but continued with the account of her journey.  “When you see them coming after you, I doubt that will be the word you will choose to describe it.”

The boy shrugged and grinned, “Sorry.  I just got caught up in your story.  Please tell us more.”

“You may not be so enthusiastic when you hear the rest of it,” she gave him a measured look, and then resumed.  “Anyway, as I was saying, the rain was still coming down pretty strong, but not as blindingly hard as the deluge I had just rode through.  Everywhere I seemed to go, I ran into danger, and I just knew I needed to get out of there before I was seen, but I couldn’t be sure where to go next or where you all had gone.  I could barely see across the yard to the inn.  I knew the plan was to go to that Marker place you referred to,” Christie said, turning to me, “but I didn’t know where that was.  Only that you guys would probably need to take the road if you were taking the wagon you were loading when we left.  There was no one I could see from the barn, so I mounted again and rode up the curved road to the top of the ridge.  I had hoped the rain would provide enough cover, but once I reached the top, I turned my horse and saw some of the men coming out of the inn below.  I reined in and ducked behind the summit, and rode down into an offshoot cut, where the rain runs down beside the road into a ditch.  I found it curved around a small blind behind a boulder and took shelter, giving me a passable view of the descending road above and below.

“Those riders soon crested the summit on their horses shortly after, and I was so terrified that they would discover me in the narrow blind.  But instead of coming towards my hiding place, they turned and rode along the ridge headed away towards the west.  They were armed with spears, and brandished swords, but it looked like they were intent on riding after someone else.  I figured they would follow the road down the other side, but they charged across the slope diagonally after three others I had not noticed before.  I could not see who clearly, but they looked like some of our party and were on foot.  The horsemen, they just cruelly ran them down.  I saw one of them throw his spear, but I had to turn away.  I could not watch anymore.  I was so scared, but the men, the soldiers, for they looked like some sort of militia, never found me or rode my way.”

There was a collective gasp as we all realized what had happened to our three deserters.  “Oh no!” cried one.  “Have mercy!” cried another.

Christie continued, “The horsemen that I could still see through the rain, gathered the bodies of those they had slain onto their horses and took them back over the hill.  Back down to the inn.  I waited and waited, but no other riders came back down my side of the hill.  There was nothing I could do.  The men were cold and efficient.  Merciless.

“It took me a while, but I left my hiding place when the rain lightened up a bit and charged down the road that wound down the hillside.  I had no idea how far ahead you all were.  The road was muddy, but I thought I’d found the wheel tracks of your wagon so I followed those.  I eventually came to a strange hill, surrounded by thornbushes.  If I had to guess, I think it was some sort of a tell.  I remembered reading about them, and only saw a few pictures, but it seemed to fit what I remembered about them.

“The wagon ruts, as much as I could make out after the rain had passed, still led up there, so I stopped to investigate and see what direction you might’ve taken and to get a good view of the lower valley.  Y’know, to see if I could spot you all ahead in the distance.  The storm was still moving, and the worst of it had passed over me, but had slowed and it stretched out over to the northwestern horizon where the road down led.

“Watching from up there on the rise, something strange happened on the side of that hill.  Something that I am still processing, but not quite ready to talk about.”  Christie paused seeming to lose herself in the recent memory, her eyes briefly unfocused and then refocused, and then she added, almost as an afterthought, “There was this strange ray of blue light, too.  It looked like the beam of some kind of search light.  It illumined the upper portion of that tell, and stretched across the sky towards the west.  Somewhere towards a distant ridgeline of far grey mountains.  A light I had not noticed until I moved around towards the western face of the tell.”

There was a growing murmur from among the group, and Miray, who had been sitting cross-legged on the grain floor, chin in hands, wrapped in Christie’s recounting of her experiences, suddenly perked up and scrambled to her feet, beaming.

“See! See!” she grinned, wagging her finger at the group. “I told you all but you dinnent believe me!  She saw it too.  So, there!”

Impishly, she stuck out her small pink tongue, whirled and turned to me.

“We tried to tell them, dinnent we, Mister O’Brian!” she came over and squeezed my hand triumphantly.

“We did,” I answered quietly, “but they were not ready yet to see it.”

The others look from one to another, puzzled by this new revelation, and the sobering account of the demise of three former members of our group.  Threads of low, apprehensive muttering wove its way crossways and through the gathering.

Lindsey piped in, eager to catch Christie up on our latest experience, and distract from the course of the discussion.

“You just missed something terrible here too, Christie.  Be glad you were not here to see it.  The other little girl that was traveling with us was not what she appeared to be.”

“Other little girl?”  Christie turned to me with inquisitive eyes, “What is she talking about?”

I sighed.  There was no easy way to say it.  After all that Christie had been through, I felt it was too early to put this additional revelation on her.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Cheryl squirm a bit, feeling perhaps some guilt on having been such an ardent defender of the deceiver.  She rubbed her leg gingerly, still suffering physically from her personal encounters of learning, as we had, that Becca was not Becca.

Lindsey saw my alarm and seemed to shrink back, regretting that she had broached the subject.  Another of the young men took up the account, handling the topic with a little less finesse.

“We had a traitor in our midst.  A monster, masquerading as a little girl.  But Mister O’Brian here fixed her with that sword of his.  Yes, he did.  She screeched like an angry owl.  Hurt our ears like the dickens, but he whacked her and she just dissolved away into dust.”

Christie turned on me, “Tell me you did not harm a little girl,” her She-Bear nature rising in alarm.

“No, we did not!” I said emphatically, turning a scowl on the young man who was making me sound like something between a hero and a villain.  “Don’t be alarmed.  We tested her to be certain.  She was not a creature of our world or this one. We have a way to expose the deception.   I assure you, this creature appeared in the form of a little girl, but was not one.”

Christie began to unconsciously move back from us, perhaps wondering herself if it had been wise to come back at all.  Wondering if we had been caught up in some mass hysteria and done something terrible to a child.  None of the faces around her bathed in the glow of the firelight seemed to reflect the sheen of madness or twinkle of duplicity.

Puzzled, she turned back to me.  “Then what was she?” she asked, arching an eyebrow, wariness peeking in, still stirring an uneasiness within her.

“She was a Banshee,” Begglar answered.

Christie looked from me…to Begglar…to others…and back to me again.  Miray looked at her directly and solemnly, nodding her head.  Christie sighed, knowing that if this was an adult deception the children wouldn’t be included in it.

“You know…,” she paused, gathering her thoughts and cautiously measuring her reply, “I’ve just been through some terrible experiences recently and before that a fight with a…a Troll.  I can’t believe I’m saying this.” She gathered her reserve and shivered a bit, hugging her arms to herself.  She then turned to Begglar, and said, “What is a Banshee?  At least, what is it here? What does the term mean in this place?”

*Scene 08* 16:05 (Mind Sight)

Grum-Blud and Shelberd huddled in a grotto cave–wet, cold and miserable.  The commotion outside alerted them to the need to make quick work of their inquisitive probings, the raging storm notwithstanding.  So with a rusted bow saw, pegged on the wall in the shack, they promptly took the only remaining part that was needed to conclude their study–the scorched head of their immolated companion.

Now they set brooding in the shallow cave, with the spray of rain and wind adding to their grudging misery.  A horseman had approached from the west, and another had fled across the shallow stream into the stormy night towards the sea cliffs in the distance.  Lightning had lanced across the sky, revealing a further fleeing figure on horseback.  From an earlier sighting through his spyglass, Grum-Blud surmised that the two headed for the coastline were the two women he had spotted on the road when he and Shelberd has emerged from the forest carrying the charred remains of his brother’s body.

The Walker had been sighted in the forest, and he and Shelberd had fled, but they were not certain if they had entirely shaken the giant man from their trail.  They had hoped to cut the women off, but the storm had slowed them as they skulked through the old remnants of Basia, coming across the hillside dugout cabin, just as the winds and rains began to gather fury and strength.  They had cut away the mat of vines that covered the exposed side of the cabin and the doorway, breaking into the solace of the abandoned cabin to take shelter and continue their grisly work of seeking out the last images of sight, their companion had gathered before being set afire.  Grum-Blud was determined to know who did the deed, by any and all means necessary.

When the riders came out of the storm, it inconvenienced Grum-Blud, but he would not be dissuaded.  The large dark-cloaked man coming in from the west, along the stream bank, was distracted by the women, and he and Shelberd had taken that opportunity to slip away into the night, scrambling over the muddy hill and following the ridgeline, keeping an eye out for the dark-cloaked rider.

They debated moving back in and cornering the man when he entered the cabin, and drew their blades out for that purpose, before sighting the large lumbering shape, that materialized out of the wind and wet and converged on the cabin as well.  A shape they recognized and wanted no further interaction with.  The large man known as ‘The Walker.’

Miserable, they scrambled away seeking to find another place to shelter and wait out the storm.  The rain had stung and the icy fingers of the wind threatened to push them out into the full fury of the cold night, but by and by they espied a shadowy grotto, inset into the hill, hiding under a short cornice of rock.  The ground was wet all around, except for a few feet in the back of the cupola.  Nothing dry enough to build a fire on, but enough to provide a meager windbreak away from the clawing reach of the fierce winds and blistering cold.

Grum-Blud glowered at the bag that held the lumpy remains of his brother’s head.  His jaws quivered in rage at their plight, mad at himself for fleeing from the cabin like a rat from a prowl of cats.

He opened the bag and fished inside with his meaty hand, grasping the blackened thing by what remained of its scorched hair.

Shelberd shivered miserably in the corner, unable to look up, mumbling and wimpering to himself.

“It’s now or never,” Grum-Blud growled, pulling out a large knife from his belt sheath and carving into the shadowy orbs with a blade that disappeared into deeper shadow.

Shelberd looked up, half covering his face with his fingers, gawking at Grum-Blud.

Grum-Blud flicked something black away, and stabbed his knife into the ground, near the sack that they had borne the head.  He lifted the head, now appearing more like a skull, towards his own face, and the pale gleam of the stormlight, seemed to fade from his shadowy countenance.  His gritted teeth appeared feral and his meaty hands clamped on the sides of the head when the ears once hung.  Grum-Blud looked deep into the eyesockets of that charred face, and his own eyes swirled in a matching blackness.

After a maddening moment, Shelberd whimpered again and hesitantly asked, “What do you see?” fearing the answer, even as he asked the question.

Grum-Blud grunted, but mumbled back, continuing to gaze deeply into the gaunt shadowy hollows of the eye sockets, his own eyes darkling even as they peered into the sunken holes above the rictus stretched slack jaw, and a gaping row of blackened-and-skinned teeth with a crooked tusk edging the side of the lower jaw.  In life, Pogsley rarely, if ever, grinned without there being the underedge of menace in it.  Now in death, the intent behind his tight, rictus grin was unreadable.  Grum-blud had skinned back the desicated flesh of his brother’s occipital brow with his blade, carving away the remnants of the droopy eyelids that had made the living face of his brother look half-sleepy.

“I see a young girl standing in a circle with others.  Pog is surrounded by others but he finds an interest in her.  She cannot look away, and he senses it.  She is holding a torch, but she is afraid.  Others are with her, but Pog’s focus is fixed on her.  I can see the fear in her eyes.  Overcoming her.  Pogsley is dark-eying her.  Probing her memories, for things that are…useful.  Her torch wavers, and her hand is growing slack.  Others are shouting at her, but it is clear she is the weakest link in the circle of those fencing him in with firelight.  There is much fear in her. Self-doubt and much pain.  Many handles to steer her by.  An easy mark.  This is not the one who did what was done to him.  She couldn’t be.  This waif is too consumed by fear.  Pogsley would have had her soon.  He is stained her soul, with his markings.  Twisting the hurting words inside her.  She offers so much to be used.  No, something else must’ve…  There’s another.  A man, he has a short beard, but he is worried.  Feels responsible, somehow.  He warns others to look away, but does not follow his own advice.  Pogsley catches him too, in an eye sweep.  Fear has weakened him…and compromise.  He might be a weak link as well.”

Suddenly, Grum-Blud jerked back, almost dropping the burned head.

“What? What?!” Shelberd wailed, alarm raising the pitch of his already shrill voice.

“They pulled a bag over him.  He struggles, through a gap I see another who is binding him.  It is neither the man or the girl.  The fingers on the edge of the bag are long and small.  It seems his assailant is a woman.  They fight, but the bag is pulled down over his arms, binding them to his sides.  There are pinpricks of light through the mesh of the weave, but not enough to see clearly.  Shapes of the others, ghostly smears.  The woman and Pog are alone in the struggle.  Pog should have easily bested her, but the bag has him hampered.  He cannot easily get to his boot knife.”

Shelberd gaped, “They slipped up behind him!  Figures!  Pog would have gutted the lot of ’em, he would.”

“Yes. Yes.” Grum-Blud continued, still probing.  There is no sound to the scenes, he is connected to.  Only the images.  A confusion of material.  A cessation of the struggle, as the bag heaves under Pogs slow breathing.  Nothing clearly can be seen through the waft and weave of the course sack.  Only near scrub and gravel.  Then a sudden twist and tumble of material.  The a flash of curling smoke, and coiling flame.  The sight is choked with yellow and orange light, but suddenly goes black.  Nothing happens for a time.  The electrical impulses, cool and bury themselves into the neural mass, enfolding into grooves of gray flesh.  Then a dream-like image surfaces.  Like a vision through deep water.  It’s the girl.  The girl that was stained by Pogsley.  It is her sight.  The spiritual stain binds the dead to the living.

Grum-Blud’s long silences chill Shelberd with a coldness felt deeper inside him.  There is a warmth of connection even in the companionship of someone as grim and cruel as Grum-Blud.  He had rather endure Grum-Blud’s insults and mockery than that of Grum-Blud’s silences. For Shelberd had traveled long enough with Grum-Blud to know that Grum’s silences were even more ferocious and dangerous.  “Grum?” he ventured.

Grum-Blud cleared his throat, grunting, “I see a moonlit room.  Glass.  A window pane and rain outside.  I see…” his voice trailed off.

“Pogsley?” Shelberd probed.

“No,” Grum-Blud retorted, “The other.  The waif girl.  Pog got a stain into her. She still lives.  But is not here.”

“Where then?”

Grum-Blud lowered the head, fumbling for the sack they had carried it in.  As he blindly tucked it into the bag, the blackness in his eyes swam away behind the hooded lids of his eyes, revealing the jaundices schlera framing his dark irises and narrowing pupils.

A faint moonwash of veiled light silvered his lumpy brow and bunched cheeks, reflecting off of the pearlescent drops of rain water that had been trapped into the tangle of his thick beard.

“She is in The Out-World.  In some sort of cart, with strange wheels.  she has locked herself into a dark box.  I could see no further, but her fear there is strong and sharp.  It clarifies what we can see through her.”

“What does that matter?  It can be of no further use to us,” Shelberd pouted.

Grum-Blud rose from a squat, and slung the bag of his brother’s head over his shoulder, a blackened stain wetting its bulbous shape.

“Maybe not, but then again, maybe so,” Grum-Blud answered cryptically.

“What are you thinking?!” Shelberd rose up from his shivering crouch, only enough to back further into the shallow cave, and feel the coldness of the bare stone behind him.

“Mind-sights like these are valuable to a certain group obsessed with crossing back over into The Other.”

“You’re not suggesting…?!” Shelberd wailed, suddenly shivering uncontrollably.

“Exactly,” Grum-Blud grinned, his face seeming to mirror that of the rictus grin eternally cast upon the face of the dead head he now carried within its sack.

“No, Grum, please think this through!  The Pan will kill us without a thought to it.”

Grum-Blud hefted the bag, black ooze dripping from its underside.

“Not if we give him something he wants,” Grum-Blud sneered.  “Right now we have little to take back to Jahaza, that he cannot get from others. But to The Pan, we bear a sight into the world he and others like him have sought for centuries.”

“B-But what if he just takes Pogsley’s head from us and kills us off?  What then?!”

“He won’t,” Grum-Blud growled.

“How can you be so sure?” Shelberd whined.

“Because delving is an insight only given to trolls.  There is no one in his kingdom of Half-men that can do what our kind can do.”

“What about the dark pools?” Shelberd moved forward beseechingly grasping Grum-Blud’s forearm, cowering and shaking.  “They say he has an entire wood filled with the dark waters, around an old stone temple.  That he looks through those waters constantly and can see into that other world.  Why would he need our Pogsley’s head?”

“Because he can see through a living person, that’s why!” Grum-Blud growled, freeing himself from Shelberd’s pleading grip.  “Fear clarifies the vision.  And if this connection still remains through my dead brother, that means this girl will somehow be coming back here.  And if she does, we…and The Pan and his kind will all be waiting for them.  Something of herself has been left here.  Something personal.  She will be brought back, and the group of outworlders that did this to my brother will find themselves wishing they had never meddled with the purposes of a troll!”

“What about that other man?  The one you said Pogsley also dark-eyed?”

Grum-Blud’s lips pulled into a further grin and he clapped Shelberd on the back, but Shelberd winced, expecting that clap to be a blow, like the countless ones he had received from Grum-Blud before.  “For once, you finally asked ‘the right‘ question, you numbskull!”

The rain just outside of the grotto cave had finally stopped and only the slow dripping from the stone cornice brow above remained.  The wind had died down to a low but threatening whisper, implying a warning, but waning as it progressed further inland following the central strength of the storm.

*Scene 09* 12:05 (Dangerous Delays)

The armory in the Iron Hills proved to be a problem for Storm Hawk and her band of Lehi horsemen.  They were suited and trained for hit-and-run short raids, but not for holding and capturing prisoners long-term.  For that, they needed a larger body of regimented troops and guardsmen.  In short, they needed the forces of the underground resistance.  Tapping resources from that hidden reservoir had been difficult but not impossible.  Begglar had proven to be the key.  His clandestine relationships from years prior still bore fruit.  His present whereabouts were known by very few, for he no longer plied the fjord waters of the lake chains of Cascale as a supply raider, causing the Xarmnians much consternation and grief.  After marrying Nell and having reinvented himself as a baker and innkeeper far away from the Skorlithian shipyards, his influence and reach had shortened but had not entirely disconnected from the many old friends he had made in his days of piracy against the Xarmnian water fleets.   His ship had suffered irreparable damage during its final sea battle with the leviathan that had once plied and plagued those bifurcated waters.  His ship had run aground onto a sand bar in one of the hidden coves and inlets.  Over the intervening years, the ship had been taken apart and used to refurbish those few remaining smaller ships that ran a sleeker, faster legacy fleet through the lake chain now that the leviathan’s carcass had been found and confirmed dead.  Skorlithians now managed those legacy fleets.  The newer boats no longer required armored sides now that the beast had been slain, and Begglar was still recognized as the brave captain that had led the charge to bring the monstrous creature to ground.  As a result, the smaller, faster fleets could more easily overtake and evade the Xarmnian warships, increasing their effectiveness.  Many of the former Mid-Worlder crew that had served with and under Begglar remained loyal but respected his need for privacy, now that the Xarmnians had identified him and put such a high price on his head.  Many of those crew now ran small fishing operations with small or modest-sized fleets of their own.  Some had retired from the cold waters, content to let the younger take their turn.  The smaller boats operated with more shallow drafts, finding themselves now able to pass over “The Rakes”, underwater buttresses built by the Xarmnians to keep the former beast from invading their passage routes and plaguing their supply ships, as it had done with the Skorlithian fleets.   The leviathan often chased schools of fish up to the edge of “The Rakes”, but turned back into the Skorlithian side of the water, allowing those fish to filter through the gaps in “The Rakes” only to be harvested by Xarmnian fishing boats operating between “The Rakes”.  The death of the leviathan of Cascale did not serve the Xarmnian interests.  In fact, it took away their advantage, making the downriver Skorlithian fishing industry profitable again.  The influence of leviathan served to build Xarmnian power.  A fact that was not lost on the coastal peoples.  A fact that fed additional Xarmnian hatred and rage towards those responsible for bringing down the beast.  The Xarmnian headwaters, within “The Rakes”, were closer to the eastern oceanic inlet and the eastern edge was more salinated, than the western Skorlithian edge of the Lake Cascale chain with more glacial freshwater fed off of the snow masses melting off of the frontal heights and shelves of the Nawsaw (נָסָה Exodus 20:20 word for ‘test’ [ref. Strong’s h5254] ) range running through the waterfront forests of Gacean.

The freshwater fish thrived, while the influx of oceanic fish sickened from the diminishing salts and something present in the fog-laced coastlands.  The melted snow filtered through the stone breaks of the mountain and across the river stone of the brooks and streams that came down into the lake chain, purifying the water as it arrived and emptied into the lake basin.

Xarmni, thinking to situate itself in a position of advantage by dominating the upper east side of the lake chain, found themselves solely vested in an untenable and failing position, forcing them to take more desperate measures of extending their influence and power.  What they lacked in their former market dominance of the independent fishing industry, they had to make up in forceful military actions.  Desperation also drove the Xarmnian efforts making many more enemies among the Mid-lander communities who resisted being ruled by the mad successor king of the Stone City of Xarm.

Skorlithians were largely sympathetic to the concept of resistance against Xarmnian tyranny.  Many of Begglar’s friends disappeared into the underground, forming its secretive organization, linking many communities and Mid-landers into its growing and restless army.

The problem with managing a grassroots underground network of dissidents across Mid-World geographies was the potential problem of infiltrators, and informants that threatened the whole.  Xarmni and its agents were adept at finding leverage points, with the goal of bringing down the insurgent hidden network.   The Xarmnians formed Protectorate Guard bands ostensibly to police the outer territories and exact taxation and tribute for their own “protection”.

Xarmni used these extortion tactics to, not only enrich their cruel leadership but also, to make up forshortfalls in their storehouses for feeding their own captive populaces and their armies.  Loss of revenue could not be excused or tolerated for whatever reason.  Xarmni’s leadership council lacked the ability to self-examine the consequences of their own policies.  Rather they sought to obfuscate their own culpability by denials and casting blame for failure, often upon an innocent party with no discretionary power to influence the outcome of a leadership directive.  Xarmni resented and sought to undermine any means of profitability and production that they could not control, manipulate or undermine.  They demonized their competitors, attempting to spoil their methods and turn the dependent communities, with whom they had traded for generations, against them stating that the competitors’ privateering practices were unsustainable and irrevocably polluting the lake chains.

Outrage drove many further into the underground network, seeking ways to respond covertly to the Xarmnian encroachments, if not openly and overtly.  Direct resistance was met with Xarmnian violence.  But covert resistance was not easily ascribed to one party whose family or living means which could be directly punished.

The operations under The Son of Xarm were growing more desperate and violent.  The monarch ruled by instilling fear for he could not rule by inspiring fealty or love.

Shimri, one of Begglar’s old crewmates, was still active in the present underground.  Shimri was Begglar’s sole connection to the old network and the distant shipping fleets still in operation against the Xarmnian encroachments.  Shimri had sent word through his connections for men to take charge of the Iron Hills armory, once word reached them that the Storm Hawk and her company had secured it.

Storm Hawk and her agents had secured a commitment from Shimri that men would arrive to relieve them from that responsibility but their arrival had been delayed.  Xarmnian troops had been seen in the area and were riding in a company leading a pack of devil dogs on the trail headed towards the main road that would eventually descend from the highlands into the lower valleys.  Speculation arose that they were seeking Begglar for questioning.  A later towering column of smoke following the passage of a seasonable rainstorm coming from the location of Begglar’s inn revealed to all that the Xarmnians had been frustrated in that intention.

Now Storm Hawk and her Lehi riders were finally taking the wider, smoother low road that ran along the base of the old escarpment granary promontory through the lowland passage, wary that the Xarmnian troop was either ahead or behind them.

The relief resistance thought that the Xarmnians had gone up the long way towards the top of the escarpment, and they had watched for a time, fearing that from the upper rise, they would be more easily spotted riding towards the Iron Hills armory, only to see them descend the slope again, apparently frustrated from proceeding on towards the summit.  The rain storm that had veiled the escarpment rise was finally thinning out, and the troop had turned their dogs and their horses back down toward the back trail that would eventually converge with the main road.  Chances were probable that they would proceed to their stock stables along the hill road, to rotate their mounts for fresh horses.

Begglar and his party were supposed to meet them near the Xarmnian stables.  Or that was the last word they had received before Begglar and his family had taken it out on the lam.  Begglar would be wary, Storm Hawk told herself, but he would need to be warned that the Xarmnians were already hot on his trail.

Her team was suited and armored up, appearing much like a Xarmnian convoy bearing a routine shipment of weapons fresh from the Iron Hills forges.  The wind was coming up from the southeast, pushing the former rainstorms ahead of its front toward the northwest.  Her team rode in a diagonal phalanx pattern, moving obliquely along the road allowing the sulfurous scents of their equipment and garb to pass beyond them.  A couple of teams pulled two wagons of wooden boxes holding stock of the weaponry and armor plating.  They had hoped to use the cover of the armor delivery as a ruse to get close enough to the Xarmnian stables to refurbish their riding stock as well so that they could supply Begglar and the others with fresh horses.  With the Xarmnian outer patrol ahead of them, Storm Hawk realized that that plan might prove to be too dangerous.  There had to be some way to get word of warning to Begglar, but she had no way of knowing how far ahead Begglar and his party might be and her scout, Ryden, was on special detail and set to rejoin them later in Azragoth.  She knew that once was agreed upon and set in motion, operating separately and with no contact, the most probable method for success was adhering to the original plan as much as possible.  The delay of the relief personnel had already cost them half a day.  A delay that may cost Begglar and his family their lives, if that Xarmnian patrol were positioned for an ambush.

As Storm Hawk and her team of disguised arms convoy soldiers, turned off of the branch road onto the track that approached the Xarmnian stockyard, high above, nestled and curved down the face of the rocky escarpment, appearing like stone, a large ice-blue eye opened on the outcropping, dotted by an ink black pupil and carefully rolled to follow the distant progress of their movements as they descended below the brow of the branch road.  It had observed a prior group of armed men moving in that same direction before.  Its other black eye slowly cracked open, appearing like a black slash along a bony rim of jagged rock.  Its implanted agent’s signal no longer pulsed in its obsidian depth like a ripple in a dark pool, but its other senses were still sharp enough to scent and perceive that which might feed its growing hunger…and obsession.  It would wait and watch.  And at some point, it would claw down the face of the cliff… furrow into the ground, and follow.

*Scene 10* 30:54 (Banshee)

“The Banshee?” Begglar grunted, “Ah, lassie. Now that is a whispery tale to be told on a night of storms.  Are you sure ya want ta hear it?”

The crew gathered around Begglar, eager faces turned toward him, as he settled himself on a bench, backlit by the flickering glow of the furnace firelight.

Christie nodded, and Miray answered audibly for all.  “Tell it! Tell it! Mister Boogler!”

Nell broke out laughing, as did the others, grateful for the release and relief of the tension.  Miray looked around with a puzzled look and shrugged her shoulders, not sure what the adults seemed to think was funny.

Begglar chuckled and wiped his face with a short handkerchief pulled out of one of his myrid pockets. From the kerchief, he had unrolled a short pipe and a cinch bag of dried and shredded tobacco, which he poured and tamped down the mix into the bell of his pipe.

“Dear, I thought you gave that up?!” Nell stood with her hands on her hips, gently reproving her husband with a light scold.  Begglar looked down at what his hands were doing, realizing he’d unwittingly outed himself.  To him, storytelling and piping, were once part of the same exercise.  He had forgetton that he’d pocketed the pipe, and he now gave his wife a sheepish grin.  “Now, Nellus, dear.  You won’t begrudge a poor man his pipe when he’s been called upon to set forth a tale now will ye?”

Nell raised an eyebrow, but gave him a wink with it, “Well, now. Maybe just this once.  It’s been a while since ye told yer tales with a fire agoin’ and good company gathered.”

“Thankee, dear one,” Begglar said, lifting a glowing ember to the bell of his protruding pipe, now carefully ensconced between his teeth, and hanging out over his beard. “I only kept this one fer celebratin’ Ash Wednesdays,” he said, giving the others a sly wink.

“Ash Wednesdays, indeed!” she said wagging her finger at him.  “And, doancha think I didna know that ya had that pipe in them vest pockets, as if I’m oblivious to yer cunning ways, me luv!  I’ve found it more times than I can count, doin’ the wash.  Your as full of blarney as the day I met ya.”  Here she touched a finger to the side of her nose, as others had seen Begglar himself do more than once, adding, “And I’ve ALWAYS been wise to it.  Ye’re lucky I let you keep it for such as this, but don’t be blowin’ yer smokes at the wee ones, me darlin’.”

“Yes, dear,” Begglar said, drawing in his cheeks and building up a short series of puffs of the smoldering tobacco, now catching to the lit ember.

Begglar reached for the bell of his pipe, and took the end from his mouth.  “Now where was I?”

“Banshee!” Miray said, laughing at the small puffs of smoke coming out of his nostrils.

“Banshee, it twas!” Begglar said lifting his pipe in salute and rehung it into the corner of his mouth.

I marveled watching Begglar settling into his natural element.  A born story teller, if ever there was one.

“Well, now,” Begglar said, “Here’s to the truth of it.  Banshees here are transitions.”

“Transitions?” someone in the crowd asked.

“Meanin’ that they are more than just one thing.  They are the same essential, but take different forms.  It is the dragons that do it.  They add the earth and clay, and bring in the plasma to find a shape from a blood-born.”

Quizzical looks fanned over the pond of firelit faces like waves touched by a gentle breeze.

“Blood-born?  Dragons?” one of the young men adjusted his posture, sitting up from a slouch.

“Aye!” Begglar answered fingering his pipe, looking around at the eager faces, bemused by something only he seemed to know.  “Perhaps, it’d be best to start with me beloved green isle, back in the Surface.  Ireland.”

“There are no dragons in Ireland!” a young man said.

“So, you’ve been there, haveya?” Begglar zeroed in on the skeptic.

“No, b-but…” the young man stammered, instantly regretting having spoken out.

Begglar raised an eyebrow, “Aye. Thought so,” He fingered his pipe bell, “There be more mysterious things in the old green isle and the thereabouts, than you’d be ken to, laddie.  Hush now. And leave me to the tellin.”

Begglar took out his pipe and gestured with it, “Have ya heard the Scotts speak of kelpies, now?”

“I have!” Miray said with a big wide grin, raising her hand in response to the general question.

“Are you saying there is a dragon in Loch Ness?” one of the young women asked.

“That’d be in the land of the Scots.  I am referrin’ to Ireland.  Kelpies are not only the beasties in their lochs.  They are better kept mum by the Irish, than the Scots.  Give a Scot a draft of whiskey, and he’ll tell all his country’s secrets.  Not so the Irish.  Before nary a word is spoken of the beastie’s one must be prepared to get a clout, and a blackened eye.  The Irish feel strongly about our fairy mysteries, and manys the man that held a handful of his own front teeth in his hand by bringin’ up what was a friendly discussion of the matters ta begin with.”

“D’ya mean like leprechauns?”

“Aye. The wee folks be part of it,” Begglar said touching the side of his nose in that characteristic fashion.

“Are you sayin’ these things are real?” the young man, formerly reprimanded, asked.

“To a point,” Begglar answered cryptically, “Legends are born out of experiences.  But they often grow to a point that the truth of the real is no longer recognizable.  Passionate people often drive tales into the stretching.  For example, the Banshee, now.  She is told to be recognized by the sound of her wailing.  The beastie we witnessed now.  Even now her terrible screech still rings in my ears.  Back in Ireland she was thought of as both an angel and a demon.  Her wails were a harbinger of doom.  She appears fair at times and foul at others.  In the legends in the land where I came from, she wanders the fells and moors.  Her moaning foretells of an upcoming death in the family.  For she is a mourner, you see?  She mourns, but then she doesn’t now. It is not her own pain that she regrets.  Its the misery she brings to others.  She being a portentuous sprite and a woeful spirit.  The wailing comes from a human tradition.  A custom, it was.  Some customs come from historical and biblical traditions.  There were paid mourners whose job it was to wail over the dead and dying.  Families would hire these women to make such a fuss. They’d come in like a flock of cave bats.  A wearin’ black mourners clothes and beatin’ their breasts like just as if it were their own kin.   The louder the wailing the greater the honor it was believed given to the dearly departed. Twas an old custom of culture but not just the Irish.  Ancient Greece, Rome, Egypt, China and the Middle East, all had these customs, and the Romans brought these keening customs to the Celts.”

“Biblical?” others looked up.

“Aye.   The Ancient Text, there.  It tells of that custom, as well.”

Begglar turned to me, “O’Brian, lend me a passage now, will ye.  Book of Luke, chapter 8, just the last part relatin’ to that Jairus fella.”

Begglar touched his nose and turned back to the group, “See I tole ya O’Brian was good fer somethin’.” And he winked and grinned.  I had many times noticed that Begglar became a just bit more Irish when he talked of the old country, in both his manner and inflection.  But I humored him anyway.

“Then a man named Jairus, a synagogue leader, came and fell at Jesus’ feet, pleading with him to come to his house because his only daughter, a girl of about twelve, was dying. As Jesus was on his way, the crowds almost crushed him. … While Jesus was still speaking, someone came from the house of Jairus, the synagogue leader. “Your daughter is dead,” he said. “Don’t bother the teacher anymore.” Hearing this, Jesus said to Jairus, “Don’t be afraid; just believe, and she will be healed.” When he arrived at the house of Jairus, he did not let anyone go in with him except Peter, John and James, and the child’s father and mother. Meanwhile, all the people were wailing and mourning for her. “Stop wailing,” Jesus said. “She is not dead but asleep.” They laughed at him, knowing that she was dead. But he took her by the hand and said, “My child, get up!” Her spirit returned, and at once she stood up. Then Jesus told them to give her something to eat. Her parents were astonished, but he ordered them not to tell anyone what had happened.” [Luke 8:41-42, 49-56 NIV]

“Thankee, O’Brian,” Begglar said with a bow, “that was nicely done. Now leave off with ye.” He said curtly, turning again to the younger ones with his arms raised, ape-like and then bringing them together in a loud clap to get their attention.

“Well, now, it was a Jewish custom in those days to have mourners come and pay their respects by these raucous expressions of grief.  Some traditions live on from family to family and from culture to culture.  My homeland has a blend of traditions.  Some good, some not so much.  A blend of faithful heritage with a turn and churn of myth and folklore mixed in.  ‘Lump levening’, me dear sainted mother used ta call it.  It is not often known where the rites of the orthodox ends and the pagan ritual begins.

“Some believed the Banshee was the curse of the women mourners who laughed and mocked and derived the Master when He said the child was only asleep.  That the Banshee-kind were destined to mourn for eternity over their mockery. And were cursed to walk between this world and the next until the end of time.  A convenient argument for those holding to superstition as piously as they claimed to hold to the tenets of the faith.  Belief in such would seem to cast a nasty sort of vindictiveness upon the Lord, now wouldn’t it?” he rubbed his chin, fingering his beard thoughtfully.  “That I should say so, now, gives to the question more weight to our myth, than to the right clear truth of the Ancient Varse.  That it would.  Since there being no mention of such a curse given, the connection is a mere fancy.  Old wives tales, as ‘twas called in my day.”

He spun around again with his ape arms raised, to tease the kids, “The woman Banshee–since I don’t reckon there ‘tis a male variety– is what we in Ireland called the “Hag of the Mist”.  The very word Banshee is formed from the Gaelic tongue for ‘mound’ and ‘fairy woman’ – bean sí, pronounced /bain-see/.

He cupped a hand to his ear and touched a finger to his lips.

“Hush now!  Can ya hear it?  Listen closely.  What is that noise outside?”

Miray’s eyes went wide and she moved forward to cling to Begglar’s leg.

“Dear! Really now!” Nell interjected.  “Don’t frighten the child!”

Begglar reached down and patted Miray’s head, and squatted on his heels before her taking her hand. “Quiet now, child.  Tell me only what you hear.”

“The wind?” Miray asked, tentatively.

“Aye!  Good answer!  You’re the clever one!  The wind can’t blow on you in here.  Can it?”

Miray shook her head and grinned.

“No, it can’t,” Begglar patted her, “Now take a seat, and listen.”

Begglar rose and continued, “As you can tell, the outside wind makes strange noises as it howls through the breaks and around uneven surfaces and landmasses.  Y’kin even hear it now, outside these doors.  Hills and valley, moors and cliffs.  And in Ireland we had all these in spades.  Strong night winds would tear across the northern country, moaning and screeching like a keening woman.  Some houses were not built as they should be, and often times the drafts and cold moist air would get into the house of an evening.  And the fevers would come and pneumonia might set it and take a child or two from that world to the next.

Begglar, moved and sat on a tied sheaf of hay, closer to the fire, wagging his head.  “Aye, tis the rational thinking man, might reason.  But we Irish, now, we cleave to our superstitions like we take to the tune of a fiddle and a draught of Irish whiskey.

Here, Begglar took on the vocal affectations of two squabbling Irish women, playing to the younger ones, “‘Twas the Banshee, took the child,” says one.  “Nay, ‘twas that sad sack of yer no good husband not stoking the fire in the hearth, nor filling in the cracks in the slat works wall of your house.  But dainty is the fingers of yer worthless man.  Can’t be workin’ in the mud and dauble to fix the cracks, now.  Rather be a drinkin’ and a fightin’ at O’Mally’s Pub, says I, than attendin’ to his household.”  But the woman of the opinion that it t’were the Banshee, she’s got the bigger fists, and louder mouth and she won’t be hearing the truth of it, from Molly McDonald, now will she?  And to see to it, that she shuts her mouth about that perceived truth, she clouts her a good one, right in the eye she does.  So, as far as the folks around that settle’s it.  Best not be vexing the mourning woman with the big fists, say they.  If she says, ‘twas the Banshee wailing that warned of the deaths, and snatched her poor child with the fevers then that IS ‘the story’ that stands.  And stand it has for a good long time, now.  Not even the rector in the local parish will deny it.  He too enjoys continuing to see out of both his eyes.”

We all had a good laugh at that.  Begglar always had a way about him that was endearing.  His Inn was quite popular in its day, but it was mostly because of the man he was.

The others and I went back to their meals and dinner conversations, but I noticed that Begglar, slipped away to speak privately to Christie.

Dominic had ascended the inner stairs and had come back from the upper smoke room stores, and he and Nell had laid out cut meats and cheese along a large charcuterie serving board.  As the others rose to go to the table where Nell, Dominic and a few helpers had set out the serving, Begglar took the opportunity to approach Christie privately, with a more sober expression and squatted before her, looking at her eye to eye.

“Lass, as there were young ones present in the hearing, I could not entirely answer your sincere question directly.  And I do not wish to diminish the seriousness of your question.  Do you understand?”

I stood behind and nearby, but did not call attention to my presence.  Begglar’s demeanor had drastically changed in his approach to her, unlike the gregarious, affable front he had shone to others, there was a gentleness about the man that showed a sober humility in his manner that I had never witnessed before.  Much had changed in him, through the intervening years, and I marveled at how a strong, boisterous captain of a former pirate crew, could shift into such a demeanor of tenderness.  I could tell part of it was the influence that both Nell and fatherhood had on him, but another part was because of something much more ineffable.

Begglar took Christie’s hand and gently patted it in his large, rough paw.

“You have shone a great deal of courage, young lady, bearing all you have been through.  You’ve come through much already.  So it is wish the understanding of your courage, that I feel I can address personally your question more directly than I could with the others.

“The Banshee in legend, in my dear land in The Surface World, is a supernatural entity which visits fear on the superstitous.  Fear gives the evil ones insight and influence on a world in which they cannot physically manifest.  It also clouds what is real and it separates us from the One who centers us in our weakness.  We need to stand on the rock of certainty, or we will crumble when the storms come and the waves are driven ashore.  The young ones, they need the lighter touch of what is to be explained.  But we need courage to be sober to threat, without letting the threat drive us into the enemy’s places of shifting sand.  You mentioned you stood upon the hill and saw it for what it really is.  A Tell.  Think about that word’s dual meaning, for here you are in a world of dualities.  Here, one thing may also be another and both aspects are coequal parts of the whole of what it is.  Most times in this Mid-World there are three aspects making up the whole–a trinity.  The most difficult part to see and experience is the mysterious third.  It is because as a race we have been blinded to it.  We see through a glass darkly.  But that is where belief in the unseen is most important.  Excavatia is the mysterious third of the three parts of reality.  It is part of a promise, a hope and a legend.  The presence of The Marker Stone is a mysterious guarantee in this world.  A rock of certitude that is supernaturally protected.  Many here have tried to destroy it, but cannot.  It is a Word of surety, in a world bent on destroying it and burying its Truths.  There are physical illusions in this Mid-World that attempt to make us think they are something else.  But the one thing that secures us, is knowing and reminding ourselves of the nature and the revealed Words of The One.  You are one of the few who have given your name to this journey.  And I suspect, by doing so, you are now learning how important being named here matters.  When someone asks you how you are called, you give them your name, your calling.  That blue search light you saw, and little Miray saw, was a gleam from The Praesporous Stone–The Hope Stone.  It is placed high in the distant mountains, in the heart of a dangerous place.  A place we, who are all called, must eventually get to.  Only those committed to the quest can see the light of Hope.  Those who are called.  Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

Nacent tears filled Christie’s eyes as she nodded.  The words she had heard in her spirit on the road came back to her.

“Yes. I think I do.”

“Are you secure in knowing that you are called–marked–by The Marker Stone?”

Christie lifted her head, gratitude showing through her tears, feeling warmed by more than just the fire burning in furnaces beyond her.

“Yes,” she said, brushing a tear and a strand of stray hair away with the heel of her hand.

Begglar studied her for a brief second, and then nodded.  “Kelpies, Banshees, Leprechauns, and other fae creatures of my Surface World home, all have one thing in common in our legends, which is physically true here in this world.”  He paused, and then met Christie’s eyes and finished off, “They are all creatures given to illusions to hide the truth.  They are shapeshifters.  As variable as the shifting winds of my dear Ireland.  Here in this world, a Banshee is a wind spirit.  It enters a body given to it by a dragon.  I suspect there is one here in the Mid-World now.  The experience of that family we hid–what they saw happen to Xarmnian pursuers in a wheat field–could only be explained by the presence of a dragon.  A dragon can build is own army of mudlings.  All it needs to do so, is a hosting wind sprite, a bit of injested earth and human blood to give this “body” an image.  If this image is worn on a mudling, chances are high that the blood donor was consumed by the dragon that formed it.  A mudling, often called a gollum, which means unformed substance, can shift into as many images as are present in the blood the dragon took into itself.  This makes dragons more dangerous than even their physical might and savage nature might pose in direct combat.  They can see through their agents.  Each mudling they give this half-life, become their slavish agents, and informants.  The Becca that was human, is no longer, I am sorry to say.  The sword O’Brian bears does not just physically cleave at an enemy, but it also reveals and unmasks illusions.  The sword was not used to kill a child, but only an illusion of one.  The dust of the image still retains a memory of the blood by which it was formed.  But it cannot reform itself into a golem without the aid of a dragon.  It must return to the dragon.  And that will give us time to get to a place beyond its reach.  With this knowledge, you must not live in fear of those things that are dragon-formed.  Fear will draw those things towards you.  Find that place in knowing that you are named and take security in that hope.  Evil cannot destroy or succeed in destroying those secured by The Marker Stone.  They may seem to progress for a time, but ultimately, all will bow before The Rock.  The Marker Stone is a conduit for The Logos.  The three-part symphony twines and swirls around the scale time.  It gives its gifts of word and deed.  My word came in a life verse that references both my past and my future.  It ties into the hope visible and invisible, and passes through the veil into Excavatia.  Excavatia is a place of sanctuary and security.  A place where no evil may come.  It is a holy place, where all mysteries in the Surface World and this Mid-World will be revealed.  My verse is in the Ancient Text letter of the Apostle Paul to his brethern.

We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain. [Hebrews 6:19 CSB]

“As I’ve told O’Brian, my confidence and security living in this place is, and has always been, being anchored in the awareness of the knowledge of what I believe about The One who occupies Excavatia.  As such the beasties of this world will not separate me from the hope I have, no matter what storms may come.  Banshees gain power by convincing others to fear them, and to making others think that it is they who hold the keys to life and death.  But I know their hidden secret.  If a Banshee wails in a threnody, ultimately, it weeps for itself.  For its end is coming, and those of us moving forward into the promise of a Stone Quest, will not be silenced or stopped.”

“I think I understand more now,” Christie said, “I didn’t before.  Thank you, sir.  Brian… Is it Brian or O’Brian?  I’ve heard him called both.”

“O’Brian,” Begglar said with a wry grin, “And don’t you let him forget it, now!”

“But, I thought he introduced himself as Brian.”

“He most likely did.  Brian is a fine, strong Irish name.  The name of an Irish king in the past.  O’Brian in the Irish parlance simply means “Of Brian” the same as would any child or descendent of one called Brian.  Brian means ‘strong one’, in the old Irish.  And this here ‘O’Brian’ has a tendency to let things go to his head.  He’s too much into his own thoughts, to be of much use, more’s the pity.  So until he earns being called ‘Brian’ outright, I’ll be callin’ him ‘O’Brian’ in the interim. Understand?”

Christie smiled and nodded, “I suppose most of us are too much into our own thoughts, I guess.”

“Now don’t you be giving him a pass,” Begglar raised a warning finger, ” Leadership is upon him now, and it is a fair burden to be carrying, if you are not humbled by it to be a servant.”

Christie smiled, “When O’Brian… told us about beasts between worlds, none of us understood what he meant by it.  He said something about a creature called ‘Hollywood’ being from a place called ‘Holy Wood.’  Does any of that make sense to you?”

“Aye,” Begglar rocked back on his heels and turned to sit on the bench next to Christie.  “Makes sense that he would be fixated on that.  It would be meaningless to the rest of you, but for him it was a place where he feels he had his greatest failing.  What used to be known in the ancient times of this world as a ‘Holy Wood’, is a dark place now.  The Pan and his kinds dwell there.  He had claimed it and made it the seat of his throne.  The trees appear dead there.  The sky over it seems a bit darker everyday, as if night has decided to take away the memory of the day and hold its position against the progress of the sun.  There is some connection there between the Mid-World and The Surface World, and The Pan and his kind are obsessed with finding it.  Many pools of water are underneath the shadowy trees, hanging with moss and poisonous parasitic plants.  It is a place of defilement now.  This place would mean nothing to you all, but it was the place where he fled and lost Caleb, his friend and the brother of our then leader, Jeremiah.  Feelings of failure tend to take shape and form, and the beast that stalks O’Brian hooked into him before he left here.  O’Brian carried something supernatural with him into his life in The Surface World.  Something he hangs onto and does not realize he can be empowered to shake.  As long as he runs from the problem, it pursues him.  He sees its reflection in him, and it scares him.”

“But how does that help us?”  Christie asked.

“It doesn’t,” Begglar answered, clasping one hand in the grip of the other.  “He regrets failing in the two parts of his existence.  His Surface World, physical self, and his Mid-World metaphysical self within his soul.  But mind that I told you there is a third part to each of us.  An inner, unseen part anchored in Excavatia.  At the end of our days, we will be rejoined fully to all parts of ourselves, and be completed in The One who makes us whole again.  We will be perfected, not by our own efforts, but by what He has already accomplished for us.  The third part of us will see The One as He truly is, and we will be enfolded into that eternal part, and fully embraced, not losing any of ourselves.  Not even a single hair.” Begglar tugged on his beard for effect, and Christie chuckled.

“Why didn’t O’Brian just tell us that?  You make it so much clearer to understand.”

“Ah, O’Brian tends to mix his metaphors.  And he has never had children of his own.  It comes easier to us who learn to adapt our words to train up a child.  We don’t force feed a steak into a baby’s mouth, but learn to mash and breakdown their food into a spoonsized bite, once they are off their milk diet.  O’Brian is a force feeder, and it is no wonder people tend to choke on his words.  When he takes the time to know each of you better, he will begin to understand how to choose what morsels to serve and when.  And speaking of morsels, I think it is time we went over there to eat something before it is all gone.”  Begglar gestured towards the line of the others, gathered around the long table.

“I think I’ll just drink my tea for now.  It has an odd berry and buttery taste, that burns a little but is soothing,” she lifted her cup to her lips and took a small sip.  “It is warming, after being out in all the cold.”

“Chances are that ‘tea’ is not just an herbal blend.  Nell specializes in serving customers in the Inn.  She served in one in her home town of ‘Sorrow’s Gate’ when I first met her.  Seems to be able to read what people need when they come in.  She is an expert in wild herbs and ferments.  If I were to guess, that tea you are sipping is a combination of Japanese sake and elderberry wine.  Learned the sake recipe from an oriental fellow that was part of Jeremiah’s party when we came through.  A rice wine.  You’ll need more food in your stomach to be able to take the road ahead soon, so eat up.”

Christie laughed, and said, “I thought you faith folks were not supposed to be given to strong drink.”

Begglar stood and grinned, touching the side of his nose again, “To excess, aye. Or in the presence of stumblers, tis’ true.  But consider what we do, is in moderation, and with temp’rance. There is a time when wine is meant for thy stomach sake, as well as for merriment.  And tis’ true we also have a sayin’ here in the highlands. ‘There be no barman nor barmaid that can say they served water to a Xarmnian and lived to tell the tale.'”  He winked, and took Christie’s hand raising her to her feet.  “You get as good at making wines and ales as you do at surviving running an inn frequented by your enemies.  Now off with you. Eat up.”

Christie walked ahead towards the table, and Begglar turned and spotted me leaning against one of the room’s support columns, my arms folded.

“Mixing my metaphors?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Serves you right for dropping at the eaves!” Begglar said, turning to head towards the crowd at the serving table.

“And I was just begining to like you,” I said aloud, following him, even as I heard Begglar chuckling to himself in response.

*Scene 11* 5:23 (The Burn)

Back in Basia, the large man named Hanokh and the Lehi scout, Ryden, stood outside of the dugout cabin, breathing heavily as flames and smoke curled and twisted upward into a gray, overcast sky.

The two men had upended the table and slid the headless, blackened, body off into the stone firebox, casting smoldering embers into the dusty room. The body, sizzled, swelled and smoked, forming black blisters that spewed a writhing liquid ichor across the hearth stone sputtering onto the hardpacked floor. The resulting stench was brutal and palpable. Lacking any form of liquid accelerant, both men searched for flammable items that might compensate for the reduction of the flame, dampened down under the smoking and seeping carcass.

Though the rain had stopped, all potential kindling that might be employed to feed the fire, had to be found from items contained within. Brush and grass, tree and limb, still dripped with evidence of the storm’s recent passage. The rotten cot and broken down bedframe fed some of it. The table, smeared with a black stain helped feed the rest, until the cabin began to fill with smoke. Even with the door opened, the two men could no longer endure the conditions within the enclosure to continue builing up the inferno. When they finally closed the door, they hoped they had done enough. Outside, a light breeze still carried a draught of dampness with it, and they could not risk letting it undo their hurried efforts. The interior would only burn if it was kept dry enough.

Finally, the rising flames could be spotted hissing through the dusty glass of the side window. They watched as tongues of fire extended higher and licked hotly at the support beams holding the ceiling and sod roof.

Ryden had secured his horse, Starlight, from a shady copse of trees and a grotto that had served as a partial windbreak against the storm, and he now stood beside Hanokh watching the cabin being consumed and its structure weakened by flame.

“How long should we give it?”

“When the roof sags, we will know,” Hanokh remarked quietly.

Ryden noticed that Hanokh intensely watched the bottom of the door frame as smoke curled up from under the threshold, and around the top of the lintel, rather than observing the slope of the roof line.

“What are you looking for?” Ryden asked.

Hanokh gazed at the smoking structure, his eyes continually searching the edge of its foundation and the edges of the doorframe.

“Making sure that nothing that is inside gets out,” Hanokh rumbled in reply.

“Can that living liquid survive the fire?”

Hanokh grunted, “We must ensure that it doesn’t. It must not reach the stream.”

Ryden pondered that a moment, “If the troll blood survives the fire, and escapes this cabin, how will we stop it from moving towards the stream?”

Hanokh took out a canister he had tucked into his cloak.

“I took the liberty of salvaging this from the cook shelves inside,” he said holding up the carved container.

“What is that?” Ryden said, turning to watch as Hanohk, cut away a wax seal.

“Preservation,” Hanokh rumbled, “provided it has not lost its savor.”

“Preservation?” Ryden asked, leaning over to view the contents of the canister.

Hanokh moved forward, towards the smoking door pouring out a crystalline substance along the bottom of the threshold, and a loud hiss arose, as the greyish power formed a powdery line along the porch step.

Hanokh, cleared his throat, standing upright and backing away from the smoldering door.

He answered, simply, “Salt.”

Ryden looked up towards the roof line and reached out to grab the large man’s arm, gesturing upward. “Looks like the timbers are weakening.”

Hanokh raised his eyes and backed up from the burning cabin as the roof began to pit and sag. Being much taller that the other man, his gaze commanded a higher perspective and suddenly he turned to Ryden.

“Mount your horse,” he pointed beyond the roof into the sky beyond the hill harboring the imploding cabin. “Look beyond the hills. That column of smoke shows this is not the only thing that burns today.”

“Looks to be coming from the upper hill near the village of Crowe,” Ryden said, swinging up and into his saddle. “We have contacts in that area. There may be trouble.” Ryden turned his horse towards the trail that led to the sea road. Holding his reins, he turned towards Hanokh.

“Do you have a horse?” he asked, as the steed stamped sideways, impatient to get moving.

“I am not called The Walker for nothing,” Hanokh responded. “I have a way of getting where I need to be, far easier than you. I was shone the way of it long, long ago. Ride fast, my young friend. When you arrive, I will be there waiting for you.”

Ryden’s horse stamped and turned, and Ryden pulled his horse’s reins to turn him back toward the giant man. When he did so, Hanokh was no where in sight.

*Scene 12* 4:28 (Xarmnian Need)

The enemy stables were set in a short-stepped valley, with surrounding pasture lands and the barn and shelter structures built along one of the sloped steps on the northwestern rise of the valley’s opposing side. A wide, shallow stream ran end to end through the bottom of the valley, watering the lowlands and pastures, ensuring seasonal and perennial green colored the lush grassland. Natural rainfall helped to water the valley and replenish the stream, whose level rarely rose above a low and wide bridge that spanned the watercourse along the descending road. Barn sewage naturally drained or was mucked into a short fissure ditch routed into what was once was a forked branch of the stream.

From the higher redoubt, Xarmnian conscripts could observe the approach of anyone passing through the intersecting valley, and quickly descend to the stables to prepare a mounted reception, if need be.

The upper ridge of the valley was capped by a precipitous rise of stone that formed a crested butte along the steeper northwestern ridgeline. The daily trek from the stables to the lower, greener pastures, ensured the stock horses, stabled there were in fit physical condition, and well-accustomed to traversing irregular ground. The stepped pastures were broad and long, allowing the horses ample room to run, gallop, cavort and graze. The valley served as a natural corral for the stables, minimizing the need for extensive fences, except in those areas in close proximity to the barns and to shield the stock away from the filth in drainage ditches.

The sporting field, was a field too often watered by the blood of “the disciplined” peasantry. Here, brutal soldiers “practiced” their “gallantry” on anyone with the temerity to resist the imprimatur of Xarmnian will.

As Storm Hawk and her disguised crew rode down into the valley towards the distant stables a line of horsemen left the structure and began to ride out to meet them.

One of the Lehi, rode alongside Storm Hawk, who had fallen back to a wing position, allowing one her more formidable riders to take point. It would be dangerous for her to speak during an encounter with Xarmnians, but from a seemingly subservient position she could watch and observe without calling attention to herself. Xarmnians expected the strong and formidable in appearance to lead a band, and rarely noticed those individuals they thought of as underlings and attendant footsoldiers.

“Why couldn’t we have ridden past this outpost? Those riders coming ahead are most certainly Xarmnians, and the inn keeper’s leaving will have them on high alert. We are taking quite a risk in doing this.”

“Not as much risk as would be, if we oddly bypassed a chance to procure replenishment stock, carrying a convoy of weapons to the battlefront. We’ve too few horses with us for an overland trek. This team will need relief horses. Xarmnian protocols must be followed, if we are to appear credible,” Storm Hawk answered quietly.

“How would they know?”

“They can count, can’t they? Any Xarmnian patrol would pay an obligatory visit to those stables before leaving the area, heading back down into the lowlands.”

“They will smell our armor and know we have come from the Iron Hills. They might be suspicious.”

“The smell of our clothing will ensure they keep their distance. They will be reluctant to examine us too closely because of it. We need to keep them off balance, and anxious to send us on our way.”

“Do you expect to meet that Xarmnian search party on the road ahead?”

“If they are not still here at the stables, then certainly. They suspect only the small family, not an armed contigent. An armory shipment provides good cover, until we are forced to reveal ourselves. There is unrest in the region. It certainly makes sense that the crown would requisition more battle gear from even the outposts. We have that to serve as our advantage. The appearance of a credible mission serving a growing Xarmnian need.”

*Scene 13* 12:13 (Unseen Wounds)

Darkness…
It was all enveloping. Its coldness reached through Laura, trying to take from her the only light she still kept kindled deep within her heart and mind. There was a simple phrase she learned long ago, that often gave her hope.
“What the darkness takes…God remakes…”
The confined space in the trunk was crowded with the miasma of stench and cold. The coalesced shadows pressed upon her, crowding her into a smaller and smaller place that demanded she shrink into a smallness that her body would not achieve, leaving only the shrinking that despair might bring.

She could feel and sense something looking through her. Something alien and angry. Or someone… Some cognizant and thinking being, at least. The invader had that same oily and creepy feeling that she had experienced in the terrifying thrall of the troll. She had a feeling the stain of that encounter still scarred and bruised an inner part of her mind, implanting its probing roots into the emotional open wounds she had suffered through her youth into her present.

Memories of her parent’s rejection, their aloofness, the isolation and resulting distrust that kept her closed off within, trying to protect herself from further pain.

Sobbing in that deep darkness, her mind sought solace in a vague memory. A time when her mom couldn’t find a “babysitter” for her. No place to put down “the anchor” freeing her to float away on a sea of alcohol induced oblivian, without having a little “needy, clingy” to think about. A chance glance at a local neighborhood announcement board at a local supermarket, gave her mom a temporary remedy to her “anchor” problem. A local church was holding a week-long “daycare” for kids Laura’s age called “V.B.S.” The church would pick up and feed the kids lunch and a snack, but more importantly, keep the little “snot-nuggets” from 9 AM to 2 PM, and bring them home after.

Laura found herself, roused from her bed the next morning, her hair quickly brushed by her mom, and her crying, because combing through the tangles pulled her hair. She was made to dress quickly, for the church bus would be there soon to pick her up at around 8:30.

Her questions seemed to annoy her mom, as she was told to put on her torn coat, and quit dawdling.

“You’re going to VBS,” her mom said curtly.

“Whatsa VBS?”

“VBS is where you are going while mommy runs some morning errands this week.”

“Are you going to be long?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Daddy is on a business trip this week.”

“Where did he go this time?”

“He’s in Chicago at a conference.”

“Will he bring me something back?”

“That’s up to him. Now hush and go get your sneakers on. They’ll be here soon.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know them.”

“You’re sending me with people you don’t know?!” she asked with a rising note of alarm.

“Look, they’re nice people. Church people.”

“There are all kinds of churches. Some churches even lock kids up, away from there parents. I heard of this one kid…”

“Oh, hush! These are nice people, and you’d better be nice to them.”

“But you don’t know them…”

“That’s enough, Laura Jean! You’re going with them and that’s all there is to it. I don’t want to hear any sass.”

“Will I need money? What will I eat?” she asked timidly.

“I don’t think so. But the flyier said they’ll feed you. There was no mention of cost.” Despite this, she grabbed her purse and ruffled through it, retrieving a single dollar bill.

“Look, here’s a couple of bucks, just in case. Mind you don’t lose it. Now quit wasting time. They’re nice people. You’re gonna be fine. Might even have fun.”

“When will daddy be back?”

“Laura, you’re wasting my time. Now get your shoes on and go into the front room. The church people should be here any minute.”

Laura had many misgivings that day. Strangers were going to pick her up in a big white van. She imagined all sorts of terrible outcomes from such a prospect. Should she sneak a kitchen knife into her coat, in case they were not as “nice” as her mom assured her they would be? Laura debated, but her mom practically bum-rushed her into the living room and out onto the front porch. The broken pavement of their front sidewalk, signified the neglect and disrepair of their household, subtly advertizing their poverty to the people coming to get her. She couldn’t ride a skate down it’s path without falling on her bum. Joggers, passing through their neighborhood street, generally ran on the street in front of her house, rather than risk tripping over the uneven pavement slabs, pushed up by tree roots, and canted down into washed out soft spots in the ground.

When the “white van” did show up, it was not as bad as she expected. A woman that looked like what she imagined a “grandmother” should look like, climbed out of the passenger side of the van, helped down by an elderly man who had driven the vehicle. He stood by the open door and pulled back the side door, as the lady approached them. The name of the local church hosting the “VBS” event was printed on the side in large black letters, with a quoted phrase by someone named Mark and a odd, sort of military time set next to it “16:15”.

“Go ye into all the world…”

The van had other boys in girls already seated inside. She recognized a boy named Nathan who lived from two blocks over. He was a hair-puller. She hoped she would not be expected to sit in front of him.

Carmen, a little girl that she was friends with was there. Perhaps, this VBS thing might not be so bad, if Carmen would be there too.

The grandmother-lady approached the house, gingerly navigating the canted sidewalk, yet maintaining a friendly, open smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Freeland. I’m missus Daughtrey, from Wayside Church. Is this your precious Laura?”

“Yeah…precious Laura,” her mom muttered. “The flyer said y’all would keep her till 2 o’clock and feed her while she is there.”

“Yes, Mrs. Freeland. Very happy to have her join us. She will have lots of fun today.”

“So the flyer said nothing about the cost for this deal. How much will it set me back?”

“Oh, there’s no need for payment, Mrs. Freeland. It is no charge.”

“Really?! I usually have to cough up about ten bucks for Jenny to come over here and look after her while I’m out. Dad’s got the car, so I have to walk down to the corner and catch a bus to get into downtown. Y’all must be raking in the coin to be able to keep and feed so many crumb-munchers.”

The was a brief quiet, as the woman did not know exactly how to respond.

Thinking back on that conversation, made Laura wince at how curt and rude her mom was.

“Well, just have her back sometime before too late. As I said, her dad has the car and is on a business trip, and I can’t get up there to pick her up. I’ll got things I got to do, and I can’t be bothered with her today.”

Her mom then turned and went back into the house, leaving Laura alone there on the porch with the stunned lady.

Tears formed in Laura’s eyes, and her faced reddened. What must this stranger think of her and her mother?

The lady composed herself, and cautiously approached the step leading up to where Laura was standing on the porch.

“Miss Laura. I’m missus Daughtrey. My name is Laura too. Just like yours. You look like you could use a hug. Would you like sit up front with me and Jim? I have a feeling we’re going to become good friends before too long. That is, if you want to.”

“I’m not supposed to hug strangers…”

It was the wrong thing to say, but Laura didn’t know what else to say. She was embarrassed thinking back on it after so many years later, but Mrs. Daughtrey, was the first person that she felt a warmth from. She desperately wanted to hug the lady then and there, but she did not want to appear weak in front of the other kids in the van. The ones watching her from the side-window.

Mrs. Daughtrey did not react unkindly, but rather smiled at her with a warmth, that Laura had never felt from anyone else.

“You are a very wise girl, Miss Laura. That is a good practice. But hopefully, after today, we can get to know each other better and I will no longer be a stranger to you. Fair enough?” she asked extending her hand to Laura.

Laura quietly took the lady’s hand and descended the steps, walking alongside of Mrs. Daughtrey. Together, they deftly navigated the crooked sidewalk towards the open door of the van.

“Jim,” Mrs. Laura Daughtrey addressed the white-haired gentleman standing near the front passenger door, holding it open for her, ready to assist her getting back up into the higher bench seat. “This little lady and I have the same name.”

He squatted down, his knees popping, and came down to Laura’s level, “Well, I’ll be!” He grinned at her and extended his hand, “Hello, Miss Laura Daughtrey! You’re much shorter than I remember.”

“Nooo,” Mrs. Daughtrey, chided playfully. “This is Missus Laura Freeland.”

Laura remembered giggling a little as she shook the kind man’s large hand, feeling the same kind of warmth she’d experienced from the lady.

Mrs. Daughtrey and her husband, Jim, did prove to be friends, afterall. It was the first time, Laura could remember, ever feeling like there was someone who truly cared and “loved” her. It was they who taught her the song about someone else who loved her too. Someone who would always be with her, even though He was invisible. Someone who wanted her to be. Someone who had a reason and a good purpose for her life. Someone who had once died before, but came back to life and would never die again.

Mr. and Mrs. Daughtrey had both passed away several years ago. They had been taken from her to a place where they would never know sickness or pain again. A place that sounded alot like a place that Mister O’Brian had mentioned. If this place in the darkness was the last place she would know in this waking life, the chance to go to the place were the Daughtrey’s were, was the place that gave her hope. That week of VBS was the best time of her life, even though her mother spent the evenings drinking what she had bought while out on her daily errands.

Whenever she got scared, in the tumult of her life, she often quietly whispered the song that assured her that someone with her occupying the unseen realm around her, still cared. It was the song she quietly sang now, through sobs, that helped her clear her head and find a place of peace and light, in spite of the darkness. It was the name of that someone in the comforting song, that somehow lifted the oily touches on the emotional wounds in her mind, and filled the deep and unseen scars with a healing balm. That was why He had to be present in the unseen realm. To touch and minister healing to those unseen wounds.

*Scene 14* 7:00 (Lingering Questions))

In the warmth of the escarpment caves, after we had taken our fill of the food and drink provided, we settled down for a few hours’ sleep, using the grain bins as makeshift dormitories. We slept in our clothes, knowing that we would soon have to take to the open road again. After a few hours, which felt like only moments had passed, Begglar came over and roused me.

The air had cooled, and I realized that Begglar had dampened the flames in the furnaces, preparing to close down the granary operations entirely.

“The rains have stopped. We’ll need to be leaving directly.”

“What?” I yawned, trying to clear my head and perceive what Begglar was saying. “What about what Christie told us?”

“If the Xarmnians are in the area, it will take their dogs a while to catch our scents. They’ll need reference point. We have the moist air in our favor. It dilutes our trail. At best though, it will only delay the dogs.”

“We’ve travelled most of the way by wagon, surely the dogs could not follow us if we’re not on foot.”

Begglar muttered thoughtfully, “Christie still noticed the wagon ruts, even in the rain. You can bet the Xarminians followed them too. The ground only gets rocky enough to cover the ruts when it gets near the rise to the crest of the escarpment and granary.”

“You think that is why she came down the side road? Didn’t follow the trail up to the top?”

“No, there was something else.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“Something made her turn back. I’m guessing whatever that was, will also turn those Xarmnian hunters. She was desperate to find us. Our only trail, even if it was washed away and petered out on the rock, still led to the top.”

“The noise we heard coming in. You think that whatever made that sound is still up there?”

“I do.”

“Then we have to ask her.”

“We do. And that’s not all. You know, lad, I’ll have to be asking her the other question too. If the wee girl could masquerade so convincingly, why not her?”

Remembering our most recent trek through the riverbed and the test that had revealed the imposter in our midst, the statement suddenly clarified in my mind.  “Oh, that.”  I remained quiet a moment.

She had been through so much already.  There was something she had not had a chance to tell about her journey and the degree of the storm they rode into.

“Go ahead but I don’t think we have anything to worry about with her.”

“Why not?”

“She saw the distance gleam of the Praesporous stone. No one could have told her about it. I highly doubt the Xarmnians can see it, if others in our company cannot. She willingly gave me her name and it conferred upon her that ability to see it, and I doubt that capability would transfer into a proxy.”

“I am sure you are right, but we must be certain. The others depend on it. It would not do for it to come out that an exception was made in her case, even as improbable as it might seem.”

“Should we go now and wake the girls or just Christie?”

“You’ll not be goin’ into the area where the women sleep.  That would just aggravate the tension.”

“Are you going then?”

Begglar grunted, “And get my ears boxed? Not likely! Nell is a light sleeper. She will be in the corridor, guarding the way to the sleepers.  I need only call quietly to her, and she will come. When traveling she sleeps with a blade close by.”

“Knowing you, I’m not surprised at all that she sleeps with a blade,” I quipped.

“I’ll pretend I did not just hear you say that,” Begglar growled.

We crept quietly forward to the adjoining hall and Begglar made a quick click-hiss noise from between his teeth. Momentarily, a shadow emerged, following the gleam and point of a raised blade.

“Are the girls decent?”

Nell lowered the point of her blade into the shadow, as she materialized into the dim glow of a flickering torch.

“They’ve only just been asleep these few hours. Is it time already?”

“Aye.” Begglar spoke in a low voice, “Best try to use what remains of the darkness to cover our way.  Dom and I have turned the horses and loaded the wagon with what we may carry from here that won’t slow us overmuch.  At some point, I may need you to drive the team since we did not get as much sleep as the others.  Is the miss Christie resting?”

“She is troubled, that one. Thinks of the girl Laura. Worries about her. Is afraid for what she might’ve gone back to. Wonders if she did the right thing helping her to go back.  She carries much in her heart.  Cares deeply.  We talked until she could no longer keep her eyes open. She finally seemed to rest more when little Miray came and curled down beside her and fell asleep. She’s a nurturer, and having the little one to care for, gave her a respite and a renewed purpose. Poor lass.”

Begglar sighed, “Then it will keep for now.”

“What concerns ya?” Nell probed gently.

“I’ve not asked her the question.”

Pssha. Nell clicked her tongue. “T’s not necessary dear.  The answer’s as plain as the nose on yer face.”

“But how can we know?  That Becca was a sly one.”

“I’m a Seer. Twas I who told you that there was something afoul with that girl, remember?”

“But..” Begglar protested.

“Leave her be.” Nell said firmly. “I’ll take responsibility if there are any questions to come of it.”

Suddenly there was a commotion in the hallway beyond. I drew my blade and Begglar gripped my arm, holding me back from rushing forward. Nell whirled, her stowed blade once again unsheathed from the shadows, and she bolted forward into the darkness.

Panicked voices came from beyond that I had difficulty making out, but one line clarified from among the sounds of distress and sent chills through me.

“Where is Miray?! She was just here!”

A low rumbling sound pierced the darkness, followed by a crash of stone, and a throaty roar that echoed and reverberated out of myriad dark tunnels above us.  Whatever had been on the top of the escarpment above had finally found a way into the catacombs of the granary and was making it way down to us.