Azragoth – Chapter 18

*Scene 01* – 04:48 (Ghost Town)

Twenty-three years ago, as accounted in Mid-World time, the forest encompassed burg of Azragoth became a haunted ghost town.  The words on the Ancient Marker foretold of such places.

“…the palace has been abandoned, the populated city forsaken. Hill and watch-tower have become caves forever, A delight for wild donkeys, a pasture for flocks.”

The town of Azragoth was once a thriving place of goodwill and commerce, and some fair degree of prosperity before the Xarmnians raided and pillaged it.  Horrible deeds were done there.  Women were savaged and raped, men were strung from horses and torn apart.  Children were slaughtered until the town succumbed to the will of the invaders.  For two years the city was plundered, extortions were paid and subsequently betrayed.  The food stores were commandeered to feed a hungry barbaric army, and the people were starved into submission.  And then the sickness began…

From drains and ditches filled with raw sewage, a plague of starving rats crawling out overran the town, spreading the diseases faster than anyone could have imagined.  The death toll began to multiply, and the Xarmnian oppressors attempted to flee the town, but either died before they could get far enough away or were killed by their fellow soldiers to prevent them from infecting the rest of the armies and towns under the oppressive fist of Xarmni.  For years afterward, Azragoth was quarantined.  No one traveled there.  No one traded there.  No one would give shelter or aid to an Azragothian, for fear of contracting what was rumored to have killed on the order of a thousandfold.  Animals of the place were abandoned and no one would touch livestock that bore the brand of an Azragothian.  It was said, Death itself had moved in and taken residence there.  Great pits were dug by the survivors and bodies were dumped and burned until no one was left to perform the gruesome task.  Great columns of ash-white smoke with an awful stench clouded the horizon for days as the bodies in the pits continued to burn.

Azragoth was left in ruin and decay.  Consigned to the ravages of the elements.  The roadways from the valley up to the gates of the city were untended and untraveled such that they had overgrown and time had almost erased the path leading up to it.  For many years a sickly yellow quarantine flag hung slack on a leaning stave near the fork that joined the main roadway.  No wheel of a wagon nor hoof of horse disturbed the dust of that road until the wild grass covered it again.

Many years afterward, as time faded memory of the stark, bloody history of the town and eventually blurred the exact location of its site, the occasional, errant traveler passing through the surrounding forests who chanced to lose their way in a storm might occasion to stumble upon the abandoned city.  Unaware of where they were, they naturally took shelter in the old buildings that had now become overgrown with moss, ivy, and lichen.

To the traveler, the place would appear untenanted.  Its many terraced sections and stout, protective walls had fissured, where the wind, rain, ice, and snow of many seasons had sought–like the wild grassland did with the roadway–to resolve the town back into the untamed nature that once reigned in its place before its foundations were cleared.

The disease had done its worst, decimating the town’s populace, and those the sickness could not kill, the subsequent abandonment from all outside society or help had reduced the rest.  As foretold, the forested city had been reduced to being a home to wandering flocks and wild donkeys, and the many other wild things that hunted and fed on them.  The fear of the place, and the rumors of what had happened there, eventually became something of a legend in the ensuing years and in all the lands surrounding it.  Though no one within those proximal communities admittedly had seen or been near it for years, speculation naturally embellished the tales of what it had become.  Few, if any, were certain where it might still be, and one couldn’t be paid enough to take anyone there.

*Scene 02* – 10:09 (Selling the Chase)

Growling, howls and baying noises richocheted off the canyon walls. The tympanic thundering of galloping horses, hard-ridden, swelled, as the Xarmnians charged down the valley, finally gaining the main road behind us and swiftly outpacing their ferocious dog creatures.

Maeven tightened her core, her legs gripping the girth of her horse as she lifted her bow, pulling the nock and string back smoothly, preparing to let fly. “They’re getting close enough to see us more clearly.  It is time.  Get the young ones in the wagon. Now!”

The armed members of our traveling crew prepared to sheath and tuck away their weapons, but Maeven halted them sharply. “No!  Keep those weapons in a defense posture!  The Xarmnians cannot see you surrendering!  Show some resistance!  You have a cruel audience coming into view that cannot know what we are planning!  Go to it!”

Turning to Begglar, she said, “Take the buckboard and surrender your mount to one of your experienced riders. You are more suited to a rolling and heaving deck under the seat of your britches than on horseback.  You’ll need to drive that wagon hard and get the canopy up quickly once we get over the rise.”

Christie helped Miray clamor over the sidewall of the wagon, and turned. “I can still ride.  That mare and I know each other now, she’s used to me.”

Begglar quickly surrendered his horse to her, as others loaded into the buckboard.  The armed ones of my travelers, warily watching the silent horsemen, reached down for the younger to hauled them up.

Begglar look wistfully at his carefully stowed supplies, packed in among the travelers, “What about the food and grains? I am told the citizenry of Azragoth and the lowland villages are near starvation. Game is scarce…since the… coming of the winter months. Protectorate guards roam the forests, so foraging efforts are limited. Only the lake country thrives with their catches. But fish alone cannot make up for the other nutrients a body needs.”

Maeven pondered a moment, then nodded assent, “The food will do no one any good if we are caught. We’ll have to double-up on the horses and lash as much as we can to them. There is a cascading cut to the southwest of here, less than thirty minutes’ ride. The river Trathorn pours down it in a series of falls to the valley floor. There exists a hidden path to Azragoth, cut beneath the lip of the canyon walls so that it cannot be seen from the top. Tree cover masks it the rest of the way. We should be in Azragoth before daybreak. Now is the time to make this ruse look like there is no hope. Get the children aboard.  And drive this thing like your life depends on it…because it does!” Maeven commanded.

Begglar gripped the trace lines once the younger ones were aboard and secured, pulling up and then down in a whip-like motion he smacked to two back draft horses on the rumps and yelled, “Heeyah!”  Begglar slapped the reins down once more upon the flanks of the wagon team, causing them to jerk forward in surprise.

The horses, startled, lurched and then stretched forward, flanks pumping in the muddy shoulder as they scrambled up and back onto the road eyes rolling and white with both fear and excitement. The runners, holding on to the sides of the buckboard, were nearly jerked off their feet as the wagon launched forward, spraying mud from the spokes as it trundled upward.

Scars of torn grass and muddy furrows followed the plowing wagon wheels, as the wagon gained the high ground and the others scrambled over the sides to join those riding in the crowded back. The wagon gained momentum as it bounced and groaned under the added weight. Fifteen rode in the back of the wagon, with four more passengers crowding Begglar on the benched front seat, gripping sideboards, seat railings and whatever they could to hang on. The dark horsemen began to follow in a growing gallop, hilted swords now unsheathed, brandished and flashing under the moonlight. Their aspect was terrible, and the pursuing threat looked real enough.

Still encircled by a remaining part of Maeven’s armed Lehi, I asked, “What about me?”

Maeven turned, nodding to the sword I still held unsheathed and affixed to my wrist by the bloodline sash.  “After twenty-one years, can you still use that thing like you used to, or is it merely a prop used for show in a meaningless act of male bravado?”

I swore under my breath.  Her words stung no less than the burning feeling I felt along my head from being struck with that quirt strap.  She was bating me.  Provoking me to action.  And it worked.

I swept up my blade, gathered reins into my clenched fist, and my horse reared as I leaned forward, standing in the stirrups.  I whipped the sword around, brandishing my blade in a swift arc and striking down hard on one of the raised Lehi lances, as my horse fell forward, leaping up and away from a stand still.  The lance clattered to the ground as I burst the guarding circle that had closed around me, my stead’s vicious hooves stabbing the air, shouldering through them, causing the startled riders to stutter-step their mounts and suddenly turn to follow.

Maeven let fly with her bow, her arrow driven into the back of the wagon.  Christie and I charged to the flanks of the wagon that was now surging forward.

As we galloped after it, Christie rode alongside me, our horses gaining speed.  Over the noise, she looked over at me, and shouted, “Let me guess.  A former girlfriend of yours?”

I winced, my teeth gritting, stifling another curse and growled back, “Now is NOT the time!”

Through a sidewise glance, I caught her grinning far too much considering the present peril of our situation.

Zzzzst-ting!  The wood of the wagon took two other bristling arrows from Maeven’s bow, as she and the Lehi riders fell into pursuit behind us.

Topping the rise we emerged like rising shadows into the giant luminous disk of the moon.  Our images would be seen from hundreds of yards back to anyone looking our way.  We desperately hoped those watching would be buying the show.

The disguised Lehi riders behind us rose into threatening view, swords raised, like a fiendish troop of determined reapers…their curved scythes cutting against the moonlight…ready to separate us from a living connection from this world into the next.

Thwap!  An arrow from a longbow thudded into the side of the wagon board, splintering it and driving the point deep into the wood.  The response of the company suddenly became more authentic.

Maeven was an exceptional saleswoman.  I was also very glad that she had become a good markswoman as well.

Thock!  Another arrow zinged through the spokes of the turning wheel into the lower part of the paneled side and was quickly snapped in half as the turning wheel immediately broke its shaft.

Christie and I rode our horses in a weaving pattern, crossing each other’s trail to raise additional dust from the silvered roadway, adding to the plume raised by the racing wagon.  Hoping that by doing so we might mask our feigned flight.

The Lehi were pacing us to the left and right, swooping in a darting out of the raised dust now phorous in the moonlight.  We clashed swords, metal ringing against metal to appear as if we were fighting them off.  My sword rang and sluiced through the misty air, occasionally finding a waiting blade to offer a clinking toast to, in service and deference to our mutual performance.

By now, the company braced within the rumbling wagon were urging Begglar on to see if there could be any more speed coaxed out of the team of horses, others were crying out in fright and the children mewled in terror.  The effect was perfect.

“Is that necessary?!” I heard Christie ask, but the noises of the night ensured any answer I gave would be swallowed up in the cacophony of our flight.

At last, we descended the slope to a turnabout place that leveled off before descending further to the winding road cut into the edge of the downward grade to the lowlands.  The pursuing horsemen caught up to us, sheathed their weapons and edged their running horses towards it.

The additional wagons, drawn by Lehi teams under their erstwhile guise of an Iron Hills weapons convoy, followed closely, fanning out and alongside, Begglar’s wagon.  Begglar began to be more gentle with the harness traces and reigns, easing his frightened team horses down from their excitement.  They were good horses, though caring for them came at a cost to his family from among the meager food stores they were allowed in conscripted service to the Xarmnian government.

In all honesty, despite what Begglar said, I knew, on sight, they should have been put out to pasture long ago.  Had he been allowed to run a profitable business at the Inn, he would have rested them and bought fresh horses or breeding stock.  Instead, they were hard-driven, and their muscles were lean and sore. And they were wet from the sweat of their being driven.  Their mouths frothed, when they should have been stabled, brushed, blanketed and grain-fed in a nice warm barn, lined with fresh straw out of the elements.

When the wagon slowed, the company poured out from the back, steadying themselves on the ground, trying to calm enough to quickly transfer the wagon contents to the horses.  From a shadowy grove, another three riders leading a line of horses emerged from the trees towards us.  The additional rider-less horses were saddled and ready, with large saddle packs, and tie-down rolls behind the cantle of each.  The off-loading was quick, and the mounted Lehi, swiftly assisted and directed our company of travelers with packing the horses and stabilizing grain sacks and ground meal on the horses.  Begglar and Dominic swiftly, re-raised their wagon’s canopy, knowing that by doing so, it may cause momentary confusion when the Xarmnians saw it again from their pursuing distance.

The efficient Lehi raise the canopy covers of the two other wagons, shifting and distributing additional supplies from Begglar’s wagon between them to even out and lighten their loads.  The decreased weight might spare the tired horses a bit, and allow them to be diverted along the additional trails Maeven had alluded to.

In the swiftness of the clamor and transfer, the company I had led into this Mid-World trouble, now settled in to their new and temporary conveyance, only then began to realize the degree of stench coming from within the now disguised weapons wagon.  But they were already well underway with few options, following Maeven and Christie on horseback.  Their muffled cries of protest were lost as we hurriedly pushed into the obscured trail through the woods.  I had no doubt, though, that once we reached a point allowing us to finally stop, I might be getting quite the ear full.

*Scene 03* – 13:48 (A Giant Mystery)

In the burned and smoldering courtyard, where Begglar’s inn once stood proudly upon the top of the hillside, near the roadway leading down to the village of Crowe, Ryden and Hanokh listened as the newcomer Shimri, told them of Begglar’s plans and their recent capture of both a troll and a Xarmnian scout of the Protectorate.

“As you might expect, both of our prisoners were reluctant to tell us anything.  We soon rectified that by putting them together in a locked shed.”

Hanokh offered no comment, but Ryden answered dryly, “One would think with them being both on the same side of villainry, they might be able to get along.”

Shimri shrugged, “Personal differences can be quite chaffing when these irritable sorts are confined together for too long.  They are insolent anyway.  Even though the Xarmnian high command still sees fit to use the trolls, they know better than to quarter them among their human troops.  Trolls will only take abuse so far, before they realize and use their nacent strength to strike back at their oppressors.  They want to be thought of as a dangerous asset, but the Xarmnians are cautious in their relationship with these creatures.  Xarmnian bruels delight in their capability for violence, but they do not often let them be privy to their councils.  The human is its intellectual superior, should they hold their own tempers in check, but they admire the bestial power of their underlings and treat them as well as they might a particularly savage attack dog.  The trolls live to serve, and slavishly follow a powerful leader who knows how best to employ them.  I suspect that if they ever knew what their masters truly thought of them, they would turn and bite the hands that have so long fed them.”

“I can’t imagine trying to manage servile troops like that.”

“Trolls tend to follow masters that inspire terror and threat.  They seem drawn to them, and find a common need met in that.  The trolls have the ability to hide and disguise themselves, so they make useful spies.  From what I can gather, they treat underling soldiers, as less than equal, knowing the humans lack their abilities.   They have been known to spy even among the Xarmnian camps and report back to the higher command, so they are particularly hated by the rank and file troops.  Little snitches, they call them.  The Xarmnian troops are an arrogant sort anyway, so they resent the need to have these little bunglers condescend them.”

Hanokh interposed, “So what happened after you put them together?”

Shimri sighed, “They nearly tore the place apart fighting each other.  If they had found someway to work together, they might have escaped.  The shed, it turned out, was not that sturdy.  They busted through a sidewall and were at each others throats.  The Xarmnian has a broken arm and perhaps a collar bone.  He was beaten pretty bad.  Bruises and cuts all over him.  They fought for quite a bit before the Xarmnian somehow finally managed to get a knife in him.”

“Didn’t you search them before locking them up?” Ryden asked.

“We tried.  It still isn’t clear to us who the knife belong to, or how we might’ve missed it.  We suspect it belonged to the troll.”

Hanokh rumbled thoughtfully, ruminating to himself, pondering these developments.  “Where are they now?”

“Well, the troll is dead.  The other man stabbed it repeatedly, trying to get it to quit bucking and thrashing.  It finally succumbed, but we had to pull the Xarmnian off of the creature.  Covered in black blood, he was.  Talking crazy.  Screaming that he was on fire.”

“And the body?” Hanokh’s voice rose in a sound of rumbling alarm.  “What did you do with the troll’s body?!”

“What could we do with it?” Shimri tensed, sensing Hanokh’s urgency.  “We dug a pit and hooked it by the garb and drug it down into it.  We had to bury it, because it began to stink, with all of that weird stuff coming out of the wounds.”

“Its just like the one we found in the cabin,” Ryden muttered, looking meaningfully at Hanokh.

“You’ll need to take us to the burial site.  The body will need to be dug up and burned and the pit salted.  It’s the only way to be sure.” Hanokh rumbled, his large brow deepening with worry lines.

“Dug up?!” Shimri was stunned, “Wha..What for?  The troll is surely dead.”

“That may be true of its body, but its blood isn’t.”

“Its…its…its blood?!” Shimri reeled, his eye’s widening.  “B-but how can you tell? How could we’ve known…?”

“You could not.  I was not sure myself until recently.  But there isn’t much time.  Where is the Xarmnian now?” Hanokh rumbled.  “Have you learned anything from him?”

“We have him bound under guard in what remains of the shed,” Shimri answered.  “He is more, shall we say, subdued than he was before.  The troll’s blood is all over him, but they’ve tried to rinse some of it off.  Despite his hatred for us, he seems grateful enough to at least attempt to answer some of our questions.”

“Water!” Hanokh tensed.  “The living blood moves through water.  This burial pit where you cast the dead troll.  Is it anywhere near water?”

Ryden had already started moving as Hanokh came forward, towering over Shimri, out of the smoldering smoke.

“There is a small brook just…” Shimri began, but Hanokh immediately interrupted. “We may already be too late!”  Hanokh turned as Ryden mounted his horse.  “Ryden, do you know where this man lives?”

“I have an idea.  We have met in company before in dealing with the underground.” Ryden gathered his reins preparing to ride down the road, responding to Hanokh’s query.

“Then bring his mount with you and meet us there.  He will be coming with me.”

“With you?  Wouldn’t it be faster to take my own horse?”

“No,” Hanokh rumbled moving around behind him.  “Just picture in you might the site where you buried the troll and tell me when you can see it in your thoughts.”  Hanokh placed a large hand around Shimri’s shoulder, almost enveloping him in its grasp.

Shimri shivered, not sure of the giant man’s intentions.  Fearful inspite of himself.  “I… I have a family.  I am old.  What is it you want of me?”

“Do not fear.  You will not be harmed.  But you will need to close your physical eyes and yeild directional control.  There are things within ‘the between’ that mortals are not yet meant to see.”

“I do not understand,” Shimri stammered, beginning to tremble.

“Focus, my son, on your home.  Let me know when you can see it.”

“Okay.” Shimri said, closing his eyes, trying to stifle his tremors. “Okay,” he said again, releasing a pent up breath.  “I can see it now,” he said quietly.

He felt Hanokh’s free hand grip his shoulder more tightly, and heard him say in a response that sounded like far away thunder, “Now step towards the image you see, and release the how and why.”

Ryden had been watching carefully from atop his mount, having secured Shimri’s horse with a lead line to the pommel on his saddle.  His horse reared, pawing the air with its hooves in fright, as with one step forward, both men, Shimri and Hanokh, suddenly vanished from sight.

Ryden blinked, unable to fully trust what he had just witnessed.  He scanned the rising smoke, and blackened timbers, the scorched scrub grass, and the smoking trees that had partially caught fire from the cast embers carried upon a light breeze.  The barnyard fences had fallen and collapsed under the crawling fires.  The stock had either fled or succumbed to the blaze.  Knowing the brutal tendencies of the Xarmnian troops, he knew that if he had taken time to look, he would no doubt find that the animals had either been slaughtered or locked in their pens and burned alive. Now only the blackened bones of the barn’s support beams and posts scraped plaintively at the haze drifting into the darkened sky.

Burned alive. A terrifying and sobering thought that unsettled him.  Adding to that, the puzzle of the woman’s charred body that Hanokh had discovered among the smoking ruins.  He had wrapped it in a cloak and was carrying it with the intention to give her a decent burial when the man Shimri had come upon them.  What had drawn the man here?  He had know that Begglar and his family were leaving.  That was part of the plan.  But why come up risking the possibility that the Xarmnians might still be here, or have a spy posted?  He was taking quite the risk in doing so.

Trolls.  Shimri had said the Xarmnians were using troll spies.  They had encountered a few in their raids.  Ugly things.  With a nasty and spiteful disposition.  Evidently brimming with mysterious black blood.  Blood that tainted and defiled the very ground it might be spilt upon.  The troll blood exuding from the body in the cabin in Basia had pooled as any vicuous liquid might, but it had also extended tendrils and rivets aggressively, only shrinking away from flame.  Had he only imagined that?  He shook his head, remembering the giant’s entrance and words.

Encountering The Walker had raised so many questions, but also provided him with a sense of intrigue and otherworldliness about these happenings that he was not sure the occupents of this world were ready or equipped to deal with.

Seeing nothing further to lead him to believe that Hanokh and Shimri were anywhere on the premises, he calmed his stead and headed down the road towards Crowe.  A hidden turn-off down a swale ditch would take him through the woods and down a slope into the wooded brow where a small cottage and short pasture lay masked in the woods about a mile below.

As he rode along, he pondered the giant man’s words.

He still had so many questions.  What had Hanokh done with the woman’s body?  The image of the two men vanishing had stunned both him and the horses, that he was partially distracted, and had trouble believing what he’d witnessed.  He remembered Hanokh placing his large hands on Shimri’s shoulders, just before they stepped away.  Hanokh’s broad back had been turned to him, and…

Ah! He realized at last.

A sling.  Hanokh had joined the ends of the cloak into a sling.  It hung low and below his shoulders.  Then he was still carrying…

Ryden shook his head, rubbing some of the irritating burn from the corners of his eyes.  He was dusted with soot and ash, and still smelled of the smoke.  But is was good to be leaving the charnel site and breathe some of the fresh highland air again. It was still hard to believe all this, even having witnessed everything.  His head was finally beginning to clear again and he returned in his thoughts to Hanokh.

When they had parted at the burning bungalow in Basia, Hanokh had no apparent horse or conveyance, but had assured him he would meet him at the sight of the distant fire.  He had only taken a moment to mount his horse, before he discovered the giant had departed.  Ostensibly to walk to the site.  Ryden had ridden fast, down the valley and along the road that ran to and from the sea.  On arrival, he was later surprised to find that not only had the mysterious man reached the location ahead of him, he had been present in the courtyard turnabout and smoldering structural remains of Begglar’s inn long enough to have searched the grounds and discovered the remains of a victim of the blaze.

He had asked him if he had really only walked there, and Hanokh had responded cryptically, “Through here. Not to here.”

Whatever he took that to mean, Ryden now realized that the man known as ‘The Walker’, was truly cloaked in more mystery than anyone knew or had even considered.

Another of Hanokh’s cryptic statements, now arose again to pair itself to the words he now considered in a new light: “I have a way of getting where I need to be far easier than you.” Hanokn had told him.  “I was shone the way of it long, long ago.”

Ryden suddenly stiffened in shock, recalling an obscure passage copied from the many storied words appearing on the Ancient Marker Stone:

“Hanokh walked with [The One] after he became the father of Metushelach three hundred years, and became the father of sons and daughters.  all the days of Hanokh were three hundred sixty-five years.  Hanokh walked with [The One], and he was not, for [The One] took him.” [Genesis 5:22-24 HNV]

*Scene 04* – 14:34 (Scents of Urgency)

We raced through the shadowy trees beginning to close around us like a narrowing throat.  From behind, and to the left one of the Lehi riders passed us leading a remuda of horses, joining Christie and Maeven as they slowed ahead, forcing Begglar to draw-up on the reins of his team of horses.  When the rider and the horses reached Maeven, she and Christie turned their mounts and she held up a fist for all of us to slow and stop.

I heard Maeven shout to Begglar, “Get all of the horses through, then close the gap behind us.  We’ll get your people out of the wagons as soon as the way ahead become impassable. Then we’ll jam the wagon in and unhitch your teams.  There should be enought mounts to go around, once we’ve fully corked the bottleneck.”

I rode around the wagon through a narrow gap along the edge of it.  The woods and brambles had closed in, and the forest had become a darkened corridor of trees.  The canopy of limbs overheard formed a low ceiling, barely letting the silver-sheened fragments of moonglow pass through its many twisted fingers.

“Not much light,” Begglar observed. “Soon even these horses won’t be able to see enough to go forward.”

“Let us outta here!”  Muffled voices came from behind the wagon canvas.
“Someone had an accident in here!  We can’t breathe, it’s so bad.  Gahhh!”
“Eww! Eww-Eww-Eww! Please let us out!  It smells awful in here!”
“I think someone pooped in this wagon!” someone wailed.  “I feel like I fell asleep and woke up trapped in some giant’s dirty diaper!  Yuck!”
“Gross!  That is so, so,so, gross!” another voice lamented.  “What were you guys transporting in this thing?!”  Another barked, “Give me a horse, or I’ll just walk to that Azzygrowth place.  Man, this stinks in here!”
Another moaned, “It reeks of sewage.  Please tell me this is NOT a manure wagon!”  One growled, “I’m not riding in another wagon ever! Ever, y’hear!”  I heard several voices grumbling assent to the same.
“LET US OUT!” another roared.

I stifled a grin and tried masking a gufaw into a short cough.  I knew that if we let our company out, they had better not see me grin or even have the slightest hint of a twinkling amusement in my eyes.  Any whispy straw credit I had built with them up to this point could be swiftly swept away.  I was grateful for the poor light, and the density of the darkling leaves above, masking any mirth that might betray me.

Maeven and Christie rode up to me.  “You can let them out now,” Maeven said.  “Have them mount these horses.  We’ve a little ways yet to go.”

“Let them out?!  They might just strangle me.” I answered.  “I’m sorta glad having them ride in the weaponry wagon was your idea and not mine.”

I sniffed, catching a similar scent that had drawn such complaints from the wagon riders, coming from Maeven herself.

“What is that I smell from you?  Incontinence?  Fancy trying out a new perfume?” I asked, grinning enough so that Maeven could at least see the gleam of my teeth in the dim light.

“Now is not the time!” Maeven said, irritatively wheeling her horse around and moving further ahead.

Christie could not help herself but laugh, and I tried unsuccessfully to stifle my own sympathetic indulgence of hilarity.

“You guys are a hoot!  I might have to stick around just to keep you two from shooting one another,” Christie giggled.

“That you might,” I conceded, “But we’d better not let the rest of them catch us laughing.”

“Yeah,” Christie tried hiding her grin with her hand, forcing a cough.  “Yeah, better not.”

Breathe. Just breathe. I told myself.

By then, Begglar and Nell had untied the ropes on the canopy, and some of the ones from inside clawed the canvas open further, gasping for air.

I turned into the darker shadow of the sidepath and spoke, “We’ve gathered horses for each of you to ride the rest of the way.”

“Thank the merciful God!” one girl shouted.  “I’m done with wagons!  Give me a horse!”  Others assented–an odd mix of grumbling and enthusiasm.

“Just let me get to that Storm Hawk lady!  I’ve got a few choice things to say about her clamping us down in a garbage trawler!”

Lindsey crawled down from the gate, holding Miray.  She arched an eyebrow at me, but shook her head, and seemed to wave off whatever she might want to say.

I swung down from the saddle and led my horse to her.

“I can take her, if you want.”

Miray lifted her head and twisted towards me, stretching her arms out.  As I moved closer I could see her cheeks were wet with tears.

“I’m sorry about the stench in the wagon.  It wasn’t my idea.”

Lindsey nodded, but her expression was unreadable in the gloom.

“She thinks it’s all her fault,” Lindsey said quietly.

“Why would she think that?!” I asked, as I gathered Miray into my arms and held her to my chest.

“I need to go baboon!” Miray said sniffling against her quiet sobs.

“Baboon?” I asked, arching an eyebrow, casting a quizzical look at Lindsey.

“Baboon.  It’s her word for ‘bathroom’,” Lindsey offered.

“Oh, I see,” I said brushing Miray’s hair aside from her face, caressing the wet tears from her cheek.

“Hey,” I said, trying to holrd Miray’s attention long enough to get through her sobs.  “That smell.  That wasn’t you.  It comes from sulfur in the metal mines.  There is a place called the Iron Hills.  This wagon comes from that place and it is a stinky place.”

Miray shook her head vigorously and continued sobbing.  “I din it.  I brung’ded that monster.”

“What?”

Through tears, she told me that when the others had gone to bed in the granary, she woke up feeling the urge to go “baboon”.

“But we all went to go, before we bedded down, sweetheart,” Lindsey reached out a hand softly patting her back.

Miray flushed crimson, rubbing her eyes, sniffling, “Nuh-nuh-not THAT kind of potty.”  She was clearly embarrased.  “I told you, I had to go baboon.  Not wee.”

“So that’s why you went…” I started, realizing her mortification, and the connection she was making.

“I…I…I couldnint go when ev’rybody was lookin’.  Momma says ‘nice girls are not supposed to stink.'” she said tearing up, “But we doo-oo!”

I gave Lindsey a pained glance, and she returned mine, both feeling for the little one.

“I got news for you, kiddo!  We all do at one time or another. Nice or otherwise.  And mine is no more fragrant than anyone else’s.  ”

Miray began to sob, but tried to continue, “He-he-he smelled me!”

“Oh no, honey!  That’s not true!” Lindsey countered, stroking her cheek, dabbing at Miray’s tears.

I interjected, “Miray, that creature was already on the top of the hill.  Remember how high it was when you were with Nell looking down?  We heard it’s roar, remember.  It was coming already. It just found another way down.  It was not your fault.”

“It is! It is!” she wailed, insistent.

I just held her as she cried into my shoulder.  Lindsey seemed perplexed, unsure of how she might convince Miray otherwise.

“Better let her ride with me,” I said.  “She’ll be alright.  I think she needs to cry.  Get it all out.  We can try and talk to her later when she is a bit more calm.”

Lindsey was worried, but I reached out and squeezed her hand reassuringly.  “It’s okay.  We’d better saddle up.  Can you ride?”

“Yeah,” Lindsey said, “My sister Sarah is a barrel racer.  We have horses back home.  I care for them. She rides them mostly, but I like tending them.  Rubbing them down.  Brushing them.  It’s calming in a strange way.  Caring for them, seems to help both them and me.”

“I understand.”

By then the others had completely gotten clear of the wagon and were climbing up into the saddles.  There were four that did not have their own mounts from the stock that the Lehi had brought, but Begglar reminded them that they would each have one of the team horses, once we got to where we were going to ditch the wagon.  So the four doubled up, and together we all road forward into the dark wood with Begglar following close behind in the wagon.

It wasn’t long before we heard the sound of the distant dogs again, barking ominously through the wooden hollows.  Hoof beats seemed to echo down the wooded corridor, and Begglar picked up the pace, driving the horses cautiously, but steadily through the trees as the wooods on either side continued to encroach.  The growling and the thundering behind gained on us.  Since we were now riding ahead of the wagon, we had no rear guard to tell us how close they were.

All of the sudden, the wheels of the wagon clacked and stuttered through low brush, breaking small limbs, rustling the undergrowth.  It was only a matter of time before there would be no going further with the wagon, and for Begglar, that couldn’t happen too soon.

His eyes watered and he could barely choke down air from the sulphurous smell in back of him.  There was no wind passing through that could blow the stench away and behind, for the way ahead had become a tunnel of dense wood and foliage.  Begglar gritted his teeth against the nausea.  As bad as this was, there were other odors that persisted in his memory that were far worse, with terrible sights and sounds to accompany them.  His missed the sea.  He had witnessed atrocities there too, but not near as horrible as those done on land.  The sea naturally buried its dead within its depths, but the land refused such mercies.  With dismay, he surveyed the leavings of a brutal battlefield, now being swabbed of human detritus.  At the cessesation of fighting, there remained a field of gore, with swaths of blood-stained ground mud-wet with carnage.  At some point, he had no idea when, the pungency of the air, no longer stabbed into his nostrils.  The foul smoke might of had something to do with it.  He’d seen what seemed like hundreds of cook fires casting wavering ghost-light across the plains where cruelty had won against the day and cast their highland into the shadow of an unending night of the soul.  The sensory assaults and visions of cruelty had aged him.  Not merely in his body, but in his mind.  He fully understood what it meant to be world-weary and he did not want that for his family, so he had forbade both Nell and Dominic from climbing the hill behind his inn perchance that they might see what was transpiring until the full terrors were over and the Xarmnians quitted the fields.  But he had been conscripted. Forced into dealing with the aftermath.  Immersed into the carnage along with others, who had not directly resisted the invasion.  There could be no middle-ground.  No way to remain untouched by the violence of others.  He knew that now.  Men of peace, often had to earn that blessed season of quiet, riding through risk and bloodshed, to claim a stake in the hopeful outcome.

The Xarmnians had ridden through the fields, stabbing and hacking at any who lingered between life in the Mid-World and the edge of the next.  They had gathered victims from the field in wagon carts filled with severed limbs and hacked torsos carrying the carnage to the uplands.  The valiant fallen with the ignoble.  The trampled and crushed forever staring blindly into an unforgiving sky of darkening clouds.  Xarmni did not gather their own fallen from the killing fields.  They had been ordered to leave them to the beasts.  Their cries went unheeded, even as their fellow warriors rode through and past them, ensuring none of their enemies survived.  The Son of Xarm had no used for those who could no longer fight.  They would be a drain on the resources of the collective, if they were to be allowed to return to the stone city.  Wars had terrible consequences, but useful outcomes.  They culled the pack, letting only the strong survive.  They were left to the cycle of nature’s laws and disposal.  Within a day, great flocked of birds attended the fields, circling the sky, rising and descending.  Then came the swarms of flies.  Even as he recalled such nightmares, evoked by the stench, he knew that he dared not close his eyes against the memories, for even now the branches grated against the sides of the wagon.  He slowed the team much as he dared, as the horses jostled against one another, trying to stay on what little narrow path there still was.

Moss hung overhead and the air felt sickly sweet.  A smell of fungi permeated the narrow tunnel, and suddenly the wider wagon wheels at last clacked to an abrupt stop, almost throwing Begglar forward from the bench seat onto the backs of his team.

“Looks like that’s as far as she’ll go,” Begglar grunted.  “There’ll be no turning this wagon around.”

The Lehi that had rode attendant with them responsed,” That may be so, but they might find a way to back it up.  Just to be sure…” he dismounted.

Begglar crawled forward and unhitched his team, freeing them from their harness, as the others that had doubled-up, chose for themselves their mounts from among them.  Begglar joined Nell on her horse, while the Lehi moved to further disable the wagon.  From his back took a battle-ax, and swung it hard into the spokes of the wagon breaking two of the staves on a back wheel and on a front-wheel.  The wagon canted and then slumped, pressing harder against the trunks of the trees that had arrested its progress.

“There,” he said, satified with his work, “that ought to do it.”

Saddled, mounted and loaded, we followed Maeven, now astride a large black mare, into the woods towards the secret path she had spoken of.  From the sounds on the other side of the slope, the dogs would be upon us soon.

*Scene 05*– 13:33 (Thug and Troll)

Not far down the sloped road to Crowe, and into the woods a ways, two small, horse-like rumps pertruded out of the bushes along a brushy sidetrail leading down to a small log-hewn structure, and gateyard, along the banks of a wooded creek.  The branches and leaves enveloped the two owners of the exposed rumps, and within the leafy cover, two voices whispered in hushed tones to each other, their speech rounded out with throaty, but not unpleasant rumbling.

“What are they up to, I wonder?” one said to the other.  “Shhhht!” the other responding, grumbling and snorting, “They’re gonna hear us, you bumble fly!”  The other snorted, “That’s right. Go on shouting.  That’ll keep ’em from knowing we’re here.”  The other shuffled against the branch cover, looking backward, noticing that both of their rumps were exposed to the narrow lane they had followed through the woods.  “Lot of good it’ll do hiding in partial cover.  Our flanks are exposed.  Move further in.”  The other protested, “These branches are already scraping my skin, and my hide back there is not too thick anymore from carrying them trolls from up and down the high country.”  The other snorted, “You are every bit the nag and whine, Bray!  The Pan should have already put you out to pasture!  Would you’ve liked that?”  The other shuddered in the leaves, “Oh, gosh no!  If he ever thought we weren’t useful that’d be the end of it.  He’d give us to the satyrs for a chew toy.”  The other grunted, “Mind you think long and hard about that one, before you go complainin’ bout being a cushion for a couple of troll butts.  Do as you’re told on this job, and we might just get to see him give us a few favors for a change.”  “Well, I don’t think gettin’ all scratched up, spying is going to win us any winks from him,” the other retorted.  “That Grum-Blud is a nasty one.  Kicks me in the ribs for no reason.  If he ever got spurs, he’d do much worse and I’d have to give him some hoof-to-mouth.  If you get my meanin’.”  The other grunted, “You’re all squawk.  Hoof-to-mouth, indeed.  He carries a nasty blade.  He’d stick you like a pig.”  The other snorted, “We’ll at least then, he’d be walking and not bouncing his nasty behind on my spine.  Besides, I don’t think there’s any of us that The Pan actually likes.  He just doesn’t seem to get as annoyed with some as much as he does others and any one of his favors come at a terrible cost.” “Shut-up, Bray!  That’s heresy.  Others might here you.”  The other grunted, “Well he already doesn’t care for you.”  “Why do you say that?”  “He called you an ass.”  The other snuffed, “H-He called me a smart ass.  There’s a difference.”  “If you say so, Brimm.”  “Just shup-up, will ya?”  “If you say so…” the other muttered, under his breath.  From behind and toward the road, they heard the sound of an approaching horse and rider.  “Someone’s comin’!  Hide your rear and don’t swish your tail.”  “There are gnats in these bushes. How am I goin’ ta keep it from swishing?  The little boogers itch and crawl around on my hide.”  “Find a way!” the other hissed through his teeth.  The two voices gasped, shuffling and jostling to pull themselves further in under their poorly chosen bush cover.

Just then Ryden came down the trail, his horse moving at a trot.  He slowed briefly, thinking he’d heard voices, but unsure of it.  The wind hissed through the leaves and sighed in the upper tree tops, branches moving and creaking.  It was hard to be sure, but he shrugged and pressed onward, anxious to get to the small home he knew would be somewhere in the vicinity.

When at last he arrived at the sheltered cabin, he dismounted and tied his horse to a fence rail.  A footpath led through a short corral, along the edge of a small garden bordered by a low wall of fitted stones and covered under what looked like fish-netting, held up by a few posts.  Just beyond a small stone shed, there was a paver path that descended to the creek side, running quietly under a canopy of tall cypress trees.  A mount of dirt stood nearby, and it was clear that the troll’s body had already been exhumed.

Shimri and Hanokh were engaged in low, hushed conversation, while a woman with a scar running from her forehead and down her cheek knelt over another small mound of freshly turned earth filling the shallow pit with flower petals.  A small headstone had been erected next to the mound and the woman wept as she pulled petals from the stems.

Ryden walk quietly up to them, observing a moment of silence.  A firepit spat flames from the hole where the troll had been buried and the ground had been sprinkled with a whitish substance that bubbled and spat.  Two other men stood by, dressed as typical farmers and harvesters, their hats in their hands, holding shovels, as they observed the gathering in respectful silence.

Shimri nodded to Ryden as he approached, then pointed to the newly planted grave now being florally adorned.  “My wife’s sister.  Aytama.  She served Begglar and Nell as a housekeeper.  She was supposed to have returned here after Begglar left, but she insisted on tidying up.  Later, when we realized she had not made it back home before the rains, I was coming to fetch her, when I saw the fires rising above the trees.”

“I am so sorry.”  Ryden glanced at Hanokh and was touched to see large, silent tears rolling down his cheeks wetting his beard.  He spoke quietly to them, “Have you learned any more from that Xarmnian brute?”

Shimri sighed, “He was part of a split company of The Protectorate, dispatched to pursue and capture fugitives that managed to escape from Xarm city.”  He cleared his throat, “One was a scribe and his small family.  He was uncovered something he was not supposed to see.  He had been warned not to write anything related to what he ha discovered, but he kept personal notes.  When these were found, someone tipped him off that the soldiers were coming to arrest him.  So he quickly slipped away before his work shift was over and gathered his small family and fled before the outside gates of the city could be closed for the night.  One of the high guards is also missing, and it was believed he helped them escape the city and misled the searchers who were pursuing the scribe.  The soldier was confronted by their Captain of the Guards, named Jehaza.  They fought, and the soldiers ribs were broken, but he still managed to escape with some assistance from the underground.”

“I’m aware of it,” Ryden broke in. “Battair and I rode together on that raid.  That soldier was one of our highly placed spies within that accursed city.  He had been there for years, feeding us information.  We were sorry to lose his valuable intelligences, but we had no choice.  Jehaza was intent on killing him.  We barely got him out of there, but they chased us into the night.  The family must’ve had to make out on their own.  We never did see them.”

Shimri supplied, “They were sent to Begglar’s Inn.  Told they would find help there.  Just to be careful and get around the village of Crowe without being seen or calling too much attention to themselves.  The other night Begglar rode down here with that family in tow.  Asked us to hide them and get them someplace safe, but far enough away from his inn, for he feared the troops might pick up their trail which would lead directly to him.”

Hanokh joined in, “It appears that is exactly what happened, and this poor unfortunate one was slain for being the only one present when those devils finally arrived.”

“And that’s not all,” Shimri added.  “The Xarmnian was the last of the first group sent in pursuit of the scribe.”

“What do you mean the last?” Hanokh rumbled.

Ryden spoke up, “We apprehended the Xarmnian on the road leading up to Crowe, near a wheat field.  He was assaulting one of the local boys.  The group of soldiers were lying in wait to ambush the scribe and his family, when the boy and his father who owned the field came upon the Xarmnian soldiers.  They killed the boy’s father, and this guard took the boy prisoner, and was attending the horses, when the soldiers were attacked.”

“Attacked?  By whom?” Hanokh asked.

“By what,” Shimri answered.  “It is a strange story but we have heard the same account from both the prisoner and the boy separately.  Whatever happened, they both witnessed it.  They said the ground in the field opened up and swallowed those soldiers and some of the horses that did not flee.  Storm Hawk and these Lehi turned the Xarmnian over to us, but he was sullen and uncooperative.  So we thought we’d try motivating him to talk.  We’d caught that troll lurking in the woods with two other creatures belonging to the Half-men kingdom.  The two half-creatures got away, but the troll did not have time to mount those beasts and we cornered him in the woods.  I told you of that up at the inn.”

“Which of the half-men?  Could you identify them?” Hanokh rumbled.

“Appeared to be half-donkeys or mules.  It was hard to tell.  They can be fast when they are scared.  And since they are shorter than horses, they could move under brush and limbs that would unmount a rider.” Shimri explained.  He glanced up towards his humble cabin and the wooded trail leading to it.  “They may still be out there somewhere, but we haven’t found them yet.”

Hanokh rubbed his beard deep in thought, muttering to himself, more than to anyone present. “I had hoped he was not involved in this, but given those circumstances, it seems evident that somehow he will be.”

“Who?” Ryden asked, but Hanokh seemed to have not heard him.

Hanokh moved to place a hand on the Shimri’s wife’s shoulder as she knelt beside her sister’s grave and continued to weep, smoothing and distributing the colorful and sweet-smelling flower petals.  He knelt beside her and whispered something to her, and she sadly nodded, but continued with her trembling ministrations.

Shimri’s wife whispered, “Atayma so loved beautiful flowers.  Pink roses, carnations, field lillies and daffodils. All kinds, but she loved bright yellow dandelions the most, because they grew wild.  But those petals are too small.  I could not find enough.  But she did love my primroses.  So for now,…this is all I can do for her.”  She sobbed, “…all I can do.”

“Precious one, the prophet Isaiah wrote: ‘The grass withers and the flowers fade beneath the breath of the LORD. And so it is with people. The grass withers and the flowers fade, but the word of our God stands forever.’ [Isaiah 40:7-8]  What may seem lost to you in these whispered moments, now forever flourishes in vivid, unfading color within the Elysium fields of Excavatia.  The short breath that was her life, now returns to The One Who spoke it into the existence we all knew and loved.  The Hope Stone still shines in The Dominion Crown, dear one.  Remember that.  He Who occupies the Eternal Land has promised it. And so shall it be.”

A few more low words were spoken, before the gentle giant slowly rose and turned to Shimri.

“Take us to this Xarmnian you have captured.  We will see what he has to say for himself.”

Quietly, Shimri nodded and turned down a further footpath that circled behind a small knoll and the canted structure of a small shed.  The two farmers that had stood in quiet attendance, moved along with them following at a discreet distance.

As Hanokh moved into view, through the breech in the shed’s outer wall, suddenly the occupant inside let out a frightened bellow upon seeing him.

“No! No! Not him! No! Don’t let him touch me!  Please not him!”

Given his sudden and visceral reaction to seeing Hanokh, it was doubtful whether any further questions posed to this Xarmnian thug in such a fearful state, would yield answers worth trusting or even useful.

*Scene 06*– 07:48 (Run Rabbit Run)

A silver wet gleam of grizzled black fur crested the hill leading down to a saddle slope where three wagons diverged, two going opposite directions along the forested ridge and one descending the downroad towards the rolling valleys below.  Four sets of lantern yellow eyes gleamed wetly, blinking narrowly through huffed breathes coming from slacked jaws dripping with foam and saliva.  A low continual rumble issued from the cerberus’ three throats as packs of similar monstrous beasts loped up behind their alpha.

The Xarmnian Protectorate horsemen rode up shortly after, their horses blowing and rumbling, as their riders angrily surveyed the scene below.   The tableau was not what they had expected.  They had witness the attempted break from the initial point of contact.  The arrows flying, swords clashing, and road dust rising as the quarry and pursuers descended beyond the crest of the road.

The cerberi bounced and snarled, spinning and lunging, not sure which of the receding wagons to follow.  The night was coming to a close.  Already the far horizon, etched by the sawtooth fangs of interleaved mountain ranges and peaks, sliced a hard-edge against a blood-red, orange and pink aural glow.  Dawn would soon break over the blushing distance and ascend to dominate the sky.  The Bruel Hadeon cursed under his breath, as the wagons rolled into the wood cover.  The other guards turned to the side gripping their reins, but looking to their leader for guidance.

“So, this Iron Hills convoy thinks they can play us for fools, do they?!  We’ll soon see about that!  Split the company!” he growled, pointing at the routes the three wagons had taken.  “Bayek and Aridam!  Each of you take a squad and six cerberi and follow the wooded trails!  The one to going back east along the wooded ledge peters out, and the traitors going that way will not get far.  The opposite trail appears to lead back west along the edge of the long valley holding the stables.  There may be something there, but I will lead the others and run them to ground. Aridam, take the route of the wagon descending the highlands.  Follow them down until the road widens at the bottom of the valley.  When you catch them hold them until we join you later.  If you don’t hear from us by noon, kill them and rejoin us on the edge of Kilrane in the clearing.  You know the one.”

The one addressed as Aridam, had hard steel eyes, a scraggled, brown-black beard, and massive wrapped hands, strapped with dark leather.  “Which of these wagons holds that Innkeeper, d’ you think?!  I can’t wait to split his bleedy loaves for this trouble!”

Hadeon snarled, “The Innkeeper is mine!  The eastern route is unlikely unless these fugitives are fools, but I wouldn’t rule that out, just yet.  The western trail seems intriguing since it returns to the stable valley.  In my mind, that is the most probable.  The sham guards of this Iron Hill shipment must be of those bandits that have been undermining our efforts to cower and control the local villages.  Reason enough to kill them.  But I am curious to find out what their interests are in helping this Innkeeper.  For that, we will need to take a few alive.  Ride hard into them, but remember, there are some we will need for questioning, so kill if you must, but reserve at least a few for giving answers.  For only the necromancers get answers from the dead. Go to it!”

The Protectorate guards split as directed, their horses steering and driving a few of the cerberi to follow and then take the lead on the diverging trails after the wagons.

Bayek led his company hard into the forested trail, his pack of cerberi growling and snorting, bounding into the darkening tree-lined path ahead.  The wagon was not far ahead, and a narrow sidelane joined it as it plunged further and further in.  Visibility grew darker as they rode with fierce urgency, certain that their quarry would find out too late their error in choosing this narrowing route.

Even at a gallop, Bayek and his riders could hear the distant sound of horses echoing down the funneling chute as the walls of trees and thick brush closed in.  The wagon would not get far, and he relished the look on those fleeing when they finally realized that they were being bottled up and driven into a death trap of their own choosing.  The forest matt of fallen leaves and pine needles cushioned their horses’ footfalls as they galloped deeper, their dark swords ready to slash and cleave and pin the fools.  The hollow was darkening, even though the outside distance foretold the promise of the coming light of day.  Wagon wheels had certainly cut through the lane and tore through side brush as the lane narrowed into a mere trail.  Up ahead Bayek could just make out and oddly shaped shadow, but it offer no shifting shadowy movement attendant to it.  Horse dung peppered the trail up to the shadowy obstruction.  More dung that should be, coming from a mere wagon team with a couple of chaperoning riders serving as point, left and right flanks, and drag.

The cerberi were the first to reach the dark bulky shape, and immediately began to whine and mewl.  The closer Bayek came, the more he began to realize why their devil dogs started reacting that way.  From the cloying stench, he recognized the shape was one of the Iron Hills wagons.  It’s canopy had been torn, and it had been driven into the posts of the surrounding trunks impeding further progress.

His suspicions were correct.  There had been quite a few more horses in this hollow, and they had somehow ridden ahead of the wagon, in anticipation of having to abandon it.  The deceptive dance of the wagons had been used to fool them into dividing their company, and the ruse had worked.  For now…, Bayek thought, grinding his teeth, angry at having been played the fool.

The cerberi mewled unable to get through the densely pack undergrowth and the close regiment ranks of trees.  The wheels were wrecked, spokes smashed, axel ground into the soft earth.  There could be no quick way of moving the broken wagon to continue the pursuit.  The dog creatures barked at each caution approach to the wagon, their paws lifting at their noses, hackles raised, mewling in frustration.

Bayek swung down from the saddle and attempted to crawl over the canted wagon, hoping to see enough to gauge how far ahead they might be.  The stench of the sulfur made his eyes water, and he coughed against a gasp.  Hauling himself up to the benchseat, he peered over, seeing only a gray mist threading through the close-set trees, the riders now far enough ahead to go unseen.  Yet still they could not go far, he told himself.  He beckoned his attendant riders to tie their mounts and then follow.  Better a pursuit on foot than to risk a return empty-handed to a furious Hadeon, having failed to make even a feeble attempt to follow.  This trail should still end soon so that even horses could not pass thrrough the narrow channel along the game trails.  The way served no purpose for any creature other than the lithe thin bodies of deer, and perhaps a few rabbits evading packs of hungry wolves.

Then he and his men unsheathed their blades and hastened forward, moving at pace along the enclosed woods.  Somehow two of the cerberi managed to wriggle around under the belly of the wagon and come from under a broken wheel.  ‘The wolves were indeed coming’, Bayek thought to himself, a sardonic smile playing at his cruel lips as he moved through the forest mists, ‘Run rabbit, run!’

*Scene 07* – 26:10 (Living Legends)

Moonlight dappled the ground silver, pouring its luminous light through the leaves covering the supplicant arms of the branches outstretched above us.  A night breeze sent a thousand sighs through the hollow throat of the forest path we traveled.

Up ahead, I saw that Christie rode alongside Maeven just off and to the left of her.  I could tell Christie was intrigued by Maeven, and from what I knew of Maeven, I was sure they would eventually become fast friends.  I had a sense about Christie.  She had her own stories to tell when she was ready, and I was sure she might gain a certain strength by sharing the road with Maeven.

Miray rode quietly in front of me, still uncertain, but I could tell she was pondering something in her quiet.  Finally she spoke, but barely loud enough for me to hear.

“Mister O’Brian, why do they call that cranky woman Storm Hawk?”

I realized just then how little I actually knew about Maeven.  I had not known that she was ‘The Storm Hawk’, and much less about how she might have come to being called such.  I had heard quiet talk of ‘The Storm Hawk’ and her Lehi’s exploits before leaving when their raids were just getting started.  Begglar and I spoke of it, but nothing really at length.  Neither of us at the time knew that ‘The Storm Hawk’ was female.  I only knew that they were working against Xarmnian oppression, and they had shown themselves to be enemies of our enemies.  Reason enough to consider them allies.

Our company had, by necessity, broken up.  Jeremiah had taken a few of our group with him and gone into the forests.  Begglar and Nell were engaged and soon to be married, and he and she were seeking ways to reinvent themselves and blend in under a seemingly inoccuous cover and profession, since Begglar was a wanted man, with a death or alive bounty on his head.  Having a similar price on my head too, Begglar and I were of the same mind finding some way to hide in plain sight, yet I chose a more secluded existence since I was alone.  While Begglar and Nell started their bakery business in the highpoint of Crowe, I slunk away to Basia and built a bungalo hermitage, with a small garden and meager stock of strays.   Maeven had been one of our group that followed Jeremiah, who had no real tolerance for me after what had happened with his brother and our losing the Cordis Stone to The Pan.  I loss track of Maeven and the others and never really knew what had happened to them.  I only knew this about Maeven.  At one time, in the not-so-distant past, she was an itinerant veterinarian in her Surface World life.  Begglar told me, he had met her again in his supply travels and over the intervening years she had tended to his stock animals from time to time, but then dropped out of sight, and he had not known what had become of her.  He assumed that The Pan had at last caught up with her and one of his strange hybrids had taken her out.  Only later, when he started re-establishing connections with his own human network to resume clandestine operations against the Xarmnians, did he learn the truth.  Maeven had re-invented herself as well.  She had joined the underground resistance.  When I had know her, fighting and swordplay were not her things.  She was a healer, and more than that, she had a love for and an affinity with animals.  Since she detested violence and the cruelty, she had demurred when we had undergone weapoms training and were put through the rigors of studying warcraft.

She once said that humankind were the only ones that obessed over violence, and that animals were creatures that were naturally incorruptible, who did not behave differently from their pre-ordained nature.  Beings that had no guile or deceit about them.  Creatures that loved and served unconditionally, and that was why she preferred being around them over humankind.

I remembered quipping back to her that not every animal was a St. Bernard.  And Maeven, being Maeven, she didn’t appreciate that.

Anyway, that was her mindset until she met her first hybrid here.  A denizen of The Pan’s mix-matched kingdom of Half-Men.  Something half-animal, fish or fowl and half-human.  Corruptions that did not and could not exist in the Surface World of her time.  An abomination, that shattered her naiveté and challenged everything she thought she knew to be true.

When I last saw her, she was just coming to grips with having encountered a satyr.  After that, she had a dangerous run-in with the beast-dogs, that the Protectorate used to track and kill their enemies.  She soon realized there was no taming their wildness, nor slaking their bloodthirst.  It was hard, too, for me to imagine what that disillusionment eventually did to her, and I never would have expected her present posture or shifted outlook upon meeting her again this way.  I suspected she took some degree of delight in my confusion, for I had underestimated her ability to grow and adapt, and it still came as quite a shock.  It did not gel with my first impression of her as a shy and naive girl, to be so self-assured and resolute, determined and cunning, sharp and dangerous– A force to be respected and reckoned with.

My own thoughts had distracted me from Miray’s question.  Noting my hesistation, the Lehi rider who had rode along with us, overheard Miray’s question and spoke up. “I believe I can answer that, little one.”  He glanced at me and tapped his knuckle to the side of his nose, as I had oft seen Begglar do.  “Begging your pardon, sir.  I don’t mean to impose,” he said to me.  I smiled and returned the gesture, remembering that the action was a sign of deference in Mid-World parlance.  “Please. By all means,” I responded.
He proferred his hand saying, “My name is Yasha.  It means ‘Protector’.  And that is what we mean to do.  I understand that somehow you know our mistress.”

“Yes.  We came as a group many years ago.  I have been away, and I am afraid we part on not the best terms with your…’Mistress’.” I answered vaguely.

“Ah yes,” Yasha seemed to take my answer simply, making no more nor less of it than what I had offered.

Miray was now looking at the man intently, and he smiled at her.  “It seems the young miss posed a question.  Sorry for the delay, Miss.”

“My name is Miray, sir.  Is the Storm Hawk your girlfriend?”

Yasha chuckled, “Goodness no, Miss Miray.  She is our lead.  It was she who imagined our group of riders to be something of a distraction…uh…,” he searched for a word, “A pest to the bad men who bully us and steal from the local villages.”

“What does Lee High mean?” Miray asked, now intrigued.

Yasha smiled, “Quite the inquisitor, are you?”  He sighed good-naturedly, “Well, I’ll tell you.  Lehi is a word that comes from our leader’s cultural language called Hebrew.  It means ‘jaw or cheek bone’ and it represents something very special to all of us.  When the bad men come, they caused many to fear them.  And fear made them silent.  They did not speak up for those things that are just and right.  They were afraid too.  The bad men kept returning with more and more men, until they forced the town to pay them to not destroy the place.”

“That was mean!” Miray growled, indignant at what she was hearing.

“Yes,” Yasha agreed, “Yes it was.  And let me tell you what our Storm Hawk decided to do about it.”

“What?” Miray was intrigued.

“She told us that when she was a girl, she lived on a small farm, with a few horses and a big barn that she used to like to climb up into.”

“A big barn?”

“Yes.  And she would climb way up and get on the roof of that barn and watch the sky just before evening came.  She would hide up there when she didn’t want to be found and like to watch the clouds.”

“Is that why she’s called Storm Hawk?”

“Well, part of it is.  But let me explain.  Her family were farmers, and they relied on the crops out in their fields and gardens to stay healthy.  But there were many things that could harm their plants.”

“What sorts of things?” Miray asked.

“Mice and rodents would get out in their fields and chew off the tops of their plants, and dig some of them up, and eat year it was getting harder and harder to keep the vermin out of their fields.  Sometimes a great big storm would come, and the mice would sense the storm coming and stop devouring the plants and run for cover.”

“They were afraid of the storm, I’ll bet.” Miray offered.

“Yes.  But they were also afraid of another creature that was hungry too.”

“What was that?  Did it eat the plants?” Miray was wide-eyed and tensed.

“No, but it did like the taste of the vermin.”

“What was it? What was it?” Miray gasped.

“It was a big hawk.”

“How big?”

“Big!”

“As big as you?”

Yasha chuckled, “No. Not quite, but pretty large for a hawk.  And our Mistress told us that it always showed up in a certain tree to watch over their fields when a storm was coming.  For it knew that suddenly, all of the mice that were busy killing their crops would sense the storm was coming and would run out from under the cover of the plants and that hawk would come and snatch them up.”

“Wasn’t that mean of the hawk?”

“It is a matter of perspective, little one.  You see, our mistress and her family needed their crops to grow and produce a harvest or they all would starve.  The rodents in the field were killing those plants, but by the same token they were endangering the lives and survival of our mistress’s family.  She welcomed the sight of the hawk in the tree, and soon that hawk grew a family, took a mate and they built a nest up in that tree that she could see from the roof of the barn.  The hawk, and his family soon came to protect the fields planted by our mistress’s family.  The storms could bring good or bad.  Sometimes the storms brought large hail stones that battered and beat down their crops, causing much damage, but more often than not, the storms brought much needed rain to water the dry fields and keep those struggling plants healthy.  The hawk only seemed to show up when a storm was coming that brought rain, so every time she saw it on that branch, she was glad.  The storm hawk respresented a good sign.  She told us that story and as she told it, she charged us to be part of protecting the fields of our own lands and communities.  She told us that the days of staying silent when evil men come to wreck your fields had to end, and that we needed to represent those who could no longer speak and raise a protest against the cruelty done.  Her words inspired us to not just complain about those who infested our lands, but to do something about it.  And that is what we have been doing as a small band of raiders.  We disguise ourselves as outlaws, we study the movements and behaviors of those bad men, and we do somethings they never could expect.”

“What is that?”

“We go in to a town that has been looted…”

“What’s looted?”

“It means to take something that does not belong to you and to threaten to hurt those who will not give it to you.”

“Oh. That’s bad.”

“Yes it is,” Yasha agreed.  “But the townsfolk were so afraid, they paid up, every time the Xarmnian Protectorate soldiers showed up.  They did not speak up or protest.  They just gave them whatever they wanted, to get them to go away.  But they didn’t.”

“They didn’t?”

“No.  The Xarmnian bad men just kept coming back and taking and taking.  Threatening and hurting people.  Some towns they burned.  Some they took their children.  Some they humiliated the men before killing several.”

“Even when they gave them what they wanted?”

“Yes. Even then.  For what these bad men wanted was to be feared.  To humiliate them and take away their dignity.  To have power over them.”

“Mean! Mean, mean, mean!” Miray clenched her fists.  “Somebody outta bop them in their heads and stomp all their toes for being so mean!  Somebody ought to say something and do something to stop them!”

“And that is just what we do,” Yasha answered.  “We knew that the townspeople were struggling and could not afford to pay those brutal soldiers anything more.  So our mistress came up with a plan to steal from the people before the soldiers arrived.”

“She wanted you all to steal too?”

“We would steal the payments first, so that we could give it back to the townspeople after the Xarmnian soldiers left, finding there was nothing left to steal?”

“Huh?”

“We would pretend to be the bad guys and come in to town, get the ransom payment and then ride out ahead of the soldiers arrival.  When the townfolk told of the previous raiders, the Xarmnians would realize they had some competition, and when they checked the houses and store bins, they would feel cheated and direct their rage at those others they thought we Protectorate guards, like themselves.  It planted seeds of distrust among the Xarmnian soldiers, and they would fight among themselves, not knowing that it was we who did it.  And then we would bring all that we had taken back to the towns and alllow them to survive just a little longer before the next group of Xarmnian soldiers arrived.”

“Wow! Wow!,” Miray was impressed.  “So the bad men thought other bad men were stealing from them.”

“Yes. And they fought each other and lost interest in stealing from the towns.  And the townsfolk began to have hope again, and finally began to help us, since we were helping them.  We built trust.  We had some of our spies go in to their camps and tell us where and when they were coming to a town, so that we could get there ahead of them.  We made the Xarmnians think that the towns a worse off than they actually are, and in so doing we have become something of a legend among them.  And that is why we call our mistress ‘The Storm Hawk.’ Understand?”

“Yes!” Miray clapped her hands giggling at the ingeniousness of it.

Others had gathered closer to hear, while Yasha had given the account, but the walls of the narrowing treelined pathway made crowding too close difficult.  Sound traveled through the arboreal corridor but little, as the murmur the wind and leaves added a shushing sound below his words.  Maeven and Christie were far enough ahead and so engaged in conversation that they did not notice that many of our riders had fallen back to hear our conversation.

I turned and looked back at our company, and saw that Nell had fallen back and she and Begglar were having some difficulty coaxing one of our teenaged riders forward.  From the dim light, filtering through the burgeoning promise of an enlightening sky overhead, I could see the young male was rigid and stiff.  A sheen of sweat gleamed off of his forehead, as Nell spoke gently to him in soft, hushed tones.  Begglar followed close behind, and Nell had gathered the horse’s lead bridle, moving the animal forward, with its rider providing no assistance, or seeming awareness of the situation.  I knew I would have to ask about that whenever we found more room along the trail.

“Tell us how you came to know her,” a voice spoke.

Startled out of my watch, I realized that the speaker had addressed me.

“Her who?”

“Storm Hawk.”

“I’m not sure how much there is to tell.  When I knew her she wasn’t the warrior she is now.  She seemed much younger then, but time here does not pass at the same rate as it does in our home world.  For those of us not from here, it is our time spent in the Surface World that ages us.  Any time spent here does not, since we are presently not of this world.  Even though at some point we will be.  Our origin world has increased it’s claim on us.”

Lindsey spoke up, “How does that work?  You said you were away from here for twenty-one years. Are you the same age now as you were then?”

“No,” I tried to find a way to make it more clear.  “Since I left and returned to the Surface World, I am twenty-one years older than from when I left.  Maeven…Storm Hawk is the same age since she stayed and has not returned to our world in all that time, but she is stronger for the time and work she put in from being here.”

“Has Begglar aged, since you last saw him twenty-one years ago?”

“Yes.  But his circumstances are different.  He and Nell were married here, and he has chosen to be part of this world over the world he left behind.  Becoming one flesh here, as The One performs under the gift of joining, fuses their hearts and lives together.  Begglar now ages as Nell does, for they are spiritually bound to each other as one.  Remember, this place is a metaphysical place.  The visual realities we know as concepts in our home world have tangible effects here.  The Mid-World is joined to ours, but in ways that may seem inverse at times and correlated at others.  Only The One knows the true connections for He knows all things.  Maeven has joined this world’s Stone Quest, so she is protected from the ravages of time.  The Marker Stone holds this dangerous world in place, even though evil men still try to rule it.  All things anchor to that Stone, though many of the connections are not presently seen.  Some will deny it.  Some will insist in their denial so much that they will harm those who accept that truth.  They are connected to the ‘otherness’ of the sleeping beast that hides in the far mountains.  Though that monster sleeps, his spiritual children do not.  The Xarmnians have sworn allegience to its power over an allegiance to The Holding Stone.  They cannot destroy it, so they attempt to suppress its power by brutalizing those who still believe in its Source through The One.  The Marker Stone is the monument of remembrance.  Its golden letters illumine those who open themselves to receive their sage truths and lessons.  Maeven is, as I am, a servant of what this living monument represents.  All those of you who join us, will also be in the alliance.”

The listeners were quiet, pondering my words.

“So, if what you are telling us is true, we just agree to be part of this by giving our names to it and then we will not…age?”

“Wait!  How do you know all this?”

“As I mentioned, there are two remarkable individuals present in this world, that are very credible witnesses.  In the past, our former company met both of them, and their testimony of these truths are compelling.  I had hoped to meet them together with you all to let you hear their accounts for yourselves.  They confirm the living words on The Marker Stone.  I have mentioned one of them to you all before.  He is the one I referred to as ‘The Walker.’  He is the one brought here by The One, and has witnessed first hand the evidence of what I’ve said.  He has amazing wisdom gifted to him by his fellowship with The One.  The fact of him, bears witness as well.  Maeven knows this too.”

“Maeven knows what?!”

Just ahead, I could see that Maeven and Christie had stopped in a small clearing close to the edge of the highland cliff along the cut of a small gorge, with the sound of rushing water echoing below.  We had arrived at a slight bend that overlooked a ravine.  We could hear the gurgling sound of water winding over and around stones, and in the distance ahead, a hollow, wet steady roar of falls.

Maeven had spoken, but repeated her question.  “Maeven knows what?” she spoke a little louder, above the water sounds flowing in the deep channel below.

“I was telling them you and I met the one called ‘The Walker’.”

“This is true.  He is one that few can stand before without being profoundly impacted.  He has deep wisdom.  A powerful man with no guile.  Even the cruel ones of this world fear him.  They fear what he will say that will pierce their pretensions.  But most of all, they fear Who he represents.  We recently spoke to him.”

“You did?” I jolted, “Where was he?”

“We met him in the woods below the village of Crowe.  He was following the water courses.  Studying the rivers.  He suspected something was happening somewhere in the uplands that was tainting the rivers with something he had yet to identify.  You remember how he was.  He can be as cryptic as you are.  Something he was puzzling out.  He seemed worried.”

“Worried!” That startled me.  “What could make him worry?”

“Something ephemeral.  Some kind of supernatural invader that was manifesting itself here.  He said it was affecting some of the townspeople downstream who rely on these streams for their water.”

Begglar and Nell rode up with the young teen and his mount in tow.  They had just overhead our mentioning of Maeven recent encounter with The Walker.”

Begglar spoke up, “Affecting?  How so?”

Maeven/Storm Hawk shrugged, “Nothing specific.  He said, ‘Odd things.’  Behavioral changes.  Some had strange colorations appear around their throats and necks.  Some had peculiar swellings.  Many were strangely fatigued after drinking the water.  They had trouble thinking clearly.  Their minds filled with strange thoughts and feelings.  Some would laugh uncontrollably.  Many had upset stomachs and cramps.  Some broke out in great sweats.  Some even took to cutting themselves saying something was swimming in their blood.  Crawling around inside of them.”

“I have heard of the same said of the folks in some of the towns below Crowe,” Begglar replied.  “Nell and I took in a traveler who was sick for days.  Said he had only begun to feel fatigued after drinking from a town well near Khorath.  Thought he might have got hold of brackish water.”

Nell confirmed, “Aye.  Tis truth.  And you say The Walker was looking into it?”

“He is. He seemed intent on it.  Only spoke to us for a few moments and then went on his way.  I doubt you will meet with him anytime soon.  The Walker has a way of getting from one place to another across great distances.  He is one place at one time and sighted far away in the next.  No one seems to know how he does this, but the man is nothing if not mysterious.”

I glanced around, unable to see much more than a narrow cut through the close set trees.  “Why have we stopped here?”

Maeven straightened, “Because here is where one trail ends, and another begins.  This is it!,” Maeven said as she drew back her reigns slightly.  Her mare slowed and stopped as she dismounted, careful not to swipe the horse with the longbow she carried behind her.  She patted the soft muzzle of her horse and gently led her to the leafy edge of the path.  When the horse stepped towards her a portion of the forest floor slightly canted upwards and then leveled out as the horse pressed closer to her.

“And you call me the cryptic one?” I retorted.

Yasha had also dismounted and shot me with a sly grin.  “You’ll see, my friend.  This is where we get to the under way.”